French Leave

by Liz Ryan

  But as things turn out, rising to his status as (then) president, Jacques Chirac rallies, gallantly overlooking the country’s bewildering, embarrassing defeat. He announces that, on its return from Germany, the team is to be invited to a knees-up at the Élysée (though there’s no mention of inviting the victorious Amélie). Defeat or no defeat, the team is to be fêted and, just as soon as he arrives back in Paris, Zidane will explain what happened, live on television. Clearly, he must have been under unbearable pressure and already France is steeling itself to forgive and forget. Poor Zidane, provoked beyond endurance. What a tragic end to such a brilliant career. Hearts harden against the normally popular Italy, and there are mutterings about cancelling next summer’s Roman holidays.

  But Pierre Yves will not be watching the festivities in Paris, nor Zidane’s explanation either. He will, he announces, be decamping to the impenetrable forests of the Ardennes, where he owns a ‘small shack’ twelve kilometres from the nearest oasis of so-called civilisation. (A five-bedroomed shack, rumour has it: his houses have been selling at quite a rate.) There he will paint his shutters, go walking with a sturdy stick, read some soothing Descartes and encourage France in its pursuit of real glory: the preparation of his favourite marmite for supper. Back here at the ranch, we are getting in some crates of Kro with which to lubricate the televised party at the Élysée, some pizza by the metre and – if we can find any – those clacker things that make lots of noise when you whirl them over your brain-dead head. After all, somebody’s got to support the French, even if it’s only us foreigners, and even if the Frenchman in question isn’t quite as French as, say, Molière or Jean-Jacques Rousseau.

  After all, poor Zidane’s smile is still divine, and he did get France as far as the final, and he did misbehave only under serious stress. As Sartre might say, were he playing for the Sorbonne, you’ve got to be philosophical about these things. And besides, there’s always next time … by which time, France might have grasped what soccer is all about, and put several teams of hooligans into training. After all, if you can’t wreck your country by way of celebrating, what’s the point of winning?

  Fast-forward four years, and plus ça change. One of France’s star soccer players, Thierry Henry, has propelled France into the 2010 World Cup by the simple stratagem of applying his hand to the ball which rightly belonged to his Irish opponent. In a flash, Ireland is out of the finals and France is in. This ‘light-handedness’ naturally renders all my friends in Ireland absolutely furious, my mobile is popping with texts all night, but when next I meet Pierre Yves he is perfectly sanguine about it.

  ‘Of course. What did I tell you? Only savages play soccer. My son has been asking me to take him to see some of these World Cup matches – in South Africa he says it is – but I have said non, we will go to our little cabane in the Ardennes as usual, and I will take him fishing, and we will have some – what do the Americans call it? – some quality time together. We will play father and son!’

  At which he laughs his head off and I can already see the headlines in the local newspaper: ‘Estate Agent’s Son (7) Absconds to South Africa’.

  However, not all French men and women are proud of what Thierry Henry did. The day after the match, I visit the village bakery. The assistant goes into a whispering huddle with her boss and next thing a gorgeous cake is produced, boxed, and handed to me ‘with our apologies, madame, for the way your country was robbed last night’.

  Well, even if it doesn’t change things, or comfort Ireland in the least, it has to be said that the cake is delicious. And, as my friends point out, it could be the start of a truly great guilt trip.

  ‘Hurry!’ they urge enthusiastically, ‘run down to the jeweller’s shop, quick, and then the wine merchant’s, and then the car showrooms. Get all you can out of that guilt!’

  Did France really feel guilty? Yes. An online survey showed that it did, to the tune of 80 percent. But Pierre Yves never uttered a word of apology, because of course he hadn’t seen the match, and therefore didn’t know that Ireland had made up its mind, en masse, never to set foot in France again. Oh no, no more holiday homes for us, ever again, after that!

  Only the property squeeze will not, alas, turn out to have much to do with soccer. In December 2010, I run into Pierre Yves in the village square, and he grimaces sympathetically.

  ‘I hear Ireland has played all its money away.’

  Indeed. Pierre Yves may know nothing about football, but his verbal footwork is nifty, and so he wins on points.

  20.

