Chapter 10: Keep the Aspirations Flying

It was in a state of utter shock that I made my way from the Hotel Imperial to Menton railway station. Yoland Faucher was a murderer! Her husband took the blame for the murder and then spent ten years of his life in prison. What a heroic thing to do for a wife. Would I have the courage to do the same? I would need to have a wife before answering that question and up to date I had been spectacularly unsuccessful in finding one.

At the same time of suffering the shock of learning Yolande’s secret I also bore the guilt of committing murder, and I’m not talking of the reassignment of Gaston Sancerre de Valois but rather the killing of a father who perjured himself to save his son. Aziz Ben Mahmood, a man whose only crime was loving his son, had been reassigned – murdered – by me. It was true his death saved Leilah and Dihya from being publically whipped and then charged with operating a brothel, a crime they were guilty of even if money did not change hands between fornicator and fornicatée. Added to those burdens was the elephant (or in this particular case a supine penis) in the room or rather in my brain. I had lost wood when inside a woman and I was now possibly/probably impotent.

Given all those factors it was no wonder I was bewitched, buggered, and bewildered when I reached the station and blindly bought a ticket to the destination of the first train that arrived in the station. By chance, luck, or fate the train I caught was bound for Perpignan. I boarded, still in a daze, and found an empty compartment. Hunched morosely in a corner seat I gazed sightlessly out of the window, my mind like my reproductive system switched off. I came to my senses, such as they were, when the train stopped at St Tropez and then cursed that I had foolishly thrown away the piece of paper with Mathieu’s address. I could do with the tender ministrations of one or more Scandinavian beauties but without an address how would I achieve that aim? St Tropez is not a particularly large town and it shouldn’t be too difficult to track down Mathieu’s home; how many small holdings were the in the town that housed Scandinavian staff? As I dallied and dithered the engine hooted its imminent departure but before I could get to the carriage door handle the train moved smoothly away from the platform and St Tropez.

I shrugged my shoulders - que sera sera - and consoled myself that even if I had found Mathieu’s smallholding (the very name caused my small holding to get even smaller) would I be able to maintain wood once within a female? My self-confidence, never my strongest suite, had suffered a huge blow and perhaps it was for the best I didn’t have to face the dilemma.

After a short stop in Marseille, where once again I deliberated whether to disembark and try my sexual luck at the Hotel Kalifornica but once again was saved from making a decision, and a possible fool of myself, by the train’s on time departure. I fell asleep not long after leaving Marseilles and only awoke when a heavy hand landed on my shoulder and a loud voice announced in my ear that I was in Perpignan and if I didn’t want to travel back to Marseille I should shift myself, which I did.

As I left Perpignan railway station the magnificent vista of the mighty Pyrenees appeared on the horizon to the south. My spirits rose; it was like seeing old friends, which of course they were. It was walking and working in those mountains during my six months ‘banishment’ to Fort Nonookie, the base where the legion trained its recruits in navigation and survival, that restored my peace of mind sorely disturbed after saying goodbye to Chloe and Amy, two girls who I thought I loved and who I thought loved me but unfortunately they loved each other, and that lucky bastard Paul Devereaux, more.

This time I had in addition to a broken heart (courtesy of Yolande Faucher who had insinuated herself into my life, and four years is a long time to be insinuated) a useless penis and guilt. In addition to those items jostling for attention in my mind I also had to find a new career to fund my lifestyle, such as it was.

According to the Bible spending solitary time in a desert or amid mountains was the response of men who had suffered a loss of spirit and the consequent diminution and degeneration of their soul. That was me in spades, and as my previous sojourn in the Pyrenees had restored my shattered spirits then I was certain the mountains would work their magic on me again.

A day after my arrival in Perpignan I had bought all the equipment required to survive in the mountains; pup tent, sleeping bag, back pack, camping stove, waterproof and windproof heavy jacket, whipcord trousers, a pair of comfortable hiking boots along with several pairs of woollen socks, and enough fresh food to last me a week. I hefted the pack (weighing about 30 kilos, my wallet by contrast lighter by about 1500 francs) on my back, and headed for a trail that took me deep into the Pyrenees.

