by León Melín
A million headlights and the screaming faces of little children framed in a car window kept him awake, dry and hoarse-throated. The tempting drone of race noise, not on CD but live in concert, almost succeeded in getting him up again. Eventually, he drifted off to sleep, to wake almost immediately, and suddenly, as the Spaniards returned at dawn and set off their car alarm. The alarm only woke him, but the incessant apologies, “lo siento, lo siento” to all the nearby tents, and the laughter and insults of friends and neighbours lasted five minutes by which time Lucas was wide awake and needing a pee.
The toilets were plastic boxes full of solid smell, physically impossible to enter, even at the coolest point of the day. Lucas had to walk a considerable distance outside the camping ground beyond the gypsy camp at its gate, before he found a suitable place. With the help of a bottle of Evian, he managed to shave, brush his teeth and wash his hair. He felt almost perfect as he smoothed on his suit trousers.
The campsite was waking when he returned, eager to find out what had happened during the night. The midsummer sun, too, helped to warm the people and dry the tents.
Lucas eavesdropped as best he could on the English breakfast conversation. Whereas in the middle of the night their muffled politeness had hidden their subject, in the blast of Iberian bonhomie they openly and loudly discussed the restaurants on the Mulsanne straight at Hunaudières – a Latin anagram meaning ‘Audi, you are German’.
Lucas could think of nothing better than a good cup of coffee. Without waiting for the English, he drove off, running over the ‘Contrôle’ signpost that had ended up on the road, certain that they would catch him up.
Chapter 5 - Morning
The only drawback of using roads for racing is that, while the race is on, the roads are out of bounds. For drivers such as Lucas that Sunday morning, the usually unguessable French road system was a taunting crowd of beaten panels pointing and announcing, and barriers and tapes limiting and restricting. Twice he had driven to Mulsanne and back, and once right round to Arnage back to the airport. The signs that pointed didn’t go, and those that promised most were taped off, as if by privacy-seeking tourists – “Never be disturbed again, once you’ve found your private idyll, just tape off. Official looking tape, 20 Francs for 50 metres. Available from all good Police supply shops.”
There was only light traffic early Sunday morning, local visitors preferring to worship their gods in the afternoon and, unlike his experience that night, little pedestrian traffic too. So on the long straight road to Ruaudin his friend the rucksack cowboy was easy to see and easy to pick up, Lucas slowing down in plenty of time to coast gently alongside and offer a lift.
The cowboy didn’t want a lift; indeed, walked on the left hand side of the road, in accordance with the law, so that Lucas could easily talk to him out of his window on the narrow road; rejected politely the offer made, once and a second time; briefly explained his custom of walking everywhere and his love of nature, exercise and the fresh air. But the length of the straight, narrow, bleached road, relentlessly guarded by two tall pine forests too far to cast a shade on the tarmac; the lack of another vehicle in sight up or down the road to make Lucas move off centre; and Lucas’ need to talk to someone after a night of depressing monologue eventually sucked the rucksack into the seat behind Lucas and the cowboy into the passenger seat.
Lucas was grateful that the cowboy was actually lost, that he, Lucas, would be able to help. The cowboy explained that he was looking for a supermarket, to buy something, that was open Sunday mornings. He wouldn’t be buying bread in a supermarket, and he already had a hefty paper added to his tightly-packed rucksack. But it was as well to stock up with food on Sundays: it was almost impossible in France to find it on Mondays.
Lucas drifted the car slowly down the B-road; he felt sure that he had seen a sign earlier that morning, but couldn’t remember exactly where. Reassuring him, through Ruaudin and on down to Mulsanne, Lucas let the cowboy talk. He described his outdoor life, travelling the country, picking fruit in summer, hitching and walking from orchard to orchard. He was off to Bazas for the melons after some little jobs here in Maine. His conversation was sucked out, to fill the void of the open road; what little there had been was soon gone. Perhaps he was more expressive with a melon: in the hands that Lucas could see were ruthlessly hard; responsible for the deaths of millions of fruit, snapped off with a whip crack. A nervous man in close human company, in the car cage Lucas felt like winding his window down and letting him fly out.
