by Liz Ryan
Unfortunately, some new customers come in at this point, so the conversation is hastily terminated, as if it were illegal. But as I leave, I get a smile and a wink.
‘Au revoir, madame. It has been a pleasure talking to you.’
Decamping, I get the feeling that my foreignness has freed him up to say, for once, what he thinks. Not that it’s anything radical, but at least it’s sincere.
And sincerity is rare in a country that still seems to think the walls have ears.
Even as the young immigrant rioters start running out of steam – it’s November and the nights are getting chilly – the natives are getting restless. In Rouen, EDF workers take to the streets to protest against privatisation. In Paris, a lightning strike is called by SNCF ticket-sellers, whose jobs are under threat. As ever, France’s motto is ‘a protest a day helps you work, rest and play’.
Along with cooking, protesting is something France does well and thoroughly enjoys. Hardly a day goes by without some new complaint. Agricultural agitator José Bovey goes to jail for burning GM crops. Languedoc vignerons smash up supermarkets by way of objecting to foreign wines. Commuters are resigned to Métro trains squealing to a stop, planes are grounded, autoroutes are blocked. If individuals are afraid to speak out at private dinner parties, if barmen are reduced to whispering, the mobs, on the contrary, have no qualms whatsoever about shouting aloud in the streets. Safety in numbers and all that.
Frequently, of course, the protests are justified. Even successful. But success isn’t always the point. One day, I asked a friend how her anti-globalisation march had gone.
‘Great,’ she grinned. ‘The cops arrested lots of us!’
No, she wasn’t naive enough to think that Americanisation, or capitalism, or homogenisation could really be halted. But she’d had her day out, it had been fun, had attracted attention, had made the regional news. And hey, guess what, she’d met a lovely man amongst the marchers, and they were going out on a date next week! This happy news made me wonder: should I take up protesting too, as a hobby? If it yielded dates, I’d be delighted. On the other hand, what if I got arrested (again) and deported? It was tempting, but in the end discretion won out for once.
Unlike America, France doesn’t seek psychiatric counselling for trivia. It doesn’t seek compensation when stung by a bee. It doesn’t demand trauma intervention if somebody nicks its bike. Instead … one out, all out! And off they go, picnics in rucksacks, banners aloft, to protest. Today’s rioters can hardly be blamed for picking up on the role model that first saw the light of day in 1789, when the revolutionary hordes seized their pitchforks – a role model later reinforced when, in 1968, students stripped Paris’s streets of their cobblestones (some allegedly making very nice patios in private gardens). Protests and riots seem to be the therapy of choice, arguably saving the state a fortune in shrinks, and if you get interviewed on telly, even better. As my local newsagent remarks, ‘These young rioters are getting way too much media attention. Starve them of publicity and they’ll soon get bored.’
But as it turns out, the (then) interior minister, Nicolas Sarkozy, comes up with another solution to the riots. France, he announces, has decided to ‘withdraw its hospitality’ to its foreign guests.
Whaat? Coffee in hand, I freeze beside the radio. Am I to be deported after all?
‘Henceforth, any foreign national convicted of damage to French property, or injury to a French citizen, will be repatriated. After serving his prison term.’
Uproar. The Assemblée Nationale collapses in schism over ‘the injustice of this double penalty’, civil rights organisations go mad, radio phones are hopping.
Only bartender François stands back, pulling a pint with a grin. ‘So the hooligans are to be sent home, huh? What makes me think there won’t be any riots tonight?’
But there are. Not as fierce, but still fiery. One of the arsonists, aged twelve, has his say on television. Asked why he took to burning buses, he beams into the camera.
‘Because of the b … the bour … the …’ He’s having a little difficulty remembering the new word he’s apparently just learned. I wonder if he means bourbon? But then it comes. ‘The bourgeoisie.’
The bourgeoisie, eh? The middle classes? And what have they done to you, sonny?
‘They … they … they don’t take us to the cinema! Well, sometimes they do, but not often enough!’
