The Orderly Arch Angel nodded, and closed the door. God turned to Saint Peter. ‘What is cheesed?’ He didn’t wait for a reply, but continued, ‘Where were we before we were interrupted?’
‘Arks,’ replied Saint Peter.
‘Oh, yes. Well, I’ve decided that David the Israelite is forgiven. Get him to touch it as a sign of faith, and I’ll leave him unscathed.’ God relaxed back into his chair, a self-satisfied smile on his face.
Saint Peter coughed politely. ‘Er, not that ark, sir. The new one ... the one in France.’
‘Oh, dear me,’ tutted God. ‘Time is so confusing.’
‘There is a slight problem . . . one of animals,’ said Saint Peter. ‘We really should try to keep as many as possible on earth as we can, and they don’t have many in that village.’
‘Who’s our best animal man? ‘ asked God.
‘Saint Francis,’ replied Saint Peter.
‘Oh, drat,’ groaned God. ‘That man’s a perfect nuisance. D’you know he was in here only the other day with the name of every damned sparrow that died on earth that week? He takes all my legends too literally. Still, he’s a good chap. You’d better fetch him.’
Saint Peter shook his head sadly. ‘He may still be indisposed. He got butted in the backside yesterday and was taken to the infirmary.’
‘Not that stupid goat of his again?’ asked God.
Saint Peter coughed again, this time in embarrassment. ‘I’m afraid it was a little more serious this time, Lord. It was his unicorn.’
The next stage in the provisioning of the Lord’s ark coincided with the unexpected arrival of a circus in Clermont-Ferrand. It was quite a remarkable circus, having a troop of bored horses, two inept jugglers, a ferocious lady, a fat lion and four-and-a-half clowns. It also had a large, farting baboon. Alphonse Joliot, official collector of beasts for the ark, went along - and acquired the baboon.
He had not intended to steal it. He had planned to buy, on credit, naturally, a couple of donkeys, a brood mare and a thousand day-old chicks, from the Clermont-Ferrand market. The baboon was an accident. Farmer Joliot was no fool at bargaining. He spent several hours in the market arguing, before he finally spat on the palm of his hand and made a satisfactory deal for the livestock. Then he went into the bar to chat farm gossip with the other local yeomen. It was during this period that the baboon escaped from its cage in the circus, vaulted a low fence, swung itself over a caravan, and dropped into the back of Joliot’s truck, amongst the chicken crates. Curiosity tempted it to shake the stack of boxes. They toppled, one of the highest ones dropping onto the baboon and neatly trapping it inside. Two dozen of the chickens escaped and were picked up by local schoolchildren.
‘It’s in the lorry,’ said Joliot, to Barbusse and Laplace. ‘I swear it... it just appeared. I didn’t buy it. For God’s sake, who wants a baboon?’
‘Perhaps God wants a baboon,’ suggested Laplace.
‘One who farts? ‘ asked Joliot, his eyes criss-crossing.
‘That’s the drink,’ said Barbusse. ‘Your drink, not the baboon’s. I’ve travelled in lots of countries. I’ve seen hundreds of monkeys and baboons. I’ve never heard even a single fart from any of them.’
Laplace laughed.
‘I’ll damn well show you,’ said Joliot. He plucked a packet of peanuts from their showcard behind Barbusse’s bar, and led the way out into the square. His truck was parked nearby, close to the animal pens which he had built to accommodate the livestock he was to collect.
‘Here,’ he said, dropping the tailboard of the truck. A dazed chick teetered towards him. Joliot picked it up, smoothed its downy feathers, and stuffed it into his breast pocket. ‘Look ... the bloody baboon.’
There was a sudden scurry and a rattling of crates as the baboon angrily shook the walls of its prison. It pulled back its lips and snarled like an angry wolfhound.
‘Great heavens,’ exclaimed Laplace. ‘It looks like Madame d’Arle.’
‘It hasn’t farted,’ observed Barbusse.
‘And that’s not a bad thing, so don’t complain,’ said Farmer Joliot. ‘Cows are bad enough, but, phew . . .’ he wrinkled his nose. ‘Baboons ...’
