by Nicky Gentil
Appearing slightly offended, the young cabdriver asked me:
‘Why are you laughing? Don’t you think she’s beautiful?’
‘But of course I do. No question. She looks absolutely amazing. It’s the comparison that’s making me laugh. It’s extremely flattering. And I truly thank you for your compliment because if you can see any resemblance whatsoever between your beautiful girlfriend and me – however small it may be – then, believe you me, that makes me very happy. That said, I have to admit, I can’t see any similarity at all, and that goes for our eyes too.
Now reassured as to my opinion regarding his girlfriend’s looks, my charming young cabdriver recovered his initial exuberance to conclude on the subject with a final flourish:
‘I promise you, I’m not kidding; you really do have the same eyes. I could not possibly be mistaken about this colour. It’s so rare to see such clear green eyes; I never grow tired of looking at them. And you know what? I can’t wait to see my girlfriend tonight so I can tell her that today I dropped off a client with exactly the same unusual eyes!’
At this point, I deemed it wise to keep my mouth firmly shut. While I was quite convinced that this type of remark would not go down at all well with his girlfriend, on the other hand I was not about to explain why. Doing so would have required me to address the vast, extremely complex subject of the sensitive female psyche. And I had no wish whatsoever to dampen the enthusiasm of this charming young man whose unexpected, touching, spontaneous comments had just put one huge smile on my face, far bigger than that bestowed upon me by the beautiful weather, and one that was to remain there for the entire day!
Eyes to Remember and the Sweet Offer of…a Sweet!
Breaking the silence of the first ten minutes of my journey, the cabdriver put a question to me:
‘Would you like a sweet?’
‘No thank you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Quite sure, thank you.’
‘The sweets come free, you know. They’re on the house!’
His insistence made me laugh and caused me to give a slightly more detailed answer:
‘It’s very kind of you but, the thing is, I don’t like sweet things. So you see, it really is a “no”, a completely sincere “no”.’
I was also laughing for another reason. Two weeks previously, I had taken this very same taxi. I knew this because I had had exactly the same conversation with this man, word for word. I had therefore already met this charming, sweet-dispensing cabdriver and was highly amused by this situation that was seeing me take the same taxi, for the second time, in a fortnight.
The most amusing part, however, was still to come…
At the end of the journey, the cabdriver turned round and exclaimed:
‘Well, well, well! I know you, don’t I? You’ve taken my taxi before. About two weeks ago, if I remember rightly.’
‘You’re right. I remember you very well because it’s most unusual to offer sweets to a client. On the other hand, I’m really surprised you remember me. As a cabdriver you must come across so many people, even over the relatively short space of time of a fortnight.’
‘Indeed I do. But only very rarely do I come across eyes like yours. It’s because of your eyes Madame. How could I possibly forget such eyes!’
Clearly, I thought, my eyes are something of a hit with Parisian cabdrivers!
As I stepped out of the taxi, this unlikely situation incited me to say:
‘So, see you in two weeks’ time then!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Generally, things come in threes don’t they? So, logically, I shall see you again, in two weeks.’
‘Well, Madame, if it happens a third time, you do realise we’ll have to celebrate it; next time I’ll take you out for a drink!’
His offer to go out for a drink was not threatening in any way. On the contrary, it was made in the very spirit of harmless banter that I too had used. And that is exactly how I took it.
Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of the invitation in the tale that follows…
The Creep
I was in the process of putting my purse away when the cabdriver said:
‘I’ve just come to the end of my shift. Would you like to go for a drink with me?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Oh, I see, you’re not free this evening. Well, never mind. Here’s my card. Call me when you are free and we’ll meet up for a drink.’
My response to his audacious comments − spoken in a direct tone that I really didn’t appreciate − was a very firm ‘NO’, to which he said:
‘What? Don’t you want to go out with me?’
His persistence threw me completely off balance and, although I was under no obligation whatsoever to give him an answer, stupidly I began to do just that as if, somehow, I had to justify myself:
‘No, I don’t want to go out with you. Not with you, or with anyone else for that matter. I happen to be very happily married.’
His tone was now contemptuous as he pursued the subject with:
‘And does this mean you’re not allowed to go out? Can’t you even have a drink with someone? Is your husband the type of bloke who doesn’t give you any freedom, or what?’
By now, I was beside myself with rage; with lightning speed, I got out of the car and slammed the door behind me.
Unfortunately, I could still sense that this creepy man was watching my every move as I walked swiftly to the main door of our block of flats. So I hid my hand, while typing in the security code to prevent him from seeing it, entered the building and got straight in the lift that was, thankfully, already on the ground floor.
Once safely home, I was so shaken by what had just happened that I immediately told my husband all about it, concluding with this sad thought:
‘I just don’t believe it. To think that, at my age, somebody has just tried to pick me up. You would have thought that the one advantage for us females of growing old would be that at least we’d get less harassed, less bothered by seedy men.’
