The Man Who Risked It All

by Laurent Gounelle

  No answer. I went on, “I hope it won’t be too hot, though.”

  The barman looked at me slightly mockingly as he continued wiping his glasses. “Where are you from?” he finally asked.

  A miracle. He’d said something.

  “Right now, I’ve arrived from the castle … up there. I just came down this morning.”

  He looked up at the other customers, then back at me. “Look, we all know no one lives up there.”

  “No … but … well, I was left at the castle last night, and I came down this morning. That’s all I meant. I’m not trying to be funny.”

  “You’re from Paris, right?”

  “Yes, you could say that.”

  “Are you from Paris or aren’t you? It’s not a question of whether or not you could say that.”

  His accent was so musical I couldn’t work out if this was his ordinary tone or he was annoyed. I needed information, so I had to keep the conversation going.

  “Actually, this castle, how old is it?”

  “The castle,” he said, wiping the glasses more slowly. “The castle used to belong to the Marquis de Sade.”

  “The Marquis de Sade?!” I couldn’t suppress a shudder.

  “Yes.”

  “And where are we, exactly?”

  “What do you mean, where are we?”

  “Well, what place are we in?”

  Amused, he looked around the room, before saying, “You’ve been drinking more than water, haven’t you?”

  “No, I haven’t!” I insisted. “It’s a long story. Just tell me where I am.”

  “You’re in Lacoste, in the Lubéron. You’re on another planet.”

  Suppressed giggles spread around the room. The barman was pleased with himself.

  “The Lubéron. So we’re in Provence, is that right?”

  “Well, I never! See what you can do when you try!”

  Provence. I must be 500 or 600 miles from Paris.

  “Where’s the nearest train station?”

  Again, he shot a look around the room.

  “The nearest station is in Bonnieux,” he said, pointing to the village perched on the opposite mountain.

  I was saved. An hour or two’s walk, and I would be on my way home.

  “Do you know what time the next train for Paris leaves?”

  Laughter in the room. The barman was jubilant.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked. “Has it already left? Is that what’s funny?”

  The barman looked at his watch. More laughter.

  “But it’s very early!” I said. “There must be another one later in the day. When does the last train leave?”

  “The last train left … in 1938.”

  Guffaws all around. I swallowed hard. The barman was enjoying his success. While he was at it, he offered a round of drinks. Conversations picked up where they had left off when I came in.

  “Here, let me offer you a drink,” the barman said, putting a glass of white wine on the bar in front of me. “To your health.”

  We clinked glasses. I wasn’t going to tell him I didn’t drink on an empty stomach. I’d had my bellyful of mocking for the day.

  “Look, the station at Bonnieux has been shut down for seventy years. Trains for Paris all leave from Avignon now. You’ll find nothing nearer.”

  “Is it far to Avignon?”

  He drank a sip of white wine, then wiped his moustache with the back of his hand.

  “Forty-three kilometers.”

  Almost 37 miles. That was a lot.

  “Perhaps there’s a bus?”

  “During the week there is, but not on Sunday. Today, apart from me, nobody is working here,” he said, lifting his glass to his lips.

  “You wouldn’t know someone who could take me to Avignon?”

  “Today? With this heat, people don’t go out much, you know. Except to church. Can’t you wait till tomorrow?”

  “No, I absolutely have to be in Paris this evening.”

  “Oh! Parisians are always in a rush, even on Sunday!”

  I left, saying good-bye to all present, who this time returned my greeting.

  I walked along the street in the direction the barman had indicated. “The road to Avignon is on the left, at the bottom,” he had said. I was bound to get a lift.

  The lane meandered prettily down the hillside, which was covered in aromatic thorn bushes. I was in Provence! I’d heard so much about Provence. It was even more beautiful than I had imagined. I had pictured an arid region, beautiful but parched. But now, in front of me as far as the eye could see, was vegetation of amazing richness: Holm oaks, pine trees with their trunks glowing red in the sun, cedars, beech, cypress raising their bluish tint to the sky, and on the ground, thistles, broom, great clumps of rosemary, bushes with varnished leaves shamelessly showing off their gaudy beauty, and countless other varieties of plants. I was filled with wonder.

