Incompetence

by Rob Grant

  If I could get out of Paris, public transport strike and all, I might be able to pick up a train. But getting out of Paris, that would be a problem all in itself.

  It seemed the best and only thing for it was to hire a car.

  A car would be good. At least I'd be in charge, for a change. I wouldn't be throwing my fate into the lap of the gods. We hadn't been getting along too well of late, me and those fickle-lapped gods. Yes indeedy: the more I mulled it over, the more hiring a car started sounding like a damned fine idea. No pilots with vertigo to put up with. No ticket salesmen with attention deficit. No rabidly foaming passenger in the seat next door with halitosis, flaky eczema, a lethal new strain of Chinese influenza and an urgent need to share them all with me. Just me behind the wheel, the open road, and my own thoughts for company. With good luck and a following wind, I might even get where I was going by the time I actually wanted to be there.

  I made a couple of phone calls. I placed my personal ads. I had only one set to place this time, of course. I thought, briefly, about setting up a meet with my remaining linkman, like Klingferm had done, but decided against it and just sent the usual AOK. Still, just in case, I dumped off my computer report on the Fabrizi thing and a few other bits and pieces onto a DVD. I slipped the disc into my old suit pocket and traded the suit in for a dry-cleaning ticket. I hacked into the French police central computer and obliterated my arrest photos. Nothing I could do about any that might already be out there in circulation, but at least I'd stem the tide. I took a little time out to dig up Zuccho's photo and put it in my arrest file. Just for fun.

  I called the Ambassadeur, but Gina wasn't around, so I left her a message, saying I'd call again later and explain everything. But the truth was I didn't expect her to take my call, even if I managed to make it.

  There's my life story, my friend. Boy doesn't quite meet girl, boy loses girl anyway, boy never gets girl back. Read it and weep.

  I left the Paris apartment, walked around a while, backtracking here and there, just to make sure I was still tail-free, then headed for the Rent-Ur-Car office I'd picked out of the Yellow Pages.

  I hired a multifuel hatchback, a Fiat Affordable, which ran on a combination of batteries, steam and filtered cooking oil, along with a regular petrol tank, for emergencies. There were three good reasons for choosing the Affordable. First, with all those fuel options, there would be less risk of my running out of power along some deserted mountain track where cellphone signals dare not penetrate; second, it was a friendly little unpretentious model, that promised to 'get you where you're going'; and, third, as far as I could tell, it was the only motor vehicle actually available for hire in the entire state of France.

  The rental clerk tried to run me through the controls, but, this being her first day on the job and me being her very first customer, it took her a good ten minutes to pinpoint the precise location of the steering wheel. I couldn't face the pain of watching her struggle through the next seven pages of the checklist, so I told a little white lie. I told her that I owned an Affordable myself, and had done so for some considerable time, and I knew how to use it better than I knew how to use the lavatory. She was new, like I say, and reluctant to bend the rules and forgo the official procedure, but after much reassurance and oath-swearing on my part, she finally allowed me to sign the checklist, handed over the keycard and scurried off gratefully.

  Now, starting a car, you'd think that ought to be an easy thing to do. You'd think that, in designing a car, a car designer would make starting the car a simple task that the average driver might accomplish without a lifetime of training. If a car can't be started, it's not a whole lot of use. A car that won't start is nothing more than an ugly lump of metal taking up valuable space on a shrinking planet. A car that won't start is only good for sitting in and/or kicking.

  But, for the life of me, I couldn't work out how this particular car was supposed to start. I tried, foolishly, to start it up using my powers of logic. I had a keycard. The keycard must surely be involved somewhere in the ignition process. Ergo, there must doubtless be a slot of some description into which I might insert, or through which I might swipe the aforementioned keycard. QED, surely?

  I studied the dashboard with the same fierce intensity a young boy might use to scrutinise a pack of erotic playing cards.

  It appeared to be perfectly smooth.

  Not a slot in sight.

