The men at the swimming pool had legs, though, not stumps.
Head down, Kader breathes jerkily, gulping for air, stifling swear words and whimpers of pain like he’s just burnt himself.
“You OK, Kader?”
I’ve officially become The Amazing “You OK, Kader?” Whispering Automaton. Youokkader? Youokkader? Arms hanging by my sides, I watch him huff and grunt, not sure what to do. His left leg has been amputated well above the knee, the right one just above it. Both ends are round, the colour of wood and flame, red-raw, as if they’re burning from the inside.
“You OK, Kader?” (Oh, bloody hell.) “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. It’s normal. Pass me my washbag, please.”
I do. Then, not really thinking about what I’m doing, I take the shower head, flick the tap on, check the temperature. Weird thoughts come into my head that have no place in this situation, at this time. In a daydream I see myself as Fireman Sam, putting out the flames in Kader’s legs, our brightly coloured playdough bodies reflected in each tile on the wall. Kader is pale and shaking. I start dousing him in water, with the careful, disciplined concentration of a little girl doing her homework. There’s a puncture in the hose that snakes from the wall to the shower head; two little jets of water spray out on either side.
“It’s OK, you can stop now,” Kader whistles between his teeth. “Hand me that… towel.”
He wipes himself dry, slowly, leaving his two scalding stumps till last and patting them very softly. Then he sits up, shakes his still-wet hair, and gets a tube of cream out of his bag.
“It’s sweat,” he says in an almost-normal voice now. “And all the rubbing. The skin isn’t the same as everywhere else, there, it gets inflamed easily. You get things, eczema, all sorts of stuff like that. Ideally, you should…” He falls silent, and lathers some cream on his left leg. “You should do this every day, but since we set off it’s been worse, because of all the sweat.”
Once he’s worked in the cream, his stumps are as pink and gleaming as a baby’s skin. He tips some snow-white powder onto them. I come up with a revolutionary variation on “You OK, Kader?”:
“You better now, Kader?”
“Hmm. There’s a clean T-shirt in my bag and my pyjama bottoms are there too.”
I hand them to him and help him slip on his T-shirt. Now he’s clean and warm and smells soapy-sweet. He sits back into his chair, and I wrap my hands around the handles.
“You could have, I don’t know, you could have told us, we’d have helped.”
“It’s OK, I can do it on my own, usually. It’s just that campsites are tricky. I’d rather there wasn’t anyone around.”
“Yeah, I know how you feel. It’s like when I go for a swim, I’d rather be alone. Though you’re fine—I mean, you don’t look bad.”
“You don’t either,” he chuckles.
He’s a very nice man.
“So have you been doing that alone ever since we set off?”
“I couldn’t the first night, because there weren’t any showers anywhere. Yesterday, Adrienne’s bathroom was crazy—there were potpourri bowls all around the bath.”
“Oh yeah, I remember! That was bizarre. And that petrified sea sponge, on the left, did you see that?”
“Aaaah, so that’s what was poking my arse! I thought it was a cushion, but it turned out to be so fucking stiff.”
“You bet, it’s a skeleton.”
“Old people are so weird.”
This more relaxed conversation leads us back to the path.
“Thanks, by the way,” the Sun says.
“No problem. You’re welcome.”
“I know it’s gross.”
“It’s not gross, it’s nature.”
“No, it’s not. It’s medicine. If it was nature, I’d be dead. There’s no room in nature for an amputee.”
My turn to ruffle his hair (tonight, I can do anything). It’s thin, damp and tangled, algae-like. Don’t worry, Kader, I think, there’s plenty of room in my heart for an amputee. Instead, I tell him, “Well, what’s left of you is beautiful.”
That makes him laugh.
We get closer to the tents… and I notice something far away, barely visible in the darkness of the campsite: a silhouette walking towards our stuff.
“Look, someone’s checking out our trailer.”
“Must be a fan wanting to take a picture.”
“In the middle of the night? Bit of a silly thing to do.”
A square of light: the silhouette is leaning over our bikes, lighting them up with his phone.
