We introduce ourselves clumsily: Astrid Blomvall, Mireille Laplanche.
“You’re not in Year 8,” notes Madame Idriss.
“No,” says Astrid.
“But you’re friends with Hakima?”
“We are companions in despair,” I explain. “It’s all about that pig thing.”
I realize I perhaps shouldn’t have said that, because Hakima’s parents are now enquiring about what pig-related thing her daughter could possibly have done. In Arabic, Hakima explains something which I translate in my head as: “No, Dad, I didn’t have anything to do with pigs. It’s those idiots at school who elected us pigs; it means ugly girls, it’s an insult.” They seem sad when she stops talking; Astrid lays a daring hand on Hakima’s shoulder. But Hakima says to us: “I do care about that Pig Pageant, if you really need to know. But tonight, there are worse things on my mind. It’s Kader’s birthday. [The Sun’s name is Kader, the Sun’s name is Kader!] He’s twenty-six. That’s why I made a cake. But as we were about to light the candles, we saw the news, and now we don’t want to light any candles any more; we don’t want to celebrate anything any more.”
“Why not? What did they say on the news?”
“Shush,” interrupts Hakima. “Look.”
She grabs the remote control, and the dramatic opening music of the evening news fills the room. Everyone watches.
Floods in Lorraine: a man saved an old lady who’d fallen into the water. There’s an exclusive interview with the hero, while the camera focuses on a meowing kitten perched on a floating suitcase.
A baby was born with three arms in Montauban, but the doctors managed to cut one off so there would only be two left. The parents are expressing their gratitude.
And finally, the headline Hakima and her family were waiting for—the headline that ruined Kader’s birthday…
“The programme of the Bastille Day garden party, given by the president of the Republic in the Élysée Palace on 14th July, has now been announced. On the list of famous people to be given the Legion of Honour medal that day are French Canadian singer Vanilla Jones, fashion designer Jacques Pacôme and the war hero general…”
For the purposes of this narrative, I suggest we call him General Sassin, first name Auguste, Auguste Sassin, A. Sassin, therefore, to his closest friends. This general is famous for his feats during the war in a sandy country we shall refer to here as Problemistan. Hearing the name of that general preceded by the phrase war hero, Hakima’s parents quite simply begin to cry. Hakima, meanwhile, chews her slice of cake as if it were General Sassin’s left cheek.
The famous people’s pictures flash up in turn on the screen, followed by archive videos of the Élysée Palace, of Barack Obamette and, of course, of my own flesh-and-blood father, Klaus Von Strudel, alongside Huey, Louie and Dewey, waving to their people.
“The soundtrack for the Élysée garden party will be provided by the best of French pop-rock music, with an evening concert by—for the first time in years—Indochine!”
You don’t say! Indochine! Upon hearing this, and as the next ten seconds are used to play a few notes from said band, our Astrid erupts into a joyful but inappropriate dance, which she contains as discreetly as she can, so as not to spoil the gloomy atmosphere.
A few minutes later—following the discreet mini-dance and the end of the crying fit—Hakima and her parents explain to us why the news has saddened and shocked them. It’s because it’s got something to do with why the Sun, aka Kader, no longer has any legs.
The Sun no longer has any legs because he lost them in a desert.
The Sun was in a desert because he was a soldier in Problem istan, where the president who preceded Barack Obamette had sent the army in order to bury desert people under sand dunes in order to prevent said desert people from exploding the Eiffel Tower with bombs hidden in fake pregnant women’s bellies.
One day, the Sun, who’d recently been promoted to leader of a group of khaki soldiers, was on a mission. They’d just visited some people in square houses to make sure there weren’t any weapons between their pots and pans, and the Sun now had to lead the troop through sabre-sharp mountains to reach a military base. The landscape was strewn with big brown rocks, like chunks of chocolate broken by a giant.
The sky was so white that day that it had exploded into a myriad little marbles of light. Under his helmet, the Sun squinted. Suddenly, he heard a little ping, sharp, like a pebble on a car windscreen. He didn’t worry about it straightaway. He only started to worry when his friend Laurent, who was standing next to him, fell face-first to the floor.