Joliot rattled the peanut bag and tore it open. The baboon stopped shaking the cage bars and watched. The farmer poured some of the nuts into the palm of his hand and held them out. The baboon stopped snarling, made a kind of kissing noise and pushed its hand through the bars. Joliot tilted the nuts into the creature’s outstretched palm. It withdrew it and stuffed the nuts into its mouth. Then, with an expression on its face as near to a contented smile as any baboon ever managed, it farted. A perfect rendering of the first bars of ‘I’ll kiss your little hand, Madame’.
‘Magnificent!’ exclaimed Barbusse, wide-eyed. ‘An anal virtuoso.’
Seven
The Minister of Statistics, Monsieur Gaston Dupres, was a staunch supporter of the President, active, hardworking, ambitious and painstakingly pedantic. He had gained his position through years of political footslogging and an animal loyalty to his party leader. Now, with the new election only weeks away, he was entrusted with the job of ensuring that nothing - absolutely nothing - might cause a sudden swing away from Grand Admiral Dordogne. Which was why, today, he was in a near-panic. He shuffled a pile of papers in front of him on his leather-topped desk and read through the line of figures again. He pushed them away, flicked open the lid of his cigarette box, and picked out a cigarette. He put it to his lips, looked at the figures again, then screwed up the cigarette and threw it across the room. ‘Marcel!’ he roared. There was a fumbling knock at his door and a thin-faced Under-Secretary entered. ‘Ah . . .’ said the Minister. He pointed at the papers. ‘Are the figures already released?’
The Under-Secretary nodded.
‘Merde,’ grunted the Minister. ‘Now, of all times!’
Marcel Dupont Goetz pressed his thin lips together. ‘Admiral Dordogne’s village?’ he asked.
‘Admiral Dordogne’s village,’ repeated the Minister. ‘It’s impossible. For the first time we have almost total employment throughout the nation. No unemployment problems, no strikes, or strikes impending, no labour problems. Farmers happy, engineers happy, train drivers happy, even the post office. Seamen all at sea and contented. Next week I have to make the first of the new electioneering speeches. And what happens? The Admiral’s village. Dordogne’s homestead. The hardworking village he claims is the example the whole nation should emulate, goes mad.’ He threw his arms up in a gallic gesture. ‘Total unemployment, that’s what. One hundred per cent out of work. Every man drawing the dole.’
‘It won’t show on the national figures,’ said Dupont Goetz, hopefully.
‘Won’t show. Won’t show? Of course it damn well won’t show. But if any newspaperman so much as gets a sniff, and you can bet that one of them will, what then? Admiral Dordogne will be a laughing stock. He’ll lose a million votes. The Communists will get in. Anarchy will rule. The tumbrils will roll again and Madame Guillotine will be busy. And you, Marcel . . .’ he pointed accusingly at his clerk. ‘Your head will drop first.’
Dupont Goetz’s already pale face whitened. He felt his neck with a thin hand. ‘Holy Mother,’ he breathed.
‘Well, damn you. Don’t just stand there. Find out why the villains are lazing about. And let me know the reason by noon.’ Dupont Goetz backed hurriedly out of the room, bowing like some medieval serf.
Although Toto Barbusse’s car was a Citroen deux chevaux, intended to hold four passengers in sparse comfort, as far as Barbusse’s vehicle was concerned, it was a single seater. With skill and considerable agility, Barbusse just managed to get his magnificent eighteen stone inside. And, every time he climbed in, he had to resist the temptation to modify the door with the strength of his huge arms. It would have been little trouble for him to bend the car to suit him better - but it would, he knew, have reduced its eventual resale value.
‘I’m going down to the town,’ he shouted to no
one in particular. ‘Anyone want anything? ‘
Constable Chaminade waved at him. ‘If you happen to be passing police headquarters ... I could do with a book of parking tickets . . .’
‘Parking tickets!’ exclaimed Barbusse. ‘Piss off, you silly old bugger. D’you think I’m going to get you parking tickets when I’m the only one here with a private car? ‘
‘And what are you planning to do in Clermont-Ferrand?’ asked Colonel Lorraine, emerging from his Mayoral office, and advancing towards Barbusse’s car.
‘To get the film developed,’ replied Barbusse. He patted the camera on the seat beside him. ‘I thought I’d get a thousand done - on postcards.’
‘A thousand? On postcards? A thousand what, on postcards? ‘ The Mayor leant forward until his head was inside the window of the car.