In Mulsanne, at least, there was a civilised feel to Sunday morning. There was bread available, and the cowboy scrambled out at a pedestrian crossing with an unintelligible explanation and a friendly, if nervous, goodbye.
Lucas felt let down, both that his Good Samaritan act had failed to give him a glow of satisfaction and also that the lonesome cowboy seemed stuck on the planet and moved around it at the whim of the wind and the sun. Humans rarely feel good to discover that they are as good as their heroes; that their heroes are only human; and when the barrier – that inapproachability caused by time, distance, social status, barbed wire fences – comes down, often at the request, demand of the human, the results are most often tragic for him, even if not particularly good for the hero.
Lucas, approaching Tertre Rouge for the third time that morning, reached the spot where he had picked up the cowboy hero and almost at the same time saw a small sign pointing down a minor track. It wasn’t a supermarket but a sports shoe shop, nevertheless Lucas followed the trail, not without some difficulty, having to turn the car around on the narrow highway as the early traffic started to build up on both sides.
With the Mulsanne road open and access from the Tertre Rouge roundabout few cars would use the little track, and no-one would miss the sports superstore at its end. But that weekend, the little track was the only access to the Hunaudières roundabout that is close to the first chicane on the long Mulsanne straight. The sports store looked like a supermarket, huge car park, but Lucas couldn’t imagine why the cowboy thought he could get bread there.
Although the sign clearly said that the store was open, it clearly wasn’t; and, to dissuade the persistent, a hundred policemen were lined up occupying most of the frontage and half the car park, while most of the rest was barred off. Lucas switched off the engine and sat and watched the racing cars 50 yards in front of him, with the police watching 50 yards behind him.
When he stepped out of the car the sun was shining strongly: it must have been close to twelve o’clock. All the cars made noise here, changing down as they approached the chicane, down-down-down, back-fire, and the double back-fire of the Corvettes. There were fewer cars on the circuit now, fewer makes, the good weather punishing cars that had no excuse to drive slow, careful, paced races. All the Ferraris had disappeared in the night, the MGs, the Spyker, hop, hop, out. Audi still passed 1 and 2 together, only seconds but a lap between them. Between groups of cars, perhaps as much as a minute sometimes passed. In the silence, local silence, Lucas could hear the whole range of engine noises of a single machine, as exiting the chicane it accelerated up the hill to the longest, straightest, fastest part of the whole track; the boxer howl of a wolf-hound weeping over its dead master, of Roland’s horn calling his friend across the valley to attend to his burial.
Between the store and the road a solitary house stood, obviously empty now. Small enough for perhaps only one or two bedrooms but with a garden that ran up to the road, the owner interested neither in using it nor letting others use what must be the finest private property to view the race. Perhaps the owner had been asked to leave.
Lucas wasn’t the only one to spot the potential of the small house. From somewhere a lady had appeared and she now walked into the house grounds and round the garden. Her black sunglasses gave no indication of what she wanted, no sign of imminent retreat. Indeed, they and her general attitude of confident permanence forced the fat marshal to attend. “You can’t stay here, love” he seemed to say, but
was dismissed from her presence with the indifference of someone whose mind was already made up. The lady walked towards Lucas, looked him up and down through the sun-glasses, and left and right, presumably to see if anyone else was around. Lucas thought it a good decision to shave that morning.
“Did you get a good look at the race ?”
Half an hour later, Lucas had her name, telephone number, an open invitation, a definite feeling of satisfaction and a sense of triumph. Somehow, the morning had shone brightly after the depths of darkness that he had reached the night before. He didn’t know quite what he had done right to pull this off, but, as she had suggested, he took the hire car down another track parallel to the Mulsanne straight to a bar where over a beer he reviewed the experience with the lady.
