Chapter 11: David Versus Goliath

I spent Christmas at home in le Boulou where, after Christmas Day dinner, I related a bowdlerised version of my trip along the Cotes d’Azur and Vermeille to my family, which included Jacques and his wife Anita, and Brigitte and her fiancé Stephen Hardcastle. My account was substantiated, even if being economical with the truth, by the Chevalier. He spent three days of Christmas with us before I drove him, accompanied by my father, to Perpignan airport where the Chevalier took a flight to Gibraltar. From there he would take a ferry across the Straits to Morocco where he intended spending the next three months.

“Your mother and I invited him to stay with us until April and the start of the new season,” my father said as we watched the Chevalier board the twin turbo prop engined aircraft that was to fly him to GIb.

“He says a European winter is too cold for him,” I said.

“There is another reason other than the winter weather in France that has the Chevalier spending the months in Morocco. He helps a team of archaeologists from the University of Paris at a dig-site near where he stays.”

“Archaeology?” I was astonished at this unexpected information. “The Chevalier has never mentioned anything about that to me.”

My father smiled. “Maybe he didn’t think you would be interested. He is something of an authority on the Roman military, and transcribes any Roman memorials uncovered at the site.”

“He understands Latin?”

“Indeed he does, and he has had several papers published by the University of Paris on the subject of Roman military camps in Mauretania Tingitana, which was the name the Romans gave to what we now know as Morocco. Did you know he has an honorary doctorate from the university?”

“I had no idea. He has never said a word about knowing Latin. Where would he have got that from? Surely not from the Legion.”

“He might have learned the language before joining the Legion.”

“But his father was only a butch ---.” I stopped in embarrassment but my father merely laughed.

“Yes, and your sister is only the daughter of a butcher, but she has a degree in Biomedical Science.”

The aircraft took off and my father and I returned to the car. I drove us back to Port Vendres and handed the car back to the hire company. My father had left his van in the hotel car park where we took our farewells.

“Your mother hopes to see you the next Sunday you are off duty, Rafael.”

“I will try and get a lift...”

“I’ll come and fetch you. It won’t be long before you will be able to drive yourself.”

February the fourteenth was my eighteenth birthday when I officially became an adult and allowed to drive unsupervised. The day couldn’t come quickly enough.

With the Chevalier in Morocco for three months I worked full time at the hotel. I stayed in the Chevalier’s suite and was fed free of charge. The downside was I got no pay and had only the 100 euros allotment from the Chevalier as income. However, I had sold all the gifts given me by the grateful ladies I had ‘escorted’ to Abraham De Souza, the local jeweller and pawnbroker, so had a fair bit of cash and not many outgoings. There were always the tips earned when working behind the bar but for two months I was put on Reception at the front desk. One of the receptionists was a dark haired, dark eyed, Swiss-Italian girl by the name of Renata and by happy design we shared many night shifts, where we would find things to do to speed the long boring nights. Boring into her being my way of spending the time; gasping and moaning into my mouth as she experienced climaxes was Renata’s way. Unfortunately, she had also spent time moaning and gasping into the mouth of Marcel Lessups, the bulky, brooding, bully-boy waiter from Marseille. He already had one bone to pick with me concerning the long gone, but still remembered with affection, Astrid the Swedish bed maker. There were now two strikes against me, and it wouldn’t be too long before the bully would come for me and this time there would be no Philippe Soissons to protect me.

I had learned some Krav Maga unarmed combat techniques under the tutelage of Philippe, who was now a published author. His book was published just before Christmas and had already made the best seller charts. His agent was talking to a film producer about having the story made into a film; US and French companies were interested and Phillip looked well on the way to becoming rich and famous, and it couldn’t happen to a nicer person. He had terminated his employment at the hotel and rumour was he had bought a share in a harbour-side bistro bar in Port Vendres with the advance he received from his publisher. The upshot was I couldn’t expect Philippe to be around to pull my chestnuts from the fire when Marcel came looking for revenge. Fortunately, I had kept up with my Krav Maga training regime when doing my gym exercises. It was only basic kicks and blocks but enough to throw several fucks into an unsuspecting Marcel (*another Englishism from Stephen Hardcastle, my sister’s fiancé. English is a very flexible language, but of course it contains many Anglicised French words, or, as Athos of the famous ‘Three Musketeers’ said, “English is merely badly pronounced French.”).