There was another ping, then another; then a much louder burst.
It seemed to the Sun that his vision had narrowed: everything had gone black, apart from a small bright disc of light framing some white, curious mountains. His legs went into autopilot.
As he let his legs run, the Sun wondered how the desert people could have known that they’d come this way today, when the general in charge of the mission, General Sassin, had promised him that the path would be clear, that the only dangers would be the heat and the chunks of rocks scattered across the valley.
General Sassin wasn’t there; he was at the other military base, the one the troops had set out from the previous night.
The Sun was sad to have wasted his last minutes of life thinking about General Sassin as the shots ricocheted around him. In the end, one or two of them hit him, and he dropped to the sand like Laurent and all the others. He made sure he spent his last seconds of life thinking of his parents and his little sister.
But those turned out not to be his last seconds of life after all. He’d live to see his parents and his little sister again.
Not his legs, though.
Thinking back, I remember that story vaguely. The headlines: Ten Soldiers Killed in an Ambush in Problemistan: One Miracle Survivor. I hadn’t given it much thought at the time: it was about politics and war; it mattered to me about as much as Philippe Dumont’s first BMW. If I’d paid attention, I would have found out that the miracle survivor lived in Bourg-en-Bresse, in the Les Vennes neighbourhood; that he was now trapped in a wheelchair, and in his grief; that he had a warm, deep voice and a sister in a good position to win the Pig Pageant some day.
“And now,” Hakima’s mother groans, “that murderer Sassin is partying in the corridors of the Élysée… He’s getting medals, even though he’s responsible for the deaths of so many people. The internal inquiry isn’t even over yet!”
“And meanwhile, Kader’s been forgotten by everyone,” adds Hakima’s father. “It’s the ultimate insult. The ultimate insult.”
Hakima nods, and turns to us. “Yeah. You see, the Pig Pageant is bad. But that—that’s what I care about.”
Suddenly, a beam of light: the Sun reappears in the door frame. He joins us, at last, to nibble weakly on a piece of cake. I gaze at his large, severe forehead, his earthy eyes, his brown lips. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone looking so princely and so mineral. He ends up intercepting my glance, and asks sternly: “What’s your name?”
“Mireille.”
(A bright-beetroot Mireille.)
“Mireille, you’re as pretty as a flower,” says the Sun. “You’re not a pig. Neither is my sister. And you’re not, either,” he adds to Astrid.
“Thank you, you neither,” I stammer back. “You too, pretty as a flower. Not a pig at all.”
He finishes his chocolate cake. I dare to stick my nose in. “But seriously, in spite of all that sadness… there’s no reason not to celebrate your birthday.”
“That’s true,” says the Sun’s mother feebly. “Happy birthday, Kader.”
“Happy birthday, Kader!”
We all kiss. We get up to kiss the Sun’s cheeks. The Sun kisses my cheeks, accidentally setting them on fire. I sit down again with sirens ringing in my ears.
Hakima sighs: “I wish… I wish there was a way to go to that garden party, to tell the truth about Sassin, to scream it to al
l the journalists, to make them see it…”
“Hakima,” growls the Sun.
At the same time, Astrid murmurs, “I wish… I wish I could see that Indochine gig…”
And I’m also whispering: “And I… I also have a reason, of sorts, to wish I could be there…”
Funny coincidence. Diverse, but… related reasons to be there, on 14th July, to interrupt their annual fiesta and—yes, why not—to remind them that we exist.
And while we’re at it, we may as well do it with a bit of… panache, right?
That’s how it happened. That’s how the idea came to my mind.
It was Pig Pageant night, and I thought, why not?
Why not go up to Paris?
Why not get there on 14th July?
Why not gatecrash the president’s garden party?
5
Often, at night, when I go down to the kitchen to get a cup of fennel tea in the vague hope that it might help me get to sleep, I hear Mum and Philippe Dumont talking, arguing or making up (oh, the horror). Tonight, thankfully, they’re talking.
About me, as indeed they should be.
