On the Road Again

by Marie-Louise Gay

  “Bulls?” my brother asked. “On our street?”

  He looked pretty worried, and for once I couldn’t blame him.

  “You’ll see,” Ahmed promised. “But don’t worry, they’ll knock on your door before they come in!”

  “Sure they will,” Rachid added. “With their horns!”

  And they both started laughing.

  The next weekend, a big banner went up above the square. It was tied from tree to tree.

  Danger! Taureaux! it read. Danger! Bulls!

  Then under it went another sign. Welcome to the Celeriac Bull Festival! Have Fun!

  Get the picture? Danger! Have Fun! That says it all.

  Early on the Saturday morning of the big bull festival, I was teaching my brother some soccer moves in the square. He wasn’t very good, and I knew that if he was going to get along in Celeriac, he’d have to learn how to play.

  I had just scored a church-door goal when two big heavy trucks pulled up. You couldn’t see inside them because they were covered with a tarp, but you could sure smell what was in there.

  We went over to get a closer look.

  Just as my brother got close to the first truck, there was a tremendous crash inside it. The truck rocked from side to side, and for a moment I thought it would tip right over on top of him.

  “Max! Run!” I yelled.

  He took off across the square as if his pants were on fire.

  But there was nothing to worry about. The truck was solid. There were just some bulls inside it, and they’d decided to play a very loud game of musical chairs.

  Some men got out of the cab. French cowboys! They were wearing blue jeans, cowboy boots, black hats like the bad guys in the movies, and they had kerchiefs tied around their necks.

  As the bulls stamped and snorted inside the trucks, the men started setting up the barricades, fitting one piece into the other. They made good and sure that the fences were well connected to each other.

  When they reached the pile of pieces by our little street, they started arguing.

  Then they decided to move the fence back so our street would be part of the bull festival. Just great! Wild animals right on our doorstep.

  “Cool,” my brother said. He was acting brave again. “We’ll have the best view in town.”

  “We’ll have an even better view if the bulls decide to come and visit.”

  My brother looked worried again. It’s so easy to tease him!

  As we were having lunch, a pick-up truck came rolling through the village. It had a loudspeaker on its roof, and bullfight music was blaring out of it. The truck drove slowly along the narrow streets, inviting one and all to the exciting bull festival.

  “The festival takes no responsibility for any accidents that might occur,” the loudspeaker warned us after the final trumpet note faded away.

  Unfortunately, our mother heard the warning. She set down her fork on her plate, next to the snails she was enjoying. Luckily, my brother and I were enjoying hot dogs. French hot dogs.

  “I won’t have either of you getting trampled by bulls. Whatever is going to happen out there, you can watch it from your bedroom window.”

  My brother and I groaned. That’s my mother for you. She’s always talking about experiencing new things, but when a real adventure comes along, she starts fussing and taking all the fun out of it.

  By the time the end of the afternoon came around, the square was filled with people. From my bedroom window, we could see that everyone in the village was there, from the duck thief to the goat-cheese lady. People had come from all the nearby villages. It looked as though our town was the center of the world.

  Everyone was squished against the barricades that were supposed to be bull-proof. Kids were hanging from the lamp posts and the street signs. Rachid and Ahmed had climbed a tree in the square, and they were watching from the lowest branch. Their big brothers were sitting on top of the phone booth on the bulls’ side of the fence.

  If we hung out far enough from the window, we could see the French cowboys riding past on beautiful white horses, followed by a large cloud of black flies. Everyone applauded.

  I couldn’t stand missing out on all the excitement. I nudged my brother with my elbow. We tiptoed past my mother’s studio where she was busy drawing. She had to finish a picture for the end of the week, and when she draws, she’s in a world of her own.

  We ran down the stone stairway and out into the square. Rachid and Ahmed jumped out of their tree and came to say hello. We were all waiting for something dangerous to happen. And we didn’t have to wait long.

  The riders appeared again, keeping their horses close together. When they rode past us, I saw what they were escorting.

  Bulls — real live bulls! They were enormous and powerful, and covered in black fur. Their horns were as sharp as razors, and as long as my arm. They snorted and bellowed as they ran down the street, and the riders had to be really good at their job to keep them from running wild. The riders were fearless, and their horses were, too.

  Then Rachid and a bunch of other kids jumped over the fence.

  “Come on, Ahmed!” Rachid called.

  But Ahmed just rubbed his knee.

  “My leg hurts,” he told us.

  Rachid and the other kids ran after the bulls. They grabbed their tails and pulled on them as hard as they could. Meanwhile, the riders urged the bulls forward. The bulls kept running, herded along by the horses. I think all the poor bulls wanted was to go back to their fields and eat some nice grass.

  “Why are they teasing them?” I asked Ahmed.

  “To make them mad,” he explained, hanging on to the fence next to us. “Aren’t there any bulls where you come from?”

  “No.”

  “What do you do for fun?”

  “Other things,” I told him. “Plenty of other things.”

