Grass Grows in the Pyrenees

Chapter 3

Chapter 3It is the fourteenth of July, Bastille Day. The sun is so strong, I have to wear my sunglasses so I can see to write the parking ticket, which I place under the windscreen wiper of an illegally parked Mercedes. The car has a Spanish registration and looks very expensive. I assume its owner is wealthy and doesn't think our local parking laws apply to him. I can't help smiling at the thought of some spoilt foreigner returning to find my ticket waiting for him.

My town will celebrate Bastille Day with a small parade to pay homage to our military personnel. The parade will be led by the Mayor and accompanied by our local band. It won't be anything like the celebrations in Paris, where the President leads members of the armed forces and visiting dignitaries along the Champs-Elysees in a grand spectacle, but it will be a proud time for all who take part. Our parade will be led by young cadets, followed by armed forces personnel who are home on leave, then finally, any retired old soldiers who live locally.

After the parade there'll be a street party. Restaurant and bar owners will arrange tables and chairs along the main street to supply food and drink for the partygoers. It's a Fête Nationale, so all of France will be celebrating today. At nine o'clock tonight the Mayor will lead the revellers to a clearing near the river, then the street lights will be extinguished and we'll be treated to a spectacular fireworks display.

Tomorrow, most of the townspeople will head for the nearby town of Ceret, where there's to be a festival, beginning with the running of the bulls through the streets and followed by much partying and celebrating. There'll be market stalls and sardane dancing and, in the bullring on the edge of town, the colourful and exciting spectacle of bull fighting will take place. Bull fights are not to everyone's liking, but in this area of Catalonia, which has both French and Spanish influences, they're a celebrated tradition. The bull fights will be attended not only by locals, but also by many tourists who'll bring money to the area and create a great boost to the local economy.

I'm looking across the road towards the Café, where the patron, his wife and their staff are busy preparing the outside tables for the celebrations, when I become aware of someone standing behind me. They're too close, and I sense my personal space is being invaded.

“I believe this belongs to you,” a voice says and I turn to see a tall, muscular man proffering the parking ticket I've just written.

It's thirty degrees in the shade, but this man is wearing a black suit with a shirt and tie. He is immaculately dressed, as are his two companions. He has startling, pale blue eyes that are narrow and piercing and he's very fair-skinned. A long, thin scar runs the length of his face, from his cheek bone to his chin, but it doesn't detract from his fine features. His hair, which at one time was probably naturally blonde, is obviously dyed and has bleached highlights. His colleagues share similar looks. Their jackets seem to bulge around their muscular bodies and I wonder if they're carrying guns. They don't have a hair out of place and are eerily calm and menacing. I'm instantly frightened. I'm hemmed in by them, with my back to the railings which line the pavement at the edge of the road and they're in front, surrounding me. There's no way I can move without pushing my way between them.

“Is there a problem, Monsieur?” I ask. I make myself stand as tall as I can and keep my voice firm, because I think any sign of weakness will have them falling on me like a pack of wild dogs.

“You placed this ticket on my car,” he replies, his voice flat and cold. “I like to keep my car very clean, and this ticket makes it look rather untidy.” His eyes never leave mine. He's challenging me and his friends are smirking, because they know that I'm intimidated.

“Your car is indeed very clean, Monsieur,” I agree, trying to keep my voice from cracking. “But it is also illegally parked. If you do not wish it to be ticketed, then I suggest you park it somewhere else. You have one month to pay the fine.”

I've been holding my body taut, but now I exhale slowly and try not to show any fear. He continues to stare at me with his ice-cold eyes then, after a moment, he throws his head back and guffaws with laughter. His friends laugh too.

“Well, officer,” he says, “You've certainly put me in my place. Let me introduce myself,” he continues, offering me his hand. “My name is Edvard. Perhaps you know my very good friend and business partner, Magda Gold?”

A shockwave runs through my body. His statement confirms that the gangsters have returned to my town. For over two months, nothing has been heard of them, but now they're back. I don't shake his hand. “Excuse me, Monsieur, but I must get on with my work,” I say forcefully. I take a deliberate step forward, and the men stand aside to let me pass. In a show of bravado, I add, “Remember that you must pay your fine within one month.”

As I walk away, I glance back and see Edvard scrunching up the parking ticket and throwing it into the gutter. I should really turn back and write a second ticket for littering, but I'm not that brave. The reputation of Eddy the Red, as he is referred to, is well known in this valley and only a fool would knowingly upset him, so I pretend I haven't seen what he's done.