Le Petit Nicolas JOE BEADLE (YEAR 9) I You tend to think you re not the local gangster --- well you sure hope not, that s for sure. Only the exhausted, scarlet traffic by a bus mustard headlights, tiny baker shops, begrimed flats can be seen through the musty fog on the street outside the garage. The reluctant, cold air sweeps in and a wispy wind wanders through, blowing all your paper away. Your tea topples over, drenching you, and the mug smashes all onto the floor. God, you hate the cold. That goddamn phone trills yet again and you waddle over to answer it. Hello? Is this Blind Jack? It s those kids again, you mutter. Remember when kids used to play Duck Duck Goose or some other fruitless pastime, rather than pestering fully grown men, like you? We have 500 francs. Now what? a little boy on the phone whispers, almost as if he s not trying to get caught. My God! How d they manage that?! You try to keep your composure and reply, When can you bring the car? They interrupt you sharply. We need a car? Shoot! Okay, we ll get back to you. You try to think about why these little kids are trying to get you to repair a car that - by the sounds of it - they don t even have!... But it s too cold to think, so you just waddle back to your work.
II It s the next day, and the kids call back. Concluding that it s far too cold to bother asking why they want something repaired, you give them the address, and, surely enough, they arrive a few hours later with a car, all sweaty and slimy. Alright, one of the rabble blurts, we ve got you 500 francs and a car. Now, here s what we want you to do. They hand over a scrappy sheet of tinted paper, with juvenile scribbles darting across, as if the ink was somewhat hurled at it. Deciphering each word, you realise that they want you to kidnap one of their younger brothers, or something like that. You put the piece of paper away, and peacefully you lead the boys into the sitting area. They fidget and stare at you and toddle along. You give one of them a push (although you like to call it some manual encouragement ) before whipping out a cigarette; you need the sustenance. After having spotted you, a tiny boy with curly hair and round, steamy glasses chirps smoking kills! Good boy, you murmur. He gives you a wide, suspicious grin. You sink into your chair. What s all this about, then? you begin. Fingers on lips, all of the boys raise their hands, competing against each other until one of them is sitting up the straightest. You cough and, instinctively, curse, to the kids wildest invigoration. Hushing them once more, you point to one of the children the curly-haired, round, steamy-glasses one and he stands up, demanding the respect of his peers, and divulges something that sounds almost recited: Nicolas parents are evil, sir. They are having a baby and they will throw Nicolas into the forest so he can rot and die, sir. This Nicolas kid shrinks into his chair, a chubby frown smeared upon his face, whilst the others roar in parliamentary accord. So we heard about you, sir, and we want you to kidnap the baby, send it to the forest and feed it cat food, sir, so that its evil powers cannot take over the world, sir. All the other boys emerge and make a din in rowdy agreement. They bounce around the room like popcorn kernels in a frying pan. Instead of trying to contain them, you puff on your cigarette once more and allow them to simmer down themselves yet to no avail. So you try clapping and raising your hand. Almost militarily, they all freeze and fall back into place. You turn to Nicolas, who is shrunk into his seat, his legs swinging off the side above the floor, and give him the maternal look of disappointment to the most possible extent that you can muster.
Is that the right way to behave, Nicolas? He doesn t reply, the poor lad. I just want my parents to carry on loving me, he whimpers, at length. There is a discomforting pause. You re about to throw up. Later, he looks up from his Velcro shoes and eyeballs me with tears in his eyes. Aren t you going to help me? Look, you say. I m not the local gangster that you think I am: I m just a car mechanic. A boy sat at the other side of the room, with pristine, meticulously crafted hair shards arising from his head, nudges his mate and flippantly mutters, Told you so. I think it s important that you embrace change, Nicolas; in fact, all of you boys! you impart. God, all this wisdom is literally killing you; you sure could use a sick bag right now. Your parents will never stop loving you, whatever happens. But he begins to stammer. Go home. Tell them about what you did. All of you, promise you ll change and be good boys. They begin to shake their heads and worry and start to cry. In retrospect, this may have appeared to be a bittersweet realisation confusion strikes upon many of their faces. Your parents love you very, very much, you continue reluctantly, and I want you all to promise me that you will never do this again. Nodding their heads, they quietly file out of the room in woe. Some fat kid munching on a croissant (its crumbs littered all over the sofa) tries to sniff your cigarette on the way out. Another takes out a pen and pretends to smoke, to the chagrin of the others Nicolas stays quiet and looks down at the floor. You hope that you ve changed him: changed him in a good way, the young boy. Relaxing back into your dirty, smoky, wicker chair, you close your eyes and enjoy the blessing of heat, a revelation from the icy cold outside.
III The next day arrives, and you decide to visit Nicolas house (they left the goddam address on the scrap of paper). Through snow-ridden streets and alleys painted with iridescent glass and explicit graffiti, you make it to a slim house, somewhat understated, knocking on the door with your frozen fist. God, you re about to catch pneumonia! The door opens almost immediately, and there is a kind, motherly figure who welcomes you in. Telling Nicolas mother of what had happened the previous day, she smiles, the occasional interjection of fondness like aww slipping in, and replies, Yes, he s told us all about you and what you said. We d like to thank you: we re so proud about how sensibly and grown-up he s behaved since. You laugh and share the day at Nicolas house while Nicolas plays on the floor with a small, spinning toy. The fireplace roars. Something feels good IV It s a few, cold, long weeks later, your boss at the garage drops you a tatty, coffeestained envelope. It s a letter from Nicolas mother. It reads: Dear Mr B. Jack, Once again, we would like to thank you for helping our boy get through a tough time in his life. We have explained to Nicolas that we were not planning to have a baby, and that it was all one, big misunderstanding! We have bought him a puppy, something that he has always wanted! However, he has had, undoubtedly, an initial reluctance to assuming such a role of responsibility,,, He has said to us, I never want to grow up. I don t want things to change. All I want is to be with you.
I guess it may be a long road before he grows up, but thank you for helping him to get on track and teaching him a good lesson that I am sure he will never forget. If you would like to, it would be our honour to have you spend Christmas with us next week. We would love to have you over! Kindest regards, Valérie You contemplate going to spend Christmas Day with Nicolas family. After all, you have nothing else planned apart from smoking and drinking and spending time alone But it s still too cold to think. You reserve that thought, like most other thoughts, for another time. Maybe you re something more than a car mechanic: maybe you re a life changer