Sacrebleu

André Roux, a man in his early thirties, aimed the hammer at the tiny nail head and struck. The hammer, missing the nail head, struck a thumb instead.

"Sacrebleu!" he exclaimed loudly and  sucked his bruised thumb.

The word had been a complete surprise to him. He didn’t know where it came from. Nobody used Sacrebleu anymore and he certainly had never used it except in jest.

And yet, the word was worthy. It was a good French word that went into disuse because fashions had changed, because there was a front of foreign languages anxious to leave their imprint on the language of Voltaire, and because people were lazy. It was easier to say "shit", a word in English, not less than saying Sacrebleu. But Sacrebleu was so Gallic! It evoked another period, when things were not so hectic and people took the time to swear properly.

He ran cold water over his thumb, thinking, that it would be nice to say Sacrebleu instead of, merde, for example.

That night he dreamed he was a pirate and said"sacrébleu" a lot. He woke up with a sense of satisfaction seldom felt. Sacrebleu, but i slept soooooooo well, he thought happily.He knew he wasn't using the word in the right context, but he felt that he needed compensation for all those years he hadn't used the word and every opportunity seemed appropriate.

The next time he used that word was when he crossed the street a few days later. The light was green for pedestrians and he was halfway across the paved road when a cyclist almost knocked him off his feet.

"Sacrebleu," he exclaimed loudly, "but this man nearly knocked me off my feet."

People looked at him oddly, except for an old man whose lips twisted in a small smile and who nodded his head in sympathy. He seemed to agree with the use of the word and its proper context.

The word definitely rolled off the tongue.

Next, he started looking into graffiti materials, and when he had found a washable paint, he started selecting spots for them. And come the night,a furtive figure all in black, would sneak out of his building and cycle to the location he'd selected earlier.

Just the word Sacrebleu in big neat letters that contrasted with their neighbors on the wall. He managed two or three locations a night, entering them in his phone. He was slowly but surely spreading the word, in neat letters and washable paint.

One day, as he walked past one of his graffiti, he noticed that someone had painted a small thumb up icon used on Facebook to denote likeness. He was both impressed by the idea and flattered. Impressed that someone would take the trouble to bring painting material to his graffiti, and flattered because whoever he our she was, they liked his work.

And as he expended his coverage of neat sacrebleus (all washable), he noticed two things: the first was that no one bothered to wash them away, the second was the appearance of the 'like' icon in each of them. He recognized the hand and it was all the same. Someone was following him!

But then, he reasoned ti himself, that someone had not turned him in, nor had manifested any personal interest in him.

One day, an article called "Capitaine Sacrebleu" appeared in the culture section of a national magazine, with pictures of his graffiti. Who is that knight of the night who reminds us of earlier, gentler days? the article asked rhetorically. Instead of his picture, there was a black silhouette.

From then on, he wasn't the only fighter. Next to sacrebleu, words like morbleu, zut and even a diantre or two appeared on walls everywhere. He enjoyed his anonymous notoriety and when he walked the streets of the city, he looked at the other people and asked himself if anyone had any inkling that he was Captain Sacrebleu.

And, he noticed with surprise mingled with pleasure that the "likes" kept following him faithfully.

One night, he decided to find out who was his stalker. Now and then he heard someone swear with "his" word and he knew he was progressing.

Sacrebleu, it felt good. And tonight, who knew, he might meet his biggest fan. Or his nemesis, he thought gloomily. He hurried to a spot he had selected earlier, a place where he could vanish from prying eyes and observe who was adding the little "likes" to his messages. The wait could be long, but curiosity was stronger than lack of sleep.

He didn't wait long.  A bike appeared in the dimly lit street and stopped in front of his last message and a slight figure discarded the bike, ran to the graffiti and with one hand sprayed the wall while the other hand held what appeared to be a stencil of some sort. The figure ran back to the bike and mounted it. 