For the next four weeks I traversed the Pyrenean Mountain Range east to west and then west to east. I kept to the higher, less used trails and thus encountered fewer hikers than on the more popular lower tracks. Although it almost the end of the tourist season there were more solitary hikers than I would have expected. It seemed I wasn’t the only one in the mountains seeking solace in solitude while wrestling with whatever devil or demons we carried.

Occasionally I would drop down into a valley village to replenish supplies. I had started the trek with two kilos each of spaghetti and rice as my basic fodder with iron rations, consisting of five packs of hard tack(a simple type of biscuit or cracker made from flour, water and salt), and half a kilo of jerky(dried meat), as a backup if there were no local supplies available. Both comestibles were generally unpalatable but nourishing and sustaining for the body if not entertaining for the palate. Fresh produce; eggs, goat cheese, bread, smoked ham, potatoes and other vegetables and fruit were bought in the villages in the valleys when my initial stock obtained in Perpignan, ran low. I had a kilo of ground coffee and a half kilo of sugar although I drank my coffee sugar less and milk-less. Water was never much of a problem in the mountains as there are plenty of streams from which it was quite OK to drink from as long as there were no dead sheep or their faeces in them. However it was wiser and healthier to take water from above the sheep line and always carry water purification tablets.

I only stayed long enough in a village to buy what I wanted and eschewed the friendly and welcoming bars/bistros. I was also celibate during my time in the mountains although there were plenty of enterprising whores who operated from pop up brothels along the most travelled routes. However I was not attracted to painted harlots or lipsticked sheep; I was a eunuch and couldn’t, wouldn’t, and didn’t face the scorn in the eyes of woman or ovine when unable to do the business.

At night, snug in my sleeping bag, I would go over in my mind the events and occurrences that had brought me to this low point in my life and considered what to do with the rest of my miserable existence. At no time did I contemplate suicide so I must have held some hope deep within me that the Phoenix would arise from the ashes and Lazarus from the dead.

Time passed and I was nearing the end of my splendid isolation in the mountains. The holiday hikers were heading home, winter was on its way and it was time for me to re-join the human race even if I only dawdled around the track. I headed east, edging my way towards Perpignan and civilisation, such as it was.

Being greeted by a flurry of snowflakes when I reached the crest of a ridge reminded me that winter arrives early in the Pyrenees. The snow flurry increased in intensity as did the wind. Fortunately, I was in an area of the Pyrenees I knew quite well thanks to my six months at Fort Nonookie. About two klicks (2000 kms) ahead of me I remembered there was a shepherd’s cabin nestled in a small col, a notch, in the ridge. Head down into the wind I made for the shelter. Once inside the sanctuary I built a fire – there was always kindling and logs available – brewed a pot of coffee, broke out the last of my rations and settled in for the night.

It was in that shepherd’s bothy on the slopes of Pic de Bugatet I finally arranged the elements of my future life into a logical order. I prioritised the two objectives in my life; there had once been three but I decided to drop marriage from my plan thanks to my recently acquired impotence and my long time failure to maintain a relationship with any woman I thought could be my soul mate. My fortieth birthday was a few weeks away and it appeared that fate decreed I was not to have a life partner. Even if my virility returned I would not take that confidence sapping action of finding a woman I would want to spend my life with only to later discover she didn’t want to spend her life with me. No, I was much better off with just the two objectives:

Objective One was to write the story of Grigor Pavel, the Universal Soldier. I had his audio tapes safe in a lock up in Aubagne and once settled would retrieve them, listen and transcribe them before writing a fictional story based on his factual account.

Objective Two was to own a bar /bistro. Obviously I would need a large amount of money to achieve that objective but I had at least 20,000 francs and a stash of 5 troy ounces of gold - the value of which fluctuated on a daily basis, currently between $380-$400 a troy ounce. I also hoped that writing the story of the Universal Soldier would result in extra income.

So, I had my objectives but how was I to achieve them?

Writing the story required accommodation, somewhere to tap away at a typewriter, and a typewriter. I had done a typewriting course prior to going to Grenoble University, a handy skill when having to produce essays, theses, dissertations and suchlike. I was no flying fingered typist but could keep up a steady pace of 25-30 words per minute without too many errors. Of course accommodation and typewriters cost money and currently I was unemployed although I had a meagre pension from the legion and somewhere near 20,000 francs ($3600;£2100) which is not a great fortune but enough to keep body and soul together for a year without additional income (the average monthly salary in France at the time was approx. 1700 francs). I planned to keep my stash of gold in reserve, a possible deposit for a bar/bistro premise when the price of gold rose above $500 a troy ounce.

