Click on Marianne for an auburn surprise...
In the previous episode we left our DS Madeleine’s driver quietly closing the Mairie door in Délymèle-sur-Grogne.
He had breakfasted in the PMU café, received two FREE racing tips, avoided a tongue-lashing from a Brigitte-Bardot-bad-hairday lookalike, learned a new recipe for rillettes, and set out seeking a repair to his DS alternateur…
Read on for a free (adult- style) French lesson, and to discover why Patricia, the secrétaire de mairie, always turns up twenty minutes early for work…
The Driver glanced over his shoulder at DS Madeleine, and made a mental note to re-spray her wheel rims the coming week-end.
He was determined to get the colour right, this time: on the last occasion he had visited his local paint supplier to request “un litre de peinture grise”, the vendor had replied with a wry smile:
“Monsieur, j’ai du noir. Il y a un noir. J’ai du blanc. Il y a trente-cinq nuances de blanc. Mais le gris, monsieur, IL Y A CINQUANTE NUANCES DE GRIS!”
Wondering if this may be a theme for the day, he put Citro-nerdery thoughts out of his mind, and entered the Mairie...
Hidden Features of the Mairie
The Mairie door slammed shut with a single-glazed window-rattle.
Built in the 1920’s the edifice was the size and shape of a maison bourgeoise of the époque. There were two reception rooms on the ground floor which were now marked “accueil du public”, and “bibliothèque”. There was a wide, elm staircase leading to the “salle du conseil” . In this room, as in each of France’s 36,000 or so Mairie’s, a bust of Marianne oversaw proceedings, flanked by a tricolore and the European Union flag.
The Marianne in use at Délymèle was an effigy of Catherine Deneuve.
The present Maire, Gilles Dubonque, had been born in the same year as the iconic auburn sixties sexe-symbole, and remembered her “Belle de Jour” days. He had always nurtured a soft spot for her. Perhaps it was the hair colour? Gilles’ father, Claude Du Bonk had been a refugee from Flanders, and had passed on his ginger gene to his son…
As was customary at the time of its construction, little attention had been paid to La Mairie’s thermal or acoustic insulation. Over the years in the attic, layers of fibreglass, then rockwool, had been added as dotations (grants) had allowed, thus tempering the loss of kilowatts to the outside Poitevin winter air.
But the sound-proofing problem been tactfully ignored over the century.
Throughout the greater part of the twentieth century, Conseil Municipal succeeded Conseil Municipal at six-year intervals. Only a period of occupation, collaboration and résistance interrupted the electoral rhythm. Batch after batch of local councillors, adjoints and maires pretended to ignore the enforced intimacy, as noises from each corner of the building were transmitted and channelled to every other extremity. This meant that nothing was secret in the Mairie, and that, for example, the public toilets in the library were very public indeed.
It also meant that, at 8.59 am on this particular July morning, the oak floorboards which separated the rez-de chaussée entrance hall from the council meeting rooms on the upper floor were acting as an amplifier for the movements which were taking place one metre above the intrepid Citroënist’s head…
From the urgent and unmistakable sound of soft leather on polished oak, it was clear that an exchange was occurring in the meeting rooms which, firstly, was of an intensity unlikely to be disturbed by the creak and rattle of the door and, secondly, even with Catherine Deneuve looking on, would not be finding its way into the “Compte-Rendu” ledger. (Official Register of Minutes).
Nine Chimes for Patricia
For a moment, The Driver hesitated, and considered returning to the armchair comfort of Madeleine La DS for ten minutes. He could imagine her settling in her Citroënesque manner: white, gently and with a sigh, next to the Monument aux Morts at the other end of the gravelled pathway.
As Madeleine’s groundward motion reached the suspension stops in the sunshine next to the war memorial, the leather sounds above the hallway slowed and were followed by two simultaneous ecstatic gasps, one tenor, one contralto. The Driver thought that he detected an utterance of “Mon Dieu”, then realized that this was unlikely in a Mairie, where both law and protocol ensured that all references to religion were forbidden.
In the quiet which now descended, The Driver could only ask himself what the more tactful of his antipodean Citroën mates would do in such a situation. “They’d probably laugh” he concluded.
He decided instead to hold his breath, listen to the nine chimes from the church clock, turn silently to the door, open and close it for a second time, and then cough.
After half a minute, and as, in the French rural manner, the nine chimes rang out for the second time, he heard firm, unhurried stiletto heels crossing the parquet to the top of the stairs. He watched, through the frosted glass of the stair-well, a high-heeled, knee-length boot lower itself on to the top step. Through the glazed haze, as the wearer descended, a shapely silhouette poured itself into the triangle of glass.
With a shake of flowing russet locks, Patricia walked into the entrance hall.
She was wearing Christian Dior: perfume and glasses, a tailored short-sleeved blouse of dazzling white, and even tighter-fitting black jeans. Her complexion was AC84 Blanc Meije.
The jeans were soft, matt leather.
Two Great Tits and a Budgie
The Driver supposed that she was in her early forties and that, with eyes of a green which was rare in this region of France, red was likely to be her natural hair colour. He reflected for a moment that the person who could now be heard making adjustments to his dress on the upper floor would probably be able to confirm this.
Her smile was not that of the usual straight-laced fonctionnaire: it was rather that of tabby cat who had been stalking the local avian fauna, and had just started her day with two great tits, the Maire’s budgie and a generous helping of cream.
She looked past The Driver, and through the panel of the Mairie door. Her emerald gaze drifted back into the entrance hall.
She slid a freckled, long-fingered, perfectly manicured hand into a leather pocket. Her smile revealed the Mairie’s only set of perfect teeth. She placed something in the hand of the Mairie’s visitor.
A cough sweet.
The wrapper unwound itself slowly in his palm, and the medicated lolly almost throbbed with residual heat. She parted her pouting lips, and spoke without clearing her voice.
“J’adore les DS. Mon papa était taxi et il en avait une à Paris. Que puis-je faire pour vous, monsieur ? »
Upstairs, Gilles Dubonque, Maire of Délymèle-sur-Grogne, performed his week-day morning ritual of removing his sports jacket from Catherine Deneuve’s bust, depositing two snipped cable ties into the waste-paper basket, and tying the shoelaces of his suede desert boots. He headed, stealthily as a post-coital ginger tom, along the dimpled stiletto trail towards the staircase…
Outside, unseen by The Driver, The Maire or Patricia, a fine jet of steam escaped from the rear water-pump seal of DS Madeleine…
No comments:
Post a Comment