Portrait : To read or not to read

The street is buzzing like a swarm of bees. Under the Christmas lights, dozens of busy people, their arms full with parcels, enter and exit the adorned shops of the rue Oberkampf, a famous street of eastern Paris. It is 6.45 pm on Christmas eve, and the clock is ticking. Amongst all this hustle, a figure stands still, leaning against a newspaper kiosk. His arms crossed resting on his round stomach, wearing a checked cap and an impressive moustache, the newspaper seller watches the scene with a keen eye. “The news is not the first priority today. Nobody cares what is going on in the world” he says under his breath, before starting to rearrange newspapers in a single pile.

Roger, 62, has been a newspaper seller for nearly 40 years. “I was 15 when I first started working,” he proudly says, “I woke up before dawn and took my bicycle to deliver newspapers to the kiosks. It was hard, the stacks were sometimes almost heavier than I was, but they had to be delivered, no matter the weather, no matter what. And we didn’t count our working hours.” Yet, Roger has never regretted this time of his life, from which his passion for his work was born. “I watched the newsstand keepers, their heads almost disappearing behind stacks of newspapers,” he reflects with a distant look, suddenly blind to the excitement of the street. “They would sit there, sometimes light a cigarette in spite of the ban, only disturbed by a customer from time to time. I was crazy about reading and I thought how wonderful it would be to spend the whole day reading about the world, sport, fashion, whatever subject my mood would call upon.” His breath is quite short now, as he pushes the one huge pile inside the kiosk. “Of course, it had nothing to do with what the job truly was, and even less with what it is now”, he resumes, a melancholic smile lingering on his lips. “The hours spent in a restricted space, the loneliness, the routine, it can really weight on you sometimes”, he confesses. Then, lowering his voice as if he feared that saying it loud would make it come true, he talks about the disappearance of the traditional kiosks, the big firms like Hachette, which standardized “Relay” kiosks are now everywhere, killing the business. “They shut kiosks all over Paris. People don’t read anymore. There are less and less kiosks, but also less and less youth willing to take over. I don’t blame them. In my days, I knew I wouldn’t have a grand lifestyle, but this job was enough for a simple man. We were part of people’s lives, the customers were friends who would come everyday, stop for a chat. Now, you can’t live decently with a salary like mine, and the customers don’t even say ‘hi’”.

The melancholic smile has turned into a bitter one. Suddenly shy, he turns towards the kiosk and pulls down the metal shutter. A man has been standing nearby for a couple of minutes. Freeing one of his hand from his parcels, he lays it on Roger’s back : “We won’t let you disappear, Sir, you’re part of Paris’ soul. Thank you.” As he gets up, a smile reappears under Roger’s moustache. “And that is what keeps me going. Merry Christmas” he says, before vanishing in the night.