by Alan Holmes
I pointed out to her that if she were the last to climb up, the only one to be treated to the sight of her knickers would be our dog, Jock, who was sitting patiently at the base of the ladder, probably wishing he, too, could go to the party.
We left Monique behind, sulking and asserting that it was not ladylike to climb ladders. After Charlie, Brenda and I had crossed over, Monique decided to join us after all. The three of us were standing around the base of the little tree as she descended it and had a generous glimpse of her knickers, which were pink and bordered with lace, very elegant, and obviously intended to be seen. I made no comment though I was dying to do so.
Madame Gourlain, smartly dressed in a tailored suit, thought our method of arrival was most original and immediately made us feel at home by joking and teasing us gently about it. The only other guest at the party was Jacob’s former Parisian neighbor and friend, Samuel. The six of us sat down to a sumptuous, catered gouté, highlighted by a cherry tart on which eight lighted red candles were lit.
Monique had to explain to Jacob that he was supposed to make a wish before blowing out the candles. Jacob asked her why and, when we told him it was because it was his birthday, he replied, “That makes no sense—it’s completely irrational!”
Le gouté was followed by the opening of three presents which, not surprisingly, turned out to be grownup books. Jacob was visibly pleased and assured us that he had not read them, something which had been a matter of some concern for our mothers. Madame Poujet and Mother had both struggled with the difficult task of choosing a book that was advanced enough to please Jacob and that he wasn’t likely to have read.
After the opening of presents, the six of us went outside and, to our amazement, Jacob proposed a game of hide-and-seek. However, we had a problem: there was nowhere to hide. The Gourlain garden was a rectangle bordered by their house and the walls of three neighboring properties. There were no trees, bushes or adornments of any kind. But the lawn—if one could call it that—had not been mown or tended for some years and was now a field of deep hay, still a bright green because it was May.
I proposed that if we agreed to play the game on our hands and knees, the hay, which had grown to a height of three feet, would conceal us completely. We could pretend we were a family of moles playing hide-and-seek and, instead of burrowing through the earth like moles, we would burrow through the tall hay.
Everyone thought this was a marvelous idea, except Monique who objected on the basis that she would be displaying her knickers while scrambling on all fours. I explained to her that she could choose between watching us or playing with us, and that we had all seen her knickers as she descended the ladder and thought they were quite beautiful—indeed, a treat to see—so why was she worried? Monique chose to watch.
The game turned out to be a huge success, Jacob even conceding he was having fun. Eventually, we created a maze of well beaten-down tracks through the hay and, under my tutelage and directions, the game evolved into a cross between prisoner’s base and hide-and-seek, which was even more fun. Before too long, Monique, seeing all the fun she was missing, joined us and probably discovered that we more or less ignored her knickers.
Madame Gourlain came out on three occasions to announce that it was time for the guests to go home, but each time there were howls of protest from Jacob, who asked her to let us play one more game. I had made a convert, and Jacob had been corrupted. We four guests eventually went home pleasantly satisfied with the way the party had turned out, and Monique, like the rest of us, was sporting knees and palms stained green by the fresh hay.
From then on, Jacob often came over the wall and asked to be included in whatever game Brenda, Charlie, Monique, and I were playing. Our little gang also went over the wall to Jacob’s lawn and played some more cache-cache aux taupes (mole-and-seek). I don’t know what his mother thought of this, but she never protested our appearance in their garden, and Jacob remained a good friend until we left Ville-d’Avray. He was definitely more fun than Charlie.
After World War II, I heard from Raimond that the Gourlains had disappeared during the war and had not been seen since. “They had to go into hiding,” Raimond said and, adopting a somber tone, added, “They were Jewish, you know. No one knows where they went or if they were caught and put in an internment camp—perhaps killed.”
I may not have had many friends, but Father certainly had. Among some of his closest were Mormilly (the man who crashed the plane) and Thiérry de Tapleine (who drove us home that same day in his elegant Delahaye). These two men were frequent guests at our house.