  I ran my fingers over every millimetre of its surface, and then again in the opposite direction. Nothing. Not even a glove compartment. I checked the steering column. No slots. I checked it a second time, even more thoroughly, in case there was a secret button concealed along its shaft that would magically reveal a hidden keycard slot in the dashboard. To no avail. I checked the doors. I tried inserting the card in the cup holders. I tried popping it into the air conditioning vents. I tried rubbing it comprehensively over every available surface, including the windscreen.

  I pulled down the sun visors and tried rubbing the card there. I tried swiping it behind the vanity mirror.

  I got out of the car and looked under the seats. I got in the back of the car and checked the back of the seats. I managed, by some unlikely miracle, to pop open the boot of the car. I had one brief but false eureka moment when I found a likely-looking device, but it turned out to be the multi-disk CD changer. I tried inserting the card in that, anyway.

  It was slowly beginning to dawn on me exactly why this was the only available rental car in Paris.

  It's a mark of quite how hopelessly desperate I was, that I turned to the manual.

  Refreshingly, it seemed to be quite a good manual.

  In fact, it was one of the best manuals I've ever encountered: clear, well written, in crisp, clean English, and with illustrations so ample and comprehensive that it would have enabled a monkey who'd just had the top of his head lopped off and his brains eaten with a spoon to have taken to the road with confidence. There was even a long, clear and laudably detailed section on starting the car.

  All I had to do, apparently, was insert the keycard (fig. 7) into the keycard slot (fig. 9) and tap in my security code on the keypad (fig. 31).

  How much simpler could it have been?

  Problem was: as far as I could tell, my particular model wasn't blessed with a keycard slot (fig. 9) or, indeed, a keypad (fig. 31). In fact, after yet another exhaustive inspection, my particular model seemed to be missing everything from fig. 8 all the way through to fig. 97 entirely.

  Somehow, I'd contrived to hire a car with eighty-nine missing figs.

  The only tiny ray of light was in the 'Troubleshooting' section at the back of the book. It had nothing to say about the correct procedure to employ should you encounter a whole truckload of missing figs on your dashboard, but it did have some sage advice to offer: 'In the event of the car not starting,' it suggested, 'contact your vendor or authorised technician.'

  Could I do that now?

  Could I go back to the rental clerk and admit that I couldn't so much as turn the damned car on? After swearing to her on my mother's eyes and the sacred heart of the sweet baby Jesus that I had an identical vehicle of long standing nestling on my drive at home? A vehicle in which I had avowedly enjoyed many thousands of kilometres of trouble-free driving ecstasy? Could I seriously, after all that, slope back into her office after fully twenty minutes of futile struggle, and ask her where the keycard was actually supposed to go?

  I checked over the car again. I checked everywhere. I checked the wheel hubs and the mudflaps. I checked under the mats. I checked the mirrors. I checked the headlamps and the indicator lights.

  I gave up, steeled my stomach for a large portion of humble pie heavily crusted with crow, and was starting back towards the office, when a loud, officious voice shot me in the back.

  'Hoi! Excuse me!'

  I wheeled round. Salvation was addressing me in the shape of a mechanic in yellow overalls.

  I did a double take, because he looked inexplicably familiar.
He was standing hyper-erect, with his back slightly arched and his chest all pigeonned out. He was wearing a peaked yellow hat over a pair of mirrored shades, and his lower jaw was jutting out arrogantly, with a thick, defiantly petulant lower lip in charge of the whole face. Suddenly it clicked.

  He was a dead ringer for Benito Mussolini.

  Benito was standing by my risibly immobile Affordable wiping his hands with an oily rag. 'Is this your car?'

  I started back towards him. 'Yes. I just hired it.'

  'You can't park it here, Mister.'

  'I'm not. Technically, it's not parked.'

  'This space is for cars that are waiting to be hired, see.'

  'I know. I'm just picking it up.'

  'This car was checked out forty minutes ago.'

  'Yeah. That's about right. But I'm having a problem.'

  'Damn right you're having a problem. You're parking in a restricted zone.'

