Chapter 4 

The Pool of Trappes

How do you heal from trauma? Some people use therapy, or rely on friends and family. If you are alone, you may seek refuge in medication, drugs, or alcohol. 

But this was 1984. In France, therapy was a luxury reserved for the upper 1% and virtually unknown to the general public. Drugs and alcohol cost money. Marianna had none. She worked Monday through Friday and spent her weekends locked up. At the end of every month, she handed her paycheck to her father, who discovered that girls were profitable.

As for friends, she wasn’t allowed to have any, and even if she did, she wouldn’t confide in anyone. She was raised with a strict code of conduct: Against bad fortune, heavy heart, happy face. Everything was fine.

Even if she had support, she wouldn’t have the words to articulate what had happened to her. The deception and the betrayal were bleeding wounds that would eventually heal. What crushed her soul was the shame and humiliation. 

She lost her appetite for over a month—the mere sight of food made her gag.A heavy steel ball settled in her gut. Her mind was shrouded in fog; her body felt hollow. She went to work, returned home, and went to bed.

One evening, on her way home from work, the bus took a detour around roadwork. It stopped beside the Yuri Gagarin swimming pool. 

What if I learned to swim? Just like that. She signed up for lessons.

After the first lesson, she was hooked. It was like climbing out of a dark, deep hole and stepping into the sunlight. 

Like a womb, the water cradled her and wrapped her weightless body in silence. The silky touch soothed her mind and lifted her soul into a dreamlike state and she drifted through an immaculate world of beauty. Water became home, a sanctuary, a place where she was whole. Water didn’t discriminate, judge, or ask anything of her. It only asked that she kick and push. As she glided through its ripples, pain, anxiety, and fear washed away. Each stroke empowered her; each movement restored her confidence. She discovered a freedom she had never imagined possible. 

In the pool, she wasn’t defined by her race or gender. She was a person determined to free herself from the shackles of traditions, cultural expectations, her family’s control, and racism.

She devoted herself to swimming with the fidelity of a faithful lover: two hours every evening after work, Saturday afternoons, and Sunday mornings until the pool closed.

The happiness and freedom she tasted in the water awakened her lifelong dream of living life on her own terms. When she was six years old, she went to the market with her grandmother. They sat on a bench waiting for the bus when a jeep pulled up across the street. A young blonde woman with a ponytail stepped out. Her grandmother pointed to her and said, "You see that lady? When you grow up, if you get an education, you too can have your own car, and no man will control you.” 

The image etched itself into Marianna's memory like a divine commandment. That day, she vowed she’d have a career, buy her own car, and obey no one.

Marianna didn’t dream of visiting New York or winning the lottery. She wanted what others took for granted: the right to exist as an individual.
***

“Ford Pouillat, bonjour,” was her first words every morning for two years. Customers called to check on cars in the repair shop, ask about the delivery of a new vehicle, or buy one. Marianna answered each call with a smile, handled each request attentively, and relayed every message promptly. But sometimes a crushing wave of sadness engulfed her. What if this was the only profession she’d ever have?

In 1985 France, growth opportunities were scarce. For children of immigrants, like Marianna, they were almost nonexistent. Racism was legal, discrimination a cultural norm. Occasionally, she applied for secretarial positions—a step up from receptionist. After all, she was trained as a stenographer and could type forty words a minute, an impressive speed at the time.

Two questions stood in her way, immovable as Mount Everest. 

“Vous êtes de quelle origine?” (“What is your ethnic origin?”) 

“Vous parlez anglais?”  ("Do you speak English?")

“Ford Pouillat, bonjour,” opened yet another ordinary Monday morning. Then a strange call came in. 

Jean François Lacombe, a movie producer, he said. 

He wanted to know if the dealership would provide him with a car in exchange for publicity. As they talked, Jean François was struck by her youthful energy, her cheerful voice, and her professionalism. Before hanging up, he asked her to lunch.

Jean François was a charming forty-four-year-old with white hair and a youthful allure. Over crêpes and cider, he told Marianna how beautiful she was. They talked about love and sex. She told him about her broken heart and how she had no interest in men. He said he’d wait until she was ready.

Jean François said something Marianna would remember for years to come. 

“Every time you love, it’s stronger.” 

He spoke of the many times he had fallen in love, each romance lasting only a few months. The shortest love story—and perhaps the most passionate of his life—had been with a fourteen-year-old girl in Mexico. Two weeks.

Marianna listened and filed Jean François into the same category as the men she worked with. They all flirted with her. Many asked her out; a few spat vulgarities, while others mocked her body parts. It was the 1980s and sexual harassment came with the job.