“Oh, he’s trying to see what make they are, I think. He’s going to be disappointed, poor guy, if he’s hoping they’re any good…”
The poor guy stays there for a while. He’s far away; we can’t see what he’s doing. Bats are shrieking and bickering in the dark-brown sky.
“I’m going to ask him what he wants,” the Sun says.
We start on our way. “You know, Kader, I think he just heard that we were staying at this campsite, and…”
What’s that noise?
Not the bats, not the cicadas, not the snoring from the other tents—no. More like the noise of a balloon slowly deflating.
Or a tyre.
“Shit! What the?…”
The guy’s spotted us—he gets up, runs off. Campsite crime! Just like in a horror film, I see—I swear it’s true—a sliver of moonlight reflected from a knife blade.
The Sun’s already some way ahead of me, his wheelchair zigzagging between the tents, bouncing over the bumps on the ground, chasing the sprinting shadow towards the gate of the campsite.
Meanwhile, I check our bikes. Damn it! That bastard’s knifed five tyres out of six, and snipped all the brake cables.
That bastard, the Sun informs me furiously when he comes back, jumped over the fence of the campsite and vanished. And if he had legs, damn it, if only he had legs, he’d have followed him…
“But who was it?”
“Who do you think? I saw him clear as day in the light of the lamp by the gate. Easy to recognize, with his bloody stupid haircut. It’s your Pig Pageant guy.”
The Bresse Courier, 11th July 20XX
BR(E)AKING NEWS:
THREE LITTLE PIGLETTES’ BIKES SABOTAGED
Mireille Laplanche, the spokesperson of the now famous trio, the “Three Little Piglettes”, has told our newspaper that the teenagers’ trip is likely to be delayed. This morning, the young women found their bike tyres slashed and their brake cables cut, in what seems to be an act of vandalism.
Three bike shops in Nevers have spontaneously offered the girls their assistance. The campsite where the teenagers were staying is currently analysing the tapes from their CCTV cameras. “We will be in Paris on 14th July,” Mireille Laplanche assured us. The team had factored some time into their schedule for delays due to unforeseen circumstances.
H.L.
Simone Suffragette @simonesuffragette
Solidarity with #3littlepiglettes whose bikes were sabotaged last
night in Nevers!
291 retweets
Zara Belle @zarabelle
You’d have to be such a dickhead to do something like that
#justice #3littlepiglettes
Camping Nevers @campingnevers
Deepest apologies to #3littlepiglettes for V. UNCOMMON intrusion
in our highly rated campsite 1/2
Camping Nevers @campingnevers
#3littlepiglettes were given free night and investigations are
ongoing. Security normally exemplary 2/2
City of Paris @cityofparis
Mayor of Paris Élise Michon wishes to express her support to #3littlepiglettes. Safe trip to #Paris!
3,021 retweets
20
“An Ode to Gaston, Zoltan and Philou,
Bike Mechanics in Nevers.”
by Mireille Laplanche, emergency poet
Some say the world will end in fire,
&nbs
p; Some say in ice.
I’m more concerned by slashed-up tyres
And snipped, dangling brake wires.
But all’s well now! The super-nice
Gaston, Zoltan and you, Philou,
Have saved our lives by giving us
Shiny new wheels, and brakes, brand new!
New saddles too! What lucky lasses,
We’ll no longer have such painful—
“No, Mireille, honestly, it’s not in the best of taste. Especially as that poem is already profoundly idiotic…”
“I’d like to see you write an ode to our saviours, Miss Kitchen Rush! I don’t think you’ve got any high scores for iambic-pentameter management.”
“I don’t even know why you’re sending them a poem, it’s a moronic idea.”
“It’s the only way of thanking them from the bottom of our hearts.”
“We gave them loads of sausages!”
“Unlike yours, dear Astrid, the bottom of my heart isn’t layered with sausages. Right, then how about this:
With lightened hearts and lightened trailer,
We leave your town and swear that never;
No, never! Ever, ever, ever,
Will we forget you three or Nevers.