Even as I explode in laughter, I can hardly believe it: is this really what has cost France millions, forced it to declare a national emergency? Is this why thousands of extra police have been deployed? Is this what thousands of journalists and millions of readers, viewers and listeners have been so earnestly discussing for weeks, often in tones of hushed respect for ‘the underpriviliged’? Kiddies wanting to go to the movies?!
I’m half sorry for the child, who clearly needs urgent parenting. But in that flash, France looks a fool. Frankly imbecilic. As François says next day: ‘We are fools. Taking naughty children seriously. All this political correctness … look where it’s got us. We are an international laughing stock.’
And then he hesitates, looks furtively around, and mutters into my ear. ‘I’ll tell you something else, too. These riots have paved the way for [right-wing leader] Le Pen. Come the next elections, you’ll see, the National Front will make huge gains. The government and the immigrants have both shot themselves in the foot.’
Sure enough, in 2010 the National Front does very well (although there is also a strange counter-swing to the left). Not that I, or the rioters, or any other foreigners, have any say in it, since we can only vote for mayors or European representatives. In order to be allowed to vote in village and European elections, I had to sign a form agreeing to be ‘voluntarily’ struck off the electoral register for national elections.
Radiation volontaire, it’s called. Volontaire, my eye. Foreigners are allowed to pay tax but not allowed to vote. Perhaps we should band together – Irish, Algerians, Americans and Iranians alike? Go out on strike, burn down a few dozen schools, set fire to a couple of thousand cars?
Opinion varies. Karl Lagerfeld, the German-born, Paris-based fashion designer, firmly asserts that ‘I never meddle in the politics of a country which is not my own’. (A pity his compatriot Adolf didn’t share his sentiments.) But other immigrants, including many British, feel strongly that, as EU members, they should be allowed to vote.
France is, after all, a democracy. Everyone is allowed their voice, even if that means trashing the country and burning it to a cinder. Just so long as nobody mentions the war.
More riots. ‘I’d turn a pressure hose on them,’ says Nicolas Sarkozy, before announcing more sanctions, this time on the rioters’ parents. Those whose children are convicted of damage risk losing their food and housing grants, as well as the subsidised holidays the children enjoy in summer.
The total cost of the damage is now estimated at €250 million, not counting the loss of revenue. As it happens, the EU is about to fork out €103 million to France, which was destined for ‘urban revitalisation’. Instead, the money will now go to ‘urban repair’.
‘Sweeping up glass and rebuilding schools,’ snorts a furious François. ‘As if we didn’t do enough of that after the Nazis.’
Instantly, silence descends. A hasty switching of subject, as his customers all beam nonchalantly: goodness, what a lovely day it is! Draining their beers and coffees, they melt away on urgent business. François has done the unpardonable. He has mentioned the war. But he doesn’t care, because he is moving anyway: his son has asthma and the climate is better down south. Six months later, the café is sold and, sadly, our friendly barman is gone.
But one reassuring little incident indicates that there is still hope for freedom of speech. The satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo has bravely published some cartoons linking the prophet Muhammad with violence, which have caused outrage in their native Denmark and beyond. Fundamentalist Islamists are threatening to kill the cartoonist, bomb Europe an
d so forth, and so as a writer I feel honour-bound to buy a copy of Charlie Hebdo. Freedom of the press is, after all, a key element of democracy.
But when I reach the newsagent’s, Charlie Hebdo is nowhere to be found. ‘Ah non,’ says the assistant, ‘they’re all gone. Sold out.’
It transpires that half a million copies have been bought before lunchtime, and the magazine is having to reprint. Somewhere, somebody seems to be not only standing up to bullying, but putting their money where their mouth is. Vive la résistance.
Six months later, despite his remarks about power-hosing protestors, Nicolas Sarkozy is elected president of the Fifth Republic. Or is it because of them?
‘Nicolas,’ asserts one of my English-language students, ‘articulated what everybody thought, but was afraid to say.’
So now I’ve cracked it. In Ireland, you speak out; in France, you vote for somebody to do it for you. If you’re allowed to vote.
10.
