Chapter 12: Writers Blocked

The journey back to Port Vendres was completed in silence other than occasional bursts of sobbing from Mal. I dropped him off at the Barn, gave him a man hug, expressed my sorrow at his loss and arranged to be bartending later that evening. I then headed for the Vermillion Coast Hotel cursing that due to my impecunious state I was unable to take advantage of Mal’s grief and buy more shares from him.

The reason for this paucity of funds can be laid squarely at the door of one man, Roland Gautiere, Senior Marketing Executive at The Occitanian Publishing Corporation (OPC).

All manuscripts submitted to the OPC for publishing are, naturally, written in French.The edited manuscripts/books are printed on OPC’s printing presses and then distributed throughout the French speaking world. Roland decided to have some of OPC’s books translated into English and then be marketed in the USA; if sales were good the plan was to have all OPC published books translated into English and sold throughout the English speaking world. Roland’s guinea pig, so to speak, was Sadie Luvbyte as she was the best-selling author in OPC’s stable. Her top three bestselling books and her latest, recently published, book were chosen for the experiment. This marketing scheme was hatched at around the same time I first met Raymond Chappell although at the time he was not party to the plan.

The four chosen books were hastily translated into English, the University of Toulouse supplying translators from the vast numbers of polyglots lecturing and attending at that centre of educational excellence. A print run of 500 English translated copies of each of the four chosen books was set up and the resulting 2000 books despatched to the USA; 500 books each to New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, and New Orleans. Nothing startling in the way of sales occurred for several months and then in Alabama or it might have been in Arkansas, it was definitely somewhere in The Bible Belt, a TV Evangelist set a copy of Sadie Luvbyte’s latest book ‘The Preacher and the Harlot’ on fire on camera. He condemned the readers of such ‘blasphemy and pornography’ as ‘Servants of Satan’ and urged his followers to search out books by ‘this evil woman’ and burn them.

Within 24 hours of the broadcast you couldn’t buy a Sadie Luvbyte book in the USA for love nor money. Prices for copies of her books went stratospheric, with ‘The Preacher and the Harlot’ beyond even that (the story was based, very loosely based, on Abelard and Heloise)

Naturally it was not burning the books the clamouring hordes were bent on but reading the books; pornography being of prime interest to the prurient.

When the news of the burning and subsequent sell out of Sadie’s books reached Toulouse it was seen as a heaven sent opportunity to make a deal of money in a short space of time. OPC’s printing presses were soon producing thousands of translated copies of the four banned and damned books as other parts of the English speaking world joined the fervour for Luvbyte’s ‘bodice ripping, bonk busting’ books. Senior management at OPC went further and decided to translate all of Sadie Luvbyte’s books (thirty three all told) into English and then print them for distribution in the English speaking territories of the world.

Such a decision meant that all other books in OPC’s publishing pipeline were put on hold including my collaboration with Monika Morningstar. Her book was now fully edited and waiting to be printed but unfortunately the book would remain in waiting mode until all of Sadie Luvbyte’s books had been translated and published. My contract with OPC, including the amount of any book advance, was dependent on the sales of Monika Morningstar’s book but it would be at least a year before that book would hit the book stores and then only those in the French speaking world. Until then I would have to rely on my own income to keep solvent.

At least I was no longer under pressure to finish the book. Even if Fleur was available for editing there would be no translation and printing of my book until all of Sadie Luvbyte’s books had been dealt with and the queue of books awaiting translation and printing, including Momika Morningstar’s, published. I was at the extreme end of a very long queue and had no chance of having enough money to buy more shares in the Barn Company for some considerable time, assuming Mal could be persuaded to sell me any.

When I returned to the Barn to tend the bar Mal was seated at a table in the bistro staring moodily into a glass of brandy. He glanced up as I entered the room. He was more composed than the last time I saw him although his eyes were red rimmed with weeping. He motioned for me to join him at the table.

“I regard you as a brother,” he said as I sat down in a chair opposite him.

“That’s good to hear, Mal. Have you other brothers?”

