AN AWARD-WINNING PERFORMANCE
DEBORAH STEG
Deborah Steg took her first transatlantic trip when she was two months old. Since then she has been smitten with a passion to travel. She lives in New York City.
As I was walking along the Croisette towards the far end of the Bay of Cannes, I noticed a large crowd in the distance resembling a beehive surrounded by worker bees. It was a balmy spring afternoon at the height of the Cannes Film Festival, and the sun was just starting to set. The sky was a deep cerulean blue with ribbons of white clouds streaked across the horizon. This location seemed too far from the centre of town for a photo shoot or celebrity interview, and as I approached I realised that it was just locals and tourists dressed casually and gathered curiously around the aftermath of an accident. Rather than styled and coiffed celebrities, there were several policemen on the scene and a large tow truck that was blocking the lane that led back to the centre of town.
Somehow I knew I would find my mother in the mêlée – and there she was, chatting to a very distressed looking Claudia Schiffer doppelganger. She didn’t even notice me come up behind her. From what I could piece together from overhearing the eyewitnesses’ accounts to the police, a car had come careening down the Croisette too fast and hit one of the parked cars, a white Mercedes-Benz that was now parked kerbside and looked like its driver’s side had been used in a crash test. The other vehicle, a Fiat, had not fared as well. The car had flipped over upon impact and looked like a large sardine can.
A tall, athletic and agitated German was talking to another policeman, or at least making his best attempt to communicate half in German and half in English. The Frenchman tried to comprehend as best he could and asked questions in his best Franglais. There was a lot of hand-gesturing and pointing by both the German and the policeman. As they were finishing up, the tow-truck operator lifted the white Mercedes in one effortless movement and placed it on the flatbed behind him. He then manoeuvred the steel claw to the overturned metal box and placed it behind the Merc. The German hopped up beside the driver and the tow truck drove off. All this transpired within minutes of my arrival.
It was the summer of 1989 and I had come to the Cannes Film Festival hoping to make some valuable contacts in the film industry. I had spent a part of every summer in Cannes for as long as I could remember, and when my mother heard I was coming down for the festival, she couldn’t resist tagging along. The oddest occurrences happen on trips with her – and this trip, it appeared, would be no exception. She can strike up a conversation with any stranger and become instant friends with them – and soon come away convinced that person is the greatest thing since the French mashed olives to make tapenade.
So there she was with Ulrike, the German girl whose boyfriend, it turned out, had just left in the tow truck. He’d left her behind when she had stepped away to find a WC on the beach. My mother had been practising her high-school German on the poor girl, and in only a few minutes they’d become dear friends. The crowd dispersed quickly once the flatbed left and the police drove away. The only people left were my mother, the German girl and a tall, thin man dressed in khakis and a polo shirt, carrying a red and blue duffle bag. I wasn’t sure what his role in all this was.
Ulrike wanted to make her way to Nice to join her boyfriend, and she needed to find a place to exchange some money so she could get a cab. My mother explained to me that the German couple had driven down to Monaco from Stuttgart for a romantic weekend and to catch the Monaco Grand Prix. They had driven down a day early and since the Grand Prix overlapped with the final weekend of the Cannes Film Festival, they had decided to drive over to Cannes for the day. As they were returning to their parked car, the unfortunate accident had occurred right before their eyes.
The tall, lanky Frenchman standing next to us speculated that the driver – who had been taken away in an ambulance earlier – had had a little too much Bordeaux for lunch.
My mother offered to walk Ulrike to a hotel to exchange her German marks. This meant I was stuck with chatty Pierre, my mother’s other new friend, who could match her word for word. He yapped like an impatient Chihuahua, describing how he’d heard a loud crash from his mother’s balcony overlooking the accident scene and come down to take a look. Apparently, his mother was a wealthy old woman who summered in Cannes, and he was visiting her at her apartment. The accident happened fortuitously for him, just as he was getting antsy after an afternoon of playing the dutiful son. Listening to him prattle on was about as pleasant as having a mosquito buzzing in my ear.
