22 June 2008

Bien Dans sa Peau

Comment le Pédé Va T’il?, Part Five


Photo copyright Graham Cullimore, car Rebuilt by Frome 2CV

I walked across Avenue Gabriel from the Embassy to do what the Captain told me to do. I was to wait for the French National Police to pick me up and brief me on the operation. I had a liberty bag, a pocket full of francs, a bogus set of leave papers and no passport.

Fully clothed, I still felt naked and uncovered. I checked my Hamilton watch and lit up a Camel as I waited. The sky was winter-gray and the boughs on the trees were stark and black. The people who hurried across the broad Place de Concorde wore dark long coats, snappy fedoras on the men and fanciful hats on the women.

Precisely at noon a little strange little black auto pulled up to the curb. It had an elongated shape, impossibly high ground clearance and headlights that mad it look like a bug. The passenger door swung open and I saw a dapper little man with Marcelled hair and a Boston Blackie moustache behind the wheel. The wheel had a single spoke, which shouted out that this was a French contraption, like no Ford or Chevy I had ever seen.

“Hey” said the little man. “I am Al Cristides, US Treasury Representative to France. Get in, Sailor.”

I crushed out my cigarette and hopped into the little car, which swayed ominously.

“Crazy suspension, isn’t it? It’s the new Citroen 2CV. They just introduced it three years ago. It is the French answer to that German “peoples car.” It is supposed to be able to drive across a plowed field without breaking eggs in the backseat. The French call it “Two Steam Horses,” though I could think of something else. Fast as two pieces of crap and rides like a soft-boiled egg.”

I looked around at the bare metal floorboards. No radio broke the dashboard, just the gear lever with three forward speeds and a slot called overdrive. Al worked the lever and engaged the clutch as we lurched away form the curb.

“Seems pretty basic,” I said.

“Yeah, but this is still a rural country and there is a three year waiting list for them. The design is pretty revolutionary. Two cylinder engine, and light steel skin. There is a phrase in French- ‘Bien dans sa peau,” which means being comfortable in your skin. That is what this car is about. It is built to the tax code- the French collect money for the car and for the horsepower. Not like back home where a man can have as many horsepower as he wants with no penalty. That is what America is about, I think. Horsepower.”

Al twisted the wheel to swerve around a Renault 4CV, which presumably had two more steam horses and the francs to pay for them. Al looked over at me, while fishing in his shirt pocket for a filterless Gaulois cigarette. He lit it with a silver Ronson lighter as he steered and the acrid fumes filled the cabin.

“I’m taking you to a Morrocan restaurant the French like over in the 7th Arrondissment. They have good Algerian wine and I hope you like couscous. You do not speak French, do you?”

I shook my head. “No time. I have been in Asia. They just told me about this mission four days ago. Is that going to be a problem?”

“No,” said Al. In fact, that is very useful. Necessary, in fact.” H wound the window down with the crank and threw the cigarette out the window. “Let me give you some background on how things work here. The French security establishment is divided into two basic components. The National Police- the Surete- in one of them and the other is the Gendarmerie. They are military, and run the show in smaller towns and in the provinces. The Surete is more like our FBI, except they work for Judges rather than the executive branch. It goes back to the Code Napoleon, where there is no presumption of innocence, just the investigation of crime.”

“That sounds like martial law. That is what I did in Japan. I investigated and where I found something fishy, I dragged them in front of Colonel Lasswell, the Marine I worked for.”

“There is more to it, of course, but that is the shorthand version. I'll explain more as you need it." We swung around a corner and Al braked the little car to a halt in front of a little bistro with Arabic writing on the window in gold leaf. Inside, in the darkness, were six French detectives, headed by a man introduced to me as Inspector Benhamou, chief of the counterfeit section of the Surete'.

With him around the table was the team I would presumably be working with in Nice.

“Inspector Benhamou is originally from Algeria,” said Al, by way of introduction. “His family is one of the Pieds Noir, who have returned to Metropolitan France to seek their fortunes.” I suspected the Inspector spoke English, since he seemed to follow what Al was saying to me, but the luncheon was otherwise conducted completely in French.

The inspector gave me a soft “bonjour” and his eyes were dark and hooded. They seemed to be a merry enough band, with thin ties and rumpled white shirts. They all smoked and they all shared an animated manner with their utensils.

Lunch started with wine, an Algerian red that Al informed me was called ”Coteaux de Tlemcen,” and, as he had warned me, there was couscous with fish, couscous with vegetables, and couscous with some sort of savory beef. The bread was nutty-sweet, and provided in individual baskets with the addition of fresh creamery butter. I could not follow what was going on very well. Al was chattering away in French like a native, and if he did not stop to translate, I was stuck with nothing to do but follow the conversation like it was a tennis match, looking form face to face.

I remember distinctly that Al asked me again if were I sure that I did not know any French language. I assured him again that it was Greek to me, and that seemed to make them all happy, including Inspector Benhamou, who smiled.

I assumed they were laying out the detailed plan for the operation in Nice. From time to time they would stop, and Al would tell me what I would be doing to assist them. It was becoming apparent by this time that I was not there to be an advisor on anything.  They were the experts.

The light-bulb lit up over my head around the time the unctuous little waiter with the starched white apron arrived with the third round of couscous. What the French needed was a pigeon they could put in with the flock of counterfeiters.

Inspector Benhamou produced a long envelope from the inside pocket of suit jacket. In it were what appeared to be two train tickets to Nice. As the Frenchmen got up to leave, Christides started writing on scraps of paper.

“Let me make this as easy as possible,” he said. “The operation starts now.” He handed me a note that I was to give to the cabby that would take me to something called the “Gare de Lyon,” which I gathered was the train station, and another one that he told me to keep with the ticket so that I could get directions if I got lost.

“The tickets will be a little complicated for you,” he said. “It is a two part arrangement. There is only one direct train to Nice each day, so we normally make a reservation, le reservation, if you will, and then the billet- the ticket. You have both, and don’t worry about it. It is no problem.” He handed the envelope back to me.

“We will all leave separately. Catch a cab in front of the restaurant. We are on the evening train, departs at five PM sharp. When you get to the station, have your ticket in plain view, and start walking down the platform. You will be directed to a car that matches the reservation.”

“Do I have to check my bag?”

“No, keep your things with you. Once the train gets underway, periodically the people you just met with wander through the train car. Don’t recognize them. They are going to ensure that the train has no informants aboard. When they are sure it is clear, one of them will stop and light up a cigarette in clear view of you.”

“That means the coast is clear?”

Al nodded. “Once the smoker gets half a car away, get up and follow him. He will lead you to the compartment that the Surete has booked for the trip.”

He signaled for the waiter to get the check. “This one is on the Treasury Department. Give me a couple minutes and then go outside and hale a cab. I’ll see you on the train, but don’t recognize me until we are sure the Mafia isn’t aboard, too.”

He looked over the bill and handed the waiter a sheaf of brightly colored cash, shook my hand, and walked out of the restaurant. I could see the little Citroen lurch away from the curb with a distinctive sway.

Little fuel-efficient cars would never catch on in America, I thought. We are comfortable in our own thick skins. I gave it a couple potatoes before I rose and left the restaurant.

I flagged down a cab in front of the restaurant, and handed the piece of paper to the driver, who looked at it and shrugged. He put the Simca in gear, and we were off for the Gare de Lyon, wherever that was.

Copyright 2008 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com