“That child isn’t happy,” Mum mutters. “I know it. She’s suffering.”
“That’s normal, Patricia, she’s a teenager.”
“She writes—I know she writes. She writes things she doesn’t show me.”
“She’s allowed to have little secrets. She’s entitled to a life of her own, isn’t she? You should let her be.”
“She doesn’t go out with friends. She doesn’t have any friends. She locks herself in her bedroom; she doesn’t want to go to the swimming pool—I can tell she’s ashamed of her body. She doesn’t want to wear nice clothes… It’s almost as if she’s trying her hardest to look ugly!”
“Patricia, she’s fifteen and a half. At fifteen and a half, I was just like her—shy and awkward. And she’s going through a kind of identity crisis, with that father who doesn’t know she exists—it must have something to do with it.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Mum snorts. “That’s just something she’s made up to make me feel guilty. She doesn’t care about her father.”
Enough is enough; in order to interrupt their little debate, I start talking, too—with the first creature I can find.
“Oh, Fluffles darling! You know, I’m so worried about Mum!”
I put on a high-pitched voice for Fluffles, not unlike that of the Siamese cats in Lady and the Tramp: “Wrrrhhhyy, Mirrrreille? Wrrrhhhy are you worrrrrried?”
“Because she writes! She writes stuff she won’t show to anyone, not even to Philippe Dumont! I saw her hide a huge manuscript in her desk drawer the other day!”
“You should let her live her life, Meaaaorreille! She’s entitled to a life of her owwwrrrn…”
The door opens; a rug of light unrolls into the corridor. My mother, in a pale-blue nightgown, pointy nipples under smoke-thin lace. “Very funny, Mireille.”
“Oh, hi. I’m just chatting to my cat. Say hello to Grandma, Fluffles.”
“Hellllrooo, Grrrrrandmaaaow!” (I lean down to help him wave his little paw.)
“I can’t believe you rummaged through my desk drawers.”
“Me, rummage? No need to be a world-class potholer to find your massive book next to the Sellotape. Being and Bewilderment by Patricia Laplanche. Towards a Philosophy of the Unexpected. Great title! What’s it about?”
“It’s time to sleep, Mireille.”
“Have you sent it to publishers?”
Oh, that sigh! A sigh that means My daughter is so! My daughter is! Ah! She’s so! Sigh! “So far, if you really must know, I’ve sent it to just one publisher. Who rejected it.”
“What!? They’re complete morons! Which one was it? Gallimard?”
“What do you care?”
“If it’s Gallimard, they’re first-class losers. Seriously: a brick of Patricia Laplanche brain juice from concentrate, 300 pages, your face on the cover, and bingo—all the awards for Super-Intellectual Essay of the Year. I can already see the blurb on the front cover: ‘the Catherine Zeta-Jones of philosophical thought’.”
“Thank you, my darling, I will follow your extraordinarily insightful advice. I’m sure that, having been to Paris twice in your life, including once in my belly, you know everything about Parisian publishers, especially those specializing in essays on phenomenology.”
“PhenomenAlogy, beloved Mummy; for you are phenomenal!” (Deep voice:) “During the week, she gives classes to spotty teenagers. At weekends, she writes phenomenalogy essays. This summer, on your screens: Patricia Laplanche, in Phenomenal.”
“Sure. Well, they seem to think that as a high-school teacher in a provincial town, as opposed to a university lecturer in Paris, I’m not at all phenomenal.”
“They’re profoundly intellectually disturbed. Are you going to send it to other publishers?”
“It doesn’t matter, Mireille.”
Fluffles intervenes, waving his little paw: “Please, tell meeeaow, Grandmmmmma! Tell meeeaow!”
“Mireille, go to bed, it’s late.”
