The ghost of Jean Valjean

By Lorenzo di Gaio

This text can be considered a fantastic work, a thriller, or a fairy tale. Why, it all depends on our reading grid. A social novel, or a melodrama without music. It's a drama with a popular tone where twists and turns accumulate that no one expects. It is a modern thriller, the suspense will surprise the reader.

Antonio is an Italian immigrant, he arrived in France 30 years ago, he is around fifty years old. It comes from Mezzo, southern Italy. She misses him, her heart is still there, France is not a choice, but a necessity.

He lives in the Paris suburbs, in Montreuil, in Seine Saint-Denis. He works in the sewer service of the city of Paris, fixed-term employment contracts of six months, he no longer counts them. Over the past 20 years, he has reached the milestone of forty contracts.

He is a hero in spite of himself, he does not have the makings, he is a heartless individual, he reveals empathy towards those who have nothing. He's not a brawny guy with no brains.

Every morning, he goes to Paris by metro, in the eleventh arrondissement of Paris. Historic Paris opens the doors to him. The Faubourg Saint-Antoine, the Place de la Bastille, the Petite and Grande Roquette and the Boulevard de Ménilmontant belong to the world, these places are linked to history. The storming of the Bastille symbolizes the fall of arbitrariness, the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.

No matter where he goes, the past winks at him, other names continue the wonder, the cemetery of Père Lachaise, Beaubourg, the marsh. These are emblematic places of the capital.

But the story takes place underground. It is the underground city without Paris of cockroaches, rats, bad smells, the sun is absent, a pale light illuminates the walls. Jean Valjean crossed it. Here, we are not talking about the pedestrianization of the capital.

At sunrise, at the Square de la Roquette, he meets a homeless person, it's a woman, her name is Marcelle. Life across the street has faded its shine, it is a flower that has lost its beauty. His dull, laughterless face engenders pity. He chats with her about the passage of time. He places a loaf of bread next to her without saying a word, and leaves.

His job consists of monitoring, repairing the pipes, maintaining the sewers, the bad smell bothers him, in the evening, he takes the air, he breathes. The Parisian air allows it to chase away the bad odors of this underground city. He speaks of an abyss every time he descends.

One day, he sees a shadow, he convinces himself that it is the ghost of Jean Valjean, Victor Hugo wrote that he was mayor of Montreuil. The shadow drags a paw, Jean Valjean too.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lorenzo di Gaio
• Release date: Dec 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798224541096

Book preview

The ghost of Jean Valjean

Lorenzo di Gaio

Chapter 1

My name is Antonio, I am walking along a street that takes me to my job. For thirty years, I have lived in France. I speak French correctly, this language resembles Italian, but it seems rougher. The Italian is a singer, he is also a charmer, the French is a soldier.

I work in the roads department of the city of Paris. I am assigned to the city's underground network, that is to say the pipes and everything that runs under the city. I clean, I maintain, I inspect this network. I prefer to say that I work on the hidden pipelines of the city of Paris, in fact, I work on the sewers of the city of Paris.

I am 1 m 68 tall. This is a normal height for men in my country. I am almost small in France. Where I come from is the Mezzogiorno, which I affectionately call the mezzo, the south of Italy, as a south exists for France. Its inhabitants are leaving it, because work is scarce, and if you want to eat you only have this solution.

As a child, I loved goat's milk and sheep's milk, I don't remember drinking cow's milk.

I weigh about sixty kilograms. I have a solid frame on a nervous body. I have thick, black hair. My eyes are brown, they suit my matte complexion.

My boss told me that Jean Valjean was lost in the sewers of Paris in 1832. I told him that I did not know him and at that time the family still resided in the mezzo. Afterwards, he told me that this character was the hero of a novel by Victor Hugo, Les Misérables. I must have read it a long time ago, but I told him that browsing books was not my favorite pastime. This activity caused men to lose their virility.

We have more than two thousand employees working on this task. There is no shortage of work to do, there is no risk of us finding ourselves unemployed. Someone told me that the conduits extend for two thousand four hundred kilometers. This length makes me dizzy.

The people who work in this service are territorial civil servants, but local authorities can hire non-permanent agents. I have been working there for 25 years on a fixed-term contract. This is a normal situation at the Post Office and at Paris City Hall. Whatever the political color of the municipal team, they are always the same CDDs. I know that I would stay on a fixed-term contract as long as the boss likes me, otherwise they will forget to make me sign a new contract. This context puts me in a precarious position. I can't predict anything. Every one hundred and eighty days, I wait for the ax, I indicate the fateful date on my job calendar. Currently, I am on my fortieth renewal for a period of 6 months. It is a temporary status which tends to persist.

Sewer workers as we are called have a shortened life expectancy of five years. It's a dangerous job. It carries many health risks. Into the Parisian underground reaches the water from the showers which carry all the materials found in their path, it is filled with particles. The famous acid rain increases its runoff. The dripping brings other atoms to the sewers. They are of various nature: zinc, waste oils, heavy metals, fuels, tire dust. A different source of water supply is domestic and industrial waste water. The pipes ensure their evacuation under the Parisian bitumen to the treatment centers.

