LUXOMANIA, Confessions of a salesgirl in the secret world of luxury.

MEN IN BLACK

What strikes me first is the store's size and configuration. It's a real maze on three levels, a mini shopping center. The ground floor department is dedicated to men, with tailored suits, suitcases and shoes. The glass staircase in the center of that floor seems to transport clients up to the first floor. Here is where you find leather goods, the iconic accessories on which the brand made its name and glory days. Niches of acacia, shaped like cells, light the handbags like works of art. Some of the items, protected behind glass cases, are in python and cost 13,000 euros; others, in crocodile, hover around 25,000 euros. Cold sweat. The uniformed sales staff stands guard. A veritable foreign legion made up of 50 employees, with as many as 20 different nationalities – Dutch, Iranians, Germans, Italians, Russians, Brazilians, Chinese, French, Japanese, Moroccans, Swedish and English – serve a demanding international clientele.

Zoom out. The women's shoe collection is carefully displayed on pedestals of plexiglass, lit up like a dance floor. A large cube of mirrors displays the limited series from the latest runway show. They include six-inch thigh high leather boots at 19,000 euros and crocodile boots at 11,000 euros, enthroned like genuine relics and worshiped like cult objects. This is the "Beverly Hills" collection, a name that drives clients wild and gives them goose bumps.

Music. A song by the band Phoenix lulls customers in their quest for the Holy Grail. Further on, is the jewelry department which forms a small, cozy setting with soft lighting, quiet as a confessional and decorated with display cases sprinkled with precious stones, no visible price tags. Mysterious. Then on the second floor, you arrive at the women's ready-to-wear department. The VIP lounge on the third floor completes the apex of this pyramid. This island of tranquility includes an elevator which transports clients directly from the rue du Faubourg Saint Honoré. An ethereal voice announces the floor and the doors slide shut in the blink of an eye. Here the collection floats weightlessly. The effect is hallucinogenic. It is all done to create a unique atmosphere, reserved for a handful of fashionistas. Sleek and intimidating, the floor emerges like an oasis bathed in milky white, translucent light, a mirage at the end of this huge pyramid labyrinth.

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I've been stuck in the corridor leading to the stock room for ten minutes now. Holding an armful of clothes, stuck in the dark between the two floors, I cannot get my badge to work. The corridor door suddenly opens and a security guard comes to rescue me.

- "Your badge isn't working?"

- "Uh, yes, but I don't understand ..."

- "Ah, you're certainly not going to get in using the coffee machine key!"

In the dark I'd confused the two magnetic badges. He opens the door and I finally get out. How did he know I was stuck there? Looking up at the ceiling, I notice a camera in the corner of the corridor. I later discover that every corner of the store is equipped with one. After all, there is real treasure to protect. Our every move is closely monitored from the control room in the basement of the store. A room lined with thirty computer screens which flash simultaneously and monitor all the floors. Here is the security headquarters headed by Patrick, my rescuer. He looks like Frankenstein, very tall with protruding ears, which make him look a bit stupid. When he gets angry, saliva forms at the sides of his mouth. A whitish foam that dries like curdled milk. The entire team of security guards is under his command. There is Momo, the little fat one, who farts silently and leaves a nauseating odor in his wake that makes you want to faint; Regis, the karate champion, who picks his nose all day; Djamel, who dreams of becoming a police chief; and Mamadou, who guards the store entrance, as if it were a private nightclub. The five of them make quite a team. Forever clinging to their walkie-talkies and dressed in black suits, they take themselves for the store's superheroes. It's their job as security guards to monitor the merchandise on display in the store and to help us track down thieves. The break room, which also serves as the staff dining room, is a little extension of the security headquarters. In between the two microwave ovens, water fountain and vending machine stands a kind of exquisite giant corpse with the portraits of thieves tacked to the wall and the blown up video images of their faces taken when they were in the store. A police station ambiance that Djamel has carefully reconstructed, identical down to the last detail.

"Security, Djamel, I'm listening?"

"Djamel, we suspect a client on the second floor. Over."

"Ok, describe the suspect. Over."

"About 50 years old, blonde with a white sweater. Over."

"Ok, I see her on camera 3. Over."

"Djamel, the Pizza Hut delivery man just arrived. I said, interrupting him.

"Shh! Not now, not now!"

"The suspect is leaving the department, Djamel, false alarm. Over."

"Ok, tell the guys to take their lunch break, the Neapolitans are hot!" says Djamel.

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