Free French Leave by Anna Gavalda Page B

catch up with you, I just have to pick up my honorarium.”
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    All the love I have for you-ou-ou
    Wap doo wa dowa dowa . . . Wap doo wa . . .
    Guy Macroux’s voice echoed along the village streets. We danced our way through the parked cars.
    My cries of joy-oy-oy, they’re thanks to you-ou-ou
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    â€œWhere are you taking us?”
    Vincent was circling the château, heading down a dark path.
    â€œLet’s have one last drink. A nightcap if you wish. Are you tired, girls?”
    â€œWhat about Nono? Is he following us?”
    â€œOf course not. Forget about him. Are you coming?”
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    It was a gypsy camp. There were twenty caravans or so, each one bigger than the last and there were big white minivans, laundry, quilts, bicycles, kids, washbasins, tires, satellite dishes, TVs, cookpots, dogs, hens, and even a little black piglet.
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    Lola was horrified.
    â€œIt’s after midnight and these kids aren’t in bed. Poor things . . . ”
    Vincent laughed.
    â€œDo you think they look unhappy or something?”
    The kids were laughing, running all over the place; they rushed up to Vincent. They fought over who would carry his guitar and the little girls took us by the hand.
    They were fascinated by my bangles.
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    â€œThey’re on their way to Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer . . . I hope they’ll be gone by the time the old biddy comes back, because I’m the one who told them they could stay here . . . ”
    â€œJust like Captain Haddock in The Castafiore Emerald, ” laughed Simon.
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    An old Rom took Vincent in his arms.
    â€œHey son, here you are.”
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    He’d certainly found himself a few families, our little Vincent. It was hardly surprising he’d snubbed ours.
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    And then it was straight out of an old Kusturica film, from the time before he got bigheaded.
    The old guys were singing these songs so sad you could weep, it just turned you inside out, and the young ones were clapping their hands while the women danced around the fire. Most of them were fat and badly dressed but when they moved, the very air around them seemed to be in motion.
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    The kids were still running all over the place and the grannies were watching television and rocking the babies to sleep. Almost all of them had gold teeth, and they smiled proudly to make sure we knew it.
    Vincent was right at home with them, in hog heaven. He played his guitar: his eyes were closed, maybe just a fraction more concentrated than usual, so he could keep the tune and a certain distance.
    The old men had fingernails like talons and the wood on the fret boards of their guitars was all worn down beneath the strings.
    Gling, gling, toc.
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    Even if you didn’t understand the words, it wouldn’t be hard to guess the lyrics:
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    Where are you, my country? Oh where are you, my love?
    Oh where are you, my friend? Oh where are you, my son?
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    And it went on to say, more or less,
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    I have no more country, only memories now.
    My love is gone, only heartache now.
    I’ve lost my friend, this song is for him.
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    An old woman brought us some flat beer. The minute we finished our glasses she came back with more.
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    Lola’s eyes were shining; she was sitting with two kids on her lap, rubbing her chin on their hair. Simon looked at me with a smile.
    We had come a long way, the two of us, since that morning . . .
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    Oops, here comes the irrepressible old granny with her lukewarm watery lager.
    I motioned to Vincent to ask him if he had some smoke, but his answer was along the lines of hush, later. This was a new twist . . . Here we were among these good folk who don’t send their kids to school, and there might well be a little Mozart rotting away in this dump of theirs, and they do what they like with the laws we hard-working sedentary folk come up with, but they don’t smoke weed.
    By all the saints of Merco-Benz, we’ll have none of that