  No Smoke Without Fire

  It is coming up to Hallowe’en. The harvest moon glows fatly full, the chevronned fields are knubbly as tweed, pale cows loom in the mist and recede again. The air smells of dung and smoke, the choir has started rehearsals for Christmas, and all is as it should be.

  Until – wham! – David Pujadas reads out the dreadful news on TF2, and France leaps into orbit, aghast.

  ‘Whaat? Ban smoking! But … but … this is all your fault!’

  Eh? Mine? Like my name is Marie Antoinette?

  ‘Oui. You. Irish, that is. You started all this.’

  Actually, we didn’t. America started it, and Ireland simply likes to mimic America. Then, bewilderingly, Italy, of all places, fell in line, then Scotland … and now, France has decided to introduce prohibition too.

  It is mystifying. Thus far, France has refused to be sterilised by political correctness – and besides, it doesn’t smoke the way other countries do. Many people like a cigarette with their coffee, but there never seems to be a haze of smoke in a bar or bistro, maybe because the weather so often facilitates eating and drinking outdoors or with the windows open. Cigarettes are expensive enough to discourage indulgence, but not prohibitively so, as in Ireland. Like chocolate, they’re seen as an occasional comfort when the mistral is blowing or your team has been humiliated by Manchester United.

  But now – well, as of January – smoking is to be banned, and society is to be divided. Half of it will remain at table after dinner, sipping its coffee while the other half huddles out in the street, puffing and grizzling, each camp nursing growing resentment of the other. It’s a very vexed question – one that continues to divide Ireland – and, as a foreigner, you’re better off staying out of arguments.

  But the French are not so easily put off. ‘Has prohibition,’ they want to know, ‘really worked in Ireland?’

  Well yes, it has. Many people have given up cigarettes in favour of Valium, hamburgers, chewing gum, cocaine, or the whole lot. A whole new range of stress-busters has gained popularity. Indeed, murder has gained popularity, to quite a spectacular degree: many of the stress-buster dealers have had hatchets embedded in their heads and bullets whistling through their chests. If the country is somewhat living on its nerves these days, at least its lungs are clearer.

  ‘But what about your famous pubs? Do people still go out to drink and hear music?’

  Er, no. Not a lot, nowadays. Pubs have been shutting down in their droves. You’re about as likely to find a live giraffe now in an Irish pub as a spontaneous outburst of singing, and many jobs have been lost. But there you go, can’t make omelettes without breaking eggs, eh?

  Pop-eyed, the French gaze at me. Jobs have been lost? But French unemployment is already rocketing! This will be the end, the drop that made the vase overflow! (Yeah, I know, but that’s the way they say it.)

  ‘And what happens to anyone who lights a cigarette in public? Do they go to jail?’

  Ah. That I can’t answer, because nobody to my knowledge has ever dared light one since the ban was introduced; the atmosphere is so Big Brother, you feel as if the mere thought of a cigarette might be enough to land you in jail. It’s like Mao’s China, where your own family, friends and neighbours might well turn you in. Some of my non-smoking friends have kindly furnished their garden patios for visiting smoker friends, but this doesn’t seem to work in reverse: when they’re the guests, the non-smokers expect their hosts to b
e the ones to go outdoors, apparently not being quite as keen on fresh air as their campaign might have led one to believe. Sometimes, things can get a tiny bit strained.

  Thoughtfully, we all sit around mulling on this brave new Ireland for a few minutes. And on the new France to come.

  Eventually, Didier rallies. ‘Ah non,’ he says with conviction, ‘it won’t come to that. France will never betray her principle of liberty …’

  ‘France,’ interjects Aurélie, ‘sometimes has no principles. Remember all those people who collaborated with the Gestapo? It’ll be the same again, you’ll see. Maybe a bounty will be introduced on smokers’ heads.’

  Hmm. Another thoughtful, somewhat gloomy pause. France may be a very fetching little fairy sometimes, but demonstrably no, she is not to be trusted.

  ‘Well,’ sighs Didier at length, ‘if they’re going to ban cigarettes, can alcohol be far behind? And sunbathing, and cheese, and everything else that might pose a risk?’