Mormilly and Thiérry were inseparable friends, though they made an unlikely pair. Thiérry was a man of small stature, frail, refined, dapper and soft spoken, whereas Mormilly was tall and heavy-set, had a booming voice, and was a good-natured diamond-in-the-rough. Mother, who disapproved of uncombed coifs, said of Mormilly’s untidy shock of curly blond hair, “Ses cheveux lui donnent un air de méchant garçon—et un peu farouche” (“His hair gives him a naughty boy look—and a bit wild”). Mormilly never wore a tie and was a bit of a rowdy, but he wasn’t out of control.
The two men were dedicated boulevardiers (playboys) and inveterate bachelors, who liked nothing better than spending a night doing the cafés and nightclubs of Paris. Father occasionally joined them, telling me a decade later that these “evenings with the boys” were some of the wildest and most enjoyable evenings he ever had.
On one such occasion, Aldridge, Father’s boss and also a close friend, joined them. Aldridge had just acquired a new Rolls Royce, which his chauffeur had driven to Paris. He boasted over dinner that it was such a powerful and fast car that he could probably reach Biarritz by dawn. Biarritz is on the Atlantic, a few miles from the Spanish border, and over five hundred miles from Paris in the days before the autoroutes (divided highways). The main roads linking principal cities or towns were, for the most part, well paved, dead straight, and at night, completely deserted. Speed limits did not exist.
Mischievously, Mormilly, Thiérry and Dan turned on Aldridge and proposed a bet of a thousand francs each that he could not make good on his boast. Aldridge was not one to back down on anything, so he accepted the challenge. They agreed that for Aldridge to win three thousand francs, the Rolls Royce had to reach Biarritz by dawn the next morning, and that the other participants in the bet had to go along for the ride. The three challengers would each win a thousand francs from Aldridge if his car didn’t make it by sunrise.
By the time the salad course was served, Aldridge had managed to communicate to Pavit, his chauffeur who was waiting outside, that he should have the car’s petrol tank filled and be ready for a long drive. Since no one hurries dinner in Paris, the men finished a six-course meal in a leisurely fashion before setting off on the race.
The four men and Pavit left Paris a little after ten o’clock that the evening. Pavit was visibly taken aback when Aldridge climbed into the car and casually said to him, “To Biarritz, Pavit, and step on it!”
After a brief pause, Pavit regained his composure and said, “Yes, sir,” and off they went. Dan sat in the front seat to act as navigator, and the three other men were in back, telling stories and jokes, smoking cigars, and enjoying fine old brandy from the car’s wet bar. Meanwhile, Dan studied the map under a special map light in the car’s ceiling.
The shortest route would cut across the northwest corner of the Massif Central, a broad mountain range dead in the center of France. The roads would be twiddly (as Dan always called such roads) and steep in places, so this route was obviously out of the question. Instead, Father proposed a route that followed the valley of the Loire westward, eventually turning south at Poitiers, then on through Bordeaux and thence along the coast to Biarritz. This route crossed no mountains and, except for Bordeaux, passed through no large cities that would delay them. They all agreed that this seemed the best route.
In sp
ite of Pavit’s velvet-touch driving, they were making good time on the deserted boulevards leading out of Paris. Nevertheless, Dan soon recognized a problem. Pavit was slowing and sometimes even stopping at intersections! He was following the rules of the road used in England, which differed significantly from French rules.
In those days, stop signs did not exist in France. More importantly, no driver ever ceded the right-of-way to any car on his left (with the corollary that he must cede to all drivers on his right). At intersections, the French driver just charged on, with sharp glances to his right for approaching cars, but absolutely certain that any driver on his left would stop for him. This worked fine because it was fully accepted as the cardinal rule of driving and as fundamental as driving on the right side of the road.
Dan pointed out to Aldridge in French (so Pavit wouldn’t understand) that they would never reach Biarritz by dawn with Pavit obeying English rules of the road. He asked if it would be all right to explain the French system to Pavit. Aldridge assured Father that Pavit would listen to instruction of this sort without offense, so Father proceeded with this vital task. Pavit listened calmly without comment or question and continued driving in the English style, as though Dan had never said a word.
