Free French Leave by Anna Gavalda Page A

whip.
    Indiana Jones in person.
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    â€œYou gonna introduce me?”
    â€œUh, yes, this is my sister Garance, and uh—”
    â€œYou forgot my name already?”
    â€œUh . . . Jean-Pierre?”
    â€œMichel.”
    â€œOh, yes, Michel! Michel Garance, Garance Michel . . . ”
    â€œHi,” I said, as sternly as possible.
    â€œJean-Michel. My name is Jean-Michel . . . Jean like John and Michel like Mont-Saint-Michel, but hey, I won’t hold it against you . . . Cheers! So you’re sisters, huh? It’s weird, you don’t look at all alike . . . Are you sure one of you wasn’t delivered with the mail?”
    Ha. Ha. Ha.
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    Once he’d moved away, Lola shook her head.
    â€œGod, I couldn’t take it anymore, how did I get stuck with the biggest creep in the county? Did you note his refined sense of humor . . . Even Comedy Central couldn’t find him a slot. That guy is a disaster . . . ”
    â€œShush, he’s headed back this way.”
    â€œHey! You heard the one about the guy with five dicks?”
    â€œUh . . . no. Haven’t had that good fortune.”
    â€œSo there’s this guy. He’s got five dicks.”
    Silence.
    â€œSo?” I ask.
    â€œSo his briefs fit him like a glove!”
    Help.
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    â€œAnd the one about the whore who wouldn’t suck dick?”
    â€œSorry?”
    â€œYou know what men call a whore who won’t suck dick?”
    More than anything, it was my sister’s expression that made me want to laugh. My sister, always so classy with her vintage Saint Laurent, her refined ballet school gestures, her intaglio ring, and the way she could get all flustered just eating off a paper tablecloth . . . So with her flabbergasted air and her eyes big as Sèvres bisque saucers, it was glorious.
    â€œWell?”
    â€œSorry, no. I give up, too. What do you call a call girl who, er—”
    (Classy and funny. I adore her.)
    â€œWell, they don’t call her! Ha! Ha! Ha!”
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    He was on a roll, now . . . He swiveled around to face me, hanging by his thumbs from the pockets of his vest:
    â€œAnd you? Have you heard the one about the guy who wrapped his hamster in duct tape?”
    â€œNo. But I don’t want you to tell it because it’s too disgusting.”
    â€œOh, yeah? So you have heard it?”
    â€œUh, look, Jean-Montsaintmichel, I need to have a few words with my sister, here . . . ”
    â€œOkay, okay, I’ll go. So, anyway, see ya later, pussycats!”
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    â€œIs he gone? Really truly gone?”
    â€œYes, but Toto is coming to take his place.”
    â€œWho’s Toto?”
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    Nono sat down on a chair across from us.
    He was looking at us, very diligently scratching the inside of his pants pockets.
    Oh-kay.
    Probably it was his brand-new suit; must have been causing him some local itching.
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    Saint Lola gave him a faint smile to put him at ease.
    Of the type: Hiya Nono. We’re your new friends! Welcome to our heart . . .
    â€œAre you still virgins?” he asked.
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    Did he have a bee in his bonnet or what?! (No way!)
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    Our Singing Nun kept her cool: “So, it seems you’re the caretaker over at the château?”
    â€œHey, you shut up. I’m talking to her, the one with the big tits.”
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    I knew it. Yes, I knew it.
    Someday we’ll all laugh about it. Someday we’ll be old and gray and since we won’t have done our Kegel exercises the way we should, we’ll piss our pants when we look back on this day. But at the time, it didn’t make me laugh at all because . . . because Nono was drooling a little bit out of the side of his mouth that wasn’t holding his cigarette butt, and it really spooked me. The thin thread of saliva just kept coming, in the moonlight . . .
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    Thank God, Simon and Vincent showed up just then.
    â€œShall we be off?”
    â€œGood idea.”
    â€œI’ll