He shook his head. “Not now. The one I had got called up to do his military service but instead of volunteering to do three years in the navy, as all of us from Port Vendres did, the silly bugger went in the army for eighteen months so not to be away from his girlfriend for so long. He was killed in Algiers; his death was the death of my mother. The day after he left for Algeria his slut of a girlfriend was on her back with her legs apart. I know that for a fact as it was me in between her thighs fucking her senseless. Brothers share everything. My brother’s name was Philippe, which is why I’ve allowed you to fuck Anne. Brothers share everything!”

“Well, I’m flattered to be held in such high...”

His strange request came from out of the blue “When I get to be like Anne I want you to kill me. Promise me you will do it, Philippe my brother?”

“Don’t be so bloody stupid, Mal. If I killed you I would be put in prison. Anyway you haven’t got dementia and will not end up like Anne...”

“I lived with Anne for over fifteen years; I might have caught it from her!”

“Dementia isn’t contagious; it’s a mental thing...”

“But if I do end up with dementia please put me out of the pain that Anne went through. I’ve planned how you could do it without getting arrested for murder. We take my boat out fishing with my shotgun on board. Once we are well out at sea you shoot me then tip me over the side and chuck the shotgun into the sea after me. You then report that I was drunk and fell overboard. People know I like a bottle of brandy or two, and there will be plenty of empty bottles of brandy on the boat when the authorities come aboard to investigate.”

It appeared Mal had already drunk a bottle or two of brandy given the bizarre request he had made. However it wasn’t his crazy idea of me shooting him that took my attention but what he had said concerning Anne.

“Anne was in a vegetative state and would have felt no pain; in fact she would have felt nothing.” I said. “Her brain was closing down and her senses were disintegrating or had already disintegrated.”

“I heard her screaming in pain,” Mal said in a truculent, probably brandy influenced, tone of voice.

‘I never heard her screaming any time I was with...”

“She weren’t screaming out loud but screaming inside her body, and inside my head. I could hear her but no one else could, not even that big titted know it all Doctor bloody Bonhomme!”

“You are not going to get dementia but if you do I promise I will shoot you,” I said to shut him up. Mal was giving me the creeps; asking to be shot, hearing a person in a vegetative state silently screaming. I supposed he had already drunk a bottle or more of brandy; the brand he favoured was known as ‘Gut Rot’ to its aficionados but going by Mal’s condition it should be called Brain Rot.

My agreement to murder him seemed to calm Mal down. He rose from his chair and clapped me on my back. “Thanks brother. I’m going to get Gaviota ready for tonight’s fishing and I will see you tomorrow.”

He made an unsteady way to the exit and I went behind the bar and got ready for the evenings’ customers.

When I arrived at the Barn the following day there was no sign of Mal or his boat Gaviota. I found Babette in the kitchen and asked her where Mal might be.

She shrugged her shoulders.”Dunno’. He was here earlier this morning and has left some lobsters in the kitchen. I’ll get them ready for the lunchtime trade.”

I left her to it. Mal could be moored somewhere in the harbour, sleeping on Gaviota after a hard night’s fishing and brandy drinking. He certainly wasn’t anywhere in the Barn.

I finished my shift at 5 pm and there had been no sign of Mal. Fortunately customers had been few as it was mid-week and trade was quiet but come Friday the place would be heaving and if Mal had gone walkabout I was going to be rushed off my feet. Fortunately I had an arrangement with a couple of bar staff at the Vermillion Coast Hotel that when not on shift at the hotel would moonlight at the Barn when required. They were paid cash in hand as one franc out of sight of the revenue in a pocket is worth two francs in a pay-packet.

Mal didn’t show for ten days and but for Babette, the two Vermillion Coast Hotel bar tenders, and a couple of local girl sometime used as bar staff/kitchen helpers, things would have got out of hand. Even so we were hard pressed to meet the demands of our customers without Mal. He was the patron and in a rather lax and inefficient way managed the place, ordering supplies of food and drink and signing the cheques while dealing with matters arising and seeing that the bar/bistro functioned efficiently. Before succumbing to dementia Anne had been de facto manager; her organizational skills were limited but at least she had kept the Barn solvent.

