Monsieur Raminet's Long Voyage

By Daniel Rocher

After a somewhat cloistered, morally upright existence and a life devoted to legal matters, Félix Raminet, at the age of 66, achieves a lifelong ambition in passing his driving test, and immediately embarks upon the ultimate quest for liberty, a 300km drive from Paris to the seaside town of Saint-Malo. His meeting with Jane, a generous, free-spirited, young American at a gas station will irremediably change the course of his existence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Les Éditions du Net
• Release date: Feb 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9782312021003

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Monsieur Raminet’s Long Voyage

Daniel Rocher

Monsieur Raminet’s Long Voyage

Translated from the French

by Lynne Forest

LES ÉDITIONS DU NET

22, rue Édouard Nieuport 92150 Suresnes

By the same author

Transit, Gallimard, 1972

Le Chat qui voulait aller à Saint-Malo, éditions Ouest-France, 1992

La Trompette de Corentin, éditions Ouest-France, 1994

Le Voyage de Monsieur Raminet, Jean-Paul Rocher, 2000

Mauvais Rêve, Jean-Paul Rocher, 2001

Brins de Zinc, Jean-Paul Rocher, 2003

Tante Augustine, L’Atelier du Gué, 2004

L’Homme jetable, Jean-Paul Rocher, 2005

A qui parler, Jean-Paul Rocher, 2006

La Croisette s’amuse, Jean-Paul Rocher, 2011

Bribes de Plage, Les Editions du Net, 2013

Subsequent editions

Le Voyage de Monsieur Raminet, Le Serpent à Plumes, 2004

Brins de Zinc, Le Serpent à Plumes, 2007

Italian translation

Il Viaggio del Signor Raminet, Barbès Editore, Firenze, 2009

© Les Éditions du Net, 2014

ISBN: 978-2-312-02100-3

Contents

Contents

The Departure

The Halt

Angels

Another Angel

Conversation

A Demon

The Combat

The Next Lap

Memories

From Combourg To Saint­Malo

Dinner With The Bagots

The Nightclub

The Retirement Home

On The Ramparts

Loic De Trémigon

The Sailboard

An Evening At The Frachons’

Tardy Coitus

The Following Day

The Death Of Madame Villequier

The ‘Grand Be´’

The Departure

The Visit

A Succession Of Days

The ‘Grande Plage’

The Departure

His name was the one he had been given, that is to say Felix Raminet. Sixty-six years after his birth, he retired. Three days later, he could be found delivering a fiery speech to a garage-owner, whose functions also included those of petrol pump attendant and car salesman. The garage-owner was tall, bony, hairy, covered in axel-grease and weary. Monsieur Raminet was short, plump, bald, polished and excited. The garage-owner sported the remains of an extinguished, dark yellow cigarette at the corner of his mouth. Monsieur Raminet sported a pair of glasses on the end of his snub nose. Their frame was light in colour, like his eyes.

What an ingenious contrivance! he exclaimed. The garage-owner sighed. His eyes were wandering in every direction. They settled on his apprentice, who had remained in the background in order to procure greater enjoyment from the show, while having it out with a lump of tired chewing-gum. In the garage-owner’s eyes one could detect the same silent prayer a boxer addresses to his manager when he urgently desires to throw in the towel. But he apprentice merely formed a large, whitish bubble in reply, which he then popped with great satisfaction. The encounter between his boss and Monsieur Raminet had been going on for about an hour. Defying even the most reasonable of odds, the shorter of the two men had immediately got ahead, and since then had been consistently in the lead. Preventing the garage-owner from edging his way in, he had given him a consistently rough ride, punctuated by a shower of questions, each answer reviving his pitiless enthusiasm. Never before had a mass-produced vehicle been equally idolized. Each one of its features was the object of adoration. The most banal of options became a source of ecstasy.

Really most ingenious! Monsieur Raminet repeated.

Yeah, it is very handy, the garage-owner groaned.

