Me: “I must tell you, Madame, that I have been a fan of Crottin de Chavignol my whole life. Quite simply, at the age of two and a half months, I shunned the maternal breast and never accepted another drop of milk that hadn’t been turned into Crottin de Chavignol.”
“Well, you’re in the right place. If you want, we’ll take you to see where they make the cheese, and introduce you to—”
“Please don’t tempt me! We have to be in Briare tonight. We must leave post-haste. But if I’m ever back here, you’ll take me?”
“Happily!”
“Even when I’m not famous any more?”
“I doubt you’ll remain anonymous for long, Miss Laplanche…”
I blush, and start stuffing my face again, sampling (and by that I mean wolfing down) crottins at different stages of maturity—oh! the powdery bitterness of an old crottin; oh! the moist sourness of a young crottin! Journalists ask me questions to which I give half-answers. Who do you think sabotaged your bikes? A Malovolent person. What are you going to do in Paris on 14th July? Does it have anything to do with the parade? With the fireworks? With the taking of the Bastille? Mireille, you are impressively mature for your age; how come?
“I don’t know. Maybe ugliness makes you wiser.”
BFM TV @bfm_tv
Spokesperson of #3littlepiglettes Mireille, 15: “Ugliness makes
you wiser”
4,910 retweets
Madmoizelle @madmoizelle
“Ugliness makes you wiser” #3littlepiglettes-yes! Let’s free
ourselves from the cult of beauty!
A.-C. Hussy @Gender!
How about the hashtag #UglyButWise… tell your stories!
#3littlepiglettes
Alex Laurentin @alexlaurentin
I was an ugly teen so now I don’t judge people on what they look
like #UglyButWise #3littlepiglettes
Yannick Sermonneau @yannick1993
Easy to be seduced by a face, even better to be seduced by a mind #UglyButWise #3littlepiglettes
Since our lives are now an endless chain of firsts, we receive our first offer of branded T-shirts.
Advertising a brand of mass-produced pork products for supermarkets.
“We’re launching a new range of sausages,” explains the PR person, a very Parisian lady in high heels, holding a stack of T-shirts.
“Good for you, but we’re selling Raymond’s homemade sausages from the Bourg-en-Bresse market, not plasticky stuff from your factories!”
“There would be financial compensation, of course, which we can discuss away from prying eyes…”
The Sun, like a god of justice, lowers his powerful hand between me and the charcuterie PR. “I’m sorry, Madame. As the guardian of these young women, I cannot allow them to be used as living billboards.”
This decision, I’m sure, will be noticed and widely discussed. No doubt tonight we’ll be reading the latest comments on the superb NO we gave to the mass-produced food industry, and on our support for High Quality French Products. (“Miss Laplanche, is your bike trip a way of drawing attention to the exceptional food of our regions?”)
“I’m tired, Mireille, I’m hot. Can we go?”
“Yes, Hakima, we’ll go soon.”
“It’s… It’s bleeding a lot, today.”
“I know. It’ll pass.”
I squeeze her in my arms like the ninny I am.
We leave again, under whimsical rain, the kind that can’t decide if it wants to be a huge downpour or a delicate drizzle when it grows up. It seems to come from nowhere, out of a cloudless sky; I start suspecting that a secret enemy might be following us on the other side of the hedge, aiming a giant shower head at us. Yet, every ten minutes or so, when the fat drops turn to spit, we find ourselves cycling through blinding, psychedelic rainbows, painted by celestial artists with extremely bad taste.
Mireille, we saw you on TV. Answer my texts more than once a day, please. I hope you didn’t drink any Sancerre? Call me back. Mum.
Mummy darling whom I will love eternally and for ever, I promise I didn’t drink any sincere. Yours Sancerrely xxx
Hi Mireille. Your mother’s furious, but you’re making me laugh! Miss you. Philippe.
