The tide is high, the Thames shimmers in the moonlight. In Germany, the Berlin Wall has just fallen. The death penalty was abolished in France eight years ago, four years too late for Jiminy.
The French have a very high opinion of their culture, when in fact their genius resides mainly in the organization of their road network, with their system of national and departmental roads and kilometre markers. It was next to one of these that Jiminy came into my life fifteen years ago.
The kilometre marker in question indicated the next village three kilometres away, which on my milometer read two miles. The road was winding and fairly flat. The advantage of having the steering wheel on the right when driving on the continent is that you can see the kilometre markers better. And also when you’re pushing your vehicle, you’re better protected from reckless drivers. Vehicles were few and far between in the Aveyron. A Renault 16, registered in another department, sped by honking its horn at me without even considering stopping to help, probably a sales rep, and then a van went past in the opposite direction.
My minibus’s giving up the ghost on a tiny departmental road in the Aveyron was precisely because the open, deserted spaces and the lack of people and traffic were what had attracted us to the area in the first place, so I only had myself to blame. With a spot of luck, there’d be a garage in the village and perhaps a mechanic or, at the very least, a phone.
At the slightest sign of any downward incline, I leapt into the driver’s seat. Otherwise I pushed, guiding the steering wheel through the open window. I was feeling gloomy, as Helen had dumped me a couple of days before. By now she’d probably found trains to take her back to England’s green and pleasant land via some circuitous route or other.
Legend has it that the child Saint Christopher carried on his shoulders got heavier and heavier. For the last dozen feet or so, the minibus seemed to be getting lighter and lighter. At first, I thought it must have been a barely perceptible downhill slope. My ponytail was irritating the back of my neck, so I tossed it out of the way. Out of the corner of my eye, through the dusty windows, I caught sight of a hand on the back windscreen, followed by a rather thin silhouette hunched over the curved rear end of the minibus. Whoever it was gave no signal and I thought that if they had started pushing so gradually and so gently, they were either some kind of prankster or just wanted to keep a low profile. I decided to play along.
On the outskirts of the village, which had at least fifty houses still standing, the road joined another slightly larger departmental road. On the other side, I spotted a garage with a single petrol pump in front of it. To be sure my mysterious helper understood my intentions, I pointed in the direction of the forecourt with my right hand, pulled over, hopped onto the driver’s seat, raised my hand and braked. The silhouette—it was a kid—gave a thumbs up.
A man emerged from under the bonnet of a narrow rust-red tractor. He half-smiled in welcome, peered at the minibus and waited. I explained what I thought the problem was and asked him to take a look.
“Now?”
Yes, I replied. He glanced at his watch, sighed, wiped his hands on his dungarees and looked me up and down. He must’ve been calculating whether I was solvent or not, an issue I preferred to broach later. I don’t know what conclusion he came to but he pulled a packet of Gauloises out of his pocket, stuck one between his lips and strolled over to my vehicle. After a cursory kick to the back tyre, he opened the bonnet. Just then he spotted my impromptu helper and greeted him.
“Hi!” the kid replied.
The mechanic turned towards me:
“There’s a bistro round the corner. It’s lunchtime. Go there and I’ll give you a shout.”
“Thanks. That’s really kind of you,” I said. “Coming?” I asked the kid.
The kid followed me.
I let him catch up, and we walked shoulder to shoulder, or almost. He was a bit shorter than me, probably still growing. I studied him, and he didn’t seem bothered, he let me look with a kind of fairly indifferent why-not attitude.
It was late June. I was red rather than tanned: I’m a red-headed Englishman. He was very white, perhaps because he was a red-headed Frenchman. I’m no expert on complexions. He had some tiny freckles, so miniscule they made him seem even paler; a healthy, youthful pallor. His hair, which he wore long like everyone back then, although unusually his was curly, looked very clean, whereas my ponytail concealed how greasy mine was, inevitable given my lifestyle over the past few months and the resultant casual-scruffy look. His hair was blonde, or to be precise, Venetian blonde, a colour almost as astonishing as the shiny alabaster of his skin. His smile and gaze suggested curiosity, patience and friendliness. He was thin and ungainly, which made him appear taller than he was, and he was dressed in worn, casual clothes that were too big for him, but clean too. I couldn’t tell how old he was yet, I had barely heard a sound from him; he still wasn't saying a word.