  But I couldn’t think of anything as exciting as having real live bulls running wild on your street.

  The next time the horses and bulls passed by, the riders pulled away, and the bulls were free to run wherever they wanted. That sure surprised the kids who were pulling their tails. Rachid came running back to the fence and vaulted over it. Let me tell you, he sure smelled like the rear end of a bull!

  “Pee-yew!” my brother shouted, and he held his nose.

  Rachid ran off to the fountain on the other side of the square to wash his hands. He came back a minute later.

  “Okay, guys,” he said to us, “this is the best part!”

  The square was full of bulls, and they were spoiling for a fight. They were mad because kids had pulled their tails, and now they wanted to get even. They snorted and pawed the ground and dared anyone to come near.

  “Do you think the fence is strong enough?” my brother asked with a little tremble in his voice.

  “As long as you’re on this side, they won’t bother you,” Ahmed told him. “They have much more appetizing targets.”

  Rachid jumped over the fence again, and he wasn’t the only one. Half the village kids were out in the square, teasing the bulls and running like crazy in all directions.

  They waved their arms and twirled their shirts and made funny faces at the bulls. The bulls didn’t like that, and they would chase the kids, who would run like the wind for the nearest fence. They would jump back over it to safety, and the bull would stop, then go looking for another target.

  Everyone was screaming and laughing, and the bullfight music was blaring away. What a racket!

  I wanted to try, but on the other hand, I was scared. The bulls were enormous and they had these mean-looking little eyes.

  I glanced over at Ahmed.

  “Why aren’t you out there?”

  Ahmed rubbed his knee some more.

  “My leg
hurts, remember?”

  I guess I wasn’t the only one who was scared.

  The bulls were galloping past at top speed, chasing the kids who were waving their T-shirts in their faces. Red T-shirts. You know those cartoons where someone waves a red flag at a bull? Well, it works in real life, too. Of course, any color will do. The bulls seem to like any moving target.

  All of a sudden I realized that one of those moving targets was my father. He was running across the square with the rest of the kids. Let me tell you, he stuck out like a sore thumb.

  “Mom’s going to kill him!” my brother shouted.

  “If a bull doesn’t get him first.”

  Ahmed laughed. “That’s your father?”

  “I’m afraid so,” I admitted. When would he stop embarrassing me?

  “That’s great!” Ahmed laughed. “Do you think my father would ever do anything like that? Never in a million years!”

  I didn’t know what to think. I was half ashamed and half proud. There was my father, chasing around the square with the kids from the village, teasing the bulls and running for his life.

  There was only one problem. He wasn’t very good at it.

  And one particular bull seemed to know that.

  Maybe this bull was smarter than the others. Maybe he was just meaner. He kept dipping his horns and charging my father, and making sure he couldn’t jump back over the fence to safety, where all the sane people were.

  “We’d better do something,” I said to my brother.

  “Like what? Pull on the bull’s tail so he’ll leave Dad alone?”

  “I don’t know… There’s got to be something. Something fast!”

  The bull chased our father around a tree. He slipped on the pavement and for a second I thought the bull would trample him. I closed my eyes. When I opened them, my father was still on his feet, and the bull was still after him.

  Then I saw the way out.

  I climbed up on the fence.

  “Dad! The phone booth!” I shouted as loud as I could.

  He heard me. He turned and made a beeline for the phone booth. He got there just in time! The bulls’ horns were practically grazing his back pocket.

  Everyone was pointing and shouting.

  “Olé! Bravo! Vive le Canadien!”

  “That’s a great idea,” Ahmed told me. “He can phone the firemen to come and save him.”

  “What if he doesn’t have any change?” Max asked.

  My brother never stops worrying.

  The bull took a few steps back. He snorted and pawed the ground and made scary bull noises. He wanted to attack, but he wasn’t too sure how to go about it. There probably weren’t too many phone booths in the field where he lived.

  Meanwhile, Rachid’s and Ahmed’s older brothers were sitting on top of the phone booth, smoking cigarettes and looking very casual. They started yelling things at the bull.

  “The phone is busy, monsieur le taureau,” they said, holding out their cellphones. “Want to use ours? As long as it’s not long distance.”

  The bull turned his head to one side, as if he really were trying to understand. He looked at the shiny cellphone. Then he turned toward the phone booth, lowered his head, snorted and started pawing the ground.

  My father was caught in a trap. I had to do something!

  That’s when I scrambled over the fence and ran toward the bull. I slapped him on his backside as hard as I could. The bull turned around and roared.

  I didn’t stick around to see if he was chasing me. I sprinted for the fence, then squeezed underneath.

  That was when my father made his escape. With the bull looking the other way, he rushed out of the phone booth and ran to the fence. He put both hands on the railing and vaulted right over the top.

  I never knew he could do something like that. I guess fear gives you new talents!

  My father was completely out of breath. He wiped his red face with his torn shirtsleeve.

  “Thanks, Charlie,” he panted. “That was a good idea.”

