Ma Folie Française (My French Folly) by Marisa Raoul Page B

remember.’
    We all looked at each other in disbelief. Thibault , however, smiled broadly, melting the pessimist within me and sending me into a fit of giggles.
    â€˜You’re a conundrum, Thibault ! Okay, bring on the famous Fernand … that was the purpose of our journey, wasn’t it?’
    â€˜ Bien sûr . (Of course) Look … ze café is just over zere,’ he said, pointing towards the dirty, derelict façade of a 19th century dwelling. If he hadn’t pointed it out as our final destination, I would have rightfully mistaken it as a condemned building. Its woeful remains sung of prior beauty but its current state reeked of abandon and neglect.
    â€˜That’s it? That’s what we’ve come all this way to see?’
    â€˜ Eh…Oui! C’est super, nest-ce pas? (Oh…yes! It’s great isn’t it?)’
    â€˜ Super ! You are pulling my leg?’ I cried.
    â€˜ Marisa … I never touched you. I did not pull your leg,’ Thibault replied aghast.
    â€˜Sorry Thibault … it’s just a term of speech … I meant that you were really and truly joking this time.’
    â€˜ Mais non … I don’t joke!’, he replied miffed.
    â€˜Okay… so this is it,’ Jean replied, ‘so what’s next?’
    â€˜Ah ha! That’s the good part … follow me,’ he replied grinning, as he strode towards the filthy front entrance of the now, obviously condemnable building.
    It was difficult to see through the tea coloured windowpanes, as they were taped up with mould-eaten newspapers. Thibault struggled to open the entrance door with its rusty, antique handle. It eventually gave way with an atrocious creak and grind. The stained, linoleum floors were sticky underfoot, covered with a thick blanket of food crumbs and age-old grime. There was that putrid stench of imbedded tobacco fumes mixed with the smell of stale beer and acrid, spilt wine.
    â€˜ C’est dégueulasse . (This place is disgusting),’ I whispered, unsure of whom might be lurking in the corners. ‘The health inspector hasn’t been in here for a while.’
    â€˜It’s original … to say the least,’ replied Jean , holding me firmly by the hand.
    â€˜There doesn’t seem to be anyone in … perhaps we should leave,’ I suggested, turning to Thibault .
    â€˜Oh, don’t worry … he won’t be far. He’s probably asleep or in ze bathroom.’
    â€˜Bathroom? Yuk! … I hate to think what might be lurking in there. Remind me not to go,’ I giggled, winking at Jean .
    â€˜ Regardez ,’ pointed Thibault , ‘take a good look around you.’
    Realising we were quite alone and free to wander at no risk, we began to take in our lugubrious surroundings with a burgeoning interest. In every fathomable spare inch of floor space, were pile upon pile of yellowed, rotting newspapers.
    â€˜I bet you’ll find some interesting reading in zose,’ Gilberto laughed. ‘Look zis one dates to 1954.’
    Everything was soiled. No cloth or detergent of any description had touched these surfaces in decades. It was, in effect, a time capsule of sorts, though not a very alluring one.
    â€˜Take a look at zis,’ called Thibault from the adjoining room.
    â€˜What? Why does he have two televisions, one on top of the other?’
    â€˜Zat’s a good question Marisa , but the answer is simple. Many years ago, his first television lost its sound, so eventually he had to buy a second one. Zat one eventually burnt its tube, so it lost its picture. Consequently, by putting one on top of ze other, he has both picture and sound. Perfect, non ?’
    â€˜My God…that’s incredible.’
    â€˜I told you he was a character.’
    â€˜ Alors les jeunes … vous allez bien ?’ (So young ones … how’s it going?)’ came a husky, sallow voice from behind the bar.
    â€˜ Mon