It was at this point that my husband took it upon himself to defuse the situation with that most effective, time-honoured remedy that is humour. Adopting an air of exaggerated pride and speaking in an undeniably macho tone, he replied:
‘But of course people are always going to want to pick you up, ma chérie. What happened doesn’t surprise me in the least. After all, we’re not just talking about any old woman. We’re talking about MY wife. My very own, beautiful wife!’
His comments were quite ridiculous. All of a sudden, for very different reasons, the cabdriver’s behaviour seemed equally ridiculous. And in the end, I too could see that the best thing to do, the only thing to do in fact, was have a good laugh about it!
The Wacko
It was late when we left the dentist. On top of which, it was extremely cold. So we were delighted when we spotted a cab rank just outside the practice.
As we got into the first cab in the queue, I was surprised to see that the cabdriver was watching a small television. Even more so when he started the car without bothering to turn it off!
I therefore did not deem it unreasonable to request:
‘Monsieur, could I just ask you to turn off your television please?’
‘Why?’
‘Because, surely, you’re not going to drive and watch the television at the same time?’
‘Oh yes, I am. Don’t worry, Madame, I’m quite used to doing it. I do it all the time.’
‘Well, Monsieur, allow me to make myself very clear: there is absolutely no way that you are going to drive my two children and me while you watch television. So could I kindly ask you to stop the car please?’
Without saying a word he did as I asked, whereupon we leapt out − delighted to have got away − and approached the second cab of the ran
k.
*
Clearly it was going to be one of those evenings because the cabdriver of the second cab greeted us with:
‘Sorry, but I’m not going to take you.’
‘Why is that?’
‘It’s out of respect for my colleague, Madame. You simply cannot jump the queue, you have to go with the order of the rank.’
‘Well, I can see your point. But the thing is your colleague wants to watch his television while he drives. To me this is unacceptable. In fact, it’s extremely dangerous.’
‘Now you listen here, Madame. This is so not my problem. All I know is that I’m not going to take you. Clearly, you are one difficult client. And I can quite do without clients like you!’
*
Third time lucky, we got in the next cab of the rank where I started by explaining to the cabdriver precisely why we had no choice but to do so, concluding with:
‘I just don’t get it. Asking a cabdriver to turn his television off seems like a perfectly reasonable request to me. But apparently this makes me a difficult client.’
‘Okay, I’ll take you. But you must understand that I’m making an exception here. I don’t normally do this to my colleagues.’
In spite of his reservations, I presumed the difficult part was now behind us.
Naturally, I hadn’t banked on how this cabdriver would react upon hearing the address of my destination:
‘Are you sure?’
Going home in a taxi was turning out to be extremely complicated; his question threw me completely off balance, causing me to stammer:
‘Err… yes. After all, that’s where I live… so I don’t think there’s too much chance of getting it wrong.’
‘I’ll grant you that. But I prefer to check because you’re a woman. And you women, well frankly – let’s face it − you’re always changing your minds!’
By now I was at the end of my tether with the cabdrivers of this rank and sorely tempted to slap him across the face for his sexist comments.
My children also looked utterly horrified. So much so that I was about to give up on the idea of going home in a taxi when, suddenly, something made me think twice about how I should respond…
Evidently, this was no ordinary cabdriver; on the contrary, he came across as a bit of a wacko who, into the bargain, couldn’t give a toss about political correctness. And, I freely admit, I too can get really fed up with the politically correct brigade on occasions.
Consequently, instead of slapping him, I chose to reply:
‘Well, Monsieur, I’m delighted to confirm that I have just given you the correct address… and also that I am in complete agreement with your view of the female species.’
I then went on to explain the reason for my acquiescence:
‘You’ve no idea. The number of times I’ll tell my husband “No, I don’t want any coffee”, when he makes it at the weekend. And you know what, he’ll still make me one, justifying it by saying: “I know you told me you didn’t want any, but I was convinced you’d change your mind so I thought I’d make you one anyway.” And, I have to admit, nine times out of ten, he’s right!’
‘Well there you go. I told you I had a point. And do you know how I know this? The fact of the matter is, you have no idea of the number of times female clients will give me an address and then, during the journey, they’ll see something in a shop window – a dress, or a pair of shoes – and they’ll say: “Monsieur, stop the car please. Now! I’ve changed my mind and I have to get out right here.” Eh oui! That’s just how you women are.’
He really made me laugh with his ‘no holds barred’ comments, causing me to say:
‘Well, in theory, the address I’ve given you is the right one. But, since I’m a woman, we’re just going to have to wait and see, aren’t we? I can’t promise you anything…’
After this slightly unorthodox start, for the rest of the journey – contrary to my initial expectations − I had a really pleasant time talking to this cabdriver whose apparent goal, when on duty, was to transform potentially mundane cab rides into entertaining mini-slices of life!
