This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.

Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments.

Love It or Leave It

by Dennis Milholland

questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu

Forty-seven

(Thursday, October 20th)

Arriving at Shoreham Airport after a fifteen minute drive, it's as if we’d travelled back in time. The terminal is a two-storey, white-stucco, Art-déco building with the tower centred on the observation deck above the entrance, forming the third level. Directly below the tower is an Art-déco window, which is glowing slightly yellowish-orange, reflecting the sun going down across the sea.

The landing field is grass, and the plane, waiting for us, is a twin-engine propeller plane with French registration and le drapeau tricolore on each of the dual tails. When I ask, Seph says that he believes it to be a Dassault Flamant.

We are processed through passport check in the lobby, which reminds me of the entrance to the Music Hall at Municipal Auditorium back in Kansas City. The immigration officer asks each one of us in turn, how long we’ll be staying in France and how much currency we have with us. He enters the five pounds, fifteen shillings that I have in my wallet and trousers’ pocket onto the white slip of paper, pasted into the back of my passport.

When he takes Geneviève’s passport, the only American in the group, he sees that she’d arrived this morning from France. He smiles knowingly. “Shopping?”

She first looks confused then it clicks. “Everything is so much better value in England.” Of course, she is not referring to the bag of weed that she has in her handbag.

It is presumably the pilot, who escorts us out across the grass airfield to the waiting plane. “Should I make the announcements in English?”

« Comme vous voulez. Nous sommes tous bilingues. » Seph informs him as a matter of course that we all understand both. But I still have to get used to his Francophone rather than the put-on Hibernian accent.

Even Geneviève, whom no one can easily impress, is amazed, when she turns to me. « Mais, depuis quand peut-il parler français comme ça ? »

All I can do is shrug, but I assume that he’s been able to speak French like that since childhood. I mean, after all, you don’t just exchange your Irish schoolboy accent for that of a native speaker at the lost-and-found.

When he overhears her question, he tells her that, like she did, he grew up speaking both languages. His mother, who was a member of the French MacDonald family, spoke only French at home, since Irish was forbidden and she refused to speak the language of the British oppressors.

When I turn to Raph and explain that my hard-headedness must be genetic, he sputters and succumbs to a fit of giggles. He is so wound up, that I want to know what’s wrong.

He’s shaking. “I would have rather gone by boat.”

“But we’ve flown before.” I use my soothing speaking voice. “And that was okay, wasn’t it?”

He looks at me, and starts giggling again. “That’s easy for you to say. You slept through the aborted landing in Iceland.”

As we approach the plane, which has a strong resemblance to the Lockheed Electra 12 from the movie, Casablanca, Seph drops back and puts his arm around Raph’s shoulder. “This is going to be an entirely different experience." He increases his grip. “In comparison, this will be like sitting on a front-porch swing. We’ll be flying at much less than half the speed and less than one fifth of the altitude. And you can look out and see everything, like cars on the roads and houses and streetlights, not just clouds.” He lets Raph get into the aircraft before him. “And there is hardly any wind, only a light breeze.”

Raph sighs and takes his seat in front of the place, where I’m supposed to sit and fastens his seatbelt. There are three seats on each side of the plane, so the one behind me, which is in front of the door, remains empty.

"Good evening, everybody.” The pilot is starting the announcement in English; I would imagine, he heard us talking, while walking to the plane. He is at the doorway to the cockpit.

“Let me make the required announcements here, because it is much easier to understand before we take off. We are flying over the English Channel; therefore, you will find life jackets under your seats.

“You may smoke as soon as we leave the ground and are clear of the airport. And since we will be flying at just under 2,000 meters, the cabin is not pressurised, but you will find chewing gum in the pouch in front of you. For Madame and Monsieur in the front, the pouch is under the window.

“Our flight time to Paris Le Bourget will be just about one hour, unless we stop for drinks en route.”

Seph and Geneviève are the only ones amused; I’m worried about Raph; Raph’s worried about flying. Marty, on the other hand, already has the chewing gum in his mouth and is reading the instructions for abandoning the aircraft at sea. “Are there any questions?” Since there are none, the pilot wishes us an enjoyable flight and takes his seat in the cockpit.

A man in overalls jerks blocks on ropes from under the two main wheels and then from under the front landing gear and stands clear of the plane. First, the one engine starts by emitting a bang and a puff of smoke out the back. Then the other starts.

