Chapter 8
The local "black" wine of Cahors was very easy to drink, decided Bernard the bus driver. Very agreeable-the first agreeable occurence in an otherwise disastrous day which had begun in scrubbing down the bus after some kid lost her breakfast of chocolate éclairs, and had ended with a most discomforting interchange with the nine brats he was forced to share a bedroom with. He decided he deserved a third glass.
He'd been wise in choosing to weather the oncoming thunderstorm in the village's one bar rather than driving into Cahors with the kids to dance. Not that anyone had actually invited him along, but of course he could have come if he'd wanted to. This dim, stone-walled bartabac wasn't all that fantastic either-the townspeople were rudely ignoring him, doubtless out of jealousy for the trendy city gear he'd worn as a change from his regulation blue chauffeur's uniform-and there wasn't even a jukebox or pinball machine to liven things up. Nevertheless, the rich dark-red wine could lull him into a welcome state of drunken oblivion.
Perhaps, too, the alcohol would provide inspirational ideas for his intended seduction of Miss Monica Blakesley ... ideas that would show those loud-mouthed American boys a thing or two! Just thinking of the way they'd talked to him this evening made him so irate that he called for yet another glass of wine to soothe his nerves.
"I got something here you guys might wanna take a look at," he had whispered behind his hand to the one called Spike, who seemed to be the ringleader. His English, thanks to a stint working in an American tourist-oriented blue cinema in Paris, was both fluent and colorful. "Some real hot shit!"
A cluster of adolescents had instantly buzzed around his treasured Scandinavian publications, bees scenting a honey-pot, and he beamed proudly. After this treat, maybe they'd stop acting toward him like he was an Algerian street sweep! He was every bit as good as they were; no one ever suspected his father had been half-Moroccan, for he'd been born and raised in the industrial suburbs of Paris and he'd inherited his mother's light complexion. Also her petite stature ... but merde, being five-foot-six didn't make a man sub-human, did it?
"Better than that sissy PLAYBOY shit, huh!" he gloated, pushing forward his favorite pamphlet, "Motorcycle Sex!". "This is the real stuff-straight from Copenhagen!"
Most of the youngsters loved the obscene photos, but that stuck-up Spike Soderberg had the nerve to pretend they left him cold.
"Sure," he shrugged, "everyone knows Color Climax mags are Danish. I've seen 'em all years ago-my Pop collects them. I used to dig them a lot when I was a kid, but now they're no big deal unless I'm in the sack with some chick."
The others stopped ogling Bernard's precious pictures to stare at Spike in round-eyed respect. No one noticed the Frenchman's self-satisfied smirk twisting into a sulky scowl.
"Smart-ass kid, huh!" he snarled. "Don't tell me this don't get your prick hard!" He pointed with a trembling finger to a between-the-legs shot of a blonde being orally abused while roped atop a huge motorbike. "Now if that ain't sexy, I sure don't know what is!"
"Yeah, it's pretty cool." That superior shrug again! Cretin's blood heated to a slow boil. "But what the hell use are dumb pictures if you aren't getting any pussy?" Spike continued. "Do you s'pose he ever made it with a chick like that one?!"
Bernard's face burned a ruddy red which accentuated his acne as the youngsters burst into jeering laughter. Suddenly he was acutely aware of his short, slight build, his calamitous complexion, and especially the inarticulate self-consciousness which afflicted him in the presence of a pretty female.
"That's what you think," he said sullenly, staring down at the pornographic pamphlet to avoid their mocking eyes.
"Well, you sure haven't made much of a hit with the chicks in our group, Cretin. You get laid once a year or something?"
If the younger boy hadn't been several inches taller and at least thirty pounds of muscle heavier, the bus driver would've bashed him right in his smirking mouth and knocked out a few of those unnaturally white and even American teeth. Instead, he managed a superior sneer of his own as he shoved the glossy Color Climaxes back into his plastic carry-all.
"I happen to prefer mature women, not silly little girls."
"Arlene's big enough where it counts!" someone snickered.