  The sun, although still low in the sky, was beginning to beat down, and the heat revived the perfumes of nature, spreading a thousand exquisite scents that accompanied me through this paradise of the senses.

  At the foot of the mountain, the road wound around the valley amidst orchards and groves of trees. I had been walking for more than an hour without seeing a single car. Hitchhiking wasn’t going to be easy. I was famished and had a slight headache as well. It was beginning to get really hot. I wasn’t going to be able to continue walking much longer.

  Another 20 minutes had gone by when I heard the sound of an engine. A gray van came around the bend behind me, traveling at a moderate speed. It was at least 20 or 30 years old, the van version of the Citroën 2 CV, the Deux Chevaux, that I had seen in picture books of France when I was a kid. I stood right in the middle of the road, arms stretched wide. The driver jammed on its brakes with a screeching noise, and the van coughed, then stalled. The driver got out, a short man with a belly, gray hair, and a red complexion, obviously angry with me and perhaps also annoyed at having stalled.

  “What a stupid thing to do! What are you playing at, for Christ’s sake? It hasn’t got the brakes of a Ferrari on it, you know, I nearly ran you over! And who’d pay for the repairs? You can’t get spares for love or money!”

  “I’m sorry. Look, I’ve got a problem: I absolutely must get to Avignon as quickly as possible. I’ve been walking two hours in this sun. I haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, and I’m at the end of my rope. You’re not going that way, by any chance, are you?”

  “Avignon? What the hell would I be going there for?”

  “Perhaps where you’re going would bring me a bit closer?”

  “Well, I’m going to Les Poulivets. It’s a bit in that direction, but look here, I’ve got to stop on the way. I’ve got things to do.”

  “No problem! The main thing is to get me closer. Then I’m bound to find another car.”

  I could feel he was about to give in.

  “Please …”

  “Okay, get in the back, I’ve got lots of things in the front, and I’m not going to clear it all out for you. I don’t even know you.”

  “Great!”

  We went around the vehicle, and he opened one side of the back door.

  “Sit there,” he said, pointing to two wooden crates that took up the tiny space inside.

  I had barely climbed inside when he slammed the door shut, throwing me into complete darkness. I fumbled my way to the crates and sat down as best I could.

  He had two tries at starting before the engine sputtered to life and the van moved off, vibrating all over. A strong odor of diesel surrounded me.

  I had great difficulty remaining seated. The top of my crate was strangely sloped, and I nearly slid off each time he accelerated, took a bend, or braked. I blindly felt around the sides of the van but could find nothing to hold onto. The situation was so absurd I had a fit of the giggles. It was the first time in my life I had laughed by myself.

  The van finally stopped. The motor choked, and I heard the driver’s d
oor slam. Then, nothing. Silence. Surely he wasn’t going to leave me in here?

  “Hello! Hello!” I called.

  No answer.

  Suddenly, I made out a slight humming noise. It seemed to be coming from under the car. Then the sound of voices outside. When you can’t see, your other senses become more acute. The humming intensified. Yes, that’s it, the sound was coming from … inside my crate! But, good God! Surely it wasn’t …? Yes, a BEEHIVE!

  I stood up at once and banged my head on the roof. At that moment, the front door slammed, the engine coughed, and the van leapt forward. I was thrown against the back door and fell down, stuck between the door and the hives.

  We must have been going down a dirt track, as the ride was so bumpy. Staying where I was seemed the best thing to do. I had only one worry: being stung by my thousands of traveling companions. Could they get out of their hives?

  We finally stopped again, not without a final shake from the engine. The front door slammed. I waited. The back door opened suddenly, and I fell to the ground at my liberator’s feet.