For some reason he had thought of her as a lady, from his first sight of her, walking away from her car towards the empty house. He couldn’t consider her a girl, nor a woman, the words didn’t fit her; she was a lady. He had admired the purposefulness with which she walked and the anachronistic presence of a middle-aged lady in a male sporting event; he also admired the class with which she dressed and looked on a Sunday morning.
When Lucas looked at himself in the mirror critically, with sufficient time to disable his brain’s inclination to see the Lucas that had always been there, Lucas could see someone approaching middle age. He could see someone with some of the symptoms, some of the signs, tendencies, towards the complaints that those he classified as middle-aged always had; or always had whenever he asked about them.
There was no mirror in the bathroom; in fact, there was no bathroom. The bar had been closed for the race, and only the garden was considered safe enough. After ordering a coffee, Lucas had used the toilet, an open urinal, with a perfect view of the 6-foot hoarding that prevented non-payers from viewing the race. So he stood, urinating, 10 feet from 220 mph cars; he could feel them, could see the urine quiver with the vibrations, but wasn’t allowed to see.
She had poise, the lady, confidence. Perhaps his suit and groomed look had reassured her, for they had easily conversed. Lucas guessed they would be within a year or two of each other, had grown up in the post-68 era of communist strikes, Renault 4s and Orangina.
For the first time, Lucas had found a woman he could talk with, with no more motive than that he enjoyed talking, being with her. After only 30 minutes, he knew he wanted to know her better.
“You can’t see the cars anymore.” And they had looked across the car park and barricades and fences and onto the road where the 3-foot high cars winged their way past.
“Not unless you buy a grandstand ticket. What did he say to you ?”
“That it is dangerous for the drivers – they don’t like to be distracted.”
“So, do you like motor racing ?”
“I am from Le Mans.”
“Can you sleep at night, with all that
noise ?”
“When I was a child, I grew up with the race and we could hear it all night. And where are you from ?”
“Paris.”
“And do you know Le Mans ?”
“Not at all.”
“Oh, surely, how long are you here for ?”
“Just a day or two. I’m just here to do a job.”
“Oh, not the race ?”
“No, I’m here to work, the race is just killing time. I was looking for a supermarket.”
“Yes, it looks like a supermarket.”
“A shoepermarket,” and they had both laughed.
“There’s so much to do and see in Le Mans.”
“Well, I’m not doing much after I finish my ‘little job’. I could stick around. Do you know a good guide book ?” And she had given him her name, and her telephone number. Her address he could get from Minitel. And an invitation to call her.
Chapter 6 - Sand
At the Shanghaï restaurant, he sat at Table Number 1 for lunch. Race goers were so surfeited that the opportunity to sit just 6 feet from the track, possibly the closest one could ever get, with a perfect view of the cars racing down the straight, was ignored. Lucas had finally found the Holy Grail. He ordered food and wine from Mrs Yip.
Conversations around the room drifted, oblivious to the irregular rumptions outside. A policeman was even closer, patrolling the two feet between the restaurant’s front wall and the traffic barrier. What the drivers thought of that went unrecorded.
At Hunaudières, almost as far from the finish line as possible, the 4 o’clock finish passed as unspectacularly as another Audi victory. But gradually a change was noticeable about the track, the roadside bars, the grassy campsite and car parks behind. Whereas before 4 o’clock all the human traffic seemed to be building up, tensing, after 4 there was a release. People were walking away, packing up, saying goodbye.
Back at the bar, where Lucas’ English target had finally arrived, he called his English customer and left a message saying that there was nothing to report and that he would send a report in as soon as he was back in Paris.
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The drive north was ‘uneventful’. All the towns and villages and cafés and bars on the road from Le Mans were filled with English tourists and their sports cars. Lucas’ target stopped at Sens for refreshments under the shadow of the cathedral’s leaning tower, itself caused by previous English visitors digging for the Bishop’s treasure.
