Mr Imp, Life columnist at The Banner, writes about his misadventures as a Don Juan-Esque petty criminal, his odd odysseys abroad and his high jinks with his colourful family in Auchterturra. Cartoons by Dod Dunlop.
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Dear readers, as of right now, your beloved columnist and favourite 'Imp on the Run' is having a wonderful time in the south of France and has had no trouble from any potential problem makers. For a wee bit of entertainment, I've been trying my hand at investigative journalism. In my fruitless attempts to find some exciting things to investigate, one of my investigations which I relay to you in this column, blew up in my face within a few seconds of starting the investigation, and then the story went totally Gonzo.
To begin, among the things I'm doing while in Provence is a lot of hiking and walking around villages and historic sites, which is interesting and all. Still, it does get quite dull after a while until I found myself in the town of M______ (the name was removed at Hebert's behest).
The town of M____, for the most part, serves as a dormitory for Marseille; it is close to the Marseille airport and is on the coastline. It is a very average Mediterranean coastline town. However, it is located on a strip of land cutting between the Mediterranean and a large bay which leads into the port of Marseille. It is also one of those seaside towns with cheap hotels and hostels adorned with ridiculous names like 'Atlantis',' Coastal Dream' and 'Southern Paradise'. These hotels and hostels all have the same putrid paint that covered perhaps too heavily the obvious cracks and crevices, which in my humble opinion, made the building's imperfections more observable.
I entered the town of M____ from the side and walked past an old cemetery; in the graveyard, there was a large group of old men with family members laying wreaths at some graves. They were singing songs and being very solemn in their proceedings. It was clearly a memorial service rather than a funeral because the graves where the wreaths were laid were very old. I stopped to watch and observe this memorial service. I spied something rather interesting: the mourners had a flag unfurled (it was a military memorial service) which was not the standard Tricolour of the French Republic. Their flag was tricolour, but first, the red stripe was replaced with a black stripe, and in each stripe, there were shield crests.
It was then that I realised that the flag was the standard of the Pieds-Noirs; the Pieds-Noirs are French Europeans born in the French colony of Algeria. When France controlled Algeria, they numbered in the millions and fiercely fought to stay in Algeria during "La Guerre Sans Nom" (the Algerian War 1954-1962). When realising what was happening, they were having a memorial service for members of the OAS (secret armed organisation). This was a paramilitary organisation that fought to keep Algeria French, and when Algeria gained its independence, the OAS sought vengeance against De Gaulle, who "betrayed the Pieds-Noirs and France". I decided to observe them and see if they did anything. Still, these plans were quickly thwarted as two massive men with prison tattoos approached me when the memorial service ended. I then found myself hauled in front of the leader of the memorial service.
The leader whom we will call "Mirabeau" was in his late 70s, with leathery skin, a prominent scar on the right side of his face, balding, wearing thick aviator eye glasses and wearing a beige trench coat; with the roughness, you would expect from such a character he asked me what I was doing spying on them. The first thing I said was where I was from and paying my respects; I said it all while speaking in a thick Aix dialect which I picked up, and the old man Mirabeau misheard what I said and thought I was Corsican. Mirabeau replied, "a Corsican, come to pay his respects" Mirabeau immediately embraced me in his long arms, proceeded to French kiss me several times, and then said, "your people must understand us so well". Mirabeau then insisted that I come with him and the group for food.
Given that I had minimal choice in the matter, I duly obliged and found myself in this hotel restaurant with all these Pieds-Noirs talking about the good old days in Algeria whilst enjoying bouillabaisse and lots of wine. I sat next to Mirabeau, and he talked and talked; one thing that kept popping up was "de Gaulle was a traitor" and "we should have tried harder to kill him" in the situation I was in, I nodded my head and agreed so, not to arouse suspicion. It was blatantly evident that Mirabeau and quite a few of the older people in this group were either involved or full members of the OAS and most probably are still involved in certainly less than legal activities.
Fascinating people nonetheless, and the perspective I found refreshingly surreal. The stories about what Algeria was like for them echoed my readings of Camus. I tried my best to imagine from their respective feelings of loss which must be profoundly painful. However, France could never hold Algeria forever.
At the end of the meal, Mirabeau refused to hear anything about me paying for my meal because I had given him such joy that day. Leaving the restaurant, I paid my farewells to my new friends, the Pieds-Noirs, and wandered back to Aix.