Next morning, before leaving the shepherd’s cabin for Perpignan, I split some logs for kindling and chopped several more logs to replenish what I had used. I had some not quite stale bread and a hunk of well ripened goat cheese to see me the ten hours I estimated it would take to trek to Perpignan so left the remainder of my rice, spaghetti, hard tack and jerky in the cabin. It was mountain courtesy to leave surplus supplies and equipment in shepherds’ cabins, not just for other walkers but also for the shepherds who maintain the supply of logs. I once found a packet of condoms in a cabin, but before you think some enterprising shepherd was running a mountain brothel, a condom is not just utilised for protection or birth control but also for carrying water; during the summer there are sometimes drought conditions even in the Pyrenees.

I reached Perpignan by mid-afternoon and found a room in a shabby but cheap motel. First on my agenda was to find employment as I had aspirations that to be achieved required a regular income.

With my skill set I could be either an assassin, hotel worker or a pharmacist’s assistant. I chose the middle option but before presenting myself before a hotel manager I needed to clean up my act; I had spent a month living rough in the mountains and it showed. Four weeks of accumulated muck and grime was scrubbed off my body under the slow running tepid water from the motel room shower. I then visited an old fashioned barber who not only cut my unruly flowing locks into a neat and personable style but also shaved off my scrubby tangled beard. Pristine, and wearing newly bought smart casual clothes, I presented myself to the Assistant Manager of Hotel du Pyrenees –Occidental, one of the several 3 and 4 star establishments in the city.

“I’m sorry, M’sieu Soissons, but it is the end of the season and we are laying off our seasonal staff.” He said when I inquired about employment at the hotel. “It will be the same at all the other hotels in Perpignan.” He looked at the CV I had printed at a Print R Us shop. “We would snap you up if you come back at the beginning of next season as you have experience in all aspects of the hotel trade.” He thought for a moment. “There will be hotels along the Côte de Vermeille still receiving visitors. You might find employment in Argelès-sur-Mer, Collioure, Port-Vendres, Paulilles or Banyuls-sur-Mer.”.

Of course, the Vermillion Coast Hotel in Port Vendres! I had helped out behind the bar when things became too much for the semi trained bartender and the under manager of the hotel had been extremely grateful. Perhaps he would show his gratitude by giving me a job?

I thanked the Assistant Manager of Hotel du Pyrenees-Occidental and asked how to get to Port Vendres. He directed me to the bus station, the bus being a far cheaper option than the train.

After a wait of about half an hour I boarded the bus that took a circuitous and terrifying route through the mountains and to many of the Pyrenean villages I had visited during my trek, including the town of le Boulou of Drummer Boy fame. Eventually the bus descended to the coast and I was deposited outside the Vermillion Coast Hotel. After a quick polish of my shoes and a swift comb through my hair I marched with the confident air of an Alfie Hinds to the reception desk and asked to speak to the under manager.

Thankfully, it was the same man who I had assisted two years previously and he remembered me and the promise he made at the time, but thought he would never have to redeem.

“With your many skills, Soissons (he switched from addressing me as ‘Monsieur Soissons’ when it became clear I was after a job and had reverted to managerial mode) you can be slotted in anywhere; kitchen, bar, restaurant maintenance, room service, porter, driver or reception. In fact you could multi task and save the hotel money.”

‘Yeah, and if you stuck a broom up my arse I could sweep the floor at the same time,’ I thought.

He indicated the wide marble staircase that led to the upper floor. “All guests’ luggage has to be portaged up those stairs. We have no elevator and never will so porters are in constant use. This hotel is open all hours of the day every day of the year and guests arrive at any time, night or day. The position of Night Porter is currently vacant and you, Soissons, are a perfect fit as the duties of the night porter are to be on hand for room service, driving duties, kitchen work, and also to relieve the receptionist at times.” He showed his teeth in a vulpine smile as ‘good manager/cop’. “As I said when we first met, you are a man of many parts.” He then switched to ‘bad manager/cop.’ “But there will be no interaction with female guests of your other parts when delivering room service, if you take my meaning?”