Over time Babette and I had developed a friendship of sorts. It helped that I was a competent vegetable prepper, allowing her to get on with the more important aspects of cuisine, although I was permitted to prepare certain comestibles in her kitchen. I whipped up omelettes with the panache of conjuror producing rabbits from a top hat; presented perfect cassoulets thanks to the intensive training received from Chloe Roubaix in Castelnaudary, and I had introduced customers of the Barn to my signature dish of Spaghetti Lyonnais. Babette gave my culinary achievements a slight smile of approval, well in her case a slight gumming of approval as she had no teeth for smiling. However her greatest help during the ten days Mal was AWOL was introducing a trio of her grandnieces/granddaughters (I was never quite clear as to their relationship) as ad hoc cleaners, waitresses, and kitchen hands; helping Babette in the kitchen, washing up cooking utensils and the dirty crockery, waiting at table and giving the rather scruffy and down market bistro an ambience of cleanliness and comfort.

I asked Babette why the girls had not been utilised before when we had been short staffed.

“I wouldn’t allow these sweet innocent young girls to come anywhere near that red headed jezebel Anne Brennan lest she corrupted them,” Babette replied, and then added. “And if you so much as lay a finger on their virginal bodies I will slice it off with a cleaver, and other more important pieces of your anatomy.”

The girls had nothing to fear from me. Although I appreciated their sparkling eyes, budding breasts and lissom coltish legs my taste in females were those old enough to have hair around their chattes.

With all aspects of the bar/bistro now functioning smoothly I had time to deal with the accounts, order supplies and oversee the running of the enterprise. I became the manager of the Barn for ten days, a tenure that cemented my desire to own and run a bar/bistro. I used the skills learned as a Commissary Sergeant in the legion to have the business operating more efficiently and instigated systems that would keep the Barn Company profitable. However to really prosper the Barn required expensive renovations and extensions to the building and unfortunately the purse strings were controlled by Malachi Vivas, a man addicted to brandy who imagined he heard a woman in a vegetative state screaming in pain.

My burning, overwhelming, desire was to own the Barn outright. Mal’s death seemed as good a way as any of fulfilling that ambition, especially as now Mal regarded me as his brother and would no doubt have me named as main beneficiary in his will.

Ten days after Mal’s disappearance I arrived at the Barn ready to start my shift as barman /manager. I saw Mal’s boat, Gaviota, tied up alongside the wooden jetty and heard laughter and the hubbub of conversation coming from the open windows of the Barn. I walked in and there was Mal as large as life behind the bar with the look on his face of a canary and cream filled cat. Standing alongside him behind the bar was an older version of Marlene Fürst, the sex on a stick young girl Maurice and I had carnal relations with in Deauville (but not at the same time). I judged the woman to be twenty or so years older than Marlene. The lines on her attractive but lived in face indicated she had been around the block many times, and her louche attitude told you there were plenty more times available for the right man. Like Marlene Fürst she oozed sex appeal, but whereas Marlene broadcast ’Come and lick me’ this female’s message was ‘You’ll blow a fuse when I lick you.’ She stood about 1.7 metres tall (5ft 6 ins) and was amply endowed, and it was not her best foot she was putting forward but her Double Dees. The top three buttons of her blouse were undone and the rest were straining at their moorings. Her hair was a similar shade of brown as Marlene Fürst’s but her eyes were dark brown rather than the cornflower blue of Marlene. She was well tanned; in fact I would hazard a guess that she had North African ancestry.

“This is Elaine,” said Mal. “She’s our new bar maid,”

Elaine came out from behind the bar. Her mid-thigh length skirt hugged her shapely hips as snugly as her blouse enfolded her outstandingly shapely breasts. I held out my hand to shake hers but she placed them on my shoulders and then reached up and kissed me firmly on both cheeks, grinding her pelvis into my groin as she did. Being a normal red blooded male I reacted in the way she intended.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Philippe,” she purred in a Parisian accent,” and I know you are pleased to meet me.” She turned around to face Mal, making sure her haunches and her bubble butt rubbed against what her pelvis had aroused.”You didn’t tell me how handsome Philippe was,” she pouted.

“He ain’t,” Mal replied. “You’re still blinded by my handsomeness!”

“Handsome is as handsome does,” she replied. Mal gave a roar of laughter, came from behind the bar, grabbed Elaine by the arm and rushed her up the stairs to his bedroom. The sounds that followed moments later indicated that handsome was doing what handsome does. I shrugged my shoulders; Elaine was going to be a problem in more ways than one.