  “Yes, I thought I smelled wine on you! You don’t eat anything, but you have to have your little drink, right?”

  I looked up at him, completely blinded by the light.

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “I believe what I see, like Saint Thomas, or rather, what I smell!”

  I got up, blinking to get used to the strong light.

  The view that offered itself was dazzling. At my feet were laid out opulent rows of lavender, flooding the valley we were in with blue, caressing the bases of the fruit trees that bordered it, and rising up the hill in the distance. From this colored beauty came a delicious perfume that almost made me forget the awkward situation I was in. But the most impressive thing was the song, or rather the din of the cicadas! The chirring sound was so loud it seemed as if all the cicadas in Provence had come here to greet me.

  “Come on, out of the way, I’ve got things to do!”

  The driver leaned inside the van and grabbed one of the hives.

  “Here, help me! We can take one each.”

  I followed him, carrying my hive at arm’s length.

  “We’ll put them there,” he said, pointing to a space in the middle of the flowers.

  “You make lavender honey?” I said, marveling. “I never imagined that people moved hives to put them in lavender fields.”

  “What do you think? That it’s enough to give them a road map and tell them not to stop on the other flowers on the way?”

  With that, he turned back to the van.

  “So tell me the truth,” he said. “Why are you in such a hurry to get the train in Avignon?”

  “Actually, it’s a bit complicated. Let’s say I’ve been given a sort of challenge. My identification and my money were taken away, and I’ve got to find a way of getting back to Paris. To succeed, I’ve got to be back by the end of this afternoon at the latest.”

  “A test? You mean it’s a game?”

  “Sort of, yes.”

  He looked at me sideways, and then a light shone in his eyes.

  “Ha! I’ve got it, you’re doing the qualifying tests for a TV show like The Amazing Race! Is that it?”

  “Actually …”

  “Well, I never! When I tell my wife about this, she’s never going to believe me!”

  “Yes but—”

  “And then, if you’re selected, we’ll see you on TV this winter.”

  “Wait, I didn’t—”

  “She’ll never believe it! Never!”

  “Listen …”

  “Wait, wait …”

  He suddenly had an inspired look.

  “Look,” he said, “suppose I take you straight to Avignon station? Does that mean you’re sure to win?”

  “Yes, but …”

  “Right. Here’s how it is: I’ll take you straight to the station if you’ll come back with me and pose for photos with the family. What do you say?”

  “Well, actually …”

  “Just a few photos, and we’ll be off to the station! That way, you’ll be selected, and we’ll see you on TV!” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Come on, off we go! Hurry up!”

  He opened the back door again, all excited. “Stay in the back. I can’t move everything. We haven’t got time. You’ve got a challenge!”

  I sat on the floor, glad to be traveling on my own this time. I could hear talking on the other side of the thin metal partition. My driver was on his cell phone.

  “Hi, Josette! Get out the aperitifs; I’m bringing a contestant from The Amazing Race. No, The Amazing Race, I’m telling you. Are you there? We’ll see him on TV this winter. Yes, I’m telling the truth. Go and get the camera, and check that there are batteries in it! Batteries, I said. Yes. And tell Michel; he’ll never believe it. And call Babette as well and tell her to get a move on if she wants to be in the photo. There’s no signal. Hurry up. You there?”

  My God, he was rounding up the whole planet. Oh, no, what was I going to tell them?

  After a quarter of an hour, the car finally stopped, and I heard lively conversation.

  My door was opened, and once my eyes got used to the dazzling light again, I saw about a dozen people gathered in a welcoming committee.

  “Hey, what’s your name, by the way?” asked my driver.

  “Alan.”

  “Alan? That’s an American star’s name. It’ll look good on the TV.”

  “Alan …” murmured a pregnant woman in the group, looking transported.

  I don’t think I’d ever been photographed so much in all my life. I could already see myself ensconced on any number of mantelpieces, until the next season of the TV game show started.

