Paris, November 20, 2020
The email address, scribbled on that scrap of paper, burned in my pocket like a glowing ember. I hadn't used it. Not yet. A rational, terrified part of me urged me to tear it up, forget it, retreat to the protective anonymity of my navy uniform.
But another part—stronger, captivated—echoed his words: "It would be a pleasure."
Pleasure. A dangerous word. One with no place between the President of the Republic and a precarious employee.
Yet, that secret exchange, confined within the Élysée's walls, didn't remain hidden for long.
It began with a lingering stare from an AFP photographer one morning as I guided a group of official visitors through the Cour d'Honneur. His lens, aimed at the procession, suddenly shifted to me, clicking repeatedly. I turned away, embarrassed, but the damage was done.
The next day, a friend of Vinette, a voracious consumer of gossip rags, sent her a message with an attached photo. Blurry, it captured me in my wax dress from the private reception, the President approaching me. His smile was visible, my stunned expression clear. Snapped discreetly with a smartphone by an unscrupulous guest, it had escaped into the wild.
The message read simply: "Is that your Senegalese cousin? Flirting with the President? "
Vinette, panicked, showed me the message that night in our room. The screen of my phone cracked under my clenched fist.
—We need to tell Aunt Fatou, she whispered, her face pale. And above all, don't mention it to anyone else.
Too late.
Two days later, a tabloid hit the stands, burying the story on page six. The headline was suggestive: "Emmanuel's Weakness? Mystery Surrounds a Senegalese Beauty at the Élysée."
No photo of me appeared, just a generic image of the palace facade and a mention of the African nations' reception. The article, laced with innuendo and anonymous "sources close to the Élysée," spoke of a "young Senegalese woman, recently hired, who particularly caught the President's eye during recent events." It praised my "natural grace" and "exotic charm," terms that filled me with anger and shame.
That evening, Jacques-Cartier flung the newspaper onto the living room table, startling everyone.
—So? Is it you they're talking about, miss? he snapped, his gaze hostile. "Young Senegalese woman"… that's not exactly common at the Élysée, is it?
—Jacques, please… Aunt Fatou began, exhausted.
—No, wait! Do you realize the scandal? If it gets out that she's living here? Working there? They'll come for us—the police, the tax authorities, the press! And my job, huh? What about that?
—It's just rumors, Uncle, Jeanne tried, her voice quivering. Made-up stories…
—Rumors? Look at her! She's all flustered! It's you, isn't it? They're talking about you?
I didn't answer. I stared at my plate, cheeks burning, feeling the weight of their gazes—the fear in Jacques, the shame in Aunt Fatou, the pity from my cousins.
—You need to leave, Jacques-Cartier concluded coldly. Right now. I won't have more trouble.
That night, I didn't open my laptop. I didn't turn on the light. Sitting on my bed, I watched car headlights trace shifting lines across the ceiling.
The paper with the President's email was in my hand. I toyed with it, folding and unfolding it.
The scandal Jacques feared was only beginning. And he was right. My presence endangered them all.
But a stubborn, reckless thought took root in my mind.
If he'd given me his email… he expected me to write. He knew this might happen. He was ready.
Perhaps even…
No. I pushed the thought away.
But it returned, stronger.
Perhaps even this article, these rumors… didn't bother him as much as they should.
Perhaps.
I clenched the paper in my fist.
For the first time, I wondered not how to escape the media's gaze, but how to prepare for it.