A birthday dinner party somewhere on the right bank. After a few bottles of champagne in the lounge area, all the guests assemble around a heavy oval shaped table: five women, four men and one teenage boy. While waiting for the fish, that needs some extra oven-time, we struggle over a topic to engage us all, and someone mentions the magic abbreviation DSK.
Now at this time, pretty much the whole world is convinced the man is guilty. But the French still heavenly defend him. They might assume some questionable behavior – where there is smoke there must be some fire – but nobody at the dinner table believes in rape. They are all members of the un-united anti-Sarkozy front, which has probably played a role in the formation of these beliefs. “Did you know,” the host asks, “that the head of the NY police department is very close friends with our president?”
So what, according to them, has happened? One of the women has an instant scenario ready. “I don’t know who’s behind it,” she says, “and I don’t believe in conspiracy theories, but it’s obvious that this man was framed. Or it was a freak accident. As I see it, DSK called an escort service from his hotel room and received three proposals: they could send a girl dressed up as a rabbit, as a pirate, or as a chambermaid. Next scene: a girl comes in, dressed in a chambermaid uniform, and the man makes his advances. When the girl rejects him, he states clearly that he does not like it rough, but that his credit card was charged and he does expect some service. Next scene…”
“Let’s leave it that,” the father of the teenage boy intervenes, and we all laugh.
“I see it very differently, though,” a male guest says. “It must have been one of those physical comedy episodes, where a rather innocent move of one person, leads to a spontaneous response from someone else, and by the end of it all, they are caught up in a chaotic dance that spins out of control. Imagine, for example, that DSK was in his hotel room alone, perhaps a little bit too alone, so he goes into the bathroom in his robe and…” He looks at the teenager across from him. “Excusez-moi, but I have to say this: he starts to masturbate. Being caught up in the act, he does not hear the knock on the door and is subsequently deaf to the maid coming into the room to clean up. Only after he is finished, he hears something and kicks open the bathroom door to see where the noise is coming from. The maid yells, and he launches forward to calm her, forgetting his current state of soiled nudity. Of course this act inspires more panic and…”
“We get the picture,” the mother of the teenage boy says. “Could anyone help me carry the fish to the table?”
Following the current events unfold, I keep wondering what has really happened. Will the truth be as comical as these French imaginations? I’m afraid I’ll be disappointed.