Authors: Dan Rhodes
There was a gasp from the assembled members of the press.
‘You would do well to gasp. And I ought to point out that I have never . . .’ He furiously banged the table with his fist. ‘. . . NEVER . . . felt a homosexual urge in my life,
but I have to say that she looked rather fetching in her three-piece suit and false moustache. I wore a Breton fisherman’s outfit – you should have seen me in my beard and cap –
and together we stood unrecognised and unmolested among the audience at
Life
, this art show you will all have heard so much about.’
There was a murmur through the room.
‘You would do well to murmur,’ he said. ‘We were made aware of this show through the wonderful review by a certain Jean-Didier Delacroix. And I have to say that it quite opened
my eyes. You see, ladies and gentlemen, while we were there we witnessed the star of the show, Le Machine, make a sausage.’
The room erupted in laughter, and he banged a fist hard on the table, to remind everybody who was President. Immediately there was quiet. His eyes were blazing with fury. ‘Not that kind of
sausage!’ he barked. He took a moment to compose himself before carrying on. ‘We witnessed him frying an actual sausage, and here is the amazing part: he cooked it using gas that had
been collected from his own faeces.’
There was another gasp from the members of press.
‘You would do well to gasp. Do you see what this means? Instead of letting the methane from our faeces drift into the air, we, the Republic of France, are going to capture it and harness
the power of human waste. The Russians think they’ve got everybody’s backs to the wall with their gas pipelines and so on, but they’re in for a big surprise. I have had a long
meeting with my Energy Minister, with whom, incidentally, I am
not
having an affair, and she tells me that there are a number of ways in which this can be achieved. Pilot schemes begin
tomorrow. Soon we shall be a totally self-sufficient excreta-powered nation, world leaders in the field, and we’ll be able to tell the Russians to get lost.’
There was a big cheer throughout the room, and cries of
Vive la France!
Everybody looked at Yevgeni Romanov from
Izvestia,
who stared straight ahead, his face frozen. ‘What do you make of that then, Romanov?’ hissed the economics editor of
Le
Monde
. ‘Not so smug about your pipelines now, eh, Romanov? Eh?’
The President waited for the hubbub to die down before continuing. ‘We’ll even be able to export our gas to more prudish nations, such as Switzerland. Did you know that the Swiss are
so modest they don’t even have a word for faeces? They have a hundred and seventy three words for urine, but not one for the brown stuff. We’ll make millions of euros, or whatever
currency we happen to be using in the future – probably not the euro, let’s face it. And for once the farmers will have something to be happy about. When we’ve taken off all the
gas we’ll be using the leftovers for fertiliser. There will be so much, they’ll be more or less able to help themselves, and they’ll be growing runner beans the size of hockey
sticks. It’s what they did in the olden days, and according to some parchments I’ve been looking over, it worked perfectly well. So there will be no need whatsoever for them to block
the roads with their tractors.’
The president sat back, and his media secretary returned to the spotlight. ‘Any questions for the President?’ Plenty of hands went up, and the media secretary pointed at the most
eager-looking journalist.
—
This is exciting news, Monsieur le Président. Whatever next? Piss-powered combine harvesters?
‘I shall consult my scientists about the viability of such a scheme.’
—
So this was all inspired by your trip to
Life
? Can we expect somebody to be receiving high recognition?
‘Well, I can’t give too much away, but I expect a certain someone will soon be made a Chevalier of the Legion of Honour.’
—
But where will he pin the medal? He doesn’t wear any clothes
.
‘No, not him,’ snapped the President. ‘I am talking, of course, about Jean-Didier Delacroix. His writing is really first-rate – without him we would never have gone
along, would we, my butterfly?’
Madame Bruni-Sarkozy smouldered her agreement.
The President’s media secretary raised his hands, palms forward. ‘That is all we have time for today, unless, Monsieur le Président, you have any more
announcements?’
The President looked into the air for a moment. ‘Ah, yes, there was one more thing. We’ve merged our army with Britain’s.’
A roar erupted through the room.