While pedalling, I think of Philippe Dumont, who really is as nice as egg-fried rice. Well, let’s not delude ourselves: he’s probably just buttering me up so I’ll give my huge bedroom to his official son when the little bugger’s born. His son, his real, legitimate baby of spectacular beauty. “Mireille, you don’t mind sleeping in the cupboard under the stairs from now on, so Julius-Aurelian can have your bedroom, do you? You’ve always wanted to live like Harry Potter!”
If he tries anything like that…
But actually, I don’t think he will. He’s been nice to me for years, in exchange for nothing. For years he’s been giving me presents that I throw away or break. Why does he do all that, when I’m a cuckoo, a troll, an undesired, undesirable daughter, spoiling his picture-perfect Hollywood happiness, a garden gnome in his Garden of Eden? Philippe Dumont is a strange man.
I don’t know if it’s euphoria from the endorphins finally kicking in, but we’re all on top form this afternoon. Astrid’s chatting with Hakima over my shoulder—telling her convent anecdotes, from when she was in Switzerland…
“…so we followed her for two hours through the streets, and then we saw her go into the captain’s mansion! She was having a—an affair with him! Can you believe it? A widower, with seven children!”
Hakima is so horrified that she lets go of the handlebars and claps her hands to her mouth.
“What happened next?”
“She broke her vows and left the convent. We all went to the wedding.”
“Ah, phew, a happy ending.”
Hakima likes stories with happy endings. Luckily, Astrid knows loads of them. The one about the puppy she was looking after, who ran away into the mountains, but was found safe and sound the same evening. The time her arch-enemy stole her diary, but it was locked and she couldn’t open it. The time her dad went back to Sweden and abandoned her, but then she discovered Indochine the next week and listened to the songs fifty times over until she knew them by heart and could play them to herself in her head before falling asleep.
“They’re not quite the same, though,” Hakima cautiously objects. “Indochine and a father.”
“Yeah, that’s true, Indochine are better most of the time,” Astrid answers categorically. “At least Indochine talk to me.”
Phew, Hakima’s relieved: Astrid’s life is much happier with Indochine than with her dad—all’s well that ends well. Once again.
How about you, hypocrite reader?
How would you like our adventure to end? Would you like Malo to burn our trailer? Would you like us never to reach Paris? Would you like us punished for being fat and ugly? Or are you a tender-hearted, sensitive little soul? Maybe you’re hoping for my real dad to kneel down before me and say, “Please forgive me, Mireille, adorable piglette of mine! I never answered your letters, but I think of you every day—here are your half-brothers, Huey, Dewey and Louie—let them give you the kiss of peace!”
What would you rather happened, reader?
While we’re on the subject of half-brothers, Huey tweeted something nice about us. What a gentleman. Twenty-three years old, and he’s unknowingly expressed support for his secret half-sister. If he only knew! If he only knew! I looked at his face in the little square next to his Twitter handle. He hasn’t inherited his father’s ugliness: he looks more like his mother, with his black, curly hair. Tortoiseshell glasses, prestigious Parisian high school, now a Political Science student at an elite university.
I don’t think I’d like to go to a prestigious Parisian high school and then be a Political Science student at an elite university. I wouldn’t have any time to stroke Fluffles and write rubbish poems; plus I’d always have to be either working or going out with the children of other important people. No, I’m better
off where I am now.
There’s something hypnotic, calming, about the road unrolling under my eyes. My front wheel slices it in two, confidently.
When I see you, Klaus, will I ask you if I can bring my toothbrush and pyjamas to the Élysée Palace and start going to a prestigious Parisian high school, too, just to see what it’s like? I’m top of my class, after all. “Mireille will go far.”
Yes, but what about Fluffles? And Mum, and Julius-Aurelian? And Philippe Dumont? Klaus, Klaus, you can’t ask me to leave them alone in Bourg-en-Bresse. And what about the Georges & Georgette, and that beautiful cushion of beef, the filet Pierre?
And Astrid and Hakima, and the Sun? Who’ll put out his solar flares, if I’m not there? He can’t keep doing it alone his whole life! I’m not sure what I want my meeting with Klaus to achieve.