Vive La Révolution
Zut alors. Pierre the mayor is in trouble again. And all because he wants to improve the village, as is the mission of mayors, to make it bigger and better for all of us. Having successfully resurfaced the tennis court, he is now resolved to build his little cité, or housing estate. Just a small scheme, with fourteen foyers (homes) for a mixed new populace of young and elderly couples.
Our Normandy village needs new blood. The school must have fresh supplies of children if it is to continue to exist. If this new housing estate was built, Pierre wonders aloud, what joys might follow? Someday, we might even have a bakery or – bon dieu! – a corner shop. And so Pierre engages an architect, draws up plans, and sets his sights on a plot of land. With his dream taking shape, he changes tense: ‘if’ becomes ‘when’, and the project begins to sound more and more like a fait accompli.
Unfortunately, this plot of land is dear to the hearts of the villagers. It is where their children play football. It is where the midsummer bonfire is held every 21 June, complete with blazing barbecue, dancing, much music and merriment. It is rustic and pretty, adjacent to the picturesque, historic little church. On the minus side, it is small and rather cramped for Pierre’s projected fourteen houses. Mixed little houses, he says, for young and old alike, cheap and affordable; although how the elderly half of the new residents are to contribute to the school is not entirely clear. Free Viagra, maybe, or HRT with every key?
Unfortunately, Pierre’s houses won’t be quite as cheap as he thought, because the county architect takes one look at the plans and says: ah non, these roofs are not traditional. They must be redesigned. Must be built of better, much dearer materials. Back to le drawing board. And then there’s a bit of a tizz about the access road, which would – will – run alongside the presbytery, turning it from the peaceful home of the Sandret family into a humming traffic junction, endangering the Sandret children. Unfortunately, the unveiling of Pierre’s plans exactly coincides with the birth of yet another Sandret child.
So, teething problems. But Pierre remains undaunted. He – uh, we – will have our new cité come hell or high water. We will grow, we will march into the twenty-first century with our school intact, our heads held high. Rumour has it that, in due course, there might even be a bust of Pierre outside the mairie, honouring his vision and resolve. Maligned today, he could be a hero tomorrow.
Only then, the Canadians move in. Dynamic Canadians intent on opening a B&B, they are horrified to hear of Pierre’s master plan and vocally oppose the blueprints for it, which are on display at the mairie.
Mayor for nearly thirty years, Pierre is used to getting his own way. Unchallenged. After all, he hosts a charming little drinks party every new year in his mairie, he dishes out flowers to all the mamans on Mother’s Day, is he not entitled to a scintilla of loyalty?
Alas, no. Not any more. The Canadians are rearing up on him. Turning on him, accusing him of trying not to revive but to wreck the village, to sell its soul and turn it into a faceless suburb.
Next thing, writs are flying. A survey reveals that 90 percent of the villagers feel that the scheme would destroy the rural environment. Should they wish to live in suburbia, they threaten, they will move out to Le Havre or Dieppe or Rouen. Not only will the village not expand, it won’t even survive in its present form. Anguish abounds, and a summit meeting is hastily called.
The meeting, held in the village hall – ironically, restored by poor Pierre some years ago – is heated. First up is le Canadien Laurent, to deliver an impassioned speech worthy of the Senate. This field, he thunders, is our patrimoine, our heritage, our community asset. It is to be preserved, not plundered!
‘Ah,’ retorts Pierre rather unwisely, ‘you’re only a blow-in, what would you know?’
Whereupon an old codger totters to his feet. Eh oui, perhaps this young Laurent is only a blow-in. But what a breath of fresh air! For years, monsieur le maire has enjoyed a reign of terror, but now it is over. Now, people will follow this lively Laurent’s example and stand up to him! He, for one, is delighted to welcome the vigorous new resident amongst our fold. Well done, laddie!
‘But,’ splutters Pierre, ‘but, but … I’m only trying to do my best here. We need to up our numbers. I only chose that site because no other was available.’
A snoozing farmer leaps to life. Rubbish, nonsense! He will happily sell his own ten-hectare field to the community, on condition that the houses built on it be nice traditional cottages, causing no hassle to the Sandret or any other family. Would Pierre care to name a price here and now?