“Never doesn’t rhyme with Nevers.”
“You don’t know anything about poetry, which is entirely to be expected, since you’re a fan of Indochine. Here we go—slap a stamp on, and in the postbox it goes.”
“Are you done yet?” shouts Hakima, getting impatient on her bike.
“Yes, yes, coming!”
Now our bums bounce bountifully on new, gel-filled saddles. Our new tyres, much thicker than the previous ones, howl with laughter as they steamroll through pebbles, potholes and notches in the road. Ecstasy!
And best of all, the three mechanics have replaced our home-made trailer-towing system. In retrospect, it feels like we’d been dragging a delivery truck up until now. Gaston, Zoltan and Philou have made us a bespoke new harness. As they explained, it distributes our pulling forces equally over the whole trailer, which is now gloriously responsive. Zoltan, in a stroke of genius, has also installed a special brake on the trailer, controlled by me—we can now slow down with no risk of being bulldozed.
“Hello, Hélène? It’s Mireille… You can’t hear me very well? That’s cos I’m on my hands-free… Yeah, we’re off again. Just to update you on the situation—everything’s going well, in fact, we’re much better now. You can write that as big as you like on the Bresse Courier website: the guy who did this to us has miserably failed at being a terrorist. Yes, we’re going much faster now. We think we’ll get to Sancerre around 2 p.m. We should be able to make up the time we’ve lost… You’ll write that, OK? Not only will that evil vandal burn in hell, he can also tell himself he’s the laughing stock of all self-respecting criminals. Yeah, sure, you can quote me, no problem. Hey, piglettes! It’s Hélène—say hi!”
“Hi!”
The road running along the banks of the River Loire is a shock of white and quiet, disturbed only by the occasional jogger. Hakima and Astrid are counting birds. Herons with Mohicans and curved necks amble on triangles of sand in the middle of the river; ducks, some of them followed by kiwi-fruit-sized ducklings, waddle near fishermen; sparrows dive under our wheels, apparently just for the frisson of a near-death experience; crows pinch bits of leftover sandwiches from bins. Many people recognize us now, but by the time they’ve pulled out their phones to take a picture, we’re already gone.
“It’s as if we’re getting more and more famous,” Hakima observes.
This morning, the Sun, Astrid and I had a long, adult conversation, during which we decided to hide the size of the media buzz from Hakima. We haven’t told her that the mayor of Paris, as well as several deputies and senators and influential journalists, have tweeted that they can’t wait to see us in Paris. We haven’t told her that Simone Suffragette has written a column in Libération about us. We haven’t told her that the cars and motorbikes following us at a distance are probably filming us for some 24/7 news channel.
We haven’t told her all that, not because we’re worried it might make her conceited, but because every time someone says we’re amazing, strong, smart and admirable, somebody else, on some social network, somewhere, is writing that we’re repulsive fat cows, dogs, pigs, whores, sluts, bitches, hags, butt-ugly slags.
Who are those people? It’s a mystery. Are there actually real people—real, living, laughing and dancing people—behind those appalling insults?
Astrid’s fine; she’s started taking it all very philosophically. And of course I attained ultimate wisdom a long time ago and am no longer hurt by such things. But it’s true that, once in a while, a particularly sour comment, a particularly well-aimed, particularly cruel one, makes my self-confidence crumble. For instance, that one on the website of Le Monde: “Those three young girls are pitiful. Poor Mireille especially, who seems convinced she’s very clever, when in fact she’s stupid as well as ugly. Shameful to let those kids strut around on national TV.” Another, anonymous one, on the Bresse Courier website: “I go to school with Mireille Laplanche. She’s manipulative and sucks up to teachers.”
It’s not always the fat pigs and you’re fucking ugly comments that punch holes through your throat.
The Sun: “Stop reading the comments, Mireille, or I’m taking that phone away from you.”
That’s precisely why we’ve decided to conceal the truth from Hakima: if even I find it difficult to get over those comments, then Hakima, Hakima… We just can’t do that to her.