Dan was now in a quandary. If Pavit continued in this fashion, Aldridge would lose the bet unfairly. There was something else gnawing at Dan. He had already sized up how nicely the car performed and knew there was a good chance of reaching Biarritz by dawn if they didn’t waste time making unnecessary stops at every intersection. In fact, he was itching to prove it. He confronted Aldridge with his dilemma and proposed that he be allowed to drive instead of Pavit; also, that he be placed on Aldridge’s side of the bet. In other words, Dan would split the winnings with Aldridge if they reached Biarritz by dawn. It would be two against two, with everyone either winning or losing a thousand francs. At the time, a thousand francs would have purchased a modest used car in good condition, so the stakes were not trivial.
This last discussion was in English and, before Aldridge even had time to mull over the offer, Pavit brought the car to a sedate and proper stop, got out, walked around to the passenger side, opened the door with an elegant bow, and said to Dan in a quiet and respectful tone, “She’s all yours, sir. My heart’s not been in this scheme right from the start. I look forward to seeing how it turns out.” Dan turned to look at Aldridge in the back seat, and saw him gesturing with his hand outstretched, palm up, that the switch of drivers was fine by him.
Dan took the driver’s seat and insisted that Mormilly sit beside him to act as navigator, warning him that if they had to backtrack due to faulty navigation, the bet was off. Mormilly agreed and, with Pavit now sitting on the jump seat in back, they sped off.
Good navigation and pre-planning were crucial whenever they arrived at a town where the grandes routes (main roads) ended at the town’s outskirts, forcing them to wend their way through crooked streets that dated back to medieval times. Fortunately, they had the excellent Guide Michelin that provided a clear street map for every town of any size. Mormilly studied these maps carefully, well before their arrival at any town along their route.
Dan was an excellent driver. He never had even a minor accident during his entire lifetime. He loved to “scorch” as he called it, but he never took undue risks. Driving a car in good condition at extreme speed on a straight and deserted road did not constitute such a risk in his view. Years later, Father told me that on this trip he had the car at well over a hundred miles per hour on the straight-aways. “This was most of the time. I don’t think we met more than two oncoming cars on the whole trip, and we had to overtake only one. We did hit numerous rabbits, which upset Pavit no end. He was, I would guess, more upset about the mess on the radiator than about the rabbits. Pavit wanted me to slow down so the rabbits could get out of the way, but I explained to him what I knew all too well about rabbits in car headlights. The bright headlight beams mesmerize them. If I stopped, I’d also have to get out of the car and shoo the rabbits off the road! Quite out of question, of course.”
The car had a huge petrol tank, but Pavit didn’t know how far the car would go on a full tank at this speed or whether the petrol gauge reading could be trusted. The gauge was at the halfway mark when they reached Poitiers, about halfway into the trip, and it was two in the morning. While driving through the deserted town, Dan spotted a lone petrol pump on the sidewalk. Although the house to which it probably belonged was shuttered at street level, he could see light coming through the curtains of an upstairs window.
He stopped at the pump, got out and shouted in the direction of the lighted window, which produced no reply. Pavit remained in the car sound asleep—by far the most effective antidote to a state of sustained terror—but Thiérry, Mormilly and Aldridge left the Rolls in order to stretch. After conferring about their dilemma, they decided they needed something small to throw at the upstairs window.
By the light of the headlights, the four men started looking for pebbles but found none. Thiérry eventually volunteered his gold cigarette lighter. After four throws, Mormilly made a direct hit on the window. He made three more throws and two more hits before eliciting a response.
The curtains and window opened and a man, visible only in silhouette but unmistakably naked, stood at the open window and announced boldly, “Nous sommes au moment le plus précieux de la vie—je vous en prie, fichez-nous la paix!” (“We are at one of life’s most precious moments—I beseech you, leave us the hell alone!”) He then disappeared back into the room, closing the window behind him.