We start to taxi slowly toward the river at the north-eastern end of the field. We turn on the spot, around our own central axis. Then, both propellers pick up revs and we rush, relatively speaking, in the other direction, against the breeze coming off the sea. Watching the Art-déco building jostle by as we gain speed on the lawn for takeoff, makes it feel as if we were in the penultimate scene of Casablanca, only inside the plane with Lund and Laszlo.

However, as opposed to that scene, where the plane disappears into fog, we have cloudless skies and a brilliant sunset. And the sunset becomes more breathtaking the higher we climb. Dad was right; this flying experience is much easier on the nerves. It’s sort of like flying in a car. Lazy days of lying in the hammock on the front porch at 23rd and Quincy come to mind.

Once we’re beyond the Sussex coastline, we bank toward the Southeast, taking direct course for Paris. Seph points out the white cliffs of Dover off in the distance on the port side and the coastline of France, which becomes visible on the starboard side.

When I realise that we are under French jurisdiction, remembering what Richard and Seph have told us about territorial law, I reach around the back of Raph’s seat and take hold of his hand and kiss it. He retracts his hand, and I hear his seatbelt buckle snap. He kneels on his seat, facing me, and I give him a quick kiss on the mouth. We’re both sort of in shock, that it’s okay for us to do that. He returns the quick kiss, then turns round in his seat and reattaches his seatbelt.

I look over the edge of her seat, and Geneviève has a hand over her mouth, chuckling to herself. Seph, who is sitting behind her and across the aisle from me, has a broad smile, looking out the window, trying not to laugh. And I look behind Seph at Marty. “Hey, did y’all know that this aircraft can touch down on water and stay afloat for up to an hour?” That’s the comic relief the tension build up has been waiting for. And for the remainder of the flight, there is nothing to report.

***

Sounding a loud gong, the pilot tells us to fasten our seatbelts and put out our cigarettes because we are on approach to Le Bourget. The descent is gentle, as is the touchdown. We taxi to our small gate, and the pilot opens the door. Although my first whiff of Parisian air is blanketed with exhaust and petrol fumes, I can tell that it contains a degree of freedom that I have never known.

The pilot takes us to the passport check and customs, and then wishes us a pleasant stay in France. Geneviève is the first to present her passport. The young man smiles and acknowledges her with a polite tilt of the head. He opens the passport and sees her birthplace as Louisiana, USA; he becomes much more animated, asking her if she speaks a little French.

When she replies that it’s quite a bit more than just a little, he bows his head graciously and gives her the full treatment of welcoming hospitality, stamping and handing back her passport, he salutes. Then taking my passport, he smiles, still very friendly, but doesn’t bother to ask if I speak French, he just assumes it. He stamps it, doesn’t ask me how long I’ll be staying, but he does wish me a pleasant sojourn.

The two officers at customs have our bags on a trolley. The first man asks Geneviève to identify hers and looks at her passport, seeing that she was in England for only one day. He asks her why, and she tells him to see her two sons perform. When he asks her if I’m one of her sons and she asks back if he can’t see the resemblance. He laughs and waves us both through.

Then when Raph approaches, he identifies his suitcase and the second officer asks him what he was performing. Without blinking an eye, Raph sings the refrain of Les Feuilles Mortes in perfect pitch. Their applause is muffled by their white-cotton gloves; they actually do appreciate Raph’s talent.

I remember going through United States border control at gun point; there was no singing there. And I start to chuckle about when I said: ‘Toto, I have a feeling, we’re not in Kansas anymore.’

Raph arrives and rests a forearm on my shoulder, giving me a curious look. Geneviève also gives me an odd look, probably wondering what is so amusing. So, adapting to where we are, I repeat it. « Toto, j'ai l'impression que nous ne sommes plus au Kansas. » Raph looks surprised and snorts. And Maman blurts out a loud laugh, then looking around covers her mouth self-consciously.

I look back through the barrier and see that Seph and Marty are taking longer. Seph is discussing something with the customs officer, but not loudly enough for us to hear above the glass partition. Seph then tells Marty something, and he starts in our direction. Seph is now writing a cheque and getting loads of rubber stamps on some papers.

When Marty comes through the automatic doors, we all ask him at once what the problem is. “It looks like; ya can’t just be walking around town carrying an urn with human ashes in it.”

“And now what?” Geneviève is somewhere between concerned and dismayed, the way school teachers get, when, for some reason, they can’t stick to their lesson plans.

“We’ll have to wait and see.” Marty is jittery, since he hates officialdom and their minions, who like to throw their weight about. “Fuckin’ police.”

« Ou peut-être, c'est que nous sommes toujours au Kansas. » Raph raises his eyebrow on the left, and Geneviève clicks her tongue to express displeasure at my statement that we may still be in Kansas, after all.