These produce a sludge, i.e. 400 grams of muck for one cubic meter of treated fleet. This sludge, rich in trace elements, is used as fertilizer. This use is done either by spreading on neighboring fields, or by manufacturing granules.

In Paris, all-in-sewer is practiced, which means that everything goes through the sewers, including compressed air pipes, telephone cables and urban gas pipes. Antonio is proud to work to ensure the life of Paris.

I'm single. I didn't find a lady who suited me or rather who would have pleased my mother. Mama stayed in the country, but I ask her permission for the smallest thing that could compromise the future. She told me that French women are all putana . In any case, she would have preferred a girl from Mezzo and not a foreigner. So, I go to see the prostitutes, once a month, I practice paid love in order to relieve my animal need. We made man this way, he must behave as a reproducer, even if the relationship does not lead to fertilization . My seed must come out, I am obliged to protrude. This quick pleasure, just the time of two or three trips back and forth, is a habit like saying hello. I look forward to this monthly moment.

I tried hard to find an easy girl on the internet. My work colleagues always tell stories about girls after two or three words on the network. My boss is a regular on a very well-known dating site, according to what my companions say. My manager goes to see his conquests in the evening, he tells me that he will drain himself. I would also like to empty myself with each decline of the day. My classmates say they love to spray girls. I have to admit, the internet sucks, no woman wants to chat with me. I registered on Meetic, I can't hook up with a lady. I feel very alone.

I live in Paris, in a suburb, that's the term the French use. I live in a city made up of low-rent housing located on the slopes of Paris. It is the outskirts of the City of Lights, the former red belt of Paris. Now, it's more the image of the delinquent crown that surrounds the fashion capital, at least if I listen to the news, especially on BMFTV.

It is a fairly common conglomeration with its conflicts, its rumors, its fears and its anxieties. The fear of the other fills everyday life.

I have a small two-room apartment, a kitchen, a bedroom and a living room. I have decorated it over the years, giving it a rustic character. When I arrived, I was surprised that in France everyone locks themselves, in my country of origin, the doors remain open, people go out in the evening. In France, at dusk, everyone shuts themselves up, they are afraid, it is the reign of fear. Outside, gangs of young people impose the law of the strongest. It's the jungle.

I live in Montreuil in the department of Seine-Saint-Denis, commonly called 93. The population is mainly foreign. Looking at the teenagers who live near my home, I can see that most of them are of North African or black origin.

I work in Paris itself, in the 11th arrondissement. Montreuil is not too far away.

Chapter 2

In the morning to get to my place of work, I take the metro in Montreuil, line 9. The technical services have redone the stop, it's more pleasant. I don't like the appearance of the new station. Too modern, without soul, without spirit, without past, it's just sheet metal and glass. I get off at Charonne. I love the 11th arrondissement , always early for work, I stroll at dawn through the streets of the ¹¹th . Since walking there in the morning, I know every nook and cranny. It's a popular place, but warmer than Montreuil, it has a life, a heart, a history.

For me, the word popular, I deduce from the appearance of the buildings. I realize that now it’s the bobos who live here. This term makes me hilarious, that the French call it bourgeois, it's a shortcut created by illiterates. I like Brel's song called the bourgeois, I hum, the bourgeois are like pigs, the older they get, the stupider they become. This district does not have the appearance of the others, it has escaped Haussmannian madness. I find alleys that wind between buildings. These still have interior courtyards. They often date from before 1840. Which adds to the charm of this district

On my way, every morning, I come across a tramp. She did not opt for this life. A homeless person endures it, a beggar chose his existence. I can't tell the difference. I repeat this sentence several times in a row. However, I call them all homeless. Her name is Marcelle, 50 years old, but 10 years without a roof over her head. She looks 60 years old. Everything is faded like a flower that has lost its shine and freshness. She may have been a beautiful woman, but today she no longer has any appeal. I chat with her every morning, at first when I saw her, it was only a shy greeting that only uttered on the tips of my lips. Then we exchanged pleasantries. Marcelle told me about her life.

She was not always in this state. She was an administrative employee in a Social Security organization. She had divorced. She and her husband had to share the house they had acquired and the debts inherent to this property. They had five years of credit remaining. She had to leave the home because they were forced to sell the house. On two salaries, they could pay the bills, but separated, each on their own, they were incapable of doing so. The two of them bought a packet of pasta, each on their own, they had to get two. If Mr. Panzani is rubbing his hands, they had to get rid of this house. She took a small studio, she managed as best she could to survive. The couple had one child, a daughter who lived alone. One day, she fell ill, Marcelle came to her aid. She couldn't pay her rent. One morning, a bailiff was there with movers, they took all his furniture and put it in storage. She was kicked out of her home. She found a refuge outside, she did not want to ring in order to ask for help from her family or acquaintances. Then she lost her job. She took up her quarters in the 11th