A Citizen Of Nowhere

by Seth Lynch

  You learn things about yourself when the going gets tough. I'm learning that my imagination is seriously lacking - I'd previously thought it fruitful and inspired. When I'd been sitting over the map and planned this route, not once did I imagine bringing up acid and bits of bile as I crawl over yet another hill. Three times I've had to crap in a field like a common foot soldier. Obscenities sally forth from my grimacing mouth. Spittle clings to my chin. Each summit is a minor victory which sees my war against the landscape turn in my favour. I might not be winning but I'm no longer losing.

  Saint-Antonin-Noble-Val is what passes for a town down here; it may not be much but it's the closest place to Vaour with any sort of a hotel. I've arrived six days after leaving Paris. I'll need a few more to recover. The cycling wasn't bad; it's leaving Paris I need to recover from. The heat here is almost as overpowering as the stench. Sewage flows in the street – or will flow if it ever rains. Until that day comes it sits at the side of the road and welcomes visitors to the town. People are walking around in clogs oblivious to the effluence. There is one hotel which passes muster, at least I doubt I'll find a better one. I check in and pay for a week in advance; I'm not being flash, the cost wouldn't cover a day in a Parisian flea pit.

  On my ride down, apart from losing a few pounds through sweat and mucus, I formulated a single plan. You only need one if it's good - I could use three or four. My plan: pose as an Englishman on a cycling and sketching holiday. I have been pretending to speak virtually no French, although I always pluck the right word from the air when stuck. The pretence is made easier as the southern French they speak here is almost unintelligible.

  My bicycle has been taken to the hotel stable. I'm sure they have a man out there who's trying to groom the tail. On my last city stop in Clermont-Ferrand I purchased some decent sketch books and pencils. Not only will these pass as props they will allow me to sit in one place and watch for hours on end without raising suspicion. I might carry it on in Paris for stakeouts. Although that won't work so well at night.

  The hotel has a toilet - the toilet from your nightmares, if your nightmares lean that way. On my first visit to the little room I almost vomited straight into the hole. I had obviously arrived shortly after someone who eats festering rats and who'd recently divested himself of them. But I've been in worse and I have a pisspot in my room where I can pass the wine.

  The bed is uncomfortable, being harder than the floor and twice as itchy. Having said that, I arrived and sunk into it and didn't wake again for sixteen hours. Had it been a comfortable bed I may never have woken. After sleeping I spend ten minutes checking myself for lice. There are none but when a bed makes you scratch like that you have to check. Time to examine my less immediate surroundings.

  Ah, the stench, the streets! You can't escape either. Nor can I escape the eyes upon me. They are there; behind shutters, standing on street corners, sitting in cafés. I ignore these gazes and leave myself open to the opportunity which each corner portends. In Paris the adventure and mystery can last until dawn. Here, in Antonin, it lasts thirty minutes by which time I've examined every nook and cranny. I've seen everything this night is going to offer - which is darkness. Still, I enjoy the calm, the warm, and a glass or two of Pastiche in the café overlooking the tiny space which masquerades as the main square. The drink might help me sleep. Today is Saturday. I'll rest until Monday before I go to Vaour; if there is anything there it won't be open on a Sunday.

  During Sunday I have nothing to do other than repeat my activity of the night before. I walk the streets, keeping to the shade cast by the high buildings along these narrow cobbled streets. To think, once, Paris was like this. These streets are as they were all those hundreds of years ago. Littered with the dung of a variety of beasts – I'm no ex-pert and haven't examined it all closely but I can make out, human, horse and goat. There must be some pig, donkey and dog in there too. Looking up at the blue sky and bright orange sun I fully expect someone to empty the contents of their chamber pot from one of those overhanging windows.