As usual in that part of the world, the bistro had no terrace. We entered and I chose a table by the window. Instead of sitting opposite me, the kid pulled his chair slightly closer to me and sat down on the corner, his legs spread so they touched mine. He looked at me patiently.
I was surprised and felt slightly self-conscious. I took out a pouch of rolling tobacco.
“Want some?”
He smiled and pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket. With hash inside. He questioned me with his eyes.
I laughed and flashed an identical sachet:
“Later,” I suggested, gesturing towards the window. “More sensible outside.”
“Yes, you’re right,” he said.
His voice was very clear. It must have broken, as he had some scattered fluff on his chin, but it was soft, gentle and perhaps intentionally high-pitched.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Jérémie,” he replied.
I thought of something, I can’t remember what, and he must have misinterpreted my expression because he added:
“Crichon, Jérémie Crichon.”
I laughed and said the first thing that came into my head:
“Jiminy Cricket.”
He repeated, slightly hesitantly:
“Jiminy . . . Cricket?” He stared at me, and to make sure he’d understood correctly, he ran his fingers across the table, imitating six legs: “Cricket?”
“That’s right. Cricket.” I carried on the joke and confirmed: “Jiminy Cricket.”
From then on, that’s what I called him: Jiminy Cricket, always Jiminy Cricket, the whole name, whereas the others called him either Jiminy or Cricket with a French accent—criquet, silent ‘t’—once they stopped calling him Jérémie. In the end, only the police and the judges called him Jérémie Crichon. And probably the chaplain and the executioner at Baumettes Prison. Yet nothing about the kid made you think of an insect, at best a friendly genie, something about his gaze, the way he waited patiently. Maybe it was some kind of intuition or premonition on my part. In the original book —not the Disney version—the cricket dies at the beginning of the story, crushed by a hammer thrown by the wooden puppet. In any case, he never asked me why I gave him that name, he never objected, it seemed to suit him from the outset.
The landlady of the bistro came over.
Although the smells and sounds were an obvious clue, I enquired:
“Are you serving food?”
I glanced over at Jimmy to check he wanted to eat as well.
“Food?” he repeated, looking at me as if seeking my permission.
He possibly didn’t have any money but he was happy to eat. The landlady said there was stew. It was a bit hot and heavy for the season, but it would do. I ordered a beer, Jiminy only wanted water; I never saw him drink anything else.
I finished rolling my cigarette—Jiminy only smoked joints.
As he didn’t ask, after a while I said:
“I’m John.”
“John? That’s good.”
“I’m English,” I added.
He smiled with a knowing air. He’d had plenty of time to study my number plate when he’d pushed my vehicle for those three kilometres.
The landlady quickly brought over the stew, bread, beer and water. Jiminy ate with the appetite of a teenager. From time to time, his knee brushed my jeans; when this happened, he never pulled away, it was me who changed position.
As neither of us drank coffee, I called for the bill and took out my wallet. Jiminy looked at me to see what he should do. I gestured that it was okay.
“You helped me out back there.”
He smiled again. He was clearly delighted and that made me feel good. He noticed how I was feeling and that made him happy too.
Before going to find somewhere to smoke, we returned to the garage. The mechanic confirmed my suspicions. He thought he could fix it, but he’d need at least an hour. I was about to ask him how much it would cost, but decided against it.
“That’ll give you time for a nice afternoon nap,” he said.
I went along with him: “That’s a great idea.”
Jimmy and I laughed without revealing our true intentions.
There were some trees bordering an almost-dry stream. We leant against one of them. I took out my pouch; Jiminy took it from me and proffered his:
“Home-grown.”
I didn’t yet know what home he was referring to.
Each of us had our own gear, I had paper, he had a chillum, we prepared our joints and smoked.
“So is it good?”
“Unreal, Jiminy Cricket.”
And we couldn’t stop laughing.