Ulrike changed her money and the concierge at the hotel called a taxi. As Ulrike’s cab glided into the flow of traffic, we were left standing in the driveway of the hotel. This was the first pause in conversation since we’d left the accident scene. I could hear the gentle ebb and flow of the waves from the beach across the palm tree-lined boulevard and smell the briny air in the light evening breeze. Pierre quickly jumped in to fill the silence. He invited us out to dinner and before I could object my mother accepted.
We wanted to stop by our hotel and change before dinner, but Pierre insisted we not dress up since he would be going casual. The sun was setting as we found ourselves back on the Croisette in front of the belle-époque hotels. We were walking with Pierre towards the centre of town when he suggested we try a small bistro off the main boulevard. We took a left onto a small street lined with bistros fronted by outdoor tables. Each had a different coloured awning, and Pierre, after walking back and forth between them, suggested the second one from the boulevard with the yellow and white awning.
As we walked into the bistro, Pierre took charge and asked for an outdoor table. At first we were offered the table furthest from the street but Pierre insisted on a better one. It was a nice table for four and I could see the beach from my seat. Pierre immediately ordered a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. My mother objected, saying she didn’t drink alcohol, but Pierre insisted on the champagne, saying it was a night to celebrate new friends. She conceded that Pierre could order, but made it clear she would not be drinking.
As Pierre chatted up the waitress taking our order, we learned that she was the chef’s wife. Since it was a small establishment, she helped out when she could. Pierre asked if there were any specials and Madame indicated that most were on the menu, except the magret de canard with griotte (a sweet–sour berry) sauce, since there was only one portion left. Madame recommended this dish and assured Pierre that if he didn’t like it he could send it back for the one with sauce au miel (honey), which she said was just as exquisite. Pierre decided to start with the melon and jambon de Parme and follow with the magret de canard with griotte sauce. I went for the same appetiser and the magret de canard with the honey sauce, while my mother ordered the goat cheese salad to start, followed by the turbot.
When the appetisers arrived, Pierre had a flirty verbal repartee with Madame. He then decided to elaborate about his wealthy widowed mother. He told us she had a chauffeured Rolls-Royce that took her for a ride every afternoon before afternoon tea, a habit she’d picked up while living in London. But instead of the limp tea sandwiches the English serve, the hors d’oeuvres were typically French petits fours and mini sandwiches served on silver trays. While he adored his mother and enjoyed visiting her, teatime was all he could take before she started nagging him about Pierre this and Pierre that.
Madame came to pick up the plates and asked us how our appetisers were. Pierre jumped in and told her his was delicious, but the jambon de Parme could have been a little less salty and the melon a little less ripe. Otherwise, he said, it was simply wonderful. When the main course arrived, Pierre once again took to flirting with Madame, complimenting her quite brazenly before fixing his attention on the meal in front of him. He took a few bites of the magret de canard before he called over Madame and told her that the breast of duck with griotte sauce did not suit his taste; the way he said it in French was more mellifluous and almost endearing, if not a touch arrogant: ‘Le magret de canar
d ne convient pas à mon palate.’ And so Madame solicitously took the plate and quickly replaced it with the breast of duck with honey sauce, which, according to Pierre, was remarkably better. Before Pierre let Madame go, he also ordered a second bottle of Veuve Clicquot, as his mouth was parched from the salty jambon de Parme (and he had powered through the first bottle while talking about Maman and her hundreds of petits fours at teatime).
When Madame came by to collect our plates, Pierre turned on the charm again, cajoling Madame into telling him if there were any special desserts not on the menu. There was a birthday dinner in progress at a table behind us, and a cake had just been brought out with a lit candle in the middle, and the group was singing ‘Joyeuse Anniversaire’ in the background. Pierre asked Madame to send over a bottle of red wine to the table and to put it on his tab. She thanked him for his generosity, and Pierre said it was nothing, and made a dismissive hand gesture.