  The streets are busy with people in dark clothing. They are hurrying to the call of the church bells. Children with their hair combed down watch their fathers steal a few last drags on their cigarettes. Young girls, confident - having had their weekly wash - make eyes at the passing boys. Their cleanliness and godliness drives me out beyond the edge of the town. Here I discover a river. I sit and watch the water flow, look at the mountains, and begin to practice my sketching.

  People who encounter me think I am an eccentric English man with war damage. The more they think this the more I play up to it by being both scatterbrained and kind. I have the advantage in being able to understand what they are saying while they believe I'm ignorant of their comments.

  By late Sunday afternoon I find my legs are twitching like a pair of frisky ponies. Having no appointments for the day I cycle out to Vaour. This will be a reconnaissance to get the lay of the land. The ride is almost entirely uphill. I cycle through Vaour a couple of times without stopping. I should say I cycled through Vaour a couple of times without noticing. The place is tiny; I wonder why Marty bought a house here. Was all this planned out years ago? Something must have gone wrong – no one would steal a sack full of money and then run away to a village that doesn't have a shop.

  Monday - I set off with Vaour firmly in my sights. The morning is cool and the ride pleasant. The hills don't feel as steep as they did yesterday. Luckily I noticed that Vaour does have some medieval ruins which can act as my alibi - people would grow suspicious if I stopped to sketch the village pump.

  In Vaour the buildings are spread out along the road which dissects the village. The church and mayor's office face each other across this road. Somewhere there's a small school and somewhere else there must be a small café. The only surprise is a shack with a petrol pump. I stop near the cloth-capped attendant. He is sitting on a small wooden chair, smouldering cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, as he sleeps in the sun. If you switched his bottle of wine for a brown ale and replaced the sun with rain we could be somewhere in Yorkshire enjoying the same scene.

  I'm about to wake him and ask where I can get some water when I spot that small café. Being set slightly off from the road it is not placed to attract passing trade. With this glorious sunshine, every café in Paris would be empty; all their customers would be sitting at the pavement tables. Here folk want to get out of the sun; they probably work the fields most of the day.

  I cycle up to the door before dismounting. I want information as well as a drink. I doubt that the people inside will open up and start gassing to a stranger. Besides that, why would an English tourist be interested in Gustave Marty? I stand my bike up against the café wall and enter. Normally I would head straight for a table and wait for the waiter. Today I stand in the doorway and remove my cap revealing a head of sweaty hair. With trousers still tucked into my socks and my artist's satchel over my shoulders, I walk straight to the bar. On my way over I make a point of nodding my head and saying, 'Hello there, lovely morning,' in English, to one of the customers.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The café is small and dark. As I enter a chair screeches on the stone floor and someone coughs up a large amount of phlegm. There are around eight people in the café; it's hard to tell exactly as my eyes haven't adjusted from the bright sun outside. The patron greets me with a smile, which maybe a grimace. The look on his face is similar to the one I have been getting from all the locals when they realise they will have to speak to me. It's a look of horror and confusion, as if I'm a dastardly moustache-twirling villain preparing to defile them with my mispronounced vocabulary.

  I ask for some red wine. The patron's smile is now assuredly a grimace. I say, 'Um', and scratch my head. Then, as if remembering some old school French, I say, 'Vin rouge, please.' I am met with the same incomprehension. Perhaps he suspects that vin rouge is an English phrase meaning something other than red wine. He is not prepared to risk
showing me a bottle of wine in case that isn't what I seek. Reaching a stand-off I resort to a mime act which I have been perfecting these last few days.

  I act out having a bottle between my legs whilst I tug on the corkscrew. This involves a lot of effort – the cork is a stubborn one – it then comes out with me making a popping sound. I pour myself a healthy snifter, down the glass quickly and pour another, then another. Now I start acting a little tipsy - I have to concentrate as I pour my next glass. The locals are watching and some are laughing. I decide to milk it and make out I can see two bottles and keep going for the wrong one. By the time I finish the patron has poured me a large glass of red wine.

  Having broken the ice I decide to establish my reason for being here.