Only Marty sees the humour. “I said ‘fuckin’ police’ not ‘fuckin’ police state’.”

Seph arrives, closing his leather satchel. “We’ve got that taken care of.”

Geneviève is anxious and close to tears. “Did they confiscate Maurice?”

“No,” Seph pulls her into a close hug and kisses her on the forehead. "they’re turning him over to the administration of le Cimetière de Passy.” He tightens his hug. “Don’t worry, Vievie, I asked them to take charge of it.”

“So, there’s no problem with getting him into the country?” She lets out a huge sigh.

“Absolutely not, it’s a service that customs offer here. For a charge, of course.” Dad keeps hold of her. "Besides, the French couldn’t care less what colour he was.”

She looks at him sceptically. "Then, what took so long?"

“My residence permit expires tomorrow.” He sighs. "I had them give me an extension until I can get to Passy town hall to get it renewed and entered into my new passport.”

“You have a residence permit for France?” I give him his own Irish look, which makes him laugh.

He continues talking as we move to the taxi rank. “As you’re finding out, Lad,” He signals for two taxis. “we Brits tend to end up in France, when shit happens.” He laughs self-indulgently. “Oscar Wilde came here and is buried at Père Lachaise. The Duke of Windsor and Mrs. Simpson live here. Even the Queen has an apartment on avenue Foch, just in case.” Of a sudden, I feel as if Raph and I are becoming part of history.

Dad puts Geneviève and Marty in the first taxi along with the luggage, and he, Raph and I take the second car. As opposed to those in England, and only to judge by the ones at the airport, French taxis appear to be normal passenger cars, mostly Citroën DS. And the headlights are all yellow, matching the streetlights, giving this near-dusk time of day sort of a candle-lit feel.

Once Seph tells the driver the address on the avenue du Président Wilson, I want to know why he has his residence in Paris, rather than in Brighton.

He thinks about it and is obviously weighing how much he can reveal and keep a clear conscience. “It started back when I killed George‘s murderers one by one.” He takes a deep breath and opens the window a bit. “I was sent over here to avoid any trouble with the law.

“Even though Ireland had gained its independence, of sorts, it was still considered by the British to be under British rule. So, I could theoretically have been tried in England. But, when everything was said and done, they couldn’t prove anything, because the Irish police refused to co-operate.” Again he takes a break.

“So, you came to Paris, and...?” Raph tries leading the witness.

Seph laughs lightly. “I enrolled at what in those days was called the Conservatoire de Musique et de Déclamation and was staying with the family that then owned our apartment.

“They’d had three rooms in the attic to let and had advertised in The Times. In fact, they are the same rooms that Marty and I will be sharing. My things have been there since back then.” He laughs and states it more accurately. “Of course, they are not now the same things. I’ve replaced most of them.” Again, his laughter reflects more self-consciousness than humour.

“Anyway, I kept the rooms and the residence permit even through the Nazi occupation and when Monsieur de Jambleu died in 1954, I bought the place from his estate.” He chuckles dully. “That was easier than moving my stuff.”

“And the real reason was...?” I know Seph and can tell when he’s avoiding an issue.

“It was to provide a home for all of us, had the McCarthy reign of terror proved to be more like the Nazis than it actually was.” He wipes his eyes. “Sadly, we didn’t leave in time, and they murdered Maurice."

To steer the subject away from Maurice, I want to know how much bullshit the Kansas City, Missouri public school system gave us about France. For some reason, the French have been targeted as a potential enemy of the United States.

“For example, the moment President de Gaulle told President Johnson that France wanted back its sovereignty and was withdrawing from NATO last March, all shit broke loose: French fries were of a sudden just fries, and bottles of French wine were being demonstratively emptied into gutters. All in all, the American public, which is constantly bombarded with propaganda, reacted totally, and predictably, childlike.

“What do you think about de Gaulle’s withdrawing from NATO?” I try for a tone of naïveté.

“You have to hand it to the wee fecker.” Seph chuckles. And it runs through my mind, that calling someone ‘wee’, who is purportedly 6 foot 5 inches tall, is carrying sarcasm to a new level. "Although, I don’t much care for him, and during the last election, I would have preferred the Leftist candidate, Mitterrand, as president, but having said that, de Gaulle is the only European leader, who has balls enough to stand up to the United States.”

He rolls his window down more to let in the cool autumn air. “And who can blame him, really? After the war, the Yanks treated France as an enemy country, and placed them under occupation. Even though they denied it, they acted like it. How quickly they forgot how much France had suffered as their ally."