  Soon, we have compiled a comprehensive list of everything that will now, logically, be banned. Wine, obviously. Cognac. Armagnac. Camembert. Brie. Nougat. Chocolate. Sausages. Pain de campagne. Brioche. Jam. Biscuits. Cakes. And do you have any idea how much cholesterol your average prawn contains?

  Still, that leaves water. And fruit and veg …

  ‘Ah non,’ Paul muses mournfully. ‘I knew a chap once who choked on a chunk of raw carrot. Died, he did.’

  Oh. Well then, lettuce. Nobody ever died of that – at least, not that we know of. And France will still have her sports, her beloved cycling and swimming and rugby and …

  Mais non. Somebody knows someone who had a heart attack while cycling. Somebody else cites a friend who was paralysed in a rugby scrum. Didier has a friend who’s been in a wheelchair since being knocked over by a big wave at Biarritz ten years ago. (Biarritz is actually notorious for its dangerous waves.) As for walking … what, up on those cliffs? But they’re lethal! Every bit as dangerous as the roads, with all their screaming motorbikes! And what about abseiling, hang-gliding, canyon rafting in the Gorges de Verdun, rollerblading … you could even be playing an innocent game of tennis and a whizzing ball would take your eye out. You could be playing boules, and a badly aimed boule would knock your crown jewels for six. There is no end to the danger, now that we think about it, it lurks everywhere.

  Embroidery, then? Knitting? Stamp collecting?

  Didier is dubious. Is the gum on stamps poisonous? Might knitting not cause repetitive-strain injury? As for embroidery, you could stab yourself with that needle. Maybe even stab someone else, in a moment of madness. You might even mistakenly stab the health minister, should she happen to be within range. His mother, he says, used to knit on her frequent flights to visit his father, when work separated them in his youth, but today … why, they’d lock her up for trying to knit on a plane.

  Ah, well. That’s modern life for you. Cigarettes banned today, all other risks tomorrow. Not that it will matter much, since who’d want to live in the icy social tundra which will be France when the ban comes in?

  Oh, come on. Cheer up. Okay, maybe the tobacconists and bartenders will be out of business, but hey, the psychologists will make their fortunes! And America will be so pleased with France, the new regime will make it feel just like California!

  Didier fills another skin and rolls himself a last smoke. And then, unexpectedly, he brightens.

  ‘D’you know,’ he says suddenly, ‘I have an idea.’

  Oh, really? Qu’est-ce que c’est, Didier?

  ‘I,’ he announces, ‘am going to change careers. Give up painting – the pigments may be dangerous – to become an antiques dealer.’

  Antiques? Well, as you wish, but what has this got to do with …?

  ‘Oui. Antiques. I am going to start amassing suits of armour, and start selling them to the many people who will soon be wearing them to protect themselves from the infinite risks of this world. Yes, indeed. I reckon the armour market is about to go cosmic. I will make my fortune.’

  Eh bien. Good luck to you so, Didier. And what will you do with this fortune, once made?

  ‘Why, I will go to live in Brazil, or Argentina, or wherever it is you are still allowed to smoke. Actually, allowed to live. Live, you understand, as opposed to merely existing. I would rather live dangerously than exist safely.’

  Oh, come now, Didier. There must be some counselling you can get for that non-PC attitude. In fact, says Aurélie, now that it occurs to her, she might well quit teaching for a new career in counselling? Clearly it, like armour, is the coming thing, with lots of money to be made.

  Meanwhile, it’s getting late, time to wend our way home before, on the stroke of midnight, all the village lighting snaps off. Somebody once missed his step in the dark and fell into a ditch … no, not killed, thank God, but very nasty injuries. It’s a wonder that ditch has never been filled in.

  As we disperse, the huge harvest moon is waning. Contemplatively, Didier looks up at it. ‘Do you know, I once knew a chap who was killed by the moon?’

  What? Ah now Didier, you’re getting paranoid, you’re making this up.

  ‘Non. I swear it. He left his car at home one night so he could drink at a local party, and he was walking home, and he stopped to admire the beautiful full moon, and a sugar-beet truck came hurtling round the bend on its way to the refinery – they start at three in the morning as you know – and knocked him over like a skittle, and voilà, there he was, dead. Poor guy. I liked him. Even though he didn’t smoke.’

