12. The War with Monsieur LeClub, Part II

When last we looked in on this naval engagement, things were heating up. After some initial cautionary fire, Monsieur LeClub had shown his complete disregard for our well-being by having a party that kept us up till all hours. Meanwhile, Polecat was chattering with her friends at annoying volume on the other side of our wall. If you haven't read Part I of this tale, well, you really should. We had just spoken with our building manager, La Guardienne, and she said that she would speak with LeClub. We have our own attacks planned, as well.

 Megan wrote a blistering note to both of them, and I played my part by trying to find some way to stick the two pages to the wall at the top of the stairs (stickers pulled off of fruit, mostly). Note affixed, we headed off into the world seeking wifi and the sights of Paris.

We returned to find that both of them had fired back. The wall to which we stuck our note looked like a bulletin board. Monsieur LeClub had written us a letter, and Polecat had written one consisting of no less than three pages.

Monsieur's boils down to, “No one else has ever complained about my noise; what's your problem?” and “My apartment is big enough for a party, so why shouldn't I have one?”

"Yeah! That's right this picture was in the last one! 
I'm Monsieur LeClub! I don't care!"


Polecat's says, essentially, “I have friends visiting me that I haven't seen in six months. They'll be gone in a week and I'll be all alone again, so there.” and “I agree with Monsieur le Club.”

This, but with fewer fingers.

It's a wild fracas, guns blazing back and forth. After talking to Landlady (Landlady and La Guardienne are two different people. La Guardienne lives on the property, while Landlady owns our apartment and lives a few blocks away), Megan researches the laws about noise in Paris. They turn out to be pretty draconian. With the exception of children and “official” construction work (no DIY remodeling), there's no mercy for any noise that might infringe on a neighbor's tranquility. The laws use terms like unnecessary, uncaring, or aggressive noise, and those terms are defined using adjectives like duration, repetition, or intensity, with little specificity. Pretty open to interpretation. Things look bad for Monsieur LeClub.

However, further research finds that it's a toss up as to whether or not the police will do anything or if that solution lasts. Megan finds chat groups filled with people suffering from noisy neighbors. The cops might or might not come. It might or might not work. They offer advice, everything from continual friendly persuasion to strategies for forcing people to move out.

Somewhere in that week Polecat bails. When the guy showed up to hook up our livebox- the thing that lets us access the internet from le Bateau- I saw her flash past the open door. She may have had one of those rolling suitcases with her. Her friends had left one by one the previous week, and it's only after we haven't heard a thing from her for a couple days that we realize she's gone. Maybe it seems a little cruel, but go without a restful sleep for...well, do it for a week and then see if you feel bad about getting the person making the noise to leave.

 Polecat wasn't the worst scallywag on these our high seas in the skies so are troubles aren't solved, but having her gone lets us focus our attention on the Pirate King, Monsieur LeClub. The next couple nights are moderately noisy. It's not hellish, nothing like the party, but annoying. It goes on late, later than is neighborly. On the second night in a row, after much deliberating, soul-searching, and mulling it over, Megan calls the cops. It's a big step. Nobody wants to be the person that calls the cops, but damn, son. Our requests do not work. Our well-being is not his concern. So we must escalate. We live in a society of rules and laws, which is why we appeal to the capabilities of the civil authorities instead of breaking down Monsieur's door with a battleaxe and taking a power drill to him.

Big Daddy finds your lack of consideration disturbing.

Megan calls the police just after 11:30. They call us about 12:15 to say they've gotten in to our courtyard but can't figure out which building is ours. Chalk it up to communications breaking down between dispatch and patrol or something. But the noise has stopped by then; Monsieur has gone to bed, it seems. What could they do? Wake him up and tell him to be quiet? They apparently feel the same way, because they say, “All right, then. Good night.” And they leave.

The music starts back up not long after.

The next day we light the fuses again and fire off another broadside.

Megan writes Monsieur another note. In this one she says that this will be the last time she asks him to keep his noise down; next time she's calling the cops (his latest near-brush with the law goes unmentioned). She doesn't want to do this, she writes, but feels like there's nothing else she can do. Monsieur LeClub has been asked by her, by Guardienne, and by other tenants before us to be quieter, but it hasn't worked. She says that she has the law on her side and cites the ordinances.

Never one to balk in the face of a cannonade, Monsieur fires back with a note of his own, slipped under our door on his way to work. It is a masterpiece.

(I use quotes here, but really this is just an approximation.) “You say you are so tired at night, but the other night I came home and your light was on past midnight. There are other people on this hall; why are you not telling them to be quiet? M. La Guardienne has never spoken to me, nor has anyone else on this floor ever complained. Perhaps we could go speak to her together? But what you ask is impossible. I cannot remain mute!

P.S. My aunt is a judge; I know the law.”

Jerk-ass. He and the honey badger are best buds. (And if you haven't
 seen the honey badger video, you owe it  to yourself to click on that
 link. I swear this to you.)

Now, at this point we know someone is lying. La Guardienne says she's spoken with him; Monsieur LeClub says no one ever has. But Landlady said she had talked with him on the last tenant's behalf about his noise. So I have my opinion about who's telling the truth.