"Awh, he's full of bullshit!" Spike turned away in contempt. "If you like 'emDlder, Cretin-creep, how come you haven't gotten into Miss Blakesley's panties?"
The whole bunch of them started to follow Spike out of the dormitory, hooting with cruel laughter.
Livid with rage, the Frenchman clenched his fists and wondered what "full of bullshit" meant, exactly.
"Ain't nobody could get into Blakesley's frozen pussy," he heard one of the departing kids say. " 'Specially not him! Hell, she's so uptight I bet she wears a chastity belt!"
Bernard knew better, but he wasn't going to say so. The things he'd overheard outside Dubois' Paris hotel room were his own secret, which he intended to use to his own advantage when the opportunity arose.
"It is you who are full of bullshit!" he screamed after them, English deteriorating fast in the face of his anger. "Okay-perhaps I have not made the love to Mademoiselle-but I do soon, very soon. Voila! You will see who is full of bullshit!"
"Full of bullshit . ..," he mumbled moodily into his wine now. It was a fine addition to his vocabulary, even if he wasn't certain of the literal translation. "Full of bullshit. . ."
None of the bartabac's other customers took any notice of him, for he was sequestered in a solitary corner by the window. Besides, they were engaged in a spirited discussion about the merits of pigs versus dogs as truffle hunters. Bernard glared bale-fully at his fellow drinkers, a grizzled group of peasants in corny Alpine-type caps, who were pointedly ignoring his existence. If he'd gone with the group of teenaged tourists into the town discotheque, he would have been just as left out, though . . . and there'd have been the added humiliation of having to ask girls to dance and being turned down.
The liter of wine was nearly finished and he hardly even felt high-just sour of stomach and bitter of soul. Merde, alors! What a colossal drag this job driving the World Worshiper bus had turned out to be. This was only his third three-week jaunt, and already he was heartily sick of every aspect of his work and was developing a hearty dislike of Americans. At first, he'd hoped to meet girls-everyone he knew said that American women only came over to Europe to get laid, and that in the States girls went on the pill and started screwing around when they were fourteen. Well, the latter half of that statement might well be true, and so might the former as far as that went, but he, Bernard Cretin, wasn't the fascinating foreign seducer they had in mind.
Three more locals with a spaniel sort of mutt trotting at their mud-spattered heels entered the bar, and since there were no other free seats they plonked down at Bernard's table. The black animal sniffed suspiciously at Bernard's high-heeled, imitation snakeskin boots, and growled low in its throat. He tucked his feet back under the chair, edged away as far as possible; why was it that animals all disliked him? The three farmers passed around a package of Gitane yellow unfilters, not bothering to offer him a smoke-not that he'd have r accepted anyway, for nobody in Paris would dream of smoking those smelly, old-fashioned things-and ordered sandwiches and glasses of rouge.
A few stray raindrops plunked against the smudged windowpane, but the dark clouds which had hung over the town's ancient red-tiled rooftops had now parted to reveal a couple of faint stars and an almost-full moon. Apparently the storm had blown over, and he was almost sorry since violent thunder and lightning would have suited his dark mood exactly. He turned away from the window to stare morosely at his unfriendly companions.
Their sandwiches looked very appetizing, thick slices of cheese on round slices of homemade country-type bread, so he ordered one. Also another red wind, and a package of Marlboros just to impress these patois-prattling peasants. But what the hell did he care what they thought, really? Not a damn thing, and there wasn't one female in the place unless you wanted to count the patron's fat old wife who had just thrown his sandwich down before him.
The bread was stale, and the pungent Roquefort left a nasty taste in his teeth. Bernard contemplated donating it to the mongrel, but decided against it; the beast would probably snap his hand off if he gave it half a chance.
"Sage, Toutoune!" bellowed one of his table mates.
Cretin glared at him. If these weirdoes had to talk in this awful dialect, couldn't they at least keep their voices down? Then, as he realized that Toutoune was the dog and that it was starting to worry his foot, he yelped aloud and heaved his sandwich in the general direction of its gleaming white fangs.
"Lie down, Toutoune!" The dog's owner turned proudly to his pals. "Toutoune's pretty smart, eh? And only one year old."
