Six Months Earlier - 1969 and then Some - page 25

We made camp while Bruno explained as best he could that the old man was the only hu-
man being in France who could give good directions, so maybe something good would hap-
pen. I said, “Yeah, like a miracle.”
John opened the can and found only sauerkraut, no sausage. “Fuckers. They couldn't do
this in America.” But sauerkraut and mustard sandwiches weren't too bad, and the dream got
better with another bottle of wine. Cocktails got better on Gauloises and a touch of opium.
We escaped then, free at last of long hours in the saddle, broken cables and the high cost of
France. The stars in the sky looked just like home.
We woke up in rolling fog at dawn with all the snails in France sliming over our bags like
drunk cartographers. More sandwiches for breakfast, since we had plenty of the ingredients,
led to more smokes and a last pull on the wine bottle, then into town for coffee.
We reached the shop early, all the mobilets and children still tucked in, asleep. The Light-
ning Rocket sat out front exactly as it had been left. The old man looked alive with the energy
of those who don't sleep because something more important waits in the world. He pushed
the double doors open and came out, hands up, as if greeting old friends, reunited at last. He
and Bruno spoke and moved slowly together toward the Lightning Rocket, hands dancing in
questions and answers and yes, buts, until a big paw moved quickly to the clutch lever and
squeezed it—it resisted, fixed.
I walked over and squeezed it and saw what he'd done. Each thread of the cable, maybe
twenty strands, had been welded back onto the metal plug they'd shorn from. Then he'd sculp-
ted the mass down to diameter, allowing a smooth slide through the cable guide. John ex-
amined it and said, “holy fuckin'ay.”
he old man nodded and smiled but would not look again at his work. He walked back
into his shop with Bruno, who called us to follow, way back and then back farther, through the
garage behind the shop and farther back to the quiet rooms where he lived, where the walls
were strewn with photos of a man over six feet with dark hair and a big nose, wearing a jump
suit and standing in front of one motorcycle or another with a different trophy in his hands for
each photo. A hundred motorcycles in a hundred pictures looked like they covered a decade
or two or three. Then the old man showed us his trophies, or the few he had left, bent, dinged
and tarnished.
We scanned the wall in silence, touching the trophies.
Out front again I asked to settle up. “ Combien? ”
“ Cinq francs ,” he said.
“ Cinq francs ?”
“ Oui oui oui oui oui. Cinq francs .” A dollar.
I paid it. “ Merci. Merci beaucoup, Monsieur . . . ”