I learned later that Elaine’s grandfather had been a Harki, an Algerian Muslim serving with the French Army during the Algerian War 1954-1962. After Algeria gained independence from France many Harkis were slaughtered by their compatriots who regarded them as traitors but fortunately Elaine’s grandfather managed to escape to France.

“Where did you find her?” I asked Mal a few days after Elaine’s arrival.

“Who?” Mal replied. I think his brains must have really been shagged out by Elaine.

“Elaine, our new barmaid.”

“In Toulon.”

“What were you doing in Toulon?”

“Finding a new barmaid!” He was either channelling a British comedian or really had had his brains shagged out. As I doubt Mal had ever heard of Spike Milligan it must have been the latter, but then he explained why he had been in Toulon. “Gaviota had to have her bi-annual sea-worthiness check. The lease runs out at the end of year and...”

“Lease! Your boat is rented?”

“Leased for a three year period. The company that owns Gaviota is based in Toulon and get a discount by having their vessels maintained in the local boat yard. Not that I get the benefit, the cost of the bi-annual service is put on the lease payment.”

“How did you meet Elaine, was it in a bar?”

“Yeah. She was working in a bar by the docks. She reminded me of Anne and we got chatting. After a few drinks I offered her a job at the Barn and she jumped at it.”

“Did you offer her more money than she earned at the bar?”

“No but I offered her free accommodation in the Barn. She was paying a fortune to rent a place in Toulon.”

“You say she reminded you of Anne but she doesn’t look a bit like her.”

“No, she don’t look a bit like Anne but I looked into her soul, Philippe, and it was the same as Anne’s.”

“If Elaine seduces the local men folk we will soon lose custom,” I said.

“Elaine is not as loose as Anne but is as lost a soul as was Anne. I saw into their innermost parts and know how they feel.”

I doubt any man, let alone a brandy swilling Catalan fisherman, could ever know how a woman feels but said nothing.

Elaine proved to be an excellent barmaid and although brazenly flaunted her attributes to customers she didn’t engage in any sexual shenanigans other than with Mal. They seemed to have inexhaustible energy judging by the noises coming from Mal and her bedroom over the next several months. I would come on shift at 10 am and they would still be going at it like alley cats. I left at 2 pm and Elaine would take over from me in the bar looking sexily dishevelled, reeking of sex, and wearing the air of a well serviced woman. Obviously Mal had regained his mojo in spades and I was happy for him; a man without his mojo is a very sad man.

Been there, got the sadness.

As the season progressed I couldn’t spend too many hours at the Barn as my hotel duties took up all my official time and quite a piece of my off duty time. I called in twice a week for an hour or two to make certain Mal and Elaine were keeping to the work sheets I had made up so that the procedures I had introduced were adhered to. I began to see Elaine in a new light; she was intelligent, hardworking, knew her way around a bistro and what needed doing to keep customers and owners happy. How she kept Mal happy was obvious – he had a wide grin on his face every time I saw him although looking older and wearier each time as well. Elaine also kept the paperwork up to date and accurate, allowing me to make plans for the future based on firm figures, and I’m not talking about her DD’s.

By the beginning of July OPC had completed the translation and printing of Sadie Luvbyte’s books and the stalled queue of books awaiting printing clanked into motion. Monika Morningstar’s book was scheduled to be printed and then distributed at the end of December and OPC wanted my manuscript completed and edited by August of the following year. I still had a lot of writing to do so cut out all the hotel and Barn tasks that I could and spent five hours a day at my typewriter. I had no social life, ie sexual relations with wanton and willing women, and all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, but a dull boy gets his book written on time.

It was a Saturday and my day off and after an hour workout in the gym I sat down at my typewriter and flying finger pecked at the keyboard for five hours at least. I came to the end of a chapter and decided to call it a day. I needed a break from the keyboard and some fresh air after five hours in my basement room. It was just after noon and I took a stroll around Port Vendres. One reason was to stretch my legs and breathe some fresh sea air and another reason was to letch at the hordes of young and not so young females perambulating about in minimal clothing. Dull Jack could look but didn’t have the time to touch.