‘It’s just a small detail, and nothing to worry about. Any questions on the subject can be addressed to my Minister of Defence, with whom et cetera, et cetera . . . Now, I have to be
going. If you will excuse me, I have a country to run and an Englishman to sue. I shall leave you in the capable hands of my stunning third wife, to whom I shall make love, and probably impregnate,
later on.’
He stood, and with a wave and a bow he was gone. His media secretary took over. ‘She is President Bruni-Sarkozy’s third wife, but she is our beautiful First Lady. You are welcome to
ask her anything you like, but please keep it decent for once. No questions about Eric Clapton’s private parts this time.’ Again, there was a collective groan. ‘Now, who will
start us off?’ The women crept out of the room to file their stories about the President’s methane plan and demand a press conference from the Minister of Defence, while the men bobbed
up and down in anticipation, their hands raised. The media secretary pointed to the lucky winner.
—
Madame Bruni-Sarkozy, please tell us – are you French or Italian?
‘I’m afraid I am unable to answer that question at the present moment. However, I can tell you that my new album,
Burning Desire
, will be out in two to three weeks, and will
be available from Fnac, Amazon, iTunes and all other music retailers.’
—
Would you be so kind as to give us a preview, Madame Bruni-Sarkozy?
She blushed. ‘I wish I could, but sadly I didn’t bring my guitar with me.’
The media secretary stepped in. ‘By extraordinary coincidence I happen to have brought my guitar with me – I was bashing out some Rod Stewart numbers backstage. You would be very
welcome to borrow it, Madame Bruni-Sarkozy.’
‘I couldn’t possibly.’ She looked surprised and bashful, but encouraged by whoops from the audience, she acceded. ‘Very well.’ She took the guitar, and perched on
the edge of the table as demurely as she was able with so much leg showing. ‘This is a song about somebody who means so very much to me, and I hope it will finally put an end to the rumours
of my infidelity. It’s called “Mon petit Président”.’
The cameras rolled, and the gentlemen of the press settled back and let the lilting folk-tinged ballad wash over them. Though they would deny it if confronted, some were seen to wipe tears from
their eyes.
M
onsieur Eric Rousset and Doctor Élise Rousset stood in the wings of Le Charmant Cinéma Érotique, peering out at
Life
.
It had been a good run for both of them, and they were going to miss it.
The doctor’s duties had been light. Le Machine had been in good health throughout, his only difficulty being a mild but persistent cold over Christmas. His imaginary knee trouble had given
her more to do than anything. He hadn’t wanted to inconvenience her, and after the first times, he had always waited for her to be on a routine visit to the venue rather than ask to see her.
She always went away with a message for his new girlfriend, and Élise usually had a message to deliver to him. She had thought this was very romantic, and she hoped it worked out for them.
She thought his girl was playing things very well, staying in the background and not bugging him, while letting him know just often enough that she was thinking of him, and would be there when it
was all over.
Her only uncomfortable task had been to relay the news to his manager that after the show he would be met by his new girlfriend.
Le Machine’s manager had taken the news coldly, and Élise had read between the lines. The doctor had become a familiar face among the crew, and was kept up-to-date with the
backstage intrigue; she had just found out that the sound designer was going to be taking Le Machine’s place in the luxury hotel suite, and that both he and the manager were surprised by how
much they were looking forward to it. They had even practised a couple of times behind his mixing desk.
Élise was looking forward to giving Le Machine his final medical. They would at last be able to talk freely. She felt as if they had become close over the course of the run, and she was
interested in finding out whether or not they really had done. Maybe once they were able to talk they would find they had nothing to say. However things turned out, it had been a great twelve weeks
for her. She felt proud to have played a part in such an incredible event.
Monsieur Eric Rousset could not have been happier. The venue had been packed for the entire run; people had even gone there on Christmas Day, and a full house had seen in the New Year with Le
Machine, who on the stroke of midnight had fired a champagne cork into the crowd. All the old cinema seats and spare memorabilia had been sold, and he now had more than enough money to make his
refurbishment something quite spectacular. His cut of the box office proceeds had been paid out as they had gone along, and he had spent the preceding weeks booking in the works, and falling in
love with the Internet as he built a website with an online box office.
