French Letter: the words every Frenchman dreads – “Désolé, monsieur”

Two pieces of advice if you are driving to Cannes: first, don’t start from central Brittany. Second, if it’s June, make sure your air-conditioning is working. The Côte d’Azur is a long way from the Côtes-d’Armor – more than 1,300 kilometres – and in summer the further south you travel, the more you need your AC. 

It was as we drove out of Thiers, east of Clermont-Ferrand, where we had spent the night, that our climatiseur began to blow hot and cold, then just hot. The same thing had happened a couple of years before when the solution had been to “re-gas” the system – a simple procedure that normally shouldn’t take more than ten minutes, including time spent checking for leaks. 

The large Renault garage on the way out of Thiers was the obvious place to go, and, indeed, as I stood in line at the mechanics’ reception desk, I was cheered to see a large poster advertising a special offer: “Recharge climatisation – 59 euro.” 

Ahead of me in the line were just three other supplicants: a large, portly gentleman with a blue Ikea bag slung across his shoulder and two ladies, one built like a wrestler, the other, much older, a tiny woman with granny glasses and blue-rinsed hair.

This shouldn’t take long, I reckoned. How wrong I was. 

The large gent was cross about his bill. He disputed every entry and was in no doubt that he had been over-charged. The young man behind the desk was equally clear that everything was in order. He said he would check with the man who had carried out the actual work and disappeared for a good five minutes before returning with a slightly revised invoice, which the customer grumpily accepted before heading back to his car, muttering. 

The line shuffled forward. But before the two ladies could engage his attention, the Renault man was gone again, leaving us to curse into our masks. At this point, the younger woman, whose badge revealed her to be a state-registered carer, went out for a smoke. By the time she got back, the old lady, no higher than the counter, had settled her business. She wanted a full service for her car and listed off what needed doing – everything, from oil and water to brakes and tyres. A complete overhaul, in fact. The Renault man nodded and made out the invoice, which the old lady inspected and approved.

“If you could bring your vehicle in tomorrow morning,” he began, “the work should be done by the afternoon.”

“No, no,” the old lady interrupted. “I will bring the car tomorrow afternoon and pick it up again before you close.” 

“Very well, madame.” 

The carer now returned, stuffing her mobile phone back into a pocket.

“Were you able to understand what she wanted?” she inquired

“Perfectly.” 

“Because I can explain if you’d rather.” 

The old lady looked up at her companion. “Of course he understood.” 

The nurse and the Renault man exchanged tolerant smiles, and the old lady was dragged off. 

Now it was my turn. “Bonjour,” I said. “My wife and I are tourists on our way to Cannes and, unfortunately, the air-conditioner in our car – a Renault Megane – is failing. It needs to be re-gassed and I see from the notice behind you that you can …” 

The man shook his head. “Désolé, monsieur.  Our mechanics are already working on three cars and we couldn’t possibly spare the time to deal with your problem.” 

“What about the special offer?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “You must make a reservation. Tomorrow afternoon, perhaps.” 

“But we have to be in Cannes this evening – a five-hour journey down the Autoroute du Soleil.”

“Désolé.” 

Residents of France know that nothing trumps “désolé,” and thus it was that we continued south with the side windows open, admitting not just air but the exhaust fumes of a thousand trucks from just about every country in Europe, less the UK, all in the service of what we must now call “logistics”. 

By the time we reached Cannes, with its miasma of narrow streets, we were utterly exhausted and stank of engine oil.

This morning, however, after a good night’s sleep, we set out with a friend to explore the town. After coffee and croissants, serve to us by an aged crone, I remembered that I needed to buy some shorts – not the flappy bags that make me look like a veteran of the North Africa campaign in the Second World War, but the shorts fuselés, tapered towards the knees, preferred by the French. 

My friend knew which shop to go for and, having discovered that my waist size was no longer 48, but 50, I was soon standing at the counter, shorts in hand. Unfortunately, the salesman – his mask worn as a chin-strap – was on the phone, dealing, by the sound of it, with a disgruntled customer. The conversation continued for some time, causing my pal to retreat to the street outside, where he sat on a bollard, flicking at his phone. I tried to catch the salesman’s eye, but each time he looked away, engrossed, it seemed, in a conversation for the ages. Only after several minutes did the fatal words emerge that effectively drew a line under the exchange and moved me to the front of the queue.

“Désolé, monsieur … ”