Curiously, Pierre fails to seize the offer. He must, he mutters, think it over, discuss it with his … ‘Henchmen!’ bawls a voice. ‘You and your henchmen! You think you have this village stitched up, think you can ride roughshod over us, bribe the women with flowers, treat us like your peasant playthings! Well, you can’t any more. Your reign of terror is over!’
Understandably, Pierre pales, perhaps mindful of La Révolution. Consulting his paperwork, he guardedly remarks that the cité project is as yet merely embryonic. Nothing is set in stone. Further research might be required.
‘Further research,’ yelps a voice, ‘has already been done! The regional council has looked into it, and declared itself opposed. On environmental grounds! Social grounds! Infrastructural grounds! It is a non-runner, monsieur le maire!’
And so, during a somewhat pregnant pause, the project stalls. And continues to stall, for a very long time … weeks go by, months, years. The Sandret infant survives into kindergarten without being catapulted from its pram by any speeding vehicle. The presbytery remains unswallowed by any spaghetti junction. The B&B is open for business, billing itself as a ‘tranquil rustic haven in open countryside’, and full to bursting. Bleakly, Pierre continues to plead for ‘progress’, but his entreaties fall on stony ground. After all, Pierre doesn’t actually live here: his house is a comfortable three kilometres away from the fief over which he presides and plans to ‘develop’.
As yet, no shotguns have been loaded, nothing more provocative has transpired than an ill-researched newspaper article heavily weighted in Pierre’s favour, and his own headline comments about ‘the bad atmosphere’ of his own making. But, under our little village’s somnolent aura, there now lurks humming tension, as if a distantly rumbling thunderstorm might at any moment turn into a tornado. In the nature of French feuds, this one looks set to run until the Sandret infant staggers up on his Zimmer frame to collect his old-age pension … until the morning of the bulldozer.
Bright yellow, assisted by a tractor, it appeared as if by magic, trundling into the disputed field at first light, catching the village unawares. Most people had left for work, but those who remained rallied, virtually in their pyjamas, to Laurent’s battle cry. ‘Allez, allez, vite, vite, le maire va nous écraser!’ (‘The mayor is going to flatten us!’)
And so it proved. The driver of the bulldozer announced that his employer’s instructions were to keep driving, regardless of who might throw t
hemselves in the mud under his tyres. The villagers called the police. Pierre, arriving in person, took one look at the protest and ordered the police to remove all demonstrators. The police retorted that they would give any orders to be given, and demanded to see his building permit. Words were exchanged, names were taken, and finally the bulldozer was halted in its tracks.
But not for long. Pierre sought, and got, derogation from Bâtiments de France (the government’s architecture protection agency) to build within the normal five-hundred-metre exclusion range beside the historic church. A concrete mixer turned up, only to be blocked by a quick-thinking farmer who parked his tractor across its path, leaving the cement to set fast in its belly. And then, bloody but unbowed, Pierre revealed the full extent of his master plan.
Not just fourteen little houses, at all. Scores of them, hundreds, ringing the entire village, turning it into a town. The playground to be tarmacked, a concrete ‘health track’ plonked in the middle of the cornfields and – horror – a brand new industrial zone to be created in the field where, in winter, wax-jacketed locals currently hunt rabbits and shoot pheasant. A second industrial zone – there’s already one barely a kilometre away – plus a new tax to pay for all this, to be extracted from all residents whether they approve of his urban jungle or not. A tax to be levied on every resident, every year for the next fifty years.
Collectively, the shocked village appeals to Bâtiments de France, to the regional council and to numerous other bodies, two of whom send enquêteurs (inquisitors) to investigate and hear the howls of protest. One evening, we all line up like schoolchildren to be summoned one by one to say our piece to these bored-looking chaps, the atmosphere reminiscent of old-style confession in a Catholic church. As I’m the last to be heard by the second enquêteur, who is wearily packing his briefcase and stifling a yawn, I ask him whether, realistically, he reckons the protest stands a snowball’s chance in hell.