“Try hitting the window once more and offer him fifty francs to come down,” said Aldridge. Then after a pause, he chuckled, “We are about to discover just how precious this moment is.”
Mormilly returned reluctantly to his dubious task, this time yelling out the offer as loudly and distinctly as he could: he needed petrol and he was in a desperate hurry. The window reopened, and the man said, “Il me faut cents francs et pas moins! Et je veux les voir avant de descendre.” (“I’ll take a hundred francs and nothing less! And I want to see them before I come down.”)
“There you are!” Aldridge said smugly. “Now we know the precise value of life’s most precious moment.” Standing in the headlight beam, he pulled out his wallet, counted out the sum demanded and waved the sheaf of notes.
As Aldridge did this, Dan called out a proviso, “And come down immediately or the bribe reverts to fifty francs.”
In less than a minute, the front door opened. The man, wearing only a dressing gown and slippers, walked straight to Aldridge and grabbed the hundred francs out of his hand before anybody realized what was happening.
All the yelling and commotion had finally awakened Pavit, who quickly grasped the situation, jumped out of the car, and went to work connecting the pump’s hose to the car’s fuel tank.
The pump was an older hand pump, the kind with two glass cylinders at eye level, one of which le garagiste filled to its five-liter capacity by swinging a large handle back and forth. When the glass container was full, his hand on the handle met resistance. He stopped pumping and rotated a small valve handle set between the two glass cylinders. The petrol then drained slowly out of the filled glass cylinder into the car, as le garagiste resumed the hand pumping to fill the second glass cylinder. It was a laborious process, requiring at least a minute’s work for each filling of a single glass cylinder.
The Rolls was voracious, and it took well over fifteen minutes to fill its tank, during which time le garagiste tried unsuccessfully to renegotiate the bribe for his off-hours service. “En attendant, elle se refroidit et s’endort là haut! Sûrement ça vaut que’que chose!” (“In the meantime, upstairs she’s cooling down and going to sleep! Surely that’s worth something!”) le garagiste lamented.
After paying le garagiste for the petrol, the men resumed the race, reaching the Palace Hotel in Biarritz at ten
minutes after seven. Thiérry and Mormilly staunchly maintained that Aldridge had lost the bet since it was after seven o’clock, but Aldridge argued that they had reached the outskirts of Biarritz before seven. Mormilly, probably in a dazed stupor, had made his only navigating mistake when providing directions for the last kilometer leading to the Palace Hotel, where they had planned to have a good breakfast.
Over croissants and coffee, Aldridge persisted in his argument. “The selection of this hotel as the finish line was after-the-fact. Since we have just forgiven Mormilly for his inattention after we reached the city limits of Biarritz, you must allow us some leeway in the definition of ‘reaching Biarritz.’ Besides, you will note that I originally said ‘before dawn’ and that the sun was still below the horizon when we reached the hotel.” Later, they checked a newspaper and saw that sunrise was at 07:12 (the race took place in November), so it seemed that Aldridge had a good case.
The friends enjoyed their breakfast but never managed to agree on whether Aldridge and Dan had won their bet fair and square. They argued good-naturedly over this matter each time they got together thereafter, but never settled the question. Aldridge was in admiration of Father’s driving skills and said, “Right from the start, I never really thought we would make it—even during the trip, with you driving like a professional racing car driver, I still had my doubts!”
Father managed to catch a plane back to Paris later in the morning and was able to attend an important business meeting in Paris that afternoon. Mormilly went to the local aerodrome and wangled a seat as copilot on a military plane bound for Paris. Aldridge and Thiérry stayed in Biarritz to gamble at the casino. Upon hearing Pavit declare that it would take him two days to complete the return trip, the two of them took an express train back to Paris, leaving Pavit to drive back alone at his leisurely British pace.
Some years later, Mother laughed at this last detail in Father’s retelling of this incident. “Of course Pavit couldn’t go fast,” she said. “His name is Pavit! In French, pas vite means ‘not fast.’”