The “Smashers” Fight the Police and...Shop Windows

It Happens in Paris

The “Smashers” Fight the Police and...Shop Windows

The French call them LES CASSEURS, and the best translation we know for that word is “the smashers.” They actually call themselves “the autonomists,” meaning the unorganized. In short, these are the helmet-wearing fellows with irrepressible anarchist tendencies who take advantage of demonstrations and mass gatherings of every kind to settle scores with policemen and shop windows. They smash both without mercy.

For our part, we once went along on May Day to see whether such a thing existed. It did. The demonstration was impressive in its cohesion, but afterward the crowd began to flee for its life, and the arena cleared for the inevitable struggle. The “smashers” build barricades and attack the gendarmes. Then the gendarmes attack and the others flee. And so on. And this is no show—with our own curious eyes we saw one “autonomist” thrust a burning torch into a policeman’s face (fortunately protected). And the “cudgels” get maximum use. All this without mentioning the short-lived windowpanes between Place de la République, the Bastille and the Opéra, which leave a very large question mark over the sanity of the insurance companies involved.

Yet the business seems perfectly sane. There is even a pattern to it, we would say. So we were not surprised when, during the recent workers’ demonstrations in Paris, the police were accused of collaborating with the “smashers” for purposes of provocation. The police maintain that they merely infiltrate policemen here and there into the ranks of the autonomists to gather intelligence. And they certainly perform their duties with the utmost enthusiasm...

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“Détective” Is Dead
Long Live the New King!

A different kind of requiem for a different kind of monument. For years, the weekly “Détective” was a cornerstone of the Parisian way of life. The sensationalist weekly used to bring its readers spicy tales of sex and corruption, written with a truly masterly hand.

The most impressive thing was the cover. There was always a titillating picture with no essential connection to the headline. And the headline, yes, the headline—that was the main thing. It generally described what is called “simultaneous action.” Such as: “He strangled his slut of a mistress while his wife made love to the Mauritanian night watchman he had hired.” Or alternatively: “He made love to the night watchman while his slut of a wife strangled his Yugoslav mistress.” Anything goes. And to think they never used the same headline twice.

The average Parisian, from the tramp to the senior official, would stop at the newsstand to buy a “normal” newspaper, or simply stop for no particular reason, but his hungry eyes said: “Détective.” For many, the cover was enough. And not a word at home, of course.

Then, one day, the decree came: “Détective” was forbidden to display its covers, on account of certain laws concerning offenses against public morals. Naturally, the paper did not continue to sell in substantial numbers without its covers on open display. As we have said, that was the main thing, after all. And it preferred to close its doors. What a loss.

A few days ago I was walking down the street and saw a weekly on a newsstand with a completely unfamiliar name, but with a cover that lit something in my heart: “He chained himself to the lesbian policewoman’s bed and let the nymphomaniac judge bury his victim in the garden.” I promptly fell into the arms of the elderly native standing beside me. His eyes were as moist as mine. This resurrection added many years to our lives. No, “Détective,” or whatever you are called now, they will never take you away from here again...

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The Empire Where the Sun Never Rises

It is hard to say things are not going well for Régine. In January this year, she inaugurated her London club. In February—the one in Buenos Aires. In April she is there, in São Paulo. Next in line: Hong Kong, Tokyo, Los Angeles and...Moscow. Why not? It is the next logical place in line. [illegible] called “[illegible],” during the 1980 Olympic Games.

In short, the “queen of Paris nightlife” can certainly adopt a paraphrase of a phrase spoken about an altogether different empire—in her empire, the sun never rises...

Her logic is “simple”: “In every city that has a fashion show, you can open a club, because women want to show off what they are wearing...” Plain and simple.

When we met her at the “Alcazar” club, where she also has a foothold, we were not, to tell the truth, in a suitable condition for an in-depth interview, in terms of alcoholic fitness. She stood there, just a nice little redhead, enjoying the show and especially the salutes in her honor. You would never think you were dealing with a queen. One sentence of hers nevertheless spoke to us immediately:

“I open new clubs because I cannot bear to see the same faces five or six times in the same place. If I come across someone like that, I try to kick him out of my circle...”

Régine also charges enormous sums for a membership card, which does not stop 4,000 people in London from joining the club. In Paris—a Saudi sheikh sent his chauffeur to her club’s manager with twenty thousand francs in cash, to ensure that his membership was duly registered.

Money—that is something Régine understands. Six hundred people are employed in her clubs, a fine achievement for someone who started out as a dishwasher in the bar of her father, Joseph Zylberberg, in the well-known Belleville district of northern Paris. Her brother, the textile king, Morim Bidermann, also came from there. Remember? What a family...

From Dad’s bar, she went on to become a dancer—until she was offered a position as head hostess at the “Whisky à Gogo” in the Saint-Germain of the fifties. In 1960 she opened the first of the “Régine” clubs. And ever since—it has been a success story.

Today she buys her clothes wholesale. Perhaps as compensation for the lean years”. She has, for example, 600 pairs of shoes... She invests in clothing and perfume businesses. Her new record is one of the season’s hits. At 48, she married Roger Choukroun—who is also her partner. With a flick of a finger, she gathers investments from businessmen, bankers, hoteliers. Who not.

“The anxiety about not spending time in one place is what makes me open new places,” she says, and heads off to New York. And we, of course, immediately become anxious. Does anyone have a remedy in the form of an open ticket to Rio by tomorrow? Meanwhile, we are waiting in the Latin Quarter, and just in case, we switched cafés this morning.