Marianna remembered Bahim. Did all men see only with one eye?

***

“Ford Pouillat, bonjour!” Was the refrain that began each day, like a morning prayer. Marianna watched the switchboard light up, pressed the buttons, fielded calls while her mind drifted to a faraway land—a place where she could exist simply as a person, where race and gender didn’t define her. She would be a poet, a writer. She would weave words to create a world where she and all the forgotten would be visible.

“Ford Pouillat, bonjour!”

“Bonjour, Marianna, it’s Jean François.”

“Hi. Umm.. I’m sorry I asked the director and he said no. They don’t give cars to movie producers, but they said you’re welcome to film on the premises.”

“That’s not why I was calling. I was wondering if you’d like to have lunch with me again? In Paris.”

“Oh, that would be lovely. I could take the afternoon off next Wednesday?”

“Great. I’ll pick you up at noon.”

Marianna could only go on daytime dates, thanks to the thirty-nine-hour workweek. Merci Mitterrand. It was the only way she could see Bahim without her parents finding out. By working forty hours a week, she accumulated four hours a month she could spend as she pleased.

Jean François took her to a movie, The Terminator. It was Marianna’s first time inside a movie theater. 

After the film, they went to the Fouquet’s on the Champs Élysées. As they waited for the espressos and the petits fours, Jean François explained the magic of Hollywood—the special effects, the stunts, and the power of the camera to create worlds that entertained and enchanted. He boasted that he had actually lived in California, where he learned to make movies.

The waitress served their espressos and two glasses of water. Jean François complimented her on her makeup.

“Do you do it yourself?”

“I do.”

“I like it. I’d like to hire you for some of my scenes. I’m a producer.” He handed her his business card.

Then he turned to Marianna.

“I’m putting together a production company. I’ll be making documentaries. I’d like to hire you as a production assistant.”

Marianna swallowed. If she wasn’t sitting, she would’ve collapsed to the floor. She took a long sip of water and let the news sink in. 

A door opened in the sky.

“When would I need to start?”

“The position will open in the fall?”

“What would I be doing?”

“You will be answering the phone, maintaining the schedule, and possibly traveling with me on location. I warn you, it can be long hours. That would violate your curfew.”

“Don’t worry about my parents. I’ll look for a place to live in Paris.”

Fall was four months away. Enough time to find a place to live, and give her employer the required month's notice. If only she had access to her full salary. She could save enough to afford an apartment. But every time she asked to open her own bank account or keep half her paycheck, it ended the same way: her father screaming, hurling insults, and threatening her.

“Women don’t stash money away? Do you know what that word you keep using—freedom—really means? It’s vulgar. Only prostitutes talk about freedom and ask for money.”

Every month he gave her an allowance of 200 francs ($40), which she used to cover transportation and any personal expenses. 

Whenever she bought something for herself, her father would sneer, “Is that what you waste money on? Shoes?”

***

July 31, 1985. 
Marianna woke up early and gathered the last of her belongings. For weeks, she had quietly removed her clothes and books from her room, storing them at her colleague Chantal's house. She left a letter on her desk for her family, letting them know that she was leaving to live alone and not to look for her.

She bought a one-way train ticket for Paris-Montparnasse and left Trappes behind.

Rue de la Santé was home to two of Paris's most famous institutions: Sainte-Anne Psychiatric Hospital and La Santé, the city's highest-security prison. Next to them stood the Foyer de Jeunes Filles, a residence for women between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five. It operated much like a hotel, except it housed only young women. The rent was inexpensive and included lunch and dinner. It was even cheaper if closing the meatless option, which suited Marianna perfectly. She had abhorred the sight of meat since childhood.

When Marianna stepped into her room at the foyer, she exhaled. She had a home of her own.

The room was modest: a bed, a desk, and a tiny bathroom tucked into one corner. The showers were shared, just down the hall. Coffee makers, hot plates, or cooking of any kind was forbidden. Visitors were allowed but had to vacate before 10:00 p.m.

These were merely house rules. At last, Marianna had the freedom she had craved for so many years. The future was no longer predestined. It was a choice. Her choice.

She cashed her final paycheck and collected four weeks' worth of unused vacation pay. She had enough money to survive for four to six months, provided Jean François came through.

She made a list of activities to join as soon as she had a salary. Top of the list was education. She stopped school at sixteen—not by choice. She would enroll with the CNEC (Centre National d’Education par correspondance) and learn English. 

Swimming was also important. She added ballet lessons, too. She had dreamed of dancing since childhood.

She would open a savings account and put money aside to buy her own place someday.

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