So, in rainy weather, thanks to this wiper fixed on the rear window, one may reverse the car in conditions of security equivalent to those from which one benefits whilst moving forwards?

Yes, sir!

Most ingenious, and extremely useful. The driving school’s car was unfortunately lacking in that respect. Highly regrettable, deplorable in fact. I could have further practised the art of reversing, and thus have become familiar with that most delicate of all exercises, don’t you think?

Sure! Hey… Do you mind if I ask you a question?

But of course! Should it be in my power to provide you with an answer, I will do so, with an ardour that will be nothing less than the just repayment of the courtesy and kindness you have consistently shown towards me.

Yeah… Just a minute. I only wanted to know how long you’ve had your driving licence for.

The shorter man smiled and removed his glasses (always a sign of emotion in Monsieur Raminet), wiped them with his pocket handkerchief, adjusted their position on his nose, and, staring straight into the garage-owner’s eyes, declared with legitimate pride, I have been in possession of the said certificate since yesterday at 5-30 p. m.

Ah, I see.

I can imagine how astonished you must be, my friend, and I believe I discern the grounds for your query. You are surely wondering what reasons could have led a man of my age, which although not too advanced, is certainly mature, to embark on the adventure of motoring; what mysterious motives could have justified his putting in for the driving test, no doubt the last examination in his long career, what imperatives he could have followed in deciding to bear the financial burden represented by the acquisition and then the upkeep of a car, which, like this one, without strictly speaking being luxurious, presents the advantages of a decent degree of comfort, and the charm of an agreeable silhouette.

Well…

To all these questions, which it is only natural that you should ask yourself, I will give you one answer, and one alone: free-dom!

Well, well, …

After more than forty years of public service, forty years of fixed timetables, forty years of marking – often nocturnal – and of homework, where, I don’t mind if I tell you, nonsense would often prevail over the pupils’general lack of culture, after what has basically been forty years of punctuality and rigour, I am sure you can imagine, my dear fellow, that one may be overcome by a wild, untamable desire for freedom?

Keep calm, sir!

I am extremely calm!

But his eyes had clouded over, and he had to remove his glasses once again, and to take out his pocket handkerchief.

The garage-owner took advantage of this technical hitch to give voice to his preoccupations,

I just wanted to tell you… – well, to be careful!

Monsieur Raminet pulled himself up to his full height, which brought him up to his interlocutor’s shoulder.

My friend, your concern is no doubt quite well-intentioned, but please banish any such misgivings from your thoughts! Allow me to inform you that unlike the driving test, I passed the highway code first time!

Ah, yes, that’s very good, I’ll give you that! But …

Therefore I am perfectly aware of both my obligations and my rights.

I’m not questioning that. Only…

Well, what then?

It’s none of my business, but… may I ask you where you’re thinking of going?

To Saint-Malo!

Monsieur. Raminet gave a rascally little laugh. The garage-owner screwed his eyes up. Monsieur Raminet screwed his up too. The apprentice started to masticate in slow motion. A customer, who had been filling up his car, had turned his head towards them, his hand still holding on to the hose from the pump which was stuck in his car.

They further challenged each other in this way for a handful of seconds, then it was Monsieur Raminet who rallied firmly,

‘Why Saint-Malo? ’you are going to ask.

No, I’m going to ask you if you’ll be taking the motorway or the secondary roads.

Monsieur Raminet lost countenance.

Ah yes, indeed, the question is worthy of consideration. What would you advise?

I don’t know!

The professional stared into Monsieur Raminet’s eyes, as if he hoped to read the answer to this somewhat tricky question there. However he merely found in the little man’s gaze an expression of anticipated gratitude for the advice he was about to receive, and so made a decision,

If you want my own point of view, you won’t get into as many traffic jams on the motorway. And then it would probably be better for running it in.

Now there’s the deciding element! The superior interest of the running in must take precedence over the pleasure of the journey!