I strolled along Quai Pierre Forgas, my eyes on stalks and elongated in the penis department at all the tanned pulchritude on display and decided to sit down outside a bistro to deflate while having a drink. While sipping my San Miguel ice cold beer I spotted Doctor Caterine Bonhomme walking towards the bistro. But what a transformation! Instead of the business like grey linen, trouser suit worn when she had visited Anne she wore a skimpy, flower patterned, sundress that displayed more of Doctor Caterine Bonhomme than it concealed. There was a lot of the sexy doctor on display that would give Elaine a run for her money in the bosom department. The thought of Elaine and Caterine running about with bouncing Bristols (Rhyming slang; Bristol City = Titty) caused further discomfort in the underwear department so I put that mental image on the back burner of my mind and concentrated on what was before me. I stood up from my table as she drew near.

“Good afternoon, Doctor. I bet you’ve caused some traffic accidents dressed like that.”

She stopped, recognised me and smiled. “You have a silver tongue, M’sieu Soissons, thank you for the compliment.” She sat at the table and I gestured to a waiter who rushed over to our table with eyes agog. Doctor Bonhomme ordered a Chardonnay I had another San Miguel.

I noted not just her well displayed body but also a wedding ringed finger. The latter I had not noticed when first meeting her at the Barn but then I recalled Doctor Bonhomme had been wearing surgical gloves when she examined Anne. Seeing the wedding band should have been the end of any licentious thoughts I might have had regarding the good doctor as married women were a no-go area for me. Who did I think I was I fooling? Chloe Massena in Castelnaudary, Rosa at the Hotel Kalphornika Yolande Faucher in Menton, Helga Furst in Deauville and the archaeology Professor Marie Bosson in French Guiana had all been married women and that hadn’t stopped me from planting my beefy bayonet in their love channel. All the forgoing females had reason not to be monogamous but as far as I knew Caterine Bonhomme did not fall into that category.

“How is Anne Brennan?” she asked, driving all carnal thoughts out of my mind.

“She died at the beginning of the year.” I could see she was surprised by my reply and not a little embarrassed.

“Oh, I hadn’t heard from the Convent. I’m so sorry for your loss, M’sieu Soissons, I had no idea...”

“It’s Philippe.”

“And I’m Caterine.” We exchanged smiles and then she continued. “How is Malachi bearing up?”

“He’s fine and has got himself a new bed companion and bar maid, but he was concerned that he might have caught dementia from Anne as he had lived with her for over fifteen years.”

“I hope you explained that dementia is not a virus and cannot be transmitted from one person to another. Malachi Vivas should be more concerned about cirrhosis. I dread to think what state his liver is in; the man is an alcoholic and has been for as long as I’ve known him.”

“How long is that?”

“Ten years, from when I first joined Port Vendres Medical Centre.”

“You’ve been his doctor for ten years?”

“No, I was Anne Brennan’s doctor. As far as I know Malachi never had a doctor, although he was a drinking companion of Doctor Lejeune, the head of the medical centre.”

“To answer your question regarding Mal’s fear of catching dementia; I did explain it was a mental condition and not contagious and I think I put his mind at rest over that but then he said he had heard Anne screaming in pain even though she was in a vegetative state.”

“That is impossible. Anne Brennan was a dead woman – not walking but sitting – who felt no pain and could not utter a sound.”

“Mal says he heard her inside his head.”

“A head befuddled with alcohol! There have been cases of people in comas – to all intents unresponsive as a vegetative person – who could hear people talking to them when in the coma but there is no evidence of someone in a coma able to communicate; no blinking eyelids, tapping fingers, and certainly no screaming. Malachi only imagined hearing Anne; it is his way of coping with the shock of her sudden dementia and death. I hope he is recovering from the shock and getting over his loss?”

“Well, he’s getting his leg over Elaine, and is much happier now.”

“Elaine?”

“The new barmaid at the Barn.”

“You seem jealous of Malachi but I’m sure there are plenty of women who would welcome your leg being over them.” She said with a cheeky look on her face. “I’m assuming ‘getting one’s leg over’ is a euphemism for sexual intercourse?”

“Yes, it’s an English term that I picked up during my time in the Foreign Legion.”