When the bloke came over to tell us the minibus was ready, we were still laughing and had barely spoken. The mechanic looked at us good-naturedly, but was surprised to find us in such a state.
Everything was in good working order, the engine started, the bill came to seventy-five francs. Even without the cost of the meal, I wouldn’t have had enough. I nonetheless went through the motions of checking the contents of my wallet.
Jiminy immediately offered to help:
“I’ve got ten francs.”
“That only comes to thirty-five. How are we going to do this?”
I was talking to the mechanic. He shrugged nonchalantly:
“That’s for you to sort out.”
“I need a bank.”
“There’s one in Lodève.”
“Where’s that?”
“Twenty-five kilometres away.”
“I’ll go and come back.”
Before the mechanic could raise any objections, Jiminy offered:
“And I’ll stay here. As a hostage.”
It wasn’t a question but a statement.
I corrected his vocabulary:
“A guarantee.”
The three of us looked at each other. The mechanic said:
“Fine by me.”
I set off in the minibus. Jiminy and I hadn’t discussed this at all. We hadn’t agreed anything in advance; I could easily have not come back. But I was back by five. Jiminy and the mechanic were both immersed in the bowels of a tractor engine. Jiminy’s hands were covered in grease. He was naked from the waist up. The skin on his torso was as delicate and white as the skin on his face, with the same barely visible freckles, but his nipples were deep red, the colour of Bordeaux wine. The first thing I noticed was a long black streak on his back, a trail of dirty oil as if someone had wiped their fingers on him or stroked his back. The pair of them were laughing almost as much as the two of us earlier, but I was pretty sure they hadn’t smoked anything. Unless it was the diesel fumes.
Jiminy said to the mechanic:
“See, I knew he’d come back.”
The mechanic turned to me and said:
“Jiminy was ready to put in some hours to pay off the bill. He’d make a good worker too.”
What surprised me most of all was that the mechanic was already calling him Jiminy—if nothing else, something of our encounter would remain: a nickname. The mechanic was resigned to Jiminy leaving.
“There’s a shower in the far corner if you want to clean up. The water’ll be warm because the water butt’s on the roof all day in the sun.”
Without a trace of embarrassment, Jiminy dropped his trousers and placed them carefully on the tractor seat. His pubic hair was more obviously ginger than the hair on his head. The mechanic shouted after him:
“The grease comes off nicely with washing-up liquid. There’s an open bottle on the side. The towel is clean.”
While Jiminy took his shower, he said to me:
“Great friend you’ve made there. I’d be happy to keep him on as my apprentice.”
So they’d spoken then, probably more than we had. All while changing a cylinder head or some other tractor part.
We went outside and walked over to the minibus. I took out a hundred francs but then changed my mind and said:
“I’ll fill her up while I’m at it,” adding with a wink, “I’ve got more than enough for that.”
“No problem.”
I paid, and the mechanic slipped the money into his pocket, all except for a twenty-franc note that he held out to Jiminy.
Jiminy reached out and took it, looking delighted.
“Cheers, that’s amazing!”
It was more than generous. I had a strange feeling the mechanic was paying for something else, but I could see in their eyes that’s all it was.
The engine ticked over nicely. We all waved energetically to one another through the window and then in the rearview mirror.
I looked over at Jiminy with his head stuck out the window, hair dancing in the wind.
“So where are you heading?”
“Home. To the Bains.” He was quiet for a while, and then repeated: “Home!”
And this time he asked a question:
“You?”
I waved my fingers in front of me as if brushing away dead leaves and said in an accent even more appalling than my spoken French:
“Via col vento!”
“Via col vento?” Jiminy repeated, in an accent that was no worse than mine even though he didn’t understand what I was saying.
I looked at him and translated what I thought it meant:
“Wherever the wind takes me.”
And then Jiminy said: “That means you’re coming to ours. It’s really near here. You can stay with us tonight. For a few nights, if you want.”
His voice, still astonishingly high, sounded breathless, as if he had talked too much. After that, he fell silent.
A bit farther on, I said:
“Tell me where to go.”
Which he did.
