Pierre was, above all, a man unlikely to evoke superlatives in any consideration of him, and powerful was, perhaps, the least likely. Adventurous , needless to say, never came up in the same sentence as his name, and seductive would have brought a laugh to any woman's lips. The best that could, and ever was, said of him were rather ordinary assessments. At work, he was deemed competent; his concierge declared him dependable and reliable, especially when it came to putting out his garbage and paying his rent; and the women in his life -- even kindly Aunt Nicole -- would only opine that he wasn't bad looking.
This wasn't, of course, how Pierre viewed himself; in his own eyes, he was a leader, a lover, a powerful master of all he surveyed. And so he would daydream as he traveled to and from work each day, focusing on one or two of his fellow passengers on the Metro to inspire a little reverie. Sometimes he would imagine a story of high finance; sometimes it would be of international intrigue; most times it would be of lust and seduction, but, ultimately, power was the center of all his daydreams, power over other people.
A psychologist would probably say Pierre's daydreams were a form of compensation, an attempt to have in fantasy what his real life so clearly lacked, and that psychologist would probably be right. Pierre had a good enough job, to be sure; after all, junior accountant in the largest investment company in Paris was a position with a degree of status and a decent salary. And it might have come with some power, some charisma, had it not been for that representative from the New York affiliate.
It was more than a year since she had visited, and still he suffered from her comments. Certainly she was beautiful and vivacious, but did she have to make a joke at Pierre's expense? As she made the rounds, the senior accountant introduced her to Pierre.
"Pierre LePetit?," she asked with a giggle; "Doesn't that translate as 'little Peter?' In the States, 'peter' is a euphemism for 'penis," she continued, laughing loudly.
Since then, the whole office teased him about his name. It nearly shattered Pierre's already fragile ego, and most of all when it came from the beautiful Virginie LaChaste. She was the senior accountant's administrative assistant, and easily the most eye-catching woman in the firm. Everyone's head turned her way, despite the demure clothing she wore. Her dresses were always prim and proper, but, still, the full curves of her body showed through the lay of the fabric. And her face! Eyes that sparkled with the sensuousness of youth and plump, pouty, pink lips that seemed to invite a kiss brightened her every passage and inspired a wide variety of thoughts in the minds of every man and woman she passed. Wild thoughts, they were, and thoughts that would have likely been even wilder had those men and women known of Virginie's one weakness: the expensive, seductive, pure silk lingerie she always wore, enjoying both the smooth feel of the silk on her skin and the knowledge that no one knew what she had on.
Among her tasks was the distribution of the office mail, and, after the American's visit, she took to calling on them by surname first.
"LePetit, Pierre," she would call with a certain emphasis whenever he had mail, and her announcement would bring peals of laughter from the poor man's office mates as she effectively named him 'the little peter.' And he would shrink at his desk as she brought the missive to him.
Weekends and holidays brought Pierre welcome respite from this daily taunting, and gave free rein to his reveries as well. In the summer months he often would take the train south and then be found on the promenades of the Cote d'Azur of a Saturday or Sunday, imagining himself in a Speedo, his muscles rippling as he stood on the beach surrounded by women in their micro-bikinis. And less.
It was the women taking the sun who spurred his dreams, and on the beaches of Nice or Antibes or Monte Carlo, many sunbathed topless. Pierre would look down from the promenade and dream about these luscious ladies sweating in the sun, and sometimes he would imagine that he would find them in Paris, bare-breasted, of course, but for his eyes alone. Such was never to be, though, or was it?
This day was a very special day in Paris and in the whole of France; it was the day before the great National Holiday, and many firms, including Pierre's held it as a half-day to allow their employees the opportunity to prepare for their Bastille Day celebrations. Yes, Bastille Day, the commemoration of that day long ago when the citizens stormed the nefarious prison, battering through the gates, filling the vestibule, and thrusting onward into its deepest recesses to liberate its prisoners.
Today, Pierre decided as he arose, he would not let the taunts irk him; he would enjoy the day and the whole weekend to follow. He decided to put on his best suit, a suit he had yet to wear, but had risked much to possess.
This junior accountant thought highly of his senior, of the man's comportment and dress, a man with the charisma of a natural leader. So Pierre did his best to emulate his boss, even in clothing. A pure silk Armani suit like those worn by the senior accountant, however, was far beyond his budget, and so he was delighted to find, on a little sojourn into Italy from Menton on one of his weekend trips, a polyester knock-off that looked like the real thing. He bought it, and then faced the custom agent when he returned across the border. The price of smuggling a faux designer article into France was high; if caught, you paid the tax and duties on the value of the genuine article and had your knock-off confiscated and destroyed.
Pierre was lucky that day; he smiled weakly at la douaniere, and, perhaps out of pity, she let him pass untested. He brought his prize home, and now, but a few weeks later, he had good cause to wear it.
As he dressed, he imagined the impression it would make on his boss, on his colleagues, and, most of all, on the untouchable Virginie. His mind was still on the beauty as he left his apartment for the Metro station, giving his concierge the usual perfunctory greeting.
