Piglettes

by Clémentine Beauvais

  RO B URG B OMVALL PO RY

  Laure finds an old piece of black slate on which to write our menu.

  Next weekend, we’ll give the trailer a makeover. In the mean time, we crash in Astrid’s bedroom to plan the journey.

  Well, I say “bedroom”, but it’s barely as big as the down-stairs toilet in Mum and Philippe Dumont’s mansion. The walls are entirely papered in Indochine posters, Indochine postcards and Indochine gig tickets, most of them black and white, making you feel like you’ve been buried alive in an old-fashioned Gothic horror film. Astrid seems to love her dungeon, though. Her huge laptop takes up all the available space on her small desk. We perch on the brown duvet.

  “I looked up directions from Bourg-en-Bresse to the Élysée Palace on Google Maps,” Astrid says, clicking a tab on her browser. “Here it is.”

  “Amazing,” exclaims Hakima, “it’s almost a straight line! And look, it’s only four hours and ten minutes down the road!”

  “Yeah, great,” I say, “if you want to take all the motorways, and happen to be driving a car. I don’t think we’ll survive for long on three bikes with our sausage trailer. Astrid, dear, did you forget to click the bike icon, by any chance?”

  “Maybe,” admits Astrid.

  She clicks said icon, tries to compute the journey again… and the computer crashes. The frozen screen refuses to give us an answer. A few Ctrl+Alt+Dels later, it seems clear that American supercomputers are unable to calculate the best cycling route from Bourg-en-Bresse to the Élysée Palace in Paris.

  “I know,” says Hakima, “you could type something like, ‘How do you get to Paris from Bourg-en-Bresse by bike?’ The Internet normally knows.”

  Indeed, it turns out that some Internet user asked a similar question five years ago on the forums of a website called “Francycle”:

  Raph01000

  Hey everyone Id like to know the quickest route from Bourg-en-bresse to Paris by bike thanks!!

  Some helpful answers follow:

  MarcLapeyre

  It would be much appreciated if you would ask a more precise question. How many days are you intending to spend on the road? Are you hoping to visit specific villages? What kind of bicycle do you own? In order for your question to be answered as effectively as possible, it is advisable to be precise (see forum rules on http://www.francycle.fr/forum/guidelinesforu…)

  Raph01000

  Hey sorry I mean like generally whats the quickest route. I just want to go to Paris from Bourg-en-bresse thats all I dont want to see villages lol

  MarcLapeyre

  Once again, your question lacks precision.

  Clément1987

  You should go through Burgundy following the wine road (http://www.francycle.fr/wineroa…) so you can taste the best ones while you’re at it!!!! Enjoy!!! Clem87

  Alaclaude1929

  Don’t forget to visit Cluny on the way. There are beautiful villages that have won awards for their parks and gardens. You will find a full listing here (http://www.francesmostbeautifulvilla…). I would recommend a lovely little restaurant in Thoissey where they serve delicious frogs’ legs in cream-though we last went there a few years ago and it might have closed down since.

  Raph01000

  No but I dont care about gardens frogs legs wine and all that!? it’s just that the train is expensive so can someone just tell me how to go to Paris by bike!!

  MarcLapeyre

  You are on a forum used by people who are passionate about cycling and about the French countryside; this is not eBay. Here, we care about landscape and healthy exercise, not about saving money. If you have never cycled this far before, you might strain yourself physically. Here is some advice http://www.francycle.fr/training/physicalprepar…

  Moderator

  Raph01000, you can just use the free mapping tool provided to Francycle users: http://www.francycle.fr/planyourtrip…

  Raph01000

  Christ! finally!!!!! thanks thats exactly the kind of thing I was after

  *Solved-Topic closed*

  Solved indeed! The magic tool allows us to plan our route according to all the criteria we want—maximum number of days on the road, stopovers in villages or towns…

  “…with potential sausage-buyers…”

  “Not sure they’ve got that option,” says Astrid.

  …bike shops on the way, type of road, etc. Some bits of the route are also visible on pictures. We spot little paths alongside fields, hawks perched on fences, Romanesque churches, cyclists and swathes of blue sky.

  Finally, the complete route comes up: six days, five nights, given five to seven hours of pedalling each day. The bright-red route snakes up the map of France, going through South Burgundy, then alongside the River Loire, all the way up to the south of Paris. If we leave Bourg-en-Bresse on 8th July at 2 p.m., we’ll be at the Élysée Palace on 14th July at midday.

  We stare at that red line and imagine all it represents: open fields, quaint villages, riverbank paths and potential sausage-eaters… and we go silent, very silent, so silent we can hear the drum roll of our three impatient, happy hearts.

  A chequered black-and-white flag (“Destination”) is planted on Saint-Honoré Street, on the north bank of the River Seine in Paris. It symbolizes the scandalous revelation that Klaus is my father, Indochine’s concert, and General Sassin’s public shaming.

  I squeeze my two piglettes in an almighty hug. It’s nice to have two plump juicy friends to hug; like hugging two human-sized Fluffleses, warm, padded and purring.

  “Mireille, you’re strangling me.” (Hakima)

  “Me too.” (Astrid)

  “I’m so excited!”

