French Revolutions

he’s a nice lad. Lives
just down the road, said the mother, opposite the Novotel. Five bedrooms and a
swimming pool, said the daughter. Look, Portugal have scored a goal, said the
mother. And another, said her daughter. Oh, look at our friend, he’s upset,
let’s give him a drink, said the mother. Here you are, said the daughter, a nice
Dubonnet. Thank you, I said. You English love Dubonnet, said the mother. Do we,
I said. Yes, said the daughter. I’m cycling to Troyes tomorrow, I said. Do you
like my blouse, said the daughter. It’s 254 kilometres to Troyes, I said. Oh
no, dear, said the mother, I don’t think so. Philippe once did it in two hours,
said the daughter. Not on a bicycle he didn’t, I said. A bicycle, said the
mother, I don’t think anyone goes to Troyes on a bicycle. I do, I said. Don’t
you like Dubonnet, said the daughter. Yes, I said, I’m just tired. Yes, said
the mother, and aren’t your hands hot. And your cheeks, said the daughter. We
could tell you were a sportsman as soon as you came in, said the mother. The
legs, said the daughter. Stand up and show us again, said the mother. Come on,
there’s no one else here, said the daughter, it’s just a bit of fun. Wait, said
the mother, you have a small wound on your neck. Come here, little wounded
soldier, said the daughter, and I’ll make it all better. Well, there’s no need
for that, said the mother, she was only trying to help. Excuse me, said the
daughter, but don’t think you can just leave without paying. I have paid, I
said. Not for the Dubonnet, said the mother. Typical English, said the
daughter. And Portugal scored again.
    The festival was sweeping up its
glass when I trudged slowly back across the squares to my hotel. Roadies were
messing about with the instruments as they cleared the stages, and as I flopped
on to my bed and clicked on the weather forecast there was an ominous drum roll
from outside: circling wind and thunderstorms. Then the phone rang. It was
reception. ‘Monsieur Moore? I ’ave a message about your... massage.’ Please
don’t say it like that. ‘Is change for ten surty. Good night.’
    The bad thing about the delay was
that it severely compromised my marathon itinerary. Even without a stop I’d be
hard pressed to cover 254 kilometres in less than ten hours. The good thing was
that it bequeathed me one and a half hours for additional preparation.
    With my usual ruminative lunch no
longer an option, early the following morning I stocked up with what I hoped
might comprise 254 kilometres’ worth of sustenance: five Mars Bars, one litre
of apricot nectar and two of Yoplait Energie, a pack of Fig Rolls and a set of
‘Baker Street’ fruit cakes — the Holmes, which apparently had some butter in,
and die Watson, which was slightly less turquoise. Then I retrieved ZR from the
laundry room and cycled up the hill to a petrol station, where, before the
curious gaze of staff and clients, I paid 10 francs to blast her abused and
filthy flanks with a high-pressure jet of hot, soapy water. Finally, having
temporarily redeposited ZR at the hotel, with a sense of foreboding in its own
way more wretched than that I felt when the Pyrenees first hove into view, I
trooped dismally into an Yves Rocher beauty salon and quietly asked a lady in
white clothes to depilate my legs.
    It had to be done. I’d spent too much
time thinking about it: why they did it, how, when. Through all the coundess
hours I’d spent surveying my hairy knees as they rose and fell, rose and fell,
I’d felt I was looking at the legs of a pretender. Now I’d done the mountains
and got the tan, and if I wanted to be taken seriously by my masseur, the hair
would have to go.
    They were very nice in the salon.
Some of the questions I had feared were asked (did I want a full-leg wax or a
half; was I aware that the process might involve some discomfort), but most
were not (did I mind if passers-by were herded in to watch; was there a long history
of cross-dressing in my family; would it matter that as the first depilatory
client after the Pentecost I was obliged by local tradition to retain an
unshaved area on each shin in the form of an inverted crucifix). As Martine
ushered me into her quiet depilatorium I explained my relief that such a
procedure was clearly commonplace amongst Belfort’s male population. Hardly,
she said as I removed rather more clothing than I felt comfortable about. I was
the first man they’d ever had in.
    I knew it was