And when at last we did arrive in front of our building, I couldn’t help but tease him back by pretending to challenge him with:
‘Turns out, Monsieur, you’re wrong about us women. Let’s face it, you cannot deny the fact that I gave you one very specific address at the beginning of this journey and just look how I’ve managed to stick to it, all the way home.’
But there was nothing for it. Snorting with laughter, he retorted:
‘But that actually makes complete sense. You see, Madame, there’s always the exception that proves the rule!’
Another Wacko!
I grew up round here and I’ve never seen anything quite like it! Do you realise that on the 25th December the weather wasn’t just mild. It was really hot, twenty-five degrees! Talk about a great Christmas present! I do hope you’re going to be able to get a bit of skiing in. But, frankly, it’s not looking good. They’ve only managed to open three slopes. You have to take a bus to get there. And, even then, it’s artificial snow…’
We had just arrived in the Alps for our winter holiday. And, that particular winter, the weather was indeed exceptionally mild. To add insult to injury, there was no way our female cabdriver was going to let us forget it because she was on a roll that saw her determined to talk about it non-stop.
‘You know it’s really hard to greet people here. They get off the train, and – already − they’re disappointed. Disappointed at the beginning of a holiday… it’s just not right.’
She didn’t seem to understand that her doom and gloom speech was actually making matters much worse! With or without snow, we were determined to enjoy our week in the Alps and we really could have done without her depressing comments.
Sadly, though, there was to be no reprieve as she went on to address every last aspect of the unfavourable weather conditions, informing us for example of the effect this would have on the local economy – ‘We’re all going to have a terrible season’ − before moving on to the cause of the problem at a worldwide level – ‘This is all down to global-warming, you know’ – as if she were revealing some kind of scoop, a hitherto little-known item of breaking news!
Then, just when we thought the picture could not get any gloomier, she actually managed to up the ante by suggesting a solution to the problem that was even more unorthodox than her way of greeting her clients:
‘You know, if this continues, I think I’ll just meet people at the station with a gun. That way, upon their arrival, they can immediately put a bullet through their head and be done with it, once and for all!’
In the back of the car, we were in fact already ‘killing’ ourselves … laughing!
While our ‘charming’ cabdriver’s chosen profession undoubtedly required her to cover some distance on a daily basis, on the other hand, when it came to tourist relations, clearly she still had quite some distance to cover!
The Considerate Cabdriver
That night I was trying to get my young daughter to the doctor, fast. As a child she rarely got sick, but when she did she didn’t do things by halves. And, on this particular occasion, there was something major going on with her lungs.
Our cabdriver, who hailed from Morocco, seeing that his little passenger was unwell, began the journey by asking me about the precise nature of the problem. Then, he took it upon himself to come up with a diagnosis. Finally, he advised me as to how I should treat the affliction!
He was convinced it was pneumonia and suggested we have recourse to his grandmother’s tried and tested remedy, one by which his entire family swore.
It turned out that our cabdriver’s grandmother, who still lived in Morocco, had for many years enjoyed a hugely successful career as a professional opera singer − this in spite of her fragile health leaving her prone
to frequent lung infections − because she had a secret weapon, a magical cure. It came in the form of a weird, disgusting potion. (Disgusting, that is, according to the face my daughter pulled when she heard the description of it and I have to say I couldn’t help but agree with her.) Concocting the potion was simple; serious quantities of honey and olive oil would be blended together. And, so convinced was his grandmother of the miraculous powers of this somewhat dubious liquid, that in later years she continued to swear by this − and this alone – when it came to treating the children, grandchildren and great grandchildren of her family, whatever the ailment, whenever they were ill! Consequently, according to our cabdriver, nobody in his family had ever taken a single antibiotic!
Encouraging us to adopt his family’s panacea, the cabdriver gave me the precise recipe and begged me to try it for ‘just one night’, concluding his would-be doctor speech with:
‘Please try it Madame. After all, you’ve nothing to lose.’ − Only my daughter! I thought, slightly horrified − ‘If it doesn’t work, you can give your daughter her prescribed medicine tomorrow.’ At this point he used a decidedly derogatory tone, practically spitting out the word prescribed, in order to express his disgust at the idea of opting for a more standard type of treatment. ‘But I’m quite sure you won’t need it. In fact, I’m so sure that I’m going to give you my telephone number. That way, you can let me know exactly how your little patient reacts to our way of treating infections. Call me tomorrow morning. I’m convinced you’ll ring me to say she’s completely cured!’
Out of politeness, I took his card.
*
Once we got to the doctor, she confirmed what we had all feared (including the cabdriver, as it happened): it was indeed pneumonia. And, since my daughter was already decidedly weak, drastic action was required. In other words a course of heavy-duty antibiotics was quite simply unavoidable.
Obviously, it was my firm intention to follow the doctor’s orders to the letter. There was no way that I was going to take the slightest risk with my little princess by experimenting with an antiquated remedy – one that naturally caused the doctor to fall about laughing when I related my conversation with the cabdriver to her!