  “He saved your life!” my brother piped up.

  “Do me a favor, okay, guys? Don’t tell your mother.”

  But trying to keep a secret in a village like ours was impossible. By the end of the day, the story had been repeated dozens of times. It was just too good not to tell. Everyone appreciated my father because he’d given them something to laugh about, at least until next year.

  And I became a hero because I’d helped save him.

  FOUR

  We are almost washed away by a flood

  The next week, it started to rain. It rained every day and every night, non-stop. People think that the sun always shines in southern France. But I’d never seen rain like that in my whole life.

  Everyone in the village was very worried about the grape harvest. If it rains too much on the grapes before it’s time to pick them, the wine won’t be as good. Don’t ask me why. That’s just the way it is.

  One morning at six-thirty, a strange sound woke me up. I opened my eyes and went to the window. A helicopter was hovering in the rainy sky above our village. The helicopter was carrying a pair of wild-eyed, rust-colored horses on a swinging platform.

  The sound woke my brother up, too.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Two horses are flying over our house,” I told him.

  “No way!” he said.

  He rushed over to the window. By then the horses had disappeared over the neighbors’ roof, but we could still hear them neighing. And it was raining cats and dogs.

  We went downstairs. I didn’t see my father. He must have been sleeping. A helicopter wouldn’t wake him up unless it landed on his bed. My mother was in the kitchen, wearing a raincoat and huge rubber boots. She was completely soaked. There was a puddle of water on the floor.

  “Did you see the flying horses?” my brother asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “They’re being evacuated because of the Vidourle. The river has overflowed, and it’s flooded most of the village. We’re on high ground, so we’re all right – so far, anyway.”

  “Cool!” Max shouted.

  Then he did a little rain-dance, as if we needed it.

  “Put your boots on,” she said. “Let’s go out and see what’s happening.”

  We all stepped outside and into the rain. First we crossed the square. Water was bubbling up around the trees, as if they were drinking fountains.

  We met Rachid. He was watching our soccer field disappear under the water.

  “Want to play?” I asked him.

  “Sure. Submarine soccer. But we’d need snorkel masks.”

  We moved down the street toward the Vidourle. But halfway there, we had to stop. The pavement was covered in muddy brown water. All kinds of things were floating in the flooded street. Tree branches and logs, wine bottles, of course. A metal frame from a bed, the hood of a car, a table from a sidewalk café — you name it.

  Then I saw my father in the middle of the flooded street, with the water up past his knees. He wasn’t sleeping after all.

  On both sides of the street, people were leaning out of their second-floor windows. They were in a complete panic.

  “On va se noyer!” a woman was shouting. “We’re going to drown!”

  But she couldn’t have been too scared, since she’d opened her umbrella first so she wouldn’t get soaked.

  I marched into the water. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do, but I wanted to be part of the action. Before long, the water was pouring over the top of my boots. I had my own private flood in my shoes.

  “Stay where you are!” my mother called to the woman. “The water will never reach the second floor.”

  “I have to save my things downstairs before the water comes into the
house,” she cried.

  I looked at the front door. It was too late. The muddy brown flood had already pushed open the door and invited itself in. I tried to close the door, but there’s nothing stronger than fast-flowing water.

  Then I saw the woman with the umbrella coming down the stairs inside her house. She gasped when she saw the water in the living room. I couldn’t blame her. In the middle of the room, her very unhappy cat was sitting on top of a floating armchair, meowing its head off.

  “Mon petit minou,” the woman cried. “I’ll save you.”

  I saw the whole scene as if it were in slow motion, just like in the movies. The woman coming down the stairs with her dripping umbrella. The cat meowing on top of the chair that was about to capsize. The lamp on the floor with its lightbulb burning. And the rising water about to reach the wall outlet.

  Water and electricity don’t mix. Everyone learns that in science class.

  “Stop!” I shouted to the woman. “Arrêtez! It’s too dangerous! You could get electrocuted!”

  She stopped and looked at me. I could tell she didn’t believe me. After all, I was just a kid.

  My mother came running up behind me.

  “He’s right, Madame Dentmouillée,” she called to the woman. “If the water touches the lamp… Go back upstairs. We’ll call the fire department.”

  The woman retreated back up the stairway, very slowly, keeping an eye on the water as if it were a sea monster.

  “But… but, mon minou,” she whispered. “He’ll drown!”

  “Just stay where you are,” I told the cat. “You’ll be okay, too.”

  But the poor cat was desperate. You know how cats hate water! He took a flying leap from the top of the armchair and landed on the fourth step of the stairway, which was still dry. Madame Dentmouillée picked him up and nearly hugged him to death.

  Out in the street, my mother patted me on the shoulder.

  “You saved her life, you know. It doesn’t matter if she didn’t believe you. You know, and that’s what counts.”

  I took off my boots and turned them upside down. Along with the dirty-brown water came a handful of tiny silver minnows no bigger than my little finger.