Madame returned to the dessert selection, and told Pierre that in addition to the wonderful traditional crème brûlée – which was made by her husband, who was not only the chef but the pastry chef as well – there was one portion of lavender-scented crème brûlée left; this was a dessert that her husband made only occasionally and it was simply delicious. Pierre, after extensively questioning Madame on her preferences and suggestions, decided to order the crème brûlée à la lavande. I ordered the traditional crème brûlée and my mother decided to try the île flottante, puffed egg whites floating like clouds in yellow vanilla cream sauce.
The chef was doing the rounds of the tables, and he came over and introduced himself. Pierre proceeded to compliment him profusely on his exquisite culinary aptitude and to engage him in conversation. Flattered, the chef told us how he had opened the restaurant after toiling at some of the larger establishments in town. He explained how, as times were tough, he normally manned the kitchen with only one waitress outside the festivals and summer season. Instead of hiring additional staff, his wife would help out when she was not taking care of the children. The chef then went on to mingle with guests at the other tables.
As Pierre was preparing to launch into another discourse about his mother, Madame brought the desserts. Pierre complimented her on her youthful figure and told her if it weren’t for her husband telling him, he would never have guessed she’d had any children. Madame did not engage in Pierre’s repartee as readily as before. His charm was wearing a little thin.
By the time dessert was finished, Pierre wanted a digestif. I was getting tired and starting to yawn; it was almost eleven thirty and the long day at the beach had worn me out. My mother was getting tired, too, but Pierre kept her engaged in conversation, and she was fighting her fatigue. All of a sudden, a group of chauffeurs vociferously barrelled into the restaurant. They had been shuttling celebrities between Mougins, for Elizabeth Taylor’s AIDS benefit at the Moulin de Mougins, and Cap d’Antibes, where most of the bigger celebrities were lodging at the Hotel du Cap. They had come in for a nightcap, and began trading stories about the stars they had driven, their outfits and eccentricities. One of them had driven Liz and commented how remarkably well she looked, considering it was the first time in a while she had chaired the event herself.
The chef had now closed the kitchen for the evening and he sat down with the chauffeurs. The conversation was finally winding down at our table and we were about to ask for the bill when Pierre called over to the chef to enquire about something and the chef motioned for us to move over to his table. We reluctantly joined them and the conversation grew to a crescendo as the chauffeurs tried to outdo each other with their star tales. In the middle of this maelstrom, Pierre got up and said he was going to the toilet. Amidst the commotion, he was barely noticed getting up from the table.
About twenty minutes later, the owner was getting ready to close up the restaurant and he brought the bill. Pierre was nowhere to be seen. The owner asked what had happened to him, and my mother and I looked at each other with mounting concern. He’d said he was going to the toilet, but that was over twenty minutes ago. The owner checked the WC but it was empty. Pierre’s duffle bag was still by his chair, but when we opened it to see if there was any ID the only thing inside was a well-read copy of Le Monde: no ID, no keys, no personal effects.
My mother took a look at the bill and said she would only pay for our portion, not the extravagant bottles of champagne she hadn’t consumed, especially since the owner had shared the last bottle with Pierre. The owner became agitated and insisted he would call the police unless she settled the entire bill. She told him to go right ahead.
Monsieur called the police and they arrived swiftly. The young officer, who looked much like the one from the accident scene, listened to both sides of the story, then decided to settle the dispute by telling us to pay our portion of the meal and half the liquor, since clearly the owner had partaken in the drinking in the latter part of the evening. You could sense he felt there was a good chance that the owner had been in on the con. The owner reluctantly agreed. The policeman left us with a warning, that even though Cannes is a resort town, it is a city like any other with its attendant crime and that we should be more careful. Too many tourists let their guard down when they arrive at a sunny destination, sometimes with disastrous effects. With that, he got a call on his radio about a drug bust and took off.