A Condor ferry was in harbour, a lion on its funnel perhaps relating to a previous ownership. But it was the Breton lion that he was after. Lucas managed a photograph of his targets driving on to the ferry. So that was the end of the case.
He should return to Paris now, back to his empty flat and empty life; back to find more work – he was self-employed now, his own boss, he had to find his own cases; back to Paris to tie up the loose ends of his 20 year career in the Police.
Paris, springtime romances, capital of culture, the greatest gathering of French people on the planet, and this weekend the Feast of Music. Everyone would be in the streets, dancing, singing, playing, eating, drinking; everybody would be having a good time.
The English had gone home, even they had unknowingly deserted him. He had to return to Paris, to file the report, to claim his sous. His professional reputation required him to return, to deliver his report: “Mission Accomplished.” “What’s next ?” The motorway offered a rapid route to Paris, two hours to reach the town, easy.
But Le Mans offered something else – a telephone number, sure; and a historical guide to the medieval, roman city; a new start, a new relationship, where anything could happen; where nothing was expected, so no disappointment was possible.
The confusion of routes and directions around Caen, French road designers’ unfamiliarity with the purpose and workings of roundabouts, and their liking for flyovers and sharply banking elevated sections, all of which Lucas studied closely to avoid looking at the big blue signs, left his little car on the Route Nationale and its direction towards Alençon and Le Mans.
Lucas thought of the alcoholics he had seen so often, more often recently. He saw them preaching to the birds or the leaves on the trees; he saw the hands that they waved in front of their faces. They couldn’t see the world, were blind to what they did not accept, could not control. They were blind to it; even though they themselves were visible, because the public wanted to see them, the unfortunates who are worse off than themselves. But what of those things they don’t want to see ? If they are blind to them, they don’t know that they don’t exist, that they cannot see them.
Lucas couldn’t ask an alcoholic “Why don’t you see the world ?” when all their world was in a bottle right next to them on the bench. So if anyone asked Lucas “Why didn’t you see the signpost to Paris ?” he knew the only answer was that he was on the road to, to what ? to his destruction ? to his enlightenment ? The option to go to Paris did not exist; he had to go to Mans; had to return to the mystery, he had to ask the questions, had to answer them. That was his job, and always would be. Who was the Mancel
le ? What was she doing there ? Why did she so readily give him her name and address ? What was Lucas going to get out of it ? The road signs to Paris and Alençon existed, but not the option to choose between them; he hadn’t ignored the choice, it wasn’t there.
It was dark by the time he reached Le Mans again. Lucas was tired; exhausted, really, and needed food, a bath, a bed. A night in a tent on a piss-soaked field did not appeal. He cruised slowly down through the race area. The Chemin de Boeufs was as busy as on race night. Bonfires illuminated the campsites; burning rubber and 2-stroke engines provided the smell; and howling engines in the darkness, the noise. The clouds of dust like an Arab army produced, fog lights sweeping a path, a 4x4, flying across the steep embankment and landing uncomfortably on one front wheel, which, like a boasting schoolboy with a broken foot, limped back across the road.
Lucas, who had stalled his car, gave up looking for a campsite here, his own ticket – still valid ? more a threat to his life than a promise of security. He thought of calling Nicole, but would she be ready at this time ? and did he want to arrive like this ? unwashed, unprepared. What would she want ? Sex ? Love ? Money ? Or was she just being friendly, hopelessly helpful ? How desperate did a woman have to be to throw herself on a man, or under a man ? For it was a necessary truth of life that women were prepared to have full sex with a man they barely know; and after they got to know him better, decide not to. Had the man changed ? Perhaps men were the same.
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In the middle of nowhere, he found another campsite: caravans and a few tents. A youngish man, in T-shirt and shorts, took his identity card. “Drive down there, I’ll show you where to pitch your tent”. Lucas thought him a bit simple: the way he walked; his earnestness; the exaggerated gestures more usual on an aircraft carrier or airport runway.