“Perfectly, Sir.” (I can brown nose with the best of them when needs must) “But what if the guest requires intimate room service?”

He looked bewildered. “What on earth is intimate room service?”

“You’re a man of the world, Monsieur Le Bon, use your imagination.”

It took him a few seconds to comprehend and then blushed a sunset red. “I suppose that would be permissible as the Vermillion Coast Hotel prides itself in fulfilling every request of our guests. But of course that sort of ‘service’ will not be brought to the attention of management.” He quickly changed the subject. “One of the perks of Night Porter is being accommodated on site. Your quarters are in the basement and include a bedroom, lounge, shower and toilet, and a small kitchen area although most of your meals will be taken in the hotel kitchen along with other members of staff. Of course being accommodated and fed by the hotel means that your remuneration...”

“Will have the costs of the above taken into account,” I finished for him.

Le Bon nodded. “Exactly, but on the other hand you will be in a position to receive gratuities from grateful guests. Portering, bar tending, delivering room service, and driving are actions usually rewarded by guests so what you lose on the accommodation charge you gain in the hand, so to speak.”

He showed me to my accommodation and it wasn’t as bad as I had first feared. The basement was huge, and besides my quarters there was a well-equipped fitness centre that I would certainly be spending time in. There were storage cabinets containing all manner of food and drink, in fact one part of the basement was a wine cellar with dehumidifiers, thermometers and airtight doors. The electrical power plant that served the hotel was also situated in the basement but was maintained by the regional electricity supplier. There was a diesel fuelled generator as emergency back-up and one my duties was a daily check that the generator was fully fuelled and to run the generator for a minute or so to ensure it would be serviceable when required. There were also two dormitories used by seasonal staff and the employees of those guests who arrived in their own vehicle and were wealthy enough to employ a chauffeur/gentleman’s gentleman. The basement was well lit and ventilated, wasn’t gloomy and didn’t feel claustrophobic. After being given the tour, and my duties, by the under manager I unpacked my few belongings and then reported to Reception. My new career as Night Porter and general dogsbody had begun.

The under manager was right about one thing and that was the generosity of the guests, or at least some of the guests. After lugging their luggage up two flights of stairs my reward was often greater than my attenuated daily pay. The top floor of the three storied building housed the suites and as most of the visitors were wealthy enough to spend a month or more they would naturally have a suite to entertain their visitors or, as I discovered later, conduct whatever business they were in.

Room service was also a good earner. Although there was no elevator in the hotel there was a dumbwaiter serving the first and second floors. (in France as in most of Europe a three storied building has a Ground floor, a First floor and a Second or Top floor). From the dumbwaiter station on each floor room service staff wheeled trollies of food and drink to the guests. (Incidentally the staff at the Vermillion Coast Hotel referred to the dumbwaiter as ‘Manuel.’ I never did discover the reason)

I soon got to know the managerial staff and where they stood in the hierarchy.

The Manager of the hotel, Charles Aznovoyce, was seldom seen around the working areas of the hotel, spending most of his time in his office in the basement or in Bordeaux at the regional HQ of the group that now owned the hotel. The Under Manager, Pierre Le Bon, did most of the heavy lifting in the running of the hotel with the assistance of a harassed looking Mademoiselle Jeannette Bourcy, the Assistant Under Manager. It was whispered it might be Le Bon who did the harassing – sexual harassing. Other than that Le Bon did a competent job and by and large was on top of the job, as well as being on top of his assistant as it was whispered.