  “We’ve still got a lot of preparing to do.”

  “And parents to convince,” Hakima says.

  “We’ll do it. We’ll do it. We’ll manage it. We’ll get there—to the black-and-white flag—we’ll get there on 14th July at midday! We will. We will!”

  10

  “You will not.”

  Hakima’s parents are not keen.

  “Are you out of your mind? Of course you’re not going on that trip.” Hakima’s mum says a few things in Arabic, to which Hakima replies, also in Arabic. Then, back to French: “No, Hakima, they’re fifteen! You’re not a responsible adult at fifteen!”

  I am minded to object that you can be a hugely responsible adult at fifteen, that I am actually fifteen and a half, and Astrid sixteen, which is the age of all Disney princesses when they get married. My legendary debating skills, however, are currently catatonic, because the Sun is here among us, throwing dark, regal glances at Astrid and me. He’s looking intrigued, and his furrowed brow seems to spell out a perplexed question: Why are these plump little piglettes building such castles in the sky?

  “But it’ll be the three of us together!” Hakima implores. “We won’t split up, I promise, [Arabic word], we’ll stay together, we—”

  “Hakima: no.”

  “I’ve never seen Paris!”

  “We’ll take you, if it means so much to you! What’s all this craziness about? There’s absolutely no need to—”

  “There is!” Hakima yells. “There is a need! We have to prevent that murderer Sassin from getting his medal! We have to rip it off his chest!”

  Silence. The Sun sits up.

  Hakima’s parents wait for him to speak, uncertain how to react.

  He speaks. Softly.

  “Hakima… it’s not your duty to avenge me, you know.”

  His avenge in italics whips through the air.

  “Why not, Kader?… Why not? You’re not going to do it yourself, I can tell. You’re not doing anything at all! You stay here all day long in your chair, sulking.”

  “Things have become a bit more difficult recently,” the Sun whispers. “As you may have noticed.”

  “You used to drive tanks through the desert. That was difficult too.”

  The Sun’s jaw tightens. “We’ll do something once we hear back from the internal inquiry. T
hen we’ll know. Then we’ll be able to do something—”

  “The inquiry won’t lead anywhere, and you know it!” Hakima sobs. “You’ve always said it! I don’t even understand why you keep going on and on about that inquiry, while saying all the time that it won’t lead anywhere! At least we’ll do something, if we gatecrash that garden party.”

  “Hakima,” her father interjects, “what does gatecrash even mean? What sort of word is that? And what’s with all these crazy ideas? Cycling, sausages, the—the garden party. What kind of nonsense is this?”

  The Sun, meanwhile, is lost in thought. Hakima stares at him, as if he alone could convince his parents.

  And apparently, he can.

  “She’s right,” he says slowly. “Maybe we do need to do something like that if we want to get anywhere. It’s true, we keep repeating that the internal inquiry will lead nowhere—that it’ll never do justice to us and to the other soldiers, because we’re immigrants, who live far away from Paris. Maybe… maybe we do need to do something… spectacular.”

  “Kader!” His mother’s voice, like an arrow—that misses its target. She knows she’s already lost.

  “Listen,” he says. “What if… what if I went with them? If I’m there it’ll be simpler for everyone. I’ll look after Hakima, Mum. I’ll go to Paris with them. I’ll get into the Élysée Palace with them if they can do it. And maybe at last something will happen.”

  “You can’t be responsible for three young girls,” his father mutters.

  “Do you think it’s that much more difficult than being responsible for ten soldiers?” the Sun laughs.

  Then he sort of gulps back a sob… which leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, judging by the look on his face. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Those soldiers I was responsible for all got killed.”

  The deepest silence. Madame Idriss glowers at her husband.

  “Don’t be silly, Kader. Of course you’re perfectly able to look after these three girls.”

  A lucky blow—or a carefully aimed karate chop?—Kader’s father’s little gaffe forces them to grant us their blessing. They’re far from happy about it, of course. But they know that for the past year the Sun’s been a prisoner: of his own body, of their apartment, of Bourg-en-Bresse. They can see he’s become pale and sickly, this man who used to be so full of life and energy. This man who used to swim through swamps and climb up mountains, and who has had to spend months with a nurse, relearning how to wash himself. This man who used to run for miles every day, and who suddenly found it a struggle to go from the sofa to the wheelchair and from the wheelchair to the bed.

  All this I know from Hakima—not that she said much. During all those weeks, those months, he never cried once, but often, burning with rage, he rolled himself up into a ball on the rug, and burst into dark solar storms.

  “So that’s settled, then,” the Sun says. “I’ll go with them.”

  So that’s settled. The thought of spending six days and five nights beaded with drops of sweat next to the Sun fills me with terror and ecstasy.

  “Just one thing, though,” Astrid says, shyly.

  “Yes, what?”

  “How are you going to… you know? How are you going to—like—cycle?”

  “Oh, that,” says the Sun.

  And suddenly he’s truly beaming. “That will be my chance to test a certain little thing that was delivered to my friend Jamal a few weeks ago.”

  You know what? I think the Sun has been waiting for an opportunity like this to come along.