Now it’s Hakima who’s telling Astrid about her life. She never tells me anything about her life. She’s afraid of Mireille. Mireille pricks up an ear.
“…because, you see, I was very shy. But like, horribly shy, you know, not normally shy. Like, I couldn’t say hello, or thank you, or goodbye—I couldn’t even go into a bakery with my mum! I’d cry if people looked at me. Once, someone on the bus told me my shoelace was undone, and then I cried for two hours.”
“That’s terrible, poor you! Until when?”
“Until about two years ago.”
“But how did you manage to stop being so shy?”
Hakima hesitates, perhaps because the Sun has briefly turned his head towards her. Then she says, “I went to see a child psychologist.”
“Oh, really? And it worked?”
“Yeah, but it took time. At the beginning, I couldn’t even say a word. I was sitting on my chair like that—I couldn’t move, I was so scared. She waited for weeks for me to say something. Dad was like, ‘We’re paying the psychologist 100 euros an hour for Hakima to just sit there and say nothing!’ He couldn’t understand why Mum wanted me to go. But then I started to relax.”
“And what happened? Did she ask you to remember things from when you were a baby? A huge trauma? Had you, like, witnessed a murder or something?”
“No. That’s just how I was, that’s all. She gave me exercises to do. First we’d go to the supermarket together and I had to say hello to the lady at the till. Then we’d walk in the street and I had to ask somebody the time. Then I had to call restaurants on the phone to book tables. Every time, I cried, I panicked, and then after a few times it would get better. Once, she even made me ring the neighbour’s doorbell to borrow some butter—that was horrible.”
“But it worked. Now, you’re completely fine.”
“Yeah. Well… no. I still don’t like it when there’s loads of people. I don’t like talking to people I don’t know. I have strategies that the psychologist gave me, like imagining I’m talking to Kader or to Mum instead of the person in front of me. But I don’t like it when there’s loads of people, I just don’t, and when people I don’t know come to talk to me.”
“But, Hakima,” says Astrid, “for the past three days, lots of people we don’t know have come to talk to us!”
“I know,” says Hakima sadly. “I don’t like that at all. Right now, we’re cycling, so it’s fine, but I know we’re going to be in Paris soon, and I’ve got, like, a knot in my stomach, cos I’m so scared…”
“What? But why haven’t you said anything?”
“I don’t want to be a bother—”
“You’re doing great, darling,” the Sun interrupts. “I can tell you’re much better, now. It’s got nothing to do with that psychologist; it’s because you’re becoming a strong, confident young woman.”
Clearly, the Sun doesn’t like psychologists. Maybe he thinks, like his father, that problems like that just disappear when you stop being a pansy about them and decide to be a grown-up. Has he ever seen a psychologist? I doubt it. Soldiers don’t go to see psychologists. Their stumps might be on fire, sure; but their minds are cool, imperturbable.
It’s already dusk by the time we get to Briare. No matter; people are waiting to greet us. I don’t even know who they are, probably another mayor, and maybe that guy over there in a suit is a member of parliament. We sell our sausages to people who are absolutely delighted: “We’re absolutely delighted to meet you, young ladies”; “I’m delighted to hear it, Madame”; “No, no, it’s my pleasure. Our sausages are delicious, the trailer is a delight to look at, and you too, young ladies, are delightful!”
That’s overstating it a bit—but I have to admit that we’ve caramelized nicely under the sun. Astrid’s hair is the colour of Sancerre. Her nose is a little burnt, but the rest of her body is a light chestnut, and new freckles hide her pimples. Hakima’s skin is almost darker than her hair, which has lightened to sandy-brown. The Sun is more scintillatingly handsome than ever in his wheelchair. And I’m a bit darker too—funny how a slight tan makes you look slimmer. But it’s true that we’ve also actually got slimmer. I’m carrying less fat under my arms, and my calf muscles are visible now. Cycling hundreds of miles, of course we were going to lose weight.