"What kind of truffiere is he, though? Bet he's not so good as my pig!"
"Dunno, but I'll bet he is-he's not old enough yet, but his mother was the best hereabouts."
"No dog beats a pig at finding truffles," declared the other, pulling at the brim of his beret for emphasis. To Cretin's city eyes, the cap looked like a charred pancake. "My white pig got two kilos outta the same field where Michel's hound only got two hundred grams the week before!"
"Well, give me Toutoune any day! Least he doesn't try to eat the things like a pig will--and with truffles going for over three hundred Francs a kilo down at the Cahors' market, that's something to reckon with."
"Yeah, but you gotta give your mutt meat when he finds one, don't you? That ain't cheap, either?"
"My Toutoune is trained with croutons for rewards. You can't tell me dry bread's not cheap! So seems to me--"
The argument continued, but Bernard was no longer listening. Three hundred French francs for a kilo of stinking black mushrooms--merde, alors! People sure found crazy ways to waste their money, no question about that! How about those American kids who'd paid $1000-about four thousand francs, or thirteen kilos of truffles-to go on this trip which none of them seemed to be enjoying very much.
As for himself, he only earned a thousand Francs a month-about three kilos of truffles-driving that goddamn ramshackle bus from castle to cloister: better than he'd take home on most jobs, because the good Christians in charge of the operation saw fit to ignore the French tax laws. Another month or so and he'd have enough money to replace the big motorbike he'd totaled last spring! Once in his leather suit and black helmet again, seated on the powerfully purring machine, he'd feel a whole man again.
. . . Not half a man, the way he did on this dreary, damp evening here in one of France's poorest departments . . .
Driving through the barren landscape that afternoon had sent his spirits zooming downward even before the humiliating showdown with Spike Soderbirg. The roads were the worst they'd encountered yet, so bumpy he feared a second blowout, and the arid limestone plateaus with their scrub and stones alongside reminded him of the science fiction book covers which he'd seen of the meager fields of tobacco, unripe grapevines, and stunted oaks beneath which the precious truffles lay hidden ... and everywhere absurdly fat force-fed fowls who would soon morph into expensive tins of fine grass.
The bus driver, unlike most of his countrymen, was no gourmet; motorcycles and sex sated his appetites. Nevertheless, he was aware that both truffles and goose liver pate sold for spectacular sums in Paris luxury shops. So then why was this countryside looked so depressingly poverty-stricken? Must be because the locals were just plain stupid, ignorant... but who the hell cared, really? He just longed for the bright lights of the capital where ruby-rouged whores sauntered in the neon night past noisy bars and cinemas, nightclubs and sex shops ... where people had the sense to appreciate him because he was one hell of a good bike rider...
Cretin signaled for another brimming glass of red wine and suddenly realized that he was finally feeling intoxicated. Thank God! He stumbled into the squatter toilet, experienced exquisite relief as the urine splashed down into the stinking hole in the floor. Christ, his prick was hardening just from the thoughts of women . . . Monica Blakesley, in particular. . .
"You fellows are both fools," one of the farmers, the one with no teeth, was saying as the Parisian sat back down. "I don't mess around with dogs or pigs--anyone with the eyes God gave him can find the things himself. Just look at where the flies are buzzing around, and you're found yourself a truffleroila!"
Bernard sat bolt upright in his chair, glass frozen halfway to his parted lips, excitement racing through his bloodstream like liquid lightning. He had twenty-twenty vision . . . the dreary hamlet was surrounded by truffle fields-. . . there was an almost full moon to aid visibility . . . and he knew flies kept late hours, for there'd been a couple driving him crazy all last night . . . the switchblade he always carried would do nicely for uprooting fungi.
With three kilos of truffles in hand, he could buy his motorcycle tomorrow and quit this goddamned bus-driving slave job. Hell, since he was surely more clever than these clowns, he could probably get a better price and have money left to blow in the casinos down on the coast. Have himself a fucking fine holiday!
Without even bothering to drain his drink, he hurriedly settled his bill and then scurried silently along the darkened cobblestone streets toward the outskirts of town.