Henri Rosin was Chef de Cuisine, previously the head chef of le Cheval Blanc, a Michelin three starred restaurant in Lyons, but whether the stars were due to Henri I have no idea. The Maître d’Hôtel was a petty dictator by the name of Louis Vacher. He and I never saw eye to eye probably because he was a drag-arsed little runt who barely came up to my midriff. Vacher was responsible for the waiting staff and for greeting and seating the diners to the main restaurant. The house keeper, Madame Ghislaine Tourette, was responsible for the cleaning staff, the chambermaids, and the cleanliness of guests’ rooms, bed linen and towels, the same job as Yolande Faucher did in Menton, or wherever she was now ... Madame Tourette claimed her family could trace their lineage back to Vercingetorix, which I thought fanciful if not a downright fable, but as she herself was a Boudicca of a woman I kept my opinion to myself and myself out of her way as much as possible, as did others with any sense. The Senior Receptionist was a voluptuous, dark haired, dark eyed, sexy beauty by the name of Phoebe Lassiter and had I not been eunuchised I would have been into her scanty panties like a rat up a drainpipe, but alas that was then and this was now. Phoebe – ‘call me Phee’ – was in charge of the receptionists and ruled them with a rod of cooked spaghetti. She was the only one of the senior managers who did regular night shifts and her staff adored her.

Although there was a railway station in Port Vendres it was on a branch line with little or no traffic and most of the hotel’s guests who arrived in Perpignan by train from all and every region of Western Europe preferred to be picked up and returned by the luxurious people carrier vehicles from the hotel. There were two routes from Port Vendres to Perpignan. One was via the mountains consisting of hairpin bends and unfenced sheer drops that only the foolhardy and local buses used. In fact, it was the route I had travelled with my heart in my mouth when on the bus from Perpignan to Port Vendres after my stay in the mountains. The other, an easier, faster, and definitely safer route, was via the D914 along the coast to Port Angeles and then inland via Argeles sur Mer, Elne and Corneilla-del-Vercol to Perpignan. This was the route that I, and the four other porter/drivers who collected and delivered guests from Perpignan railway station and Perpignan airport, used. The other members of staff referred to us as La foule loured (The Heavy Mob) as we were also multitasked as the hotel security team. We didn’t carry weapons other than hefty flashlights and whistles and were employed mainly to reassure our guests that no Gypsies, tramps or thieves, ie the working class, would intrude into their idyllic surroundings and upset the genteel but wealthy ambience. Occasionally a drunken guest would be tactfully manoeuvred away from the bar but generally the moneyed classes behaved impeccably; they can well hold their liquor as they have the DNA of generations of alcoholics in their genes.

I carried out regular patrols through the hotel in the early hours checking no fire doors had been left open by those delivering room service and there were no cigarette or cigar ends smouldering away in the deep pile of the carpeted corridors. i often saw and heard sights and sounds that I was not meant to see and hear. The moneyed class have always been more decadent, degenerate, licentious, lecherous and louder than any Gypsy Tramp and Thief.

I had telephoned the Hotel Imperial in Menton soon after my arrival in Port Vendres and asked that my personnel possessions, still in the suite I had occupied when a guest/employee, be dispatched to the Vermillion Coast Hotel. At the same time I asked after Yolande Faucher and was told she and her husband had relocated to Ravenna and were now managing the Hotel Honorius. I also telephoned Mon Repos in Agadir to give Maurice my new address. It was Dihya who answered the telephone and informed me Maurice was away on an archaeological dig in the south east of the country. She made a note of my address and then asked when I would be visiting them again.

‘Leilah and I are most grateful to you for saving our reputations and the hotel, Philippe, and we look forward to demonstrating our gratitude.’

I made a limp excuse why I couldn’t make any firm commitments to visit themMy final telephone call of the day was to the lock up storage centre in Aubagne where Grigor Pavel’s audio tapes were stored. I asked that they be sent to the Hotel Vermillion Coast Hotel and three days later they arrived by FedEx.

I was off shift at the time but Phoebe Lassiter was on duty and signed, and paid, for the delivery. Naturally she was intrigued why I had ten audio tapes delivered. I could have told her to mind her own business but she wasn’t being nosey, okay she was being a bit nosey, but Phoebe was the type of person who was always on the lookout as to how she could help someone. I answered her question. “These are audio tapes of the life and times of Grigor Pavel, a hero of the Foreign Legion. I am going to transcribe them and then write his story. Of course I will first need to buy a tape recorder and a typewriter and then...”

“Are you an audio typist?” Phoebe asked. I didn’t know what an audio typist was and she saw my bewilderment. “To be able to type what you hear as you hear it is a skill I doubt you possess, Philippe.”

“I will just have to listen to a paragraph or two and then type what I can remember.”