  He has been waiting for something to get him back into action; for an excuse to do something. Recently, it’s almost as if he’s been preparing for it—lifting weights every day, alone, stubbornly; doing ten pull-ups, a hundred, a thousand, on the bar wedged in his bedroom doorway.

  His friends have got the message: Kader is dreaming again, of sports, adventure, open roads. So all of them—Jamal, Thomas, Zach, Pedro and little Soliman, and Anissa who was going out with Jamal but a little bit in love with Kader, have pulled their money together to buy him…

  “Oh, wow.”

  The gleaming machine seems to illuminate Jamal’s dark bedroom. It’s made of extra-light aluminium and fibreglass; it’s got two huge slanted wheels, turned slightly inwards, and a padded seat. The Ferrari of wheelchairs. At last, a heavenly chariot worthy of such a Sun God.

  “The model those Paralympics guys use,” Jamal points out.

  The Sun’s eyes, like two little silver mirrors, reflect the shiny wheelchair.

  “I can’t believe you managed to convince him!” smiles Anissa, a supple young woman, draped over Jamal’s desk chair. “We’ve been trying for over a month!”

  “I was always going to give in,” the Sun sighs. “I know it cost you—”

  “…an arm and a leg,” Jamal scoffs. “Lucky you didn’t buy it yourself—there wouldn’t be much of you left.”

  The Sun flicks him the finger, neatly demonstrating how he would still find a use for that last remaining arm. Then, like a hermit crab leaving its shell for another one, he squeezes out of his old wheelchair, and pops into the Paralympics fibreglass space machine.

  Jamal flings open the bedroom door, which leads to the garage.

  And then… then the Sun meets the chair meets the street, in a long scream of joy.

  It’s almost like he’s flying, his ultra-light racing machine ricocheting from pavement to pavement. Barely two minutes, and he’s already one with it. His biceps tense as he grasps the wheels (which I observe purely out of intellectual curiosity, of course), and then his triceps bulge as he propels himself forward (an interesting physical phenomenon); it looks very much like his abs might be contracting under his T-shirt as he performs swift half-turns (but we can’t be sure, since he isn’t topless).

  Soon, the Sun’s having fun, starts to boast, to sprint, to twist—he even tries to swing onto one wheel, falls heavily to the side when trying a hairpin turn, but a moment later he’s back on his feet—well, wheels—and laughs, and shouts, and we’re all laughing and shouting with him.

  Except for Hakima, who’s sobbing so hard she’s got no breath left for laughter.

  Still buzzing from all that energy, we’re more than ready to get started learning the best way to cook homemade sausages.

  11

  The Georges & Georgette has two Michelin stars and an average of 4.89 stars out of five on TripAdvisor, where such comments as the following may be found:

  Traditional cuisine of the Bresse region. Magical! Picturesque views of the church of Brou. Amazing oven-cooked quenelles. We’ll be back!

  We had a lovley time at the Georges & Georgette. Delicious, traditoinal French food-we were tempted by the frogs but opted for a safer choice, the bouef borgignon, which was divine. Warm and wecloming.

  Lovely restaurant managed by lovely people. A legendary Bourg-en-Bresse restaurant!

  Don’t be fooled by the traditional look of this splendid inn located right opposite the church of Brou. Freshly redecorated, elegant, sophisticated, but also friendly, the restaurant serves dishes that are traditional only in name. Each one is a rediscovery-a new twist on food, a new metaphysical vision of the ingredients you think you know. From the veal blanquette to the crème caramel, you will never cease to be surprised by the delights of the Georges & Georgette. A couple of lovely little touches complete the experience: home-made butter and bread; perfect matching of wine to food thanks to the restaurant sommelier. A family-run restaurant of stupefying standard at the heart of the Bresse.

  [OK, I’m the one who wrote that last one, under the pseudonym JeanLouisFrom01]

  Of course, there are also those who disagree:

  it was rubbish

  Thank you, very constructive criticism. Also, inevitably:

  The food is not exactly what you would call healthy. Don’t hope to find a light salad on the menu.

  My wife’s gluten allergy proved impossible to accommodate.

  Since my grandparents
don’t have a clue how to go onto TripAdvisor, they don’t care. They’re grumpy, irascible, gluttonous and stubborn; they’re tough with their employees (often) and their customers (occasionally); apart from that, they’re charming people. This Friday night after school and before the restaurant opens, they welcome us into their huge kitchen. Hakima whispers, “Wow! It’s like we’re in Ratatouille!”

  Grandad flashes his famous dimply smile. “So you want to learn to make sausages?”

  “Only vegetarian ones—the other ones we’ll order from Raymond. Oh, and we also need you to teach us to make some sauces.”

  “And to package it all in a light and convenient way,” says Astrid, her strategic brain-cogs whirring.

  “Vegetarian sausages? You mean, with chicken?”

  “No, Grandad, vegetarian, as in: without meat.”

  “With fish?”

  “No, nothing from any animal.”

  “What kind of newfangled invention is that? We’ll need some guts to keep it all together!”

  My grandmother: “Shush, Georges, we can do it without the guts! It’ll stick together, if we find the right mix.”