  'The building is old?' I ask, in French.

  'Here is, yes,' says the patron. The hopeful expression on his face pleading with me to understand his answer.

  I shake my head and say: 'No, non, no. The road, the rue.' I point at the door and grin. I'd love to say, 'The ruins of the Templar stronghold. It's the only thing in this miserable village worth mentioning.' Instead I glance from blank face to blank face hoping one of them will put me out of my misery.

  The patron seeks help from an old fellow who's sitting at the bar drinking a milky liqueur. I suspect he nurses that pastiche for most of the morning so he ought to be sober.

  'Help me, Hugo. He is talking about some building in the road,' the patron says.

  'Perhaps he means the garage,' Hugo says.

  The patron turns to me: 'The garage?'

  'No, near the garage. The building.'

  'The church?'

  'No, near the garage, not the church.'

  'The Mayor's office?'

  'No, no, look...'

  I take a wine bottle and place it to the side of the bar. 'The garage,' I say. Three other customers come over to watch. I decide to play up to them. I take off my tie and lay it along the bar. 'The road.'

  A few of them mumble out a 'yes'.

  I place my empty glass next to the bottle. 'The church.'

  'Yes, the church.'

  Their agreement becomes assertive as they begin to recognise the map I'm making. I could have taken out my pencil and drawn one - I am hoping this will be a more profitable route.

  'And this,' I point to the other side of the bottle-garage where I'd seen the ruins. I look around hopefully, picking out Hugo for particular attention.

  Hugo shrugs: 'Nothing there.'

  'No, not nothing; broken,' I say.

  'Ah! He means the ruins.' The voice comes from one of the customers standing behind me.

  'Ah!' Hugo and the patron echo.

  'Yes, they are old. Templar buildings,' says the patron.

  'Templar,' I repeat as if learning the word.

  Believing my cover is established I bid them all a good day. I leave, take my bicycle, and head over to the Templar ruins. Here I shall endure the punishment I have set myself - a couple of hours sketching in the sun with no shade.

  There is no doubting my lack of sketching talent. Occasionally I'm hit by moments of inspiration where I can take out my notepad and sketch something recognisable. Deprived of those moments of inspiration, and I only have one or two a year, my drawings resemble my intentions in the way mountains resemble lakes. In short I have the artistic ability of a talented five-year-old.

  At one time there would have been ample shade here. That would have been around the time the bits of rubble on the floor had formed a building. It is now eleven-thirty and already the sun is a formidable opponent. Drinking that wine has not helped. I produce my pencil and start to sketch. I have two lines which were supposed to represent the route in to this area from the road. The lines almost resemble the stem of a bottle, so I go with that. A bottle of wine. I draw a label and then stick a cork in it. I am proud of this bottle, although if it was real, and made of glass, it would topple over, the wine would leak from several places and anyone trying to hold it would be sure to cut their fingers.

  I sit and stare at the road in front of me and then over to the left. The life of a detective - all thrills and lascivious women. The garage attendant is still asleep on his chair. I wonder, though, if he is asleep; perhaps he has been shot? The sun and the wine are getting the better of me. If I put my bag out here and my jacket there – yes, that just about does the trick.

  I sleep for around three hours in all. My face is resentful at not having been covered. I need a drink; probably a couple of gallons of water. Back to the café.

  The patron is wiping the tables. He does this so expertly that when he has finished it doesn't look as if they have been wiped at all. The café is nearly empty, even Hugo, whom I suspect no longer has a job to go to, has left. There are two customers, I don't recognise them from earlier but they could have been there. I bid them a jovial, over pronounced, 'Bonjour'.

  The patron smiles at me and lifts up a bottle of wine. 'You like?' he says in English.

  'I do, my old son, but it doesn't like me too much today.' I've strayed beyond his linguistic comprehension so I say, 'Non, thank you.'

