thirty-four

So I was to meet him on the top of the Arc de Triomphe. By now I knew Claude and his love of metaphors: what better place for this rendezvous to mark the end of his mission with me? There was no doubting that his “teaching” had been a triumph. But, given his modesty and the care he had taken to emphasize my progress and accomplishments rather than his success as a mentor, I suspected he wanted to celebrate my triumph, which was visible both in so many small ways in my daily life and in much bigger things, of which FashionFairies was the prime example.

I walked up to the monument, admiring the impressive sculptures, allegories of victory, adorning its arches. Yes, really, what better place to celebrate the successful conclusion of my personal project and to pay homage to the brilliant counseling that Claude had offered. Head held high, my eyes glinting with pride, I passed by the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and felt a similar flame burn inside me.

When I reached the top of the arch, I looked down at life going on beneath me. All those tiny dots rushing in every direction, the cars the size of toys, passersby like colored pixels. The wind was ruffling my hair, and I breathed deeply, inhaling the air of freedom and ambition that seemed to envelop this place so redolent of history and conquest.

Claude was already there and welcomed me with open arms.

“Claude! I’m so pleased to see you!”

“Me too, Camille. So, have you recovered from the other night?”

“Oh yes. It was marvelous! Thank you again for all you have done. And to bring Jean Paul Gaultier along with you, that was miraculous! I still don’t know how you managed to pull it off.”

“Ah, that’s my little secret . . . But you know, if your concept hadn’t appealed to him, he wouldn’t have come. So the credit is all yours. Have you seen all the plaques on this monument, Camille? Magnificent, aren’t they? I couldn’t think of a better spot to round off this mission. All these symbols of victory, liberty, peace. That’s what you’ve achieved—thanks to your own efforts, your strength of will, and all the positive changes you’ve brought about in your life.”

“I would never have done it without you.”

“Everyone needs a guide sometimes, and I’m pleased to have been able to help you . . .”

Both of us fell silent for a moment, staring at the extraordinary panorama we could see from the top of the arch.

“You know, Camille, I like to think we are all citizens of the world, but few people are aware of it. Anyone could become a peace ambassador simply by working on his or her own inner serenity and happiness. Just imagine the impact if more and more people chose the virtuous circle rather than the vicious one . . .”

“That’s true, and it’s why I’m so pleased I’m back in the ‘good’ circle. You’ve taught me so much. Even if your mission on my behalf is over, I sincerely hope we’ll continue to see each other.”

Silence.

“Claude?”

His face had suddenly clouded over.

“Maybe when you’ve heard what I have to say you won’t want to see me again.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I have to tell you a secret that might destroy your faith in me.”

“Now you’re frightening me.”

“OK, so here goes . . .”

I stared at him, willing him to go on.

“I am not a routinologist.”

I was dumbstruck. What?

“In real life, I’m an architect. I designed the house you stumbled into the day of the storm. I’d always dreamed of being a great architect. But fifteen years ago, I was lost; a fat, depressed, middle-aged guy with no future. In those days I lived in the United States. I was a waiter in a pizzeria, light-years away from achieving my dreams. I put on forty-five pounds. I ate because I had been hurt, and the wound had not healed . . . All because of a love story that ended badly.”

Claude was struggling to speak, and I could tell from his face how painful that episode must have been for him. He went on: “I had left France after a disastrous breakup with the woman I thought was the love of my life. It was brutal. She went off with my best friend . . . Their betrayal almost destroyed me. We were about to start the third year of our architecture degree and were planning to get married when we finished. But there was no way I could stay after what happened. I felt I had to get as far away as possible, to abandon everything, including my professional future, and forget her. To put an ocean between us was the least I could do. But when I got to the States, my depression only got worse. I completely let myself go. I was huge.”

A memory suddenly clicked in my brain. I exclaimed: “So that man in the photo was you!”

It was his turn to not understand. I had to explain how I’d found the photo in the drawer in his study.

“Yes, that was me all right. The other man is Jack Miller. He’s the one who looked after me and set me back on track so that I could become what I am today. Without him, I would never have returned to architecture: I no longer had any confidence in myself. He was my mentor, my . . . routinologist.”

“What do you mean, your routinologist?”

The wind tousled his salt-and-pepper hair. His eyes shone. He sighed deeply, then clearly decided to tell me everything.

“Camille, the moment has come for me to explain. Routinology as such is an invention. In reality it’s a kind of mutual aid chain, a way of passing on success: whoever has been helped becomes a routinologist in turn and has to choose another person to help and pass on everything he or she has learned.”

“But . . . but . . . that’s not possible. It’s . . . It can’t be true!”

“But it is.”

“What about your office? Your assistant? And that young woman who said she had been counseled by you?”

“All that was staged. In fact, that office is my architectural practice, and Marianne is my assistant there. I had to take her into my confidence and convince her to play along. The woman who agreed to say she was a former client is in fact my great-niece. The only other things I had to do whenever you came were to remove anything that could give away my real profession and leave out a few fake routinology files . . .”

“So that was why there was a design for a house with the calculations and a heap of papers?”

He nodded silently, watching me to see how I would react.

“That means you really have no qualifications to be my life coach? No track record?”

He coughed. This was the first time I had ever seen him lose his composure.

“Yes and no, Camille. You see, each new ‘routinologist’ has, like you, been through an apprenticeship that he then follows scrupulously. It worked for you, didn’t it?”

I sensed that he was waiting for some sort of absolution from me. I wasn’t yet completely ready to give it. I was going to have to digest all this first.

He must have read my mind, because he went on: “You mustn’t think I don’t know what you’re feeling, Camille. It was a shock for me as well to learn that Jack Miller wasn’t a routinologist . . . It’s true that it isn’t a classic method, or even an orthodox one, but it’s worth it, don’t you think?”

We stared at each other. An intense silence hung in the air while he waited for my answer.

I capitulated.

“Yes, it’s worth it.”

Claude breathed again. Smiling, he rummaged in his bag and pulled something out.

“In that case, you’re ready to have this.”

He handed me a thick notebook. In it I discovered all the stages of my program, the exercises, the learning tasks, the detailed instructions. I was deeply moved to see page after page covered with notes, diagrams, photos. What an impressive collection.

“I’ve been keeping it for you throughout your journey. It will be very useful later on in helping the man or woman you choose to mentor. And by the way, it will only take a look or a word for you to know who that person is . . .”

“Is that what happened in my case?”

“Yes. I’d been waiting for four years to find someone I wanted to mentor like this.”

I was stunned and flattered at the same time.

He gave me a box of routinologist business cards printed in my name (as if he had never doubted I would agree) and some bogus files, photos, and letters of thanks that I was supposed to pin to the wall of my future consulting room . . . the whole paraphernalia of being a routinologist.

“Here you are. Take them, please. It’s your turn to pass on all you have learned. You will do that, won’t you? You won’t allow the chain of routinologists to break?”

There was a pleading note to his voice.

I was stunned. He was still staring at me insistently. My mind was filled with all that we had been through together. I was choking with emotion. I held out my hand and took the papers . . . I owed him that at least, didn’t I?