He sprinted out of his hiding and stood in the middle of the deserted street, his arms extended forward  "Stop!" he shouted and the bike swerved violently to avoid him and, under André's  shocked look, crashed on the pavement, it's rider with it.  The rider rose from the ground, wiping dust from the tight clothes.

"Why did you do that for?" the figure asked in a rather nasty tone of voice. The voice, the small stature, the tight fitting clothes, all gave André the distinct impression it was a woman, impression which was confirmed when she removed her helmet and a shock of jet black hair spilled out of it.  In the dim light, he could see dimples and white teeth and the black holes that were her eyes. Instead of replying, André said simply, as if it was self evident, "I like your 'likes',"

"I am glad you don’t hate them. I wonder how you'd react then," she said, her voice heavy with sarcasm. She bent to pick her bike, but André was quicker. "Here," he said, smiling and extended a hand. "I am André Roux."

"I am Josette," she said, without extending her hand. She studied his lanky frame with a neutral expression.

"Why are you following me?" he asked, his eyes on her shapely body under the tight fitting riding clothes. She had nice legs, he noticed.

She shrugged. "You are Captain Sacrebleu," she stated in a flat voice, but under the feeble street light he could see the shadow of a smile.

"This is a media invention. I am just Andre Roux.  So why are you following me, apart from the obvious?"

"I admire what you do," she said softly, and then, her voice rose as she added, "And I am not following you. I am following your graffiti. I like what they represent."

Andre was very pleased. Professional curiosity, however, took over. "What are you using, for your little likes?" he asked a bit awkwardly. Now that she was standing, the light from the nearby streetlamp showed clear eyes, contrasting wildly with the jet black hair. She is definitely pretty, he thought as he showed her his can of spray.  "I use washable spray."

"Nice, environmental conscious, I like that." She fished a small packet from a pocket and shook it in the air. "A can of spray, a small template and quick legs," She laughed, a soft laugh that made Andre want to tell a joke, just for the pleasure of hearing her laugh. He was smitten, he realized with an inward grin.

At this moment, a siren blared, red and blue lights flashed in front of them and as they turned to look, a police car stopped, two doors opened a split seconds later and two gendarmes burst out of them.  "Stay as you are," one of them barked while the other hurried towards them. "What have you got there? Let me see!" said the hurrying gendarme, a little out of breath. He grabbed Josette's bag and André's can of washable spray. "What have we here?" he asked, obviously rhetorically as he proceeded to enunciate the items one by one. A bag, a can of paint and a template, another can of paint. Then, suspicious he lit a powerful torch and directed it first to the wall André had scrawled his message earlier then  to André's face, blinding him in the process. "Hey, Raymond," he called loudly. "Come and see whose collar we just nabbed."

"Sacrebleu!" said André and Josette in unison, then laughed together.

"In the name of the law," he said gravely, "I arrest both of you on suspicion of defacing public surfaces."

Their bikes secured -  the policemen had been gracious enough to bring André's bike and lock it together with Josette's  , they were led to the police car that stood with its doors ajar, more appropriate for an hostage situation than the apprehension of two paint sprayers.

However, as soon as the driver reported to his commissariat that he was in possession of "Captain Sacrebleu", the airwaves flooded and the chatter reminded André a band of chattering monkeys.  And the word Sacrebleu every few seconds.

In the car, Josette and André talked, oblivious of the outer world. She confessed that she had followed him a couple of times before and that she chanced upon him from the beginning as she liked to ride late at night, when the streets were empty and they were, after all, sort of neighbors, she living a few streets away from his own.

At the police station, they were treated as minor celebrities and were made to wait for the inspector in his office, away from the drunks and disorderly that were crowding the main waiting room. Coffee was served and more than one policeman, his cell phone in hand and a shy smile, asked if his picture could be taken with "captain Sacrebleu".

"So this is what fame is," he commented after the third picture. Josette looked at him with adoring eyes.