  I ask for 'rain' and pretend to hold out a glass. He catches on and fetches me a jug of water. It is cloudy and lukewarm. After three hours lying in the sun this is actually appealing. I drink a few glasses in quick succession.

  The patron laughs then goes back to wiping the counter. I consider sketching in the café, inspired by a romantic idea of a young artist sketching away with a pencil in one hand, pad in the other, and a cigarette smouldering in the corner of the mouth. Before I have pulled the pencil from the pocket I remember: I am not an artist nor am I young any longer. On the bright side, I do have some cigarettes. And where did that bottle of wine go?

  Damn! Damn! Damn! Halfway through my second glass of wine I realise that I can't start questioning these people because I can't speak effing French. What a near-sighted imbecile I am. I could stand up, wave them all goodbye, and declare that I'm going to start an intensive Berlitz course. How long would I have to leave it before I came back and started quizzing them? Shit!

  I leave the cafe feeling like a prize idiot. An unsuspecting stone receives a good hard kick sending it skittling along the dusty path. The stone ricochets off other stones before coming to a standstill against a rock. A gecko scurries across the wall where my bike is leaning. I'm hot, tired, stiff, and achy, and I don't want to cycle back to Saint-Antonin.

  The road crawls under me. Baked dirt and loose rocks conspire to crush my spirit. I thought the cobbles of Paris were bad until I reached the country roads. For miles at a stretch I feel more like a tight-rope walker than a cyclist, riding on the ridges between large pot holes. I fail to muster any enthusiasm for the journey. I'll call Megan when I get to Saint-Antonin and let her know what an arse I've been. Maybe she'll come up with a few ideas.

  Despite aching and feeling as if my tyres have been glued to the road, it takes me as long to get to Saint-Antonin as it took me to reach Vaour in the morning. It felt a whole lot longer. At least the hotel, with its medieval toilet and beds designed by the Marquis de Sade, has a telephone.

  A young swarthy-looking boy is lying on the reception desk. I recognise him as one of the proprietor's spawn. On seeing me he stops scratching his groin and turns his head in my direction. I order a vermouth and ask to use the telephone. He rolls off the desk and disappears out the front door.

  I'm beginning to wonder if he hasn't simply run off to find a private place where he can continue his scratching. Fed up with waiting I'm about to go and use the telephone when he appears in the doorway with my drink. There is ice floating around in it – I guess he spent a while tracking that down. I give him a decent tip for his effort.

  I've never ordered vermouth before; I meant to ask for pastiche but the word 'vermouth' jumped out of my mouth. Actually it tastes quite nice. I call Megan. This process involves talking to at least four different operators. No longer so concerned
about blowing my cover I speak in French to them and then English when I'm finally put through to Megan.

  After a lot of miss-you-kiss-kiss and me filling her in: 'Reggie, you silly sod, what did you do that for?'

  'Being smart, I guess. What shall I do now?'

  I describe the town to her: 'A bit of nothing that grips the road like a drowning man grabbing for a rope. They do have a café, small and not as bad as it could be. The wine is rough at first but softens as you get to know it. There is a garage, though I didn't see any autos. A church and the mayor's office. All in all, it's the kind of village which will get wiped out when the plague returns.'

  'What did they say at the mayor's office?'

  'What did they say? I didn't go in to the mayor's office.'

  'Marty is an alien. I know they like the Belgians here but they are still foreign and they do still have to register with the local authorities.'

  I'd been a fool in not visiting the mayor's office today. That can be rectified come the morning. The remainder of our conversation has nothing to do with the case. I leave the telephone booth with an erection.

  One thing I'll say for the south – tabbouleh, couscous with mint and vegetables. In Paris I spend half an hour explaining I don't want meat for them to serve up boiled potatoes – for all three courses. Then there is the evening sun; cruel and moody all day, becoming sympathetic in the evening. The wine here is rough, ready, and plentiful. If I could float Paris onto the river Yonne and sail it down here - at least for the winter - I'd be a happy man.