“That will take every minute of your off duty time, and tape recorders, typewriters and typewriter paper cost money.” She said with the air of authenticity of someone who knows about such things. “My sister Fleur is an audio typist and would be able to transcribe the complete set of tapes in a tenth of the time it would take you. Let me contact her; she will do the job for a fee of course as that is how she earns a living but she would do it for less if I ask her. When I have the time I will ring her and see what she says.”

Phoebe was as good as her word and when I booked in for my shift at 2100 hours (9 p.m. in civilian speak) there was a message from her for me.

‘My sister will transcribe your tapes at a special price of 25 francs per tape. If you agree I will see you tomorrow when you finish your shift and arrange to get the tapes to her.’

I finished my shift at 0700 hours (7 a.m. in civilian speak) and sure enough Phoebe was at Reception.

“Fleur is at home today and says she will be happy to transcribe your tapes. She will do them as and when she is not doing her proper work but I’m assuming you are not in a hurry to begin your masterpiece?” Phoebe gave me a warm smile to take away any sarcasm I might have thought lurked in her words.

“No, that will be fine. I’ll wait until all ten tapes are transcribed before starting on the project.”

“Have you any experience of writing?” she asked.

“Only essays and the like.”

“Well even Zola had to start somewhere.”

“I think Aix-en-Provence would be a prime contender.” My father was a fan of Emile Zola and had all 20 volumes of Rougon-Macquart that I never got around to reading, much to my father’s disappointment.

Phoebe ignored my rather flippant and somewhat pompous and egotistical reply. “Writing a novel is the easy part; getting it published is much more difficult.” She handed me a slip of paper. “This is Fleur’s address. She lives just around the corner from Perpignan’s Police Headquarters where she works but has today off. Take one of the people carriers and deliver the tapes to her, on your way back to Port Vendres you can pick up a hotel guest who is flying into Perpignan Airport, arriving from Paris on flight RLA Seven at four this afternoon. I know you are off duty but by collecting a guest at the airport you have reason to book out the vehicle. The guest is a Doctor Josephine Jardinier; she is a regular visitor to the hotel and usually stays with us for two months.”

I thanked Phoebe for her help; I think she would have liked me to kiss her but eunuch don’t kiss and any way she wore a wedding ring.

Fleur Brousson was a younger, unmarried, version of Phoebe Lassiter. Not quite as voluptuous and her hair was a shade or two lighter but she was as trim and sexy as her sister. She had opened the door wearing a bath robe and I apologised for disturbing her shower or whatever. She gave a throaty chuckle. “Phee rang to say you were on your way so I took time out from screwing the brains out of my boss; he needed the rest as he is twenty years older than me. After round two he’ll get a taxi back to his house and shrewish, sexless, wife!”

I passed over the tapes and she said it would be probably the end of the month before she got around to them. “Besides keeping my boss happy in the bedroom I also have to keep him happy at work and have quite a workload at Police Headquarters. All interviews and statement are recorded and there are only two audio typists to produce the text copies required. It used to be police officers who had to spend hours pecking away at typewriters but now they have more time to solve crimes, other than the Chief of Detectives who has more time to screw me!”

I handed over the 250 francs; Fleur was surprised to get the money up front but I insisted she take it. She gave me a pack on the cheek and said she would telephone ‘Phee’ when the tapes had all been transcribed. “I’d better get back upstairs and finish what I started,” she said with a cheeky grin on her face and I left her to it.

The flight from Paris was on time and I waited in arrivals for my passenger to deplane. I had a sign with her name written on it and was approached by a trim fifty something female in a smart business suit that was obviously a Dior or Givenchy designed garment. The just above knee length skirt fit snugly over her hips and trim waist and she wore a white silk blouse beneath a hip length jacket that clung equally gracefully to her shapely breasts. Doctor Jardinier was petite; I estimate she stood about 165 cm tall (5ft 5 ins) in her 5cm heels (2 ins) and her well-formed body tipped the scales at around 40 kilos (90 lbs). Her silver hair was cut in a fashionable chin length bob that should have been too young for her but wasn’t. Sapphire blue eyes, which had a slight slant or it might have been the eye shadow giving that impression, twinkled in a full lipped, feline shaped face. She was a female well worth a long lingering look and I wasn’t the only male in the arrival hall to be taking her inventory.