  'Like I said: technically, it's not parked. It's never actually been in motion. For it to be parked, see, I'd've had to start it up, move it away, bring it back, and park it.'

  "Well, you're going to have to move it.'

  'Believe me, there is nothing I want more than to move that car. In a perfect world, I'd like to move it all the way to Austria, but, for now, I'm aiming low, and I just want to get in that car and move it out of your forecourt. And I was hoping you might help me in that endeavour.'

  'It's a simple thing, Mister: you just start it up and drive it away.'

  'Yes, I agree. That sounds simple. It really ought to be simple. Thing is: I can't get the damned thing to start.'

  'Are you saying it won't start?'

  'I'm not saying it won't start, I'm just saying I don't know how to make it start.'

  'All our vehicles are thoroughly checked between rentals, Mister.'

  'I'm sure they are.'

  'Hundred-and-eighty-seven-point check.'

  'That's very commendable.'

  'There's no way this vehicle is in anything less than tip-top condition.'

  'I don't doubt that for a second. But, here, what I'm saying is: I, personally, haven't got a clue how to switch on its engine.'

  'Well, it can't stay here.'

  'Will you help me start it up?'

  'You just agreed with me there was nothing wrong with it.'

  'There is nothing wrong, apart from the fact that I can't start it.'

  'Well, I'd call that a problem.'

  'Once again, we're in agreement. There is not a single point here on which we disagree. And yet, inexplicably, I feel we're not getting along.'

  'You signed off on the checklist, didn't you?'

  'Yes.'

  'So the car must have started correctly when you ran through the checks.'

  'Not exactly. Look, I'm sure we've both got more interesting things to do than stand around this forecourt talking about problems that really don't exist. We can end this whole thing here and now if you'll just give me the benefit of your unquestioned and much admired technical expertise, and show me how this car is supposed to start.'

  He cocked his head and looked at me, to see if maybe I appeared saner sideways. He wiped his hands some more. 'Let me get this straight. You're saying the car will start, it's just that you don't know how to start it?'

  'That's exactly what I'm saying.'

  He looked at the car, then he looked at me again. 'Did you try turning it on?'

  I could have gone the sarcasm route, but I didn't think that was the fastest way to Vienna. 'No.' I looked down at my pumpkin shoes. 'No, I didn't.'

  'You haven't even tried to turn it on?'

  'I don't know how to do that.'

  'You don't know how to do that?'

  'I'm really, really hoping you will show me.'

  'D'you want me to get the rental clerk to run you through the checklist again?'

  'No. No need, really. If you could just demonstrate the turning on of the engine, you'll make me a very, very happy man.'

  Cravenly, I'd given him power. And he knew it. He squeezed what he. could out of it with a stupidly long pause, as if somewhere in the dark recesses of his undercrowded cranium he actually had a mind to make up. Finally, he elected to show mercy. 'You've got the keycard?' He held out his hand.

  'Absolutely.' I handed the card to him.

  He took the card, looked at it a while, tapped it on his fingernails, and strolled over to the driver's door. He leaned inside the car and studied the dashboard for a long, long time. But I didn't lose my patience: he was a small-minded man, and if he wanted to drag out his pathetically pinheaded moment of triumph, I wasn't going to hold it against him. If he did get the car going, I might take the opportunity to run him over with it and reverse up and down over his big fat head a couple of times, but until that moment, I was on best behaviour.

  Finally, his head still in the vehicle, he spoke. And what he said wasn't good. What he said was: 'Where is it?'

  I was hoping I'd misheard. 'Where is what?'

  'Where is the slot for the keycard?'

  'Are you saying it isn't where it should be?'

  'I don't know.' He straightened out of the car and turned to face me. 'Where should it be?'

  'That's my entire problem, see. That's why I can't get the motor car started.'

  'Have you tried reading the manual?'

  'Absolutely. Cover to cover. I even memorised large portions of it.'

  'And it didn't mention where you put the keycard?'

  'It said to put it in the keycard slot.'

  'And where's the keycard slot?'

  'I have no idea.'

