‘You look so right
together.’ Not wishing to disillusion her, they had posed with their arms around each other, and made up a story about how they had met while skiing three years earlier and been inseparable
ever since. The wedding, booked for the coming spring, was to be a low-key event on a mutual friend’s llama farm in Avignon.
They were both keen to keep in touch, and had exchanged numbers on the Île Saint-Louis while the Akiyamas were buying ice cream, and when she took her phone out of her bag she picked up a
text from her friend Aurélie, asking her if she wanted to go shopping. She didn’t want to go shopping, but she knew she wouldn’t have to. This was just a euphemism. She knew that
what Aurélie really wanted was to sit in a bar and have a drink and a talk, and that suited Sylvie just fine.
She had arranged to meet her after work, which was going to be any minute now. They were nearly back where they had started.
Without warning, the car slowed to a halt. Sylvie put her foot on the gas pedal and pumped the clutch, but there was no response. The engine was going, but the car wasn’t. It just sat
there, blocking the road. She worked the clutch again, but there was still no bite. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Everybody out.’
Lucien and the Akiyamas got out and went around to the back of the car. Monsieur Akiyama didn’t seem particularly pleased by this, and delivered a brief monologue to Lucien, which was
relayed to Sylvie through the open driver’s window: ‘Monsieur Akiyama wishes you to know that he worked for many years at a senior position in a large corporation, and has gone to great
lengths to ensure that his wife, Madame Akiyama, has always had an adequate lifestyle, one free from the necessity of physical exertion. He requests, therefore, that in the interests of preserving
his honour, she be exempt from this task.’
‘No,’ said Sylvie. ‘She’s in France now. We need her muscle.’
Madame Akiyama smiled when she heard this, and answered by putting both hands on the car and bracing herself. Monsieur Akiyama looked furious, but he too put his weight to the car.
‘Now, get ready. I’m going to take my foot off the brake. After three: one . . . two . . . three . . .’ Lucien translated as she went along. She lifted her foot, but for all
their pushing the car didn’t move forward. She braked again, before it had a chance to roll back. ‘We’ll try again. One . . . two . . . three . . .’ Again, the car
wouldn’t move. A line of traffic was starting to build up behind them. They just had to get it to the brow of the hill, where the road widened, and the other cars would be able to pass. Her
boss could arrange to have it towed from there. She looked in her wing mirror, and saw Aurélie trudging up towards them. ‘Hey,’ she called. ‘Give us a push.’
Aurélie stuck her cigarette in the corner of her mouth, wedged Herbert’s buggy against a lamppost so it wouldn’t roll down the hill, and joined the gang at the back of the
car. Together they pushed, and at last the car began to crawl upwards. A pair of passers-by joined in, and two minutes later it was tucked in at the side of the road at the top of the hill.
Everyone was elated at having come through a crisis. Madame Akiyama announced that she hadn’t had so much fun in decades, and even Monsieur Akiyama allowed himself a smile of
satisfaction.
Sylvie hadn’t seen Aurélie for two weeks. Never having been a great one for metropolitan reserve, she gave her an enthusiastic hug. She introduced her to the Akiyamas, and then
Lucien. ‘You don’t have to worry about him hitting on you, because he’s obsessed with Japanese girls.’
‘Not girls , not any more. Just one girl,’ he said.
‘That’s right,’ clarified Sylvie. ‘Just one girl he’s never met.’
Aurélie thought it was a shame that he was an obsessive deviant. She could have done with someone to put his arms around her, and he was
together.’ Not wishing to disillusion her, they had posed with their arms around each other, and made up a story about how they had met while skiing three years earlier and been inseparable
ever since. The wedding, booked for the coming spring, was to be a low-key event on a mutual friend’s llama farm in Avignon.
They were both keen to keep in touch, and had exchanged numbers on the Île Saint-Louis while the Akiyamas were buying ice cream, and when she took her phone out of her bag she picked up a
text from her friend Aurélie, asking her if she wanted to go shopping. She didn’t want to go shopping, but she knew she wouldn’t have to. This was just a euphemism. She knew that
what Aurélie really wanted was to sit in a bar and have a drink and a talk, and that suited Sylvie just fine.
She had arranged to meet her after work, which was going to be any minute now. They were nearly back where they had started.
Without warning, the car slowed to a halt. Sylvie put her foot on the gas pedal and pumped the clutch, but there was no response. The engine was going, but the car wasn’t. It just sat
there, blocking the road. She worked the clutch again, but there was still no bite. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Everybody out.’
Lucien and the Akiyamas got out and went around to the back of the car. Monsieur Akiyama didn’t seem particularly pleased by this, and delivered a brief monologue to Lucien, which was
relayed to Sylvie through the open driver’s window: ‘Monsieur Akiyama wishes you to know that he worked for many years at a senior position in a large corporation, and has gone to great
lengths to ensure that his wife, Madame Akiyama, has always had an adequate lifestyle, one free from the necessity of physical exertion. He requests, therefore, that in the interests of preserving
his honour, she be exempt from this task.’
‘No,’ said Sylvie. ‘She’s in France now. We need her muscle.’
Madame Akiyama smiled when she heard this, and answered by putting both hands on the car and bracing herself. Monsieur Akiyama looked furious, but he too put his weight to the car.
‘Now, get ready. I’m going to take my foot off the brake. After three: one . . . two . . . three . . .’ Lucien translated as she went along. She lifted her foot, but for all
their pushing the car didn’t move forward. She braked again, before it had a chance to roll back. ‘We’ll try again. One . . . two . . . three . . .’ Again, the car
wouldn’t move. A line of traffic was starting to build up behind them. They just had to get it to the brow of the hill, where the road widened, and the other cars would be able to pass. Her
boss could arrange to have it towed from there. She looked in her wing mirror, and saw Aurélie trudging up towards them. ‘Hey,’ she called. ‘Give us a push.’
Aurélie stuck her cigarette in the corner of her mouth, wedged Herbert’s buggy against a lamppost so it wouldn’t roll down the hill, and joined the gang at the back of the
car. Together they pushed, and at last the car began to crawl upwards. A pair of passers-by joined in, and two minutes later it was tucked in at the side of the road at the top of the hill.
Everyone was elated at having come through a crisis. Madame Akiyama announced that she hadn’t had so much fun in decades, and even Monsieur Akiyama allowed himself a smile of
satisfaction.
Sylvie hadn’t seen Aurélie for two weeks. Never having been a great one for metropolitan reserve, she gave her an enthusiastic hug. She introduced her to the Akiyamas, and then
Lucien. ‘You don’t have to worry about him hitting on you, because he’s obsessed with Japanese girls.’
‘Not girls , not any more. Just one girl,’ he said.
‘That’s right,’ clarified Sylvie. ‘Just one girl he’s never met.’
Aurélie thought it was a shame that he was an obsessive deviant. She could have done with someone to put his arms around her, and he was
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