As we walked back to our hotel, weary from the long evening and stunned by the sequence of events that had transpired, we couldn’t quite figure out if the owner had been in on the scam. We wavered back and forth on that one. But for the price of admission, we’d been front and centre at an award-winning performance. Our con artist had missed his true calling as an actor, and could hold his ground with any of the stars peddling their films on the Croisette.
CARPET-ROLLING
BROOKE NEILL
During five years based in London, Brooke Neill moved in and out of Europe, Africa, Asia and the Middle East, loving every second of it. She has recently completed a degree in sociology and journalism in Tasmania and is now busily planning her next trip.
We were pulling ourselves up a small hill in Selcuk, Turkey, in sweaty forty-degree August heat, when my travelling companions Rachel and Anna and I stopped to catch our breath. After spending most of our nights drinking raki with other backpackers staying at our hostel and being woken up by a huge loudspeaker perched directly outside our bedroom window at every prayer call, we were seriously lacking the athletic ability to climb a small hill. But we had inadvertently chosen the worst possible place to catch our breath – directly outside a carpet shop.
Anyone who has travelled in Turkey knows that the carpet salesmen are very persuasive. Even if you merely glance at the exterior of a carpet shop, you’re likely to receive an invitation to a carpet performance. It begins with the carpet-seller saying, ‘Lovely jubbly, you from England?’ or ‘G’day, mate, are you from Australia?’ As soon as you reveal where you’re from, the carpet-seller marvels that he has a cousin, uncle or random long-lost relative who lives there.
So we weren’t surprised when a voice behind us said, ‘G’day ladies, come in for apple tea.’ Oh no, we thought, another carpet-seller. We were already preparing our excuses as we turned around, but this carpet-seller was dressed in a navy pin-striped suit and a pale pink shirt unbuttoned at the top. He was tall, dark and, yes, quite handsome.
We went in for apple tea. The shop was dark and cool and all the walls, floor and ceiling were covered in colourful weaves. Our host introduced himself as Josef and ushered us towards a huge pile of carpets. ‘Have a seat’, he said. We climbed up giggling and let our brown legs dangle off the side with our flip-flops balancing off our toes.
As Josef boiled a kettle beside the cash register, he asked us if we had thought about buying a real Turkish carpet while we were in Turkey. We said that we had thought about it but didn’t really have the money and didn’t want to have to carry a carpet around for the rest of our time in Turkey and then back to Australia.
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br /> ‘No worries, mate’, said Josef in his best Australian accent. ‘My carpets are the best quality for the best price and for a small amount I can send to Australia and you have no need to carry them anywhere.’
He daintily poured four apple teas and passed them around on a silver tray. We politely repeated that we were not going to be the best customers as we were at the beginning of a four-week trip and had a strict budget.
Josef took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He meant business. He began to bring out all sorts of amazing carpets and waited until he got a reaction from one of us. Before long we were saying things like, ‘Now that is beautiful, I really like that one. How much would that one cost?’ At this, Josef would get out his calculator and frantically prod the buttons, then extend his arm to show us. The prices were a little too high but we figured there would need to be some haggling if we were to make a purchase.
After a while a small man walked in and said hello to us and high-fived Josef. They looked very happy to see each other. We were introduced to Ali and he shook our hands, then he and Josef explained that Ali owned the shop two doors up. Then they high-fived again; they seemed very pleased with themselves. The carpets came out thick and fast now, and soon the pile in front of us was as high as the pile we were sitting on and we had lost sight of the door. In fact, all we could see was carpet.
After my third apple tea I had my credit card out and was being assured by Josef and Ali that what I was doing would bring good luck and that I was very sensible. I was feeling guilty about parting with so much money so early in the trip, but figured one day I would have a house big enough to display all my worldly goods – and anyway, I had spent the last three years travelling and not buying anything of any importance. The purchase had been justified.
By the Seat of My Pants Page 16