Jean in Paris

(May 2005)

It was an especially hot day by Parisian standards, the temperature hovering around eighty on the Fahrenheit scale. Jean Maigny squinted up at the clear blue sky with a few silvery-white wisps of cloud floating about, and, as a drop of sweat formed at his brow, wished that it were a little cooler. Around him were ranged fifteen thousand people, three towering walls of humanity glaring at him, and one more behind him. Some of them seemed very excited, and some looked stiff and bored, as if they expected to see nothing new today. The younger people revelled in the sunshine, their faces covered with zinc cream, while the older lot carried elegant white umbrellas. High up on Jean’s right was a sleek cabin, all glass and silver-grey metal. Inside sat a couple of men in suit and tie. He could barely make them out from where he sat, but a closer observer might have noticed that one of the men was suavity personified, while the other was a tad grizzled and looked very uncomfortable in his Savile Row suit, like one who has spent much of his life in T-shirts running around in the sun. Jean looked down at the bright, orange-red clay and the neat white lines that ran all over it, making right-angled patterns.

For a few moments his mind wandered back to his neat little cottage in the countryside where he relaxed in his free time, lying in his hammock and gazing up at the Pyrenees. A slow smile began to dribble across his face. Then another drop of sweat made a plop! as it fell delicately from his brow onto the tip of his nose. Duty calls, he thought. He glanced down at his watch, then leaned forward and spoke into the microphone. ‘Mesdames et Messieurs, silencieux s'il vous plait.’ The busy hum that had been travelling around the arena like a thousand bees in concert suddenly ebbed, and trailed away in a hush. The defending champion served.