There was a heavy silence. The garage-owner lit up a cigarette, took a deep breath, sent off the smoke on a swift return journey, before brusquely expelling it through his nostrils with perfect symmetry. Then, to hide his emotion, like a father making a last recommendation to his son, blurted out in a surly voice: "The keys are on the starter. Have a safe journey! And don’t forget you’ve got ″90 ″ on your backside{1}!"

Monsieur Raminet gave a little sign of assent, then, to give himself courage, gave the car a little slap on the backside in question, which immediately caused him to blush from embarrassment. To make up for such unseemly behaviour, he opened the car door with great respect, in the same way one would lift a bride’s veil, and was greeted by that unmistakeable smell of newness which invariably betrays automobile virginity.

He sat down at the wheel, fastened his seatbelt, turned the key in the ignition, set the engine humming, pressed on the indicator, released the handbrake, put the car into first gear, and, bestowing a last farewell glance on the garage-owner, stalled.

Don’t mind me! Don’t mind me! shouted the garage-owner. The apprentice was watching all this, eyelids drooping with delight, his half-open mouth revealing the motionless lump of chewing-gum. The customer who had been filling up his own car had long since got petrol all over his trousers. Monsieur Raminet, frowning, set himself about starting up again. His obstination was crowned with success: for the price of a few hiccups, which gradually diminished in strength, the car sprang into action and gradually left its enclosure. Guided by instinct, it pulled out onto the boulevard with the determination of a novice who wished to make a place for herself alongside her more confirmed sisters. The sisters in question greeted the newcomer with loud beeps on their horns.

Meanwhile, Monsieur Raminet, at the heart of these events, was beside himself. He could not but remember an old documentary: the arrival of the Normandie in New York harbour to the sound of the sirens of all the other ships. He tried in vain to reproach himself with the immodesty of such a comparison, but was quite unable to stem the flow of joyfulness which was causing his heart to swell.

The Halt

M. Raminet therefore opted for the motorway. Taking into consideration the fact that he was at the controls of a car of average dimensions, and being careful not to forget that as a newly-qualified driver he had 90 on his backside, he chose to drive in the middle lane at exactly 90 kilometres per hour. This wisdom was immediately acknowledged by all those who, in their large or small, two or four-wheeled vehicles overtook him on his left or right-hand side, availing themselves of this opportunity to activate an infinite variety of warning lights, horns and sirens, while at the same time indulging in all sorts of particularly hearty and typically expressive French gestures: the sudden back-bend of the forearm, the pointing middle finger, the index finger screw-driving into the temple, and other similar demonstrations of cordiality. Monsieur Raminet answered each of these with a smile and an approving nod, which had the effect of multiplying the gesticulations of his fellow seminarists. Really, he thought to himself, the attention all those people who don’t even know me are paying to me is quite touching. The road is indeed, as I’ve heard it said before, one big family!

It was a March morning. Easter was early that year. It was going to be a magnificent day. Spring was itching to get underway, eager to paint the grass banks green once again, to hurry along the primroses, to push through delicate buds whose freshness would rejuvenate old trees, to transform the central reservation into one long, flowery bush, where the birds, oblivious to the traffic, had decided to make their nests, to banish an ancient wall of cloud to the wings beyond the horizon, so as to open the sky up wide to the new sun. It was still cold, but it was a gentle, spirited, peppery coldness, and not the heavy, dull coldness of winter; a supple, sinewy, sparkling coldness, which made one feel like setting out on an adventure. It really was a beautiful morning, one of those mornings when the realm of what is possible seemed to be a fit opponent for the realm of reality on the world’s weighing-scales. One of those mornings when everyone contemplates the scene he had forgotten, and yet which is none other than his own individual landscape, constantly recomposed with the sorrows of the past and the sweetness of the present moment. Monsieur Raminet was in that strange state of intoxication where the novelty of the situation together with the number of sensations inhabiting his being convinced him that the world had just been created. His transition into the world of dreams was an unconscious one. Unconsciously, he deviated from his trajectory, and ended up leaving the middle lane, upon which loud beeping noises started up on all sides, and thanks to these affectionate calls to order, he took up his position again and continued