‘Photographs of the building of the ark, of course,’ said Barbusse. He suddenly wondered if he were saying the right thing. Colonel Lorraine confirmed his suspicions by turning first red, then blue and, finally, purple.
With difficulty, the Mayor spoke again. His next word was carefully controlled and free from all emotion.
‘Why?’
‘Tourists,’ replied Barbusse. ‘There’ll be a good profit at the bar. They’re bound to want pictures.’
‘Cretin! You crass idiot,’ growled Colonel Lorraine. ‘Tourists are all we need to ruin everything. So far, we’ve managed to do everything quietly, without publicity. I thought it was all too good to last. Tourists ... huh! How much ark building do you think will be done with crowds of tourists - especially Americans chewing gum, leaning against everything - distracting everyone, taking their own photographs? Oh, for God’s sake, Barbusse. Go and park this machine and then report back to me.’
Barbusse hesitated.
‘At once, Sergeant Barbusse,’ roared Colonel Lorraine.
Barbusse slammed the car into gear so fast that it was almost catapulted backwards into its parking space beside the bar. The chassis and suspension sighed with relief as he wriggled out.
‘Over here, Sergeant!’ roared the Colonel. Barbusse doubled across and stood in front of the Mayor. Colonel Lorraine looked up at the huge man. ‘Chin ...’ he said. Barbusse pulled it in. A small crowd of nearby workmen stopped to watch. Colonel Lorraine noticed them, and spoke loudly enough for them to hear. ‘Sergeant Barbusse, you had an excellent war record in the Paras, I believe.’
‘Mon Colonel ... ? ‘ replied Barbusse.
‘Order of Merit. Third Class, I believe.’
‘Oui, mon Colonel.’
‘How many years service? ‘
‘Twenty, mon Colonel. Here, in France . . . Indo-China . . . Africa.’
‘Good,’ said Colonel Lorraine. ‘Then, you are second-in- command to me. I place you in charge.’
Barbusse’s eyes tried to follow the Colonel who was walking round and round him.
‘In charge, mon Colonel? In charge of what?’
Mayor Colonel Lorraine stopped his perambulation. He thrust his face close to Barbusse. ‘You are hereby recalled into military service - reserve, of course, and you are in charge of . . . er . . .’ The Colonel paused. ‘Ahhh. The First Defence Regiment of St Pierre-des-Monts . . . and, furthermore . . . you have full powers of recruitment . . . conscription. Your orders are that no stranger or outsider will enter this village for any purpose whatsoever. And, no villager must leave without my personal permission.’
‘Oui, mon Colonel,’ said Barbusse. ‘One question, mon Colonel. May I wear a uniform? ‘
Mayor Lorraine straightened himself. He looked through his monocle and down his nose at Barbusse. ‘I expect it.’
‘Thank you, mon Colonel.’ Barbusse gave a smart salute and clicked his heels. The Mayor returned the salute and began to march away. ‘Mon Colonel,’ called Barbusse. ‘I have another last question. What about weapons? ‘
Colonel Lorraine waved his swagger-cane vaguely in the direction of the remains of the old fortifications. ‘Use the things in the dungeons . . . whatever you like. Help yourself to anything available.’
‘Oui, mon Colonel,’ nodded Barbusse, proudly.
Barbusse stood in front of the long mirror in his bedroom and examined himself. As far as he could recall, he was wearing identical dress to that of Che Guevara in the pop posters. He adjusted the belt of shotgun cartridges slung around his shoulders over his old camouflaged parachuting smock. He pushed his binoculars aside so that the strap no longer covered the ribbons of his medals. On his head was a black beret. He had not shaved for the past two days and his chin was a healthy dark blue.
He strolled casually down to the bar, entering with a slight swagger and an air of what he hoped was devil-may-care nonchalance.
‘Voilà . . . Annie Oakley . . .’ said Alphonse Joliot. ‘Expect him to toss balls in the air and shoot them. Ah ... but I forgot .. . Toto hasn’t got any balls.’
Barbusse reddened. ‘Watch it, Joliot.’
‘Oh, come now, Cheri. . .’ began Joliot. There was a sudden flurry of movement, and a nervous yelp. The farmer found himself hoisted and banged against the wall of the bar. His feet dangled several inches from the floor. It was the first indication to the village that Sergeant Toto Barbusse was taking his new job very seriously.
