Free The Loneliness of the Long Distance Book Runner by Bill Rees

happens. I am on my knees, looking for a 10-franc coin that has dropped out of my chequered chef trousers. The manager is inspecting plates before waiters whisk them away.According to Jean-Pierre’s arbitrary system of measurement, Raja is dumping excessively copious portions of degustacion de pacifico on the plates. ‘You try to make us poor,’ he complains. ‘Call this plate clean, you useless fuck?’ The language doesn’t surprise me as I get to my feet, expecting another broadside, but Jean-Pierre is otherwise preoccupied. Raja has him pinned against a shelf. The steel blade of the knife is of proven sharpness, reddened with vestigial tomato skin and juice. A thrilling uncertainty reigns for a moment, the manager grimacing with fright. But in sensing that if Raja is going to strike, he would already have done so, he recovers his composure. With a sad air of contrition, Raja withdraws the knife from the fleshy throat. The manager, along with the rest of us, watches silently as Raja walks out of the kitchen and then out of the restaurant. The next day I, too, walk out after shouting abuse in his face ‘ T’es con con con con .’ My voice is breaking up. I tremble with the nervous energy. I’ve spent 24 hours working myself up to this moment. I am expecting a big scene. But Jean-Pierre, completely unfazed, says it is good for me to go. ‘You better off teaching.’ When I return a week later for my pay cheque, Ragunathan tells me that Raja has found a job in an Indian restaurant but that the steam cooking is making him unwell.
     
    Two days after the Raja knife incident I go to church: the American Church besides the Quai d’Orsay, or rather an annexe of it where English and Americans congregate in their quest to find accommodation and/or employment. ‘Dishwasher wanted.’ Of the human variety, I take it. Three hours a day plus meal. Dish washing – how difficult can it be? I pass the phone interview but can’t start for two weeks, which is when the ‘ plongeur ’ will leave the post at a Montparnasse creperie.

Rue du Cheval Vert, Montpeller, Mid 1990s
    Buoyed and encouraged by some good Sunday puces (markets), I decide to open a bookshop in Montpellier. There is already an English bookshop but they do not sell second-hand books.
    Anne and I scour the city for locations and plump for a road (rue du Cheval Vert) near to a cinema, which screens American and English language films. By chance, the building at No. 3 in the road is where Napoleon’s father met his maker. It says so on the plaque outside.
    ‘ Ici est mort le 24 Fevrier 1785 Charles Bonaparte père de Napoléon 1er .’ Customers, thinking it somehow fitting for un britannique to set up shop here, occasionally allude to the plaque. Some even think that it accounts for the shop’s location.
    We jump through all the hoops: applying for a Carte de Sejour, registering with Montpellier’s Chamber of Commerce, signing up to ‘ les charges sociales ’. We discover, to our dismay, that the social security contributions expected from a small business are much higher in France than in the UK.
    The landlords are baffled by my business plan but willing to sign a 3-6-9 lease, which means I am responsible for paying the shop’s rent for three years, after which I can renew or choose to leave. It’s quite a responsibility because the lease is in my name. I am trading not as a limited company (SARL), but as a sole trader because it is easier to set up and makes for less complicated accounting. So I am told.
    And then it’s all go. Decoration. Assembling of shelves. Thinking of a name.
    A friend suggests ‘Leaves of Grass’, which has a provocative appeal. Bill’s Book Company is another suggestion. I would liketo be associated with the cultured brand of the BBC. I chicken out from using their logo but hope that people will make the connection with the initials. BBC – Bill’s Book Company.
    A sign is made and then fastened above the shop of modest