So we’re pedalling. This morning, I asked the Sun: “Youokkader?” and he said: “Yep, all OK, Mireille.” I didn’t see any signs of pain on his face as he started to push himself along.
The banks of the Loire are great for cycling. You can’t always see the river, but you feel its slumbering presence behind the trees. We’re on a cycle path, so the journalists with their cars and mopeds are leaving us alone. There aren’t many ups or downs to the route, and the sky gods have decided to stop messing us about: for the first time, it feels like we’re eating up the miles calmly, painlessly. The soreness of the first couple of days has faded into a kind of entente cordiale between brain and nervous system: no pain, in exchange for no sensation. Our calves are rubber-ball-hard, almost numb. We’re turning into real cyclists—patient machines, cold and stoic.
“But seriously,” says the Sun, “if I could get my hands on that bastard… What’s his stupid name, again?”
“Malo,” I murmur between my teeth.
“Bastard. Do you think he’s following us?”
“I don’t know. I don’t get why he’s doing this to us. What does he care? It’s not about him.”
“It’s psychological,” Astrid explains. “He wants us humiliated and he hates it that we’re suddenly popular.”
She’s probably right—but to the extent that he’d come and sabotage our bikes? How did he even trek all the way up to us? On his Vespa? From Bourg? I try not to think about it—that’s what he’d want me to do. He wants us to be disturbed, confused, stressed. Instead, we’re staying focused.
Gling! Gling! Some other cyclists have recognized us and ring their bells…
“Hello, Piglettes!”
“Well done, Piglettes!”
“Hang on in there, Piglettes!”
“You all right, Piglettes?”
“You’re the best! Carry on!”
Yes, real people who exist all seem to like us. There’s such a gap between the words we read on the Internet and those we hear from people we meet! And it’s weird, this popularity. I’m not used to being smiled at like this. I’m not used to being asked how I am. Maybe this is what it feels like to be beautiful—I’ve always noticed that beautiful people attract all the smiles and all the Hey, you all rights. We don’t like to see beautiful people not being all right. Ugly people, though—of course they’re not all right, they’re ugly.
But
now, at last, it’s like we’ve earned the right to be asked if we’re all right—and to be smiled at.
“Dear piglettes, dear chaperone, Sancerre is coming up ahead!”
“Where?”
“Right here!”
“Right here? You mean right there? On that hill?”
“Yep. Beautiful, eh? Gorgeous. I looked it up on Google Earth. You’ll see, it’s well worth the detour. The castle at the top used to be part of the fortress of—”
“Mireille, it’s super far! And it’s crazily high up!”
“Astrid, Astrid, always exaggerating. A micro-molehill.”
“But why are you so set on going up there?”
“You’ll see, Hakima, you’ll see…”
“Welcome to our beautiful town of Sancerre, young ladies! The internationally renowned capital of Sancerre wine, and of—”
“Crottin de Chavignol!”
“That’s right, Miss Laplanche. I can tell you’ve been paying attention in Cheese Geography class!” says the mayor, shaking my hand.
“Mireille, did you make us climb all the way up here just to visit the village that makes your favourite cheese?”
“Dearest Scandinavian piglette, we couldn’t have missed it. Impossible.”
“But Crottin de Chavignol is available everywhere in this country! What difference does it make to eat it here?”
“It’s like a pilgrimage for me, Astrid. I would ask you to please respect my religious beliefs.”
While Astrid and Hakima sulk in a corner, throwing dark glances at me—girls! Always saying mean things to other girls about other girls, that’s all girls do—I wait patiently for the heavenly delicacy to be brought to me. As I’d hoped, a young man soon walks up to us, bearing a large pyramid of white crottins… and another young man, with some bread… and while Astrid and Hakima are selling sausages to delegations from the whole region, and while the Sun’s busy saying “No, thank you, it’s very kind of you but I don’t drink” to a pretty young woman who tries to fill his glass with white wine, I’m in my own personal heaven, chatting to the mayor, under the watchful eyes of two cameras (our clingy burrs from BFM TV, and two new journalists from France 3).
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