The Chief Executive Officer of the Internal Statistics Department in the Clermont-Ferrand Administration, Barnard Josef Jacques Bagniol, picked up his telephone, and dialled the Minister’s Office in Paris.
‘Regarding the information requested on St Pierre-des- Monts ....’
‘Yes, yes, man,’ said Under-Secretary Dupont Goetz. ‘Hurry, the Minister is waiting. Just tell me what you found out.’
‘Nothing ...’
There was silence at the Paris end of the wire while the Under-Secretary digested the information. ‘Nothing?’ he asked.
‘Nothing … ‘
‘Absolutely nothing? Didn’t they even say why they are all on the dole? ‘
‘They wouldn’t talk to me,’ said Bagniol. ‘They were adamant.’
‘Did you tell them who you were? ‘
‘Naturally.’
‘How did they react?’
‘They threw me down the mountain.’
‘Threw you down the mountain?’
‘Before I could ask questions ... They told me that I couldn’t enter the village. When I insisted, they took me by the collar and threw me down the track.’
‘Now listen here,’ roared Dupont Goetz. ‘Get your disgustingly shiny trousers off that padded seat and arrange transport for me to St Pierre-des-Monts. I will handle the inquiry, personally. After all, it is Grand Admiral Dordogne’s village. I’m leaving here immediately.’
Dupont Goetz pressed himself back into the soft upholstery of the official Renault supplied by Bagniol, complete with chauffeur. The road up the mountain was little more than one vehicle wide in parts, and its surface had been pummelled into an advanced state of disrepair. In fact, it was only when officials visited St Pierre-des-Monts that they remembered the condition of the road. Normally, the pleas of the villagers to have it resurfaced were simply filed. There seemed to be little point in spending a major part of the Road Improvements Budget on a road that was used by only a few vehicles and villagers.
Dupont Goetz steadied himself as the wheels of the Renault dropped into a pothole and jolted him across the seat. The chauffeur swore.
Dupont Goetz rehearsed his speech. It had to be firm, decisive, to the point. He must flagellate these peasants verbally.
‘We who control the country are most disturbed at this situation,’ he would tell them. The control bit would give them an immediate indication of the calibre of the man they were dealing with. ‘This reversion to primitive thuggery by which a government official has been assaulted, abused and his authority violated, cannot be condoned. Those responsible will in due course be made to answer for their behaviour.’
‘And now, regarding the even more serious matter of total unemploymen
t locally ... the Prime Minister is personally ...’ The Renault jerked, rumbled over a wooden surface, and slewed to a halt. Dupont Goetz looked out of the window and found himself on a wooden bridge. Two hundred feet below were craggy rocks and fierce running water. And in front, in the middle of the road beyond the bridge, and only a few yards from the fortress walls of St Pierre-des-Monts, stood a group of men.
‘Drive on,’ Dupont Goetz ordered his driver.
‘No thanks, sir,’ said the chauffeur. This was his second trip up to the village in one day, and on his first, he had spent half-an-hour trying to disentangle a barely conscious Chief Executive Officer from the thorn bush where he had rolled after the villagers had tossed him down the mountainside.
‘Drive on, at once,’ insisted Dupont Goetz. The chauffeur shook his head. There was a point beyond which even the most loyal government employee should not be expected to proceed. He decided that that point was exactly where he had stopped the Renault. He climbed out of the car, nodded to the group of villagers and opened one of the rear doors for Dupont Goetz.
The Under-Secretary tutted, straightened his tie, grasped his briefcase firmly, and grunted his way out. He walked to the front of the car and stood and eyed the villagers barring his way. They were all strangely dressed, he thought, like guerrillas, and armed.
‘I wish to make an entry to the town in order to address your Mayor,’ he said, loudly.
Toto Barbusse scratched his unshaven blue chin with the foresight of his shotgun and spat into the dust of the roadway before he answered. ‘No,’ he growled.
‘Now look here, my man,’ said Dupont Goetz. ‘It is an offence to obstruct a government representative on official business.’
‘I said no visitors.’
‘Out of my way,’ ordered Dupont Goetz. ‘I have every intention of crossing this bridge.’
Beyond The Rainbow Page 8