Eventually, an inspector came and took André to an interview room; there he offered him a seat and yet another cup of coffee. On the desk there was a file and André's can of spray-paint.

"What are you accusing me of?" André shot as soon as he was sitting.

The inspector took the file from the desk and opened it and read slowly, while fixing André with a stern look every few seconds.

"Those who arrested you didn't tell you?" he asked as he closed the file. He leaned back on his chair, as if gauging the man sitting across his desk.

"But they assumed I am this captain Sacrebleu," André replied hotly. "They have no proof!"

"Come, come, Monsieur, you know perfectly well it is not true. You were caught on the spot with these." He picked the paint spray can from the table and waved it in the air. "Our forensic labs can analyze this, you know.  To a degree that would convince any court of justice."

"Sacrebleu," André swore softly. "You are going to throw the book at me?"

The inspector shrugged. "I doubt it." He inspected the spray paint closely. "Washable, huh? This would go in your favor. I imagine you will be required to clean up walls or something like that. I would not worry unduly." He fixed André with a sympathetic look.  "You know, France has always been proud of its political openness. What you did was political and in France, we don’t punish political activists."

Andre recalled one of his university professors that had claimed that "everything was political", and now he understood the real meaning of the phrase. What he was doing with his graffiti, was sending a message to the French people, a reminder of simpler times, when life was less hectic, when words were important. Not SMS words, not sound bytes, but words to relish, to use to beautify the thought.

"What is happening with Josette?" he asked finally, when the silence in the room started to weigh.

The inspector picked the phone and punched a number, spoke a few words and replaced the set. "Your accomplice, Miss Noiret will be released shortly. As will you. We are waiting for the typists to finish the deposition which you will sign, and then you will be sent home."

Miss Noiret, thought André. Josette Noiret.  Sacrebleu, it was a nice name. Then a thought came to him: Josette Roux. How did it sound?

The inspector smiled at him. "You seem pensive. Is it, perchance the mention of Miss Noiret?"

"Yes," André admitted with a shy smile. "My ''accomplice' as you put it. We only met minutes before your men arrested us."

"Well, now you have common memories. It is the foundation of a good relationship," said the inspector philosophically. He got up on his feet and extended a hand. "I wish you all the best and we will be in touch about your case. You are going to be famous, Monsieur Roux. Use your fame well."

So why am I being dragged to court, André thought bitterly, but he stood up and shook the inspector's hand.

Outside, Josette was waiting and her smile, when she saw him emerge from the interview room was so bright that it warmed the cockles of his heart. Very naturally, he offered her his arm and both left the station with jaunty steps, envious eyes following them.

Outside the station, in the cold night, waited a large truck with a dish on its roof and Rene Brouillard, the reporter who had written the piece about captain Sacrebleu was standing on the pavement with a microphone in hand. He shoved it in André's face. "Captain Sacrebleu, what do you have to say to the people of France?" he asked with his notorious deep voice.

Andre pushed the microphone aside. "Leave us alone," he snarled. "Because of you, the police are after me. Are you happy?"

At that moment, a police car stopped next to the truck and one of the policeman who had arrested them got out and opened the back door with a flourish. "This way, Captain," he called. Then he drove them where their bikes had been locked.

"Shall we ride?" he offered gallantly after he had opened the lock and freed the bikes.

"Why not, we are neighbors,,, after," she replied with a wide smile.

But they were not alone, the truck that had waited at the police station had materialized behind them and drove slowly in the desert city.

They chatted all the way to her address, then sat on the porch, exchanging life stories. He told her of his job as a pharmacist, "Well," he'd said, "more like a clerk isn't it? Filling prescriptions for maladies no one would have in the first place if they were not so addicted to modern life. A trained monkey could do it."

She told him about the training center she worked in as a trainer and was addicted to touring the city at night. "Three, four times a week I at midnight, one o'clock I go out and just ride and take pictures. Tonight I didn't have my camera."