“Wait wait wait, I need to tell you something, Mummy. Listen to this crazy thing: it’s amazing—tonight I’ve fallen in love with the Sun, and on top of that I’ve got two new friends. Not only that but also we’re going to gatecrash the garden party at the Élysée Palace on 14th July—it’s all sorted, we’re just finalizing details to make sure it all goes smoothly because of the fact that General Sassin will be there, the one whose fault it is that the Sun’s got no legs left; he’s the brother of my new friend, by the way, well, one of the two, and anyway Indochine, the band that my other new friend loves, they’ll be there too, so I need to listen to their songs, and also Klaus mein Vater will be there, and I’ll be like, hey, you’re my father and you’d better make amends for the condom accident! So, so, what do you think, Mum, what would you recommend, what would you say to me and the other two little piggies, how do you think we should go up to Paris and gatecrash the Élysée garden party, hey? What do you reckon?”
“You should cycle there, it’ll give your calf muscles a workout.”
Slam goes the door.
Philippe: What did she say? I didn’t catch any of that. She got sunburn?
[Ah! If only you knew, Philippe Dumont! Is there a special after-sun cream for the heart out there that could save me?]
Mum: Sigh. Who knows what goes on in that child’s head?
Philippe: But is it true, my darling? You wrote a philosophy book?
Mum: Oh, Philippe, please. Philippe: No, but wait, it’s great, all these years you’ve been saying—
Mum: I don’t want to talk about it, and anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m tired.
Philippe: But have you sent it to—
Mum: Philippe! Let me sleep.
Click goes the light.
Smooch goes a not very passionate kiss signalling the improbability of a night of passion.
Splosh splash goes Kittycat the dog as he jumps onto the duvet cover, making said night of passion utterly impossible now. (Phew.)
On my side of the wall, a text is sent to Hakima and Astrid:
Beloved piggies–or, should I say, beloved piglettes; my mum has just given me the idea of the century. We’re going to cycle there. Meet at 1.14 p.m. in my garage this Saturday.
6
There are three bikes in our garage, all of them mine. One was given to me by Philippe Dumont, another by my grandparents, the third by my mother. All three of them are nicely gathering dust, seemingly hanging from the ceiling by countless graceful cobwebs.
One is called Giant and is red and gold—the colours of Gryffindor. Its saddle is as high as its brakes, so you have to ride it with your bum sticking up in the air and your legs shaved, wearing an aerodynamic helmet (all things I love). Philippe Dumont gave it to me to compensate for the number one void in his existence: a son he could teach how to light a barbecue and call “buddy” while play-fighting.
The bike
Grandpa Georges and Grandma Georgette gave me has no name; it’s beige and uptight, with a curvy frame like an ivory pipe. It’s a real show-off. There’s a basket in the front and a slightly camp bell that goes Drrring! Drrring! The third bike was given to me by Mum. It’s called Bicycool. Simple, royal-blue, comfortable; a bell that just goes ting-ting! and a luggage carrier on which one should never under any circumstances put any luggage, or else it will hang down and rub against the wheel, and then you’re in a pickle.
And here they are, standing sadly surrounded by shovels, skis, broken bits of furniture, wellies, rat poison and firelighters—three skeletons, waiting for a brave hand to pull them out of their messy home, at which point they will immediately start shrieking that no, no, no, they don’t want to go.
“They’re a bit rusty,” I note, lifting the wheel of the beige bike. “Don’t get too close, Hakima, you’ll catch tetanus.”
Hakima takes a step back into the shadows, horrified. Astrid says, “What about me? Don’t you care if I catch tetanus?”
“You’ve lived three years longer than Hakima—it’d be much less unfair. Here, help me get the red Giant, there. You have to lift the stand… [clunk] OK, no more stand. Wait, try to get the back wheel of the blue one… [clang] Ah well, we weren’t going to use that luggage carrier anyway. Can you hold the red one for a minute? [Psssssshhhhh] Oh, yes, we’ll have to inflate the tyres. And mend the punctures. And… apparently, change the wheel on that one, seeing as it’s bent.”
“Are you seriously pretending you can change a bike wheel?”
“Astrid, Astrid, stop seeing life in gloomy black and white. Always questions implying that we can’t do this or that! I know very well how to change a wheel. You put it in a bucket of water, and when you see some bubbles coming up it’s ready.”
“That’s how you make pasta.”
“No, no, I’m telling you, there’s a thing about bubbles.”
Piglettes Page 3