Megan takes him up on his offer to talk to La Guardienne together and drops him yet another note. It's a simple response, a drawing of only one of the brace of pistols tucked into her pirate sash. But this offer of a duel, a face to face confrontation with an unbiased mediator- no more blustery broadsides- goes unanswered. They never meet.

And one night, when Monsieur LeClub's bass is once more relentlessly battering the balks and timbers of Le Petit Bateau, Megan calls the cops again. It has to be done. We've asked and asked for the situation to change, both of Monsieur himself and La Guardienne, but have gotten no satisfaction. Calling the cops sucks. But what could we do? If Megan went over and asked him to turn his music down again it would ruin any credibility she had and show that we were weak in our resolve. Asking him to turn it down that night would mean we would have to ask him every night. AND WE SHOULDN'T HAVE TO.

Just like last time it took them a while to show up, and by 1:00 am when they arrived he wasn't banging away any more. But they did knock on his door and asked him to keep the noise down in the future. Naturally, Megan was crammed right up next to our door, listening. They didn't drag him away in chains or even give him a ticket (in fact, we hear them complimenting him on some piece of electronics), and we could hear him saying, “It's no one else complaining, it's just that woman.” But they came. We showed that we meant business, weren't afraid to push that red button and use the nuclear option.

Yeah! In your face, Galor-class cruiser/Monsieur LeClub!
Remember: space battle is still naval.

The next day there's another note from Monsieur under the door. “I'm disappointed that we couldn't discuss this, that you felt you had to call the police. They were very polite to me. But beware. Now, if I ever hear you making noise, I will feel free to call them as well.” Now we must be on our guard.

You know, I guess all these Star Trek photos might not resonate with
 a lot of you.  But I love them, and this is about me, so nyah. And I
 would be happy- nay, elated- to explain their  significance and how
 their inclusion is appropriate.

Meanwhile, other goings-on are, um, going on beneath our feet and over our heads, literally and metaphorically. The apartment below us begins undergoing renovation. This meant that every morning, starting between 7 and 8 am, bangings, poundings, sawings, and drillings began beneath us. Petit Bateau vibrated. At times I seriously worried that their drills were going to come through the floor and impale us.

The man who lives in that apartment- let's call him Mssr. Chevalier- owns not just the apartment that encompasses the entire floor beneath us on our side of the stairs, but also owns a two-bateau apartment right next to us on the 6^th floor, on the opposite side from Polecat's. If the arrangement of pieces on this naval combat board are confusing, I suggest- if you haven't- reading my first entry, Le Petit Bateau. It breaks down who is where. For a couple of days he brings up luggage and clothes and stuff that I guess he doesn't want dust to get all over. He moves in. And then one day he and another man showed up at our door.

Unbeknownst to us, a meeting of apartment owners in the building is coming up. And Landlady has got our backs, ladies and gentlemen. She's been campaigning for us, lobbying the other owners, especially Monsieur Chevalier and another gent who lives on the 4^th floor who is perhaps her friend, to write a letter to the owner of Monsieur LeClub's apartment, asking her to kick him out.

The three folks in the front, there, from left to right:
Mssr. Chevalier, Landlady, and 4th Floor Gent.
I know this isn't naval, but it's French.

Chevalier and 4^th Floor Gent have come to our door to tell us of this and let us know that LeClub's days are numbered if he doesn't change his ways.

It's strange, ladies and gents. He's just one guy. And he's at least a decade our junior. But he's been on this floor much longer than we have and his behavior has a great deal of inertia on its side. And he's native, a true-born Parisian, while we are the gabbling foreigners.

The next day after our meeting with Chevalier and 4^th Floor Gent, we hear them talking to LeClub in the hall. They explain the upcoming meeting and how he is the one who must now be careful and proactive in fixing this situation. If not, he might be forced to move all his possessions that elicit compliments from cops down the 111 and across Paris to some new digs. We are elated and feel as though we just might be able to live without fear of his audio tyranny.

"What? I have to alter my lifestyle to take into account
 the rights of others? That gives me a sad!"

Remember that scene in Tolkien's The Two Towers when Gandalf showed up with the army of Westfold to rescue the beleaguered host of the Hornburg in the valley of Helm's Deep? It was like that.

The very next day, Monsieur LeClub comes to our door to sue for peace. I like to think of it that way, anyway. The conversation between the two French-speaking members at the Treaty of Le Petit Bateau was cordial and almost friendly in tone. LeClub and Megan experimented with different volume levels for his music, setting a level and then seeing how audible it was from both the hall and our room. Finally an acceptable amplitude was reached, a little mark made on his volume dial and a curfew of ten pm decided upon, after which that amplitude was not be exceeded. If his music ever bothered us, all we had to do was come down the hall and knock and let him know.

Besides being fitting, this clip is awesome. It has the line, "And terror is our semaphore!"

 which, I feel, is fantastic. In fact this entire movie, 1982's The Pirate Movie, is pretty much gold. 

As long as you like tongue-in-cheek homages to classics of musical theater. 

In the weeks since then, there have been times when Monsieur LeClub has stretched that curfew by a few minutes. But he's not building submarines or warships with more than 10,000 tons displacement, so we're okay.

Oh. A week or so after all of this hullabaloo settled down, French Barbie had a party. Hmph.

This, but with fewer fingers.