Then Seph gives out a sarcastic laugh. "And to pay the French back for their loyalty in World War II, the CIA, together with the Russians and Chinese, supported Ho Chi Minh in freeing Indochina from French control and delivered weapons to the Algerian Front de libération nationale.

“All I can say is: 'with friends like that...?’“ He pauses for a second. “It would be as if France were to supply arms to the nationalist rebels in Puerto Rico."

“So, you think de Gaulle is anti-American?” I play the most horrible card that anyone who grew up in the United States knows to play. That is the ultimate transgression.

“Hardly.” Seph grins and shakes his head in wonderment of how black/white we were taught to understand everything in school. “De Gaulle stood by the United States during the Berlin crisis in ‘61 and again unequivocally during the Cuban missile crisis, back in ‘62.” He retrieves his wallet from the inside breast pocket of his jacket. Apparently, we are getting close to the apartment.

Again changing the subject, Raph tests more of the veracity of what we learned at school. “Mrs. O’Casey told us that in the French legal system you are considered guilty until proven innocent, is that true?”

“Ah, Jesus, Son,” Seph is seriously upset. “had I known that you Lads were being brainwashed to this extent at school, we'd have come here long ago." He takes a deep breath of early-evening Parisian air.

"Everyone is absolutely innocence until guilt has been proved beyond the shadow of a doubt, i.e., exactly the opposite of what you were told is true. This is a cornerstone of the French constitution, as opposed to the constitution of the country, in which they taught you that bollocks.”

The taxi pulls up behind the one where the driver is unloading our luggage and crate onto the pavement, next to where Geneviève and Marty are standing and laughing at something the driver is telling them.

Dad pays our driver, asks for a receipt and wishes him a successful evening. I've never heard anyone wish a taxi driver a successful evening, but here we definitely have a case of ‘different folks, different strokes' as our buddy, Marty, once put it. He is now hurrying over to the other driver and pays him, again asking for a receipt. This makes me wonder aloud: “Can you take this off your tax returns?”

“No,” He shakes his head. “but I can get a reimbursement.” His look tells me not to ask, and since I'm getting used to not knowing everything my dad does, I drop it. He does a double-take. “Good Lad.” I bark once quietly, which sends him into a fit of laughter.

First, I look up at the building that is more than likely going to be home for the rest of my life. It is pleasant with a slightly but tastefully ornate limestone façade.

Since Seph said that we have the three top floors, I count up and see that we live on floors six, seven and eight. This is possibly some other crap we were forced to learn in French class. “Uh, Seph?” He turns from sorting out the crated portraits and luggage with the husband of the concierge. “Raph and I also learned in school that Haussmann renovation of Paris, during the Second Empire, limited the number of floors to five. Is that crap, too?"

He grumbles. “Not everything they told you is wrong, Lad." He moves closer to Raph and me. "That, for example, is correct. The number of floors was limited. But this house was built later, in 1908 during the Third Republic, some twenty years after the Eiffel Tower. And it was built with steel girders. That's also why I can have a rather large piano on the sixth floor.

“Although the number of floors wasn’t limited, as such, the height was. That's why we can have three extra floors. The ceilings are not as high as would be the case in a Haussmann building." He escorts us into the entry, which, at one time, must have been a carriage entrance. “It's not as flash, but advantageous, nonetheless, when it comes to heating in the winter.”

We wait as the husband of the concierge takes the luggage and crated portraits up in the wire-cage lift, built into the stairwell. While the lift was coming down from upstairs, he told us that Monsieur Bourke is the only one in the house that always insists on his going first. I wonder why Monsieur Bourke doesn't have us take care of our own fucking luggage ourselves. So, as soon as the husband of the concierge disappears into the elevator with our bags, I ask him.

“Oh, I do get your point. But look at it this way." His face turns serious. "The man is almost seventy and is a retired postman. He's bored senseless. The state takes very good care of him, and since his wife is the concierge, their apartment is free of charge including utilities. Their only care is paying their part of the telephone bill, for which they also get an allowance.” Seph chuckles. “And as you will soon find out, he searches for every possible opportunity for something to do.”

The husband of the concierge is still upstairs waiting for Geneviève and Marty, since she has a key. When they arrive upstairs, we hear the cage rattle, the door close, and the motor whine into action. About halfway down, we, along with probably everyone else in the house, hear Marty yell: “Holy shit!”

The husband of the concierge opens the door grinning broadly. « Il l'a vu. » And he disappears through a narrow door.

Seph is laughing quietly to himself. “What did Marty see?” Raph is becoming anxious.

“The Eiffel Tower, of course.”