  My driver was jubilant. He was the center of attraction. He was drinking aperitif after aperitif and beginning to turn quite red. Three times, he ignored my request to leave for the station.

  “Look, I really must go. Otherwise I’m going to miss the train, and all this will have been pointless.”

  “Wait, wait … Oh, they’re so stressed, these Parisians!”

  He picked up his phone.

  “Mom, hurry up, I said. And tell Grandpa, he’ll never forgive me otherwise!”

  “No,” I said. “This is no good. You must keep your side of the deal. Now!”

  He didn’t appreciate my remark at all, and his red face went purple.

  “Listen, I didn’t make you get in my van, right? I think it was rather the opposite, wasn’t it? So don’t be ungrateful now, or else I’m not going to Avignon!”

  Now he was really getting fired up.

  Perhaps it was already too late to arrive at Dubreuil’s for 7 o’clock dinner. Dubreuil. He said it was important to be able to get things from other people. But how could I do that here? What would Dubreuil do?

  Push him, he’ll push you back. Don’t push, pull.

  I immediately had an idea, but something held me back. Up till now, I had been riding along on a misunderstanding, but I didn’t want to openly lie. Right. Let’s put things differently.

  “You know, if I end up on TV one day, I’ll probably be allowed to invite a guest or two,” I said.

  He looked up, suddenly all ears.

  “But,” I went on, “I don’t want to build up false hopes.”

  “If I take you straight to the station, you promise to invite me on the set?” the driver asked, suddenly as serious as if he was negotiating putting a hundred beehives on my lavender field.

  “Yes, but I’m reluctant to break up your little party.”

  He turned to the others and spoke in a loud voice.

  “My friends,” he said. “Carry on without us. I’ll be back in less than an hour. I’m taking Alan to Avignon. He’s got to win his challenge.”

  Half an hour later, I was getting on a high-speed train for the capital, my stomach still as empty, my only euro still in my pocket.

  I knew the regulations: Traveling without a ticket meant a fine; wit
h no ID on me, it was the police station on arrival.

  I had a plan, which was worth trying. I remained standing, looking out for the ticket inspector in the distance. When I saw him appear at the other end of the car, I ducked into the bathroom and shut the door without locking it. If he thought it was empty, he’d go past without stopping. I waited. The minutes went by, and nothing happened. I was alone, shut in with the continuous noise of the train and the dreadful smell of the toilet.

  Suddenly, the door opened, and a surprised passenger found himself face-to-face with me. Over his shoulder, my eyes met those of an obviously very satisfied little man with a black moustache and dark, frowning eyebrows, wearing a navy blue cap and uniform.

  27

  FROWNING, CATHERINE LEANED forward slightly. “I’d like to talk about the way you helped Alan stop smoking.”

  Yves Dubreuil sank back in his teak armchair and swirled the ice cubes around in his glass of bourbon, a slight smile on his lips. He loved going back over his exploits and commenting on them.

  “You made him smoke more and more until he was disgusted by it, is that right?”

  “Not at all,” he replied, with the satisfaction of someone whose actions are so clever that not even a professional can understand them.

  “I thought …”

  “No, in fact, I simply reversed the current,” he said.

  “Reversed the current?”

  He took his time answering, savoring the bourbon as much as the wait he was imposing on Catherine. The day had been particularly hot, and now they were enjoying the mild evening in the garden, comfortably seated in front of a tray of cookies.

  Dubreuil finally broke the silence. “Remember, Alan said his problem was freedom. He really wanted to stop smoking somewhere deep down, but what was holding him back was the feeling of freedom he associated with cigarettes. Everyone was advising him to stop, so he didn’t feel free to choose. Stopping his habit would have made him feel he was giving up his freedom in order to submit to the will of others.”

  Catherine was listening closely, concentrating on his words.

  “So I reversed the current,” he continued. “I made it so that smoking became for him a restrictive act imposed from outside. From then on, freedom changed sides. It was by stopping that he could satisfy his thirst for freedom.”