In France, I am proud to say, at least where I live, in central Brittany, we are managing to guard our sang froid. Coronavirus-Schmoronavirus – life goes on. When a woman came into Intermarché yesterday wearing a face mask, the rest of us turned to look at her as if she was a terrible warning of things to come.
But then we got on with our business, more amused than anything. It was as if the swing doors of a Wild West saloon had flapped open, bringing the piano to an abrupt halt, only for it to pick up seconds later when it was realised that the outlaws had not in fact blown into town, or at least not yet.
It could be different in Paris, of course. Everything is different in Paris. Matthew Fraser, a Facebook friend of mine who used to edit the Canadian National Post and now teaches at several of the capital’s universities, puts up videos every day of life in his part of the city, which happens to include the Seine and the Eiffel Tower.
This morning, accompanied by his small dog Hector (whose brother, Hugo, sadly died earlier this year), Matthew ventured into the gardens of Les Invalides to record a completely empty scene. Not a single other person appears, just the occasional vehicle on the roads beyond. What Hector will make of his enforced idleness from midday onwards (when a ban on all non-essential movement came into force) can only be imagined.
But from today, if his master dares to venture out he must carry on his person an attestation stating the purpose of his movements. It will like old times. “Vos papiers, m’sieur”. The police and gendarmerie are reported to be out in force, ensuring that the Government’s newly imposed strictures are obeyed. Punishment, of a nature as yet unexplained, will be imposed on miscreants.
As it happens, I have to break off here as I’ve just remembered that I meant to pick up some wood for the fire and I’ve only got an hour in which to do it before the curfew comes down.
Musical interlude: Charles Trenet singing La Mer.
Okay, I’m back. There was a queue outside the store where we get our wood, policed by a young woman who, like Brian Hanrahan on board HMS Hermes during the Falklands war, counted us all out and counted us all in.
Once admitted, I discovered that only “essentials” were on offer, which fortunately included wood. The rest of the store was closed off. The same was true of the supermarket, outside of which a long line snaked. I only wanted a litre of milk, so drove away. Will I regret this? Probably.
In the middle of our village is a machine that dispenses litre bottles of unpasteurised milk at one euro a pop. But no luck today. All sold out before twelve. The boulangerie was shut, which surprised me, as well as the café, whose owners, as it happens, were planning to go on holiday this week but are now more likely to be stuck at home.
There is an air of unreality about everything. The sky is blue and the sun is shining for almost the first time since September. But the streets are empty. Thus far, there has been no sign of the local gendarmerie, an équipe of just six, who normally spend their time raising and lowering the tricoleur and annoying motorists. But I’m sure that over the course of the next few days and weeks my wife and I will be asked more than once for our papers.
Is it possible to be nostalgic for the days when all we had to worry about was Brexit? I’m afraid so. First, we had the financial crash, then Brexit, then the gilets-jaunes and the rail strikes. Now this. What next? Locusts and raining frogs?
Not that Official France, the France of fonctionnaires and self-replicating paperwork (most of it now online), seems to be unduly perturbed by the unfolding crisis. Preventing people from doing things is what they’re good at
There has even been some good news. Utility bills will not be sent out for the duration. Nor will those renting have to fork out each week to their landlords. The Government has set up a €300 billion fund to help small businesses (including landlords presumably) survive closures and a separate €45 billion package to help companies deal directly with the impact of the virus. Beat that, Boris Johnson! The army is on standby, and next Sunday’s planned second round of the municipal elections – which President Macron looks to have lost to both left and right – have been postponed.
According to Macron, “nous sommes en guerre” – “we are at war” – with him as De Gaulle, hopefully, not Reynaud. “Il suffit de rester chez soi” – “Stay in your homes!” – is the instruction of the interior minister Christophe Castaner, previously engaged in sweeping multiple scandals under the rug.
So we are in lockdown, citizens of a benign police state. How long will it go on? How will it end? Nobody knows.
The official death toll from the outbreak in France rose to 148 on Monday, with 6,633 confirmed cases. Today’s figures will almost certainly be worse, though not as bad as those expected on Wednesday.