The programme was filling up, as he got ready for the big relaunch in the summer. He was going to turn one of the small screens into a bar, papered with salvaged vintage posters, and fill the
main screen with a smaller number of incredibly comfortable chairs. People would be invited to take their drinks through. He wanted his old customers to return, but he also wanted to attract a
younger clientele. The art crowd had been a good place to start, and by leafleting
Life
he had already built up a mailing list of thirty thousand. Tickets were already selling for his
re-opening season, which was going to feature the French debut of the 1960s Welsh language classic,
Girls Doing Each Other’s Hair
. The director, Aneurin Lewis, was now ninety-nine
years old, but he had agreed to leave his nursing home in Llandeilo and mark his one-hundredth birthday with an appearance at a Q&A session after a screening. Nearly all the tickets for that
were already gone.
He peered out at the man he had to thank. He couldn’t wait to shake his hand, look him in the eye and thank him from the bottom of his heart. He was going to present him with a free
lifetime pass so he could come to any film he wanted, whenever he wanted. He hoped they would always be in touch. He had been dropping hints to Élise and Thao, telling them what a fine
specimen he was, and how his sperm would be ideal for baby-making purposes.
It’s good stuff
, he had told them over dinner the night before.
You can tell just by looking at
it
.
From his vantage point, Monsieur Rousset could see some of the audience. The place was packed. He could hardly believe that very soon it would all be over, and he made the most of these last few
minutes.
Aurélie Renard and Sylvie Akiyama had found seats in the balcony. They watched Léandre Martin as he paced up and down, and Aurélie’s butterflies were
now constant. It was so strange to think that very soon she and he would be alone together. He had requested her presence backstage, asking her to visit him after his medical, when he had put his
clothes back on. She had accepted.
For days she had been agonising over what to wear, and on Sylvie’s advice she had decided on the same clothes she had been wearing the first time they met. Added to this was a scarf that
she had bought at La Foularderie. The shop had been exactly the wonderland she had been led to believe it would be, and it had taken her over two hours to make her final choice; not a minute of
that time had been wasted, because she had narrowed their entire stock down to exactly the right scarf for her. Whenever she had worn it, which had been every day since, she had felt her spirits
lift. It wasn’t just cosmetic either; there was snow on the ground, and it was doing a good job of stopping her from freezing.
She wondered what she and Léandre were going to say to each other. She wished there was a way of telling whether things were going to work out between them, but whatever the future held,
she was looking forward to giving it a try. She just hoped he would grow his hair back straight away. He looked a lot better with eyebrows.
With minutes left to go, Le Machine walked over to the urinal, and out came a light yellow stream, to the familiar accompaniment of cheers and chants. Even Sylvie and Aurélie found
themselves joining in.
Le Ma-chine!
they chanted,
Le Ma-chine! Le Ma-chine!
Everybody knew it would be the final one.
Something about this sight made Sylvie remember something. She dug into the pocket of her duffel coat, and pulled out a parsnip. She handed it to Aurélie, who took it, and smiled her
thanks. She quite liked parsnips whenever she found herself eating one, but she rarely thought to buy them.
It was too loud in there for Sylvie to tell her the story behind the vegetable; she would have to do that another time.
The day after saying goodbye to Sylvie, Lucien had joined a coachload of Japanese tourists as they started a week-long trip through the French countryside. He held himself
together as best he could, telling them all about the places they were going to see, and answering their questions, but sometimes he couldn’t help but let slip a sigh, and every once in a
while a tear glided down his cheek. Soon the holiday makers had found out everything that had happened. They all felt very sorry for him.
Two days into the trip they had arrived at a monastery in the Loire Valley, and the tourists had disembarked to spend some time looking around the grounds before heading to the shop to buy the
monks’ famous honey. When it was time to go, they all got back on board, and just as they were about to leave they realised that Lucien was not with them.
Wait
, they shouted to the
driver,
wait for Lucien
, but the driver seemed not to understand them. Just as the coach pulled away, Lucien appeared at the monastery gate, dressed in a habit, and with a perfect circle
shaved into his hair. He raised his hand in goodbye.