  His eyes drifted back to the car. 'You'd have thought it'd be on the dashboard someplace.'

  'Wouldn't you just?' I smiled a comradely smile. The two of us: men against machines. We weren't about to let them win, were we?

  Apparently, we were. The mechanic shrugged his jutting lower lip. 'Well...' He handed me back the keycard. 'You can't park it here, and that's a fact.' And he started to walk away.

  'Wait!' I called after him. 'Are you saying you don't know how to start this car?'

  He didn't look back. 'Not unless you can find a slot for that card.'

  'But you're a mechanic, aren't you?'

  'Yes, I am. I'm just not a very good mechanic. I don't work with these multifuel vehicles. They baffle me.'

  I looked forlornly at the keycard in my hand, taunting me with its false promise of exotic travel. I sighed, and with all the enthusiasm of a feeble old gelding being led to the glue factory, I trudged back to the rental clerk's office.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Thankfully, the rental clerk was sweet about the whole thing. But then, why shouldn't she be? She was young and pretty and life hadn't yet taken time out to club her to the dirt and relentlessly kick the enthusiasm out of her. Once she'd identified the steering wheel again, and both the accelerator and brake pedals, she ran through the checklist with amazing speed. This is not so much a testimony to her efficiency, but more correctly attributable to the fact that, largely, none of it was actually there to check. No on-board computer, no multimedia entertainment system, no warning lights, no switches, no airbags. No figs 8 through 97.

  And definitely no keycard insertion slot. Definitely no fig. 9.

  It turned out that the entire fascia was removable, for security purposes, and somebody had removed it, for theft purposes.

  Now, I don't want to get all cranky on you here, and start whining about what a state society is in, when criminals have sunk so low they go around actually stealing motor vehicle security features, but I can't deny I was thinking along those lines.

  I mean, what is the point of stealing an anti-theft device? What earthly use could it be? What could you use it for, except to steal an identical model with a removable dashboard that had already been removed? But, if that was your intention, why not steal the whole car in the first place? Maybe there was a way to get the dashboard up and running at home. Maybe there was a big demand o
ut there for multimedia entertainment systems equipped with utterly redundant indicator lights, a tachometer and twin airbags. Maybe no modern teenager's bedroom is complete without one.

  Mercifully, there was a replacement fascia in the workshop, but because I'd signed off on the checklist, it was chargeable to me. Fine. What did I care? I had a car, and there was every good chance the car would now go. Lawks a mussy, it might even go where I wanted it to. Riches beyond dreaming. The fascia seemed to cost more than the entire car could possibly have been worth, but why should I care, right? It wasn't my money. In fact, it was probably your money. You don't mind, do you?

  When I arrived back at the Affordable clutching my shiny new fascia in my pathetically eager mitts, I shouldn't have been surprised to find the car had been clamped. But I was.

  The yellow-overalled mechanic was standing by it, wiping his hands on his oily rag again, torn between admiring his handiwork and enjoying my reaction.

  I smiled at him. I hoped, for his sake, that he spotted it as a dangerous smile. 'I'm parked in a restricted zone, right?'

  He smiled back at me, the petty-minded son of a bitch, and nodded.

  'You told me I couldn't leave it there, didn't you?'

  He nodded again. 'Several times, as I recall.'

  Carefully, neatly, I stripped the bubble wrap off the fascia. 'And, refresh my memory: did I explain to you that I couldn't move it? That the car was, to all intents and purposes, an immovable object. Did you not, in fact, physically test that hypothesis personally? And as a result of said examination, did you not concur along with me that the vehicle was, indeed, enjoying a state of incurable stationariness?'

  He shrugged with his Mussolini lip again. 'That's not the point here--'

  I interrupted him, but quietly. 'Oh, I think it is the point here. I think it's precisely the point here. You see, I'm not quite sure how, in your amusingly original perception of reality, you thought I might accomplish the transportation of this woefully static, ironically named "automobile" from its state of acknowledged irreparable immobility to a more desirable state of elsewhereness.'