And all the while, the truck was spying on them. For the fun, when he finally decided it was time they went home, the bowed towards the truck and even curtsied. After that, he kissed her lips lightly, but with a hint of desire in the way his lips sought hers.

It was an extremely happy André Roux that rode home that early morning, amid the first delivery trucks of the day.

The news of the capture and subsequent release from custody of Captain Sacrebleu hit the media with the force of  a hurricane. For lack of real interest, Sacrebleu's capture, appeared on all TV and radio channels, and even the national newspapers reported it on their front pages. It also sparked a national debate on the nature of language, culture, life styles and choices. And behind it stood the question of national identity. "Are we a nation of 'Nik ta mere'  sayers, or are we a nation of 'Sacrebleu'" sayers?"asked a prominent journalist in one of the newspapers.

And behind that tumult, André was wooing a willing Josette, the two of them trying to maintain a semblance of normality in the mild chaos that their lives had been thrown in. when they went out, they were never alone, followed as they were by an army of reporters and paparazzi photographers.

"Why do you think it is?" she asked him one day when a photographer surprised them sharing a kiss. "Why is that Sacrebleu so important? Why are they making such a big deal?"

Andre thought for a moment, readjusted his clothes and scratched hid head. "Ma foi," he said after a while, his hand now stroking his pointy chin, "I think this word is an echo from different times. I sense a deep yearning for old values. This world is going too fast and I guess sacrebleu is a symbol of another, kinder time." He shrugged and saw in her clear eyes a mute understanding.

Their professional lives were turned upside down too. Publicity brought scores of new customers to the pharmacy and Gaston Legros, the owner promoted André to store manager, with all the benefits that stemmed from his new position. Josette, after her pretty face was shown on TV was flooded with a male clientele more intent on looking at her delicious curves than get in shape, but who paid well and it showed in her pay slips.

They decided to move together and the newspapers had a field day: "They Move Together," claimed one of them while another printed in big letters "Superman and Lois Lane?" They found a big loft and moved in and it was as if they had always lived together, When André stopped scrawling his graffiti, others took his place and the word could be heard everywhere. When the foreign minister, on a visit to a former and now rogue, colony told the local dictator, "Sacrebleu, France will never tolerate that!" banging his fist on the negotiating table, André felt he had won.

When they got affianced, the newspapers screamed "Captain Sacrebleu and Like Engaged!" they had a small reception for parents, both having full sets of, and friends, and with the renewed interest their lives were providing, a large contingent of media.

After a few weeks, André and Josette decided to elope. Neither of them wanted the presence of strangers in their lives and Josette came from a small village, St Francois de l'Aude, population a hundred fifty three men, women and children. They drove all night and were waiting at the tiny mairie for the mayor to arrive and marry them. They waited at the small cafe, drinking espressos and whiling the time away, both of them secure in the knowledge that they were marrying the person the fates had chosen for them.

But when the mayor arrived to the small building, every denizen of the small, picturesque village with its church, the big square lined with plane trees and the obligatory memorial for the wars and the fallen, was present and voices were demanding that the ceremony be held outside, seeing that Josette was kin and were all eager to see her take the man of her life in sight of all the community.

And when the mayor put the sash of his office across his chest and was ready to start the civil ceremony that would unite their lives, a chopping sound could be heard above the square and shortly thereafter, a couple of helicopters hovered over it, blowing leaves everywhere. A hundred fifty five pairs of eyes saw the president of the republic alight from one of them, followed by a group of people. The president's energetic steps took him straight to the waiting couple.

The president's secretary made the introductions. Next to the president was the chairman of the Legion d'Honneur nomination committee. "In the name of the republic," the president intoned and took a box from his secretary's hands, "I am pleased to present  you, monsieur Roux, the medal of the Legion d'Honneur, in the rank of knight, for the part you took in helping revive a portion of our language we had forgotten about. The French Nation is richer thanks to your effort."

"Sacrebleu!" said Josette and André in unison and burst out laughing.

The End