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| Monsieur Gérard |
I am not a good target for beggars. Big cities, like Paris or New York or London, have more than their share; and this marginal, often homeless, population increased noticeably during the 1980's. I tended to look the other way. I did a 180 degree turn at one point, just once, and the experience was rewarding, enlightening, and ultimately heartbreaking.
I was touched some years ago by a television program devoted to the homeless in France. It conducted an experiment whereby a successful business owner, a self-made man, served as guinea pig. He was taken to a city he didn't know, left with just a few francs, no credit cards, no telephone, and challenged to survive. The premise was for him to ideally demonstrate his ability to find work and turn a difficult situation around.
He expected to prove that anyone who was sufficiently motivated could secure employment, if only the most menial, but he soon found doors slamming in his face. As a newly minted down-and-outer, himself, he was shocked by the systematic rejection he encountered in looking for work. In an emotional interview at the end of the filmed experiment, he was reduced to tears when he recounted that the only people willing to lend a helping hand were the other homeless people who befriended him along the way. His whole perception of the world of the jobless had been radically altered.
I was deeply moved, and about the same time, I began to notice a beggar in the métro whom I would see every morning on my way to work. He was different from most, there was a certain dignity in his demeanor hard to describe.
One day I did something completely out of character: I gave him a few francs, then hurried away. After that I began leaving a coin or two every day. I would sort of nod in his direction, but we had no other immediate communication.
After about a week, he spoke to me. He told me his name, and said he had some papers he wanted me to see. I reluctantly took the package of documents away with me. I discovered some yellowed newspaper illustrations from the comic page, and a little children's magazine about a magic rodent. At first I couldn't see the connection; then I understood that this "Gérard" who signed the cartoons was my homeless man in the métro.
When I next saw Monsieur Gérard, he explained that he had just wanted me to know something about himself. I began to talk with him every day on my way to work, and on the rare days I didn't see him, I would worry.
I learned that in addition to illustrating comic books, he had been a house painter, out of work for several years. He slept in various charity shelters, sometimes at the Salvation Army, but early each morning he had to move out and look for a new place the next evening.
We established a real bond, and I proposed that he do some work in my apartment. I came up with a couple of doors that needed a new coat of paint, and he acquitted himself beautifully. Afterwards I felt terrible when he refused to be paid. He said that the confidence I had given him meant more than money. I was ultimately able to make him see reason.
Later I spoke to my friend Julie about Monsieur Gérard, and she was equally touched and eager to meet him. He told us he just needed to find some way to hang in there for another two years until he would be eligible for retirement. Between us we found several painting jobs for him.
Julie's mother owned the family building, and it so happened there was a small studio on the ground floor which had stood vacant for several years. We approached Arielle and appealed to her to allow Monsieur Gérard a chance to find a new life by allowing him to live --at least temporarily-- in her vacant lodging.
Our plea was first refused (and understandably so), but after some extra prodding from her determined daughter, Arielle ultimately agreed to take on our homeless man. We arranged a meeting with Monsieur Gérard where she set out the conditions: he could stay rent free if he would agree to clear out and clean up the studio and paint the walls. As well as be responsible for sweeping the building's stairway once a week.
Even these modest conditions overwhelmed poor Monsieur Gérard. He was distressed by the responsibility, and asked us for a few days reflection.
Arielle was skeptical, M. Gérard was unsure, and friends warned that once people find themselves severed from the system it is rare for them to be able to find their way back. But Julie and I were determined to make it work, and we were unrelenting in encouraging him to accept the proposal.
He finally moved in, and I am sorry to report that it was downhill from there on. To sum up, it soon became clear that getting himself back into the "system" was just too much for him. He seemed unable to make much of an effort. We quit looking for odd jobs for him, because other than when he had direct contact with me or Julie (and then he always made the extra effort), his work became, to say the least, unreliable and unsatisfactory. His drinking veered more out of control. It was not so much that society gave up, it was Monsieur Gérard who finally gave up on himself.
After several incidents in the building, Arielle reluctantly decided the "job" was not working out. She told him he would have to leave in the Spring, but gave him leeway in choosing the exact date. Her fears of difficulty in evicting him proved unfounded, as he left on the appointed day without incident.
The outcome profoundly saddened me, as I had become convinced of a happy ending. I saw him a few times back in his old post in the métro, but it was difficult to know how to react. When he moved elsewhere, I must say it was a relief.
I only saw Monsieur Gérard one time after that. It was several months later, maybe even more. I was returning from a weekend in Normandy, walking home from the Gare St Lazare. Just outside the train station is a little square, where homeless people sometimes congregate. There he was, sitting alone on one of those green park benches. He was staring into space, as though completely disconnected. He looked worse than I had ever seen him.
I went up to him, and I tried to make contact: "How are you, Monsieur Gérard?" I said. But he just stared into space. I am sure he didn't know I was there.
Your input is welcomed: frank.pleasants@libertysurf.fr
CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings
Arielle is also featured in "Mademoiselle Laslier and Arielle ... Parallel Lives" from Musings and Meanderings No. 3 (to access, click on highlighted title).
