Two Men In a Car (A Businessman, a Chauffeur, and Their Holidays in France). Mike Buchanan

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СКАЧАТЬ or ‘good moaning’, if you’re willing to make an effort yourself – with a look of utter bewilderment. Responds to any enquiry with a fast torrent of French, in which no individual words could possibly be identified, even by a native French speaker.

      (1) Scale of 1-10 points, 10 points representing extreme helpfulness.

      Paul then drove to Bordeaux, 50 miles to the south. On the way he recorded the following:

      ‘Aristocrats before the Revolution expected their windows to be cleaned every month, and shutters to be painted every year. The Revolutionaries saw window cleaners and shutter painters as establishment lackeys, and beheaded them along with their masters. The last French window cleaners and shutter painters were guillotined in 1789, and nobody has dared clean a window or paint a shutter in France since.

      Except during the Second World War. After invading France the Germans – true to form – demanded that their commandeered buildings have clean windows and freshly-painted shutters, and they forced the French peasants to carry out the work.

      But the French were a cunning lot, and it occurred to the French Resistance – which every French adult belonged to, at least after the war – that they could spy on enemy plans if they could see through the windows. So they took on the jobs of window cleaning and shutter painting. After the war things returned to normal, and the window cleaners and shutter painters were made redundant.’

      The outskirts of Bordeaux were dingy and dirty but as we approached the centre the city suddenly became more pleasing to the eye, and we parked in an underground car park, ‘des Grands Hommes’. I jokingly said I hoped that this wasn’t a euphemism for a car park frequented by Village People lookalikes, so we were startled to see one very large man in full motorbike leather attire. But neither the native American nor the builder showed up, so we relaxed.

      Paul parked in a disabled bay four floors below ground and commented favourably on the availability of disabled spots in France. We then walked a few yards to the lift, only to discover it was broken down. ‘Fuckin’ French tosseurs!’, he remarked whilst gasping his way up the steps to ground level.

      In one of the very smart shops near the Grand Théatre we went into a shop because I wanted to buy some good cognac glasses, following my trip to Hennessy. I duly bought four Riedel cognac glasses, to me a snip at 70 euros. Paul was visibly horrified by the extravagance.

      At the Tourist Office we paid for a tour of a few Médoc vineyards on the following Friday – 70 euros for each of us. The tour would include Château Lynch-Bages, a claret of which I’m particularly fond. We also asked whether there was a dentist we might visit whilst we were in Bordeaux, and we were duly presented with a list of six or seven, one being on the nearby Allée Tourny. We went there, pressed the bell, but there was no response. So we walked into the adjacent pharmacy to buy more painkillers and enquire about the dentist. The lady explained that the dentist was on holiday for the whole of August, and helpfully suggested July or September might be a better month for us to take our holidays, to lessen the likelihood of such problems. Clearly the Tourist Office had given us the list of dentists who go on holiday in August. Merci beaucoup.

      By this time Paul was tired again and we stopped for lunch at the Villa Tourny restaurant, also on the Allée Tourny, and sat outside. The waitress was very fetching, brown-eyed with rich chestnut hair. Maybe 28-30, she wore black clothes and a tattoo was visible on her hip. Paul and I agreed she’d look fine on the back of either of our motorbikes. Even though I’ve never owned a motorbike and never will.

      Paul agreed to a steak for lunch, which I asked to be bien cuit. The French have now learnt that when English people ask for a steak in this way there’s no point in giving them what they think they should have, namely a rare steak in a pool of blood.

      I had linguini with duck strips, and we both judged our meals very good. I polished off a bottle of a sound Entre-deux-mers and the world seemed a better place than it had an hour earlier. On our way out, as I was strolling past the waitress, I declared, ‘Merci madame. Vous êtes très belle!’ I didn’t dare look back for her reaction.

      A ten minute walk to the second dentist on the list proved fruitful. A walk up the steps took us to a lady wearing a white coat. I enquired whether she was a dentist to which she smilingly replied that she was, whilst somehow communicating the thought, ‘Do I look like a bricklayer, then?’ Paul asked her where the toilet was, and she indicated a door about six feet away. He walked in and as the room was very dark, pulled what he reasonably assumed was a light cord. The toilet duly flushed and we all laughed. Something told me this was designed to amuse the dentist, to compensate her for having to deal with English-speaking patients.

      But she was very helpful and professional, she checked Paul’s tooth and asked questions about his treatment and medication. She concluded that Paul should simply continue with the antibiotics and painkillers, and see his dentist again on his return to England. Paul looked very relieved and offered his E111 card which he understood guaranteed free – or at least reduced price – treatment in the EU.

      Her expression made it clear that Paul was offering something as appropriate under the circumstances as a pot plant. She said she knew nothing about such cards and asked for 21 euros. Paul again looked very relieved – he’d expected to pay 50 to 60 euros – and duly paid the sum. The dentist gave Paul a receipt which she said he could use in the UK to reclaim the money from the NHS. He was so cheerful that on his way out he remarked that not all French people were plonkeurs, tosseurs, or wankeurs. A breakthrough, I felt.

      We then walked to an elegant wine shop at number 2, Allée Tourny, L’Intendant. The bottles were arranged in racks in the wall, and the general plan was that as you ascended the three or four floors on the spiral staircase, the bottles became ever more expensive. The ones at the top were in the 350+ euros per bottle range and Paul noted I was almost drooling with pleasure at seeing Cheval Blanc, Ausone, Lafite Rothschild and the rest. But the effects of the lunchtime wine were starting to wear off, which probably saved me a fortune, as I restricted myself to one bottle of 1981 Château Lynch-Bages (120 euros) and one of 1997 Château Ducru-Beaucaillou (55 euros). Paul said he was impressed that I was holding conversations in French, but I knew I was far from fluent in the language.

      In the evening I cooked chicken breasts in red wine with the obligatory onions, garlic and whatever herbs I could find. Paul judged it excellent, which was good enough for me.

      WEDNESDAY 8 AUGUST

      It was a fine day and whilst I was engaged in my writing in the morning Paul walked around the area, accompanied as usual by Louis, the owner’s Jack Russell. Louis’ main aim in life was to catch rabbits but sadly he was now too old to manage it. On one occasion when Paul opened the car door to retrieve something, Louis flew into the car. Clearly he thought Paul had adopted him.

      Paul returned from his walk in fine spirits and said he’d seen something incredible. He’d spotted a Frenchman painting. Only a gate rather than a shutter, but it was a start. He vowed to take his camera with him the next time he went walking. I asked how he planned to explain to a Frenchman who was painting something, why he was photographing him. He was clearly baffled by the stupidity of my question and replied, ‘In English!’

      I drove into Mirambeau and had a leisurely stroll around the town centre before buying more provisions at the Super U. In the town I saw something to gladden the heart, a woman cleaning her windows. I told Paul of this observation on my return, to which he retorted, ‘Yeah, right!’ Clearly a claim of sighting a naked Nicole Kidman riding a unicycle, whilst juggling flaming clubs, would have been more credible to him. He refused to believe windows were ever cleaned in France until and unless he’d seen it for himself.

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