“Miss Laplanche, you’re a role model for all the young girls who follow the Teen Dieting blog. They’re teenagers like you, and, like you, they don’t like what they see in the mirror and would like to lose weight. They’d love to hear your story and find out how they, too, could get rid of those pesky extra pounds… May I ask you a few questions?”
“Absolutely not.”
And get lost, I add silently, biting into a chocolate ice cream.
The mayor offers to put us up for free in a hotel room. We say we can’t possibly accept, it’s really kind of them, but no. But they won’t let us say no; and the next thing you know, lo and behold, we’re in a hotel!
“Look, Mireille! There’s even conditioner!”
The shower is warm, the walls devoid of soapy smears. Happiness is your skin freed from ten centuries of dust, sweat and sun cream. I get rid of my underarm hair with a disposable razor. The shampoo smells of laurel, the conditioner of rosemary. I rinse my hair until it squeaks under my fingers.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Astrid is spread out on the huge bed, the TV on, sipping a cup of tea.
“What’s on? Anything good?”
“No, just one of those home-video shows.”
“Great, just what we need.”
We fall asleep in front of the TV. A dog bites a lady’s bum while she’s cleaning the pavement outside her house; she drops her broom, which hits a passer-by on the head. Hilarious!
I wake up later, dragged from sleep by the jingle of the midnight news. Oh, Astrid, Hakima, the Sun—your ears must be burning in your dreams: they’re talking about us, right from the start. The Three Little Piglettes are in Briare; they’re going to Montargis tomorrow. My pumpkin face, giving an interview. Snippets from supportive Twitter and Facebook followers. A screenshot from the Nevers campsite’s CCTV, where Malo can be seen jumping over a tent. Our sausages cooking, people licking their fingers. That mustard sauce is delicious! A sociologist explains why we fascinate everyone so much. Élise Michon, mayor of Paris: “We will be delighted to welcome these three young women to Paris.” But what are they going to Paris for? It’s a mystery…
The Bresse Courier, 12th July 20XX
“THREE LITTLE PIGLETTES”
GEARING UP FOR A STORMY RIDE
Mireille Laplanche, Hakima Idriss and Astrid Blomvall set off this morning from Briare, in the Loiret department, for what might be a very long day. They are expected at midday in Montargis for a lunchtime sausage sale, and should reach the forest of Fontainebleau this evening.
The weather forecast is bleak, with storms predicted south of the Île-de-France region, but our three heroines aren’t feeling low. “Come thunder, lightning or rain, we’ll get to the outskirts of Paris on 13th July in the evening, and to the heart of the capital at midday on the 14th,” Mireille Laplanche assured us. The young girls have reiterated, in response to
widespread speculation, that they have no intention of disturbing the military parade for the national holiday. Meanwhile, in Nevers, Superintendent Tristan, in charge of the investigation into the Three Little Piglettes’ bike sabotage, has announced that the police have identified a suspect, caught on CCTV at the campsite.
H.L.
(“Hello?”
“Hello, Mireille? Hi, it’s… it’s Denis, Malo’s dad.”
“Oh. Hi.”
“Mireille… a few days ago, Malo left Bourg-en-Bresse by car, with his cousin Félix driving. They told us they were going windsurfing in the South, but… we think we recognized Malo on the videos from the Nevers campsite.”
“Oh, did you? Funny that.”
“Mireille, listen, I… I’m so sorry about what happened. You… you know Malo lost his mum when he was young. You remember? He’s a bit… unstable. He doesn’t get on with my new girlfriend, and… you see, we’re a bit worried, and we were hoping that maybe, if the police ask you questions about him, you might… I don’t know. Go easy on him?… Mireille?… Are you still here?”
“Yeah, I’m still here. Do you remember the time when my mother went to see you after the first Pig Pageant?”
“Yes, of course. We did what we could, we told Malo—”
“And when she went back to see you again, after the second Pig Pageant?”
“Mireille, we really are so sorry—”
“And when your wife… passed away, when we were in Year 3, do you remember how I dropped by to see Malo every day, with a different cake each time?”
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