  Soon after, the ban is implemented and French doorways are thronged with smokers discovering the joys of flirting amongst themselves, and my pal Paul is ecstatic.

  ‘Before the ban,’ he explains, ‘I worked a thirty-five-hour week. Now it takes me so long to trek down from my office to the car park to have my five cigarettes a day, and so long to trek back again, I reckon I’m only working thirty hours. C’est merveilleux!’

  21.

  Lingua Franca

  Do you understand the following words? Clown, manager, business? Toast, pizza, hamburger? Cash, email, cool? Bacon, sandwich, cake? Graffiti, square, shopping? Fax, telephone, scanner? Job, boss, whiskey? Theatre, cinema, radio? Concert, parking, weekend? Top model? Success story? Live, gay, football? Quilt, archer, fair play, happy few? Meeting, marketing, album?

  Congratulations! Your French is fluent! In the eight years I’ve now lived in France, so many English and American words have started to ‘pollute’ the language that the Académie Française is clutching its chest in horror, but the good news for anyone planning holidays or business in France is that you’ll only need to learn a few verbs at most.

  Which is just as well, since nobody can really be comfortable in any country or situation until they speak the language. Until then, there is the persistently nagging feeling that not only are you missing out on all the fun, or that you might even be the reason for it, but something vitally important might be sailing over your head. Is Mr Maximo merely asking whether you’d like to buy some frozen peas, with all that waving and shouting, or is he trying to warn you of an impending tornado?

  Two things will help your struggle in this stormy ocean. Firstly, the French have saintly patience with stammering foreigners. They listen, they wait, they politely restrain their giggles at even the most egregious errors. (Although one pharmacist did collapse under the strain the day I asked for something for a nasty cough, or toux. Heading in the right aural direction, I asked if she had something for a nasty toussaint, or Hallowe’en.)

  The other crutch is the Anglo-American factor. So much English seeps in via films, news clips, financial exchanges, TV programmes, property purchases, music, and so forth, that the French now speak far more English than they realise. Yeah, mega! It’s everywhere. To the point where a boy band called Phoenix, from Versailles and popular with pre-teens, now actually sings in English. There were mutterings about this, at first, accusations of going too far, people pointing out that if a boy
band from, say, Streatham or Cork or Hoboken starting singing in French, everyone would think they were mad. But all the kids love it. ‘Multicultural,’ they chirp, delighted.

  However, Phoenix won’t get you through a whole day, much less a life, in France. A certain amount of concentration is required, and a definite dollop of determination. Even if you don’t attend the free classes that are laid on for foreigners by many mairies or chambres de commerce, you’ll still pick up a lot effortlessly. All you have to do is stand in the street, and bits of the chatter will stick to you, like sand in a desert, whether you try to catch it or not. After about six weeks, you’ll wake up one morning feeling that there’s been a bit of a breakthrough: you’re now up to buying your baguette or greeting the postman without having to write it all down first. Conversely, after six months you’ll hit a wall, breaking out in a cold sweat as you realise that all that went before was, in fact, garbled pathetic rubbish. Swahili for the slow-witted. Your inner ear will now hear every mistake you ever made, and you will want to smuggle yourself out of France wrapped in a beige blanket on the floor of an old 2CV. It’s only when your French starts getting really good that you realise how really bad it was before.

  It was at this point, just as I was otherwise settling happily in and enjoying la belle vie, that I started realising the kind of awful things I’d been coming out with by virtue of picking up slang from French friends who, I suspect, hugely enjoyed the haphazard way in which I grasped its meaning.

  In a swish restaurant, instead of politely asking for another glass of wine, I innocently instructed the waiter to ‘hit me again’. Attempting to buy mosquito repellent one day, I asked for ‘a musketeer’. As for what I suggested a nice teenage lad might like to do with his girlfriend … suffice it to say that his mother went all but catatonic with shock, and the episode will haunt me forever. But that’s exactly the kind of thing that happens when you reach the slang stage, get cocky, and start strutting your stuff like a teenager in the most hideously fecund phase of adolescence. Slang is a swamp: no matter how curious you might be to see what happens, just don’t go there before you’re sure of your ground.