“From the same person who taught you English?”

“No, but Alfie, my friend in the legion, and I conversed in English and I assimilated a lot of English slang and usage from him.”

“Is Alfie still in the legion?”

“No, he was killed in action.” My reply was in a dull lifeless tone as memory of Alfie’s death intruded on the pleasant present.

Caterine laid her hand on mine. “I can see you still grieve for your friend and I am sorry for your loss, Philippe.”

Before I could answer a male voice greeted Caterine. “My love, I’m sorry to drag you away from your friend but we are running late.” A tall, florid faced, balding light brown haired man about my age stood before the table. “Hi, I’m Armand Bonhomme, Caterine’s husband.” I shook the hand he held out, it was like grasping a damp sponge.

Caterine, not at all put out to be caught by her husband holding the hand of stranger, introduced me. “This is Philippe Soissons, Armand; he works with Malachi Vivas and has just informed me that Anne Brennan died at the beginning of the year.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, M’sieu Soissons. It must have come as a terrible blow to Mal. How is the old reprobate holding up?”

“Quite well it seems; Malachi has a new barmaid and bed companion,” Caterine replied for me. She then stood up from the table and kissed me on both cheeks. “We are late for a duty lunch with Armand’s parents, Philippe. Please give Malachi my condolences when you next see him.”

The Bonhommes headed off to their luncheon appointment leaving me disappointed. Given the opportunity I was confident Caterine and I would have been friends, bosom friends perhaps, friends with benefits in fact, but that dream was now shattered. I finished my drink and wandered back to my lonely bed at the Vermillion Coast Hotel. I brightened up when I recalled an Australian chambermaid had made an impression on me a few days earlier. With luck, and an empty bedroom, she and I could be making impressions on an unmade, linen ready to be changed, bed later this afternoon.

All was not lost.

“You are in a much better frame of mind than you were this time last year,” Maurice observed. “I assume you have ended your relationship with –” he paused as he searched his memory, “Anne Brennan?”

“You could say that, Maurice. Anne fell victim to Early Onset Dementia and swiftly deteriorated to a vegetative state before mercifully dying at the beginning of the year.” My reply was intentionally blunt and uncompromising, but if I thought it would embarrass Maurice I was wrong.

“I’m sad for you, and for her and her common law husband of course, but you knew the relationship was going nowhere and your guilt at betraying your friend, even with his tacit approval, was doing you irreparable harm.”

Maurice and I were seated in the dining room of the Grand Hotel in Narbonne. It was the middle of September; the Season had ended and I was on my three weeks’ vacation and had joined Maurice in Narbonne for the start of the bridge tournament. It was true I was in much better spirits than this time last year and most of my joie de vivre was due to an Australian chambermaid by the name of Kylie, an enthusiastic, energetic, and fun bed companion. Added to that boost to my self-confidence and sexual wellbeing was that under my management and Elaine’s bar tending abilities The Barn had made a profit. The only cloud on my horizon was my novel. I had reached the point in the narrative where Grigor’s account of events were sparse, notably the time of his captivity after the fall of Dien Bien Phu in what we now call North Vietnam.

It occurred to me Maurice would have some idea of the conditions and accounts from survivors of those captured at Dien Bien Phu as he had served with many of them in Algeria. I was loath to ask as I knew it was something he and others who fought in the First Indochina War were reticent to discuss. But faint heart never won fair lady, or fucked a pig, as Alfie Hinds would say, so I asked Maurice what he knew about the conditions for French POWs in North Vietnam.

“Very little, Philippe.” He said when I asked him. “As you imply those who were there would rarely talk about what they suffered to those who weren’t there. It’s like trying to explain to a civilian what active service is like.” He paused, marshalling his thoughts. “Just under eleven thousand men were captured at Dien Bien Phu, half of them were wounded. Only three thousand three hundred of those captured returned to France when the peace agreement was signed at Genevaa in July nineteen fifty four. You do the maths; thousands of our men died in captivity. The Viet Minh weren’t going to use what medical supplies they had on POWs and most of the deaths were our wounded. Conditions for the rest would have been horrendous at best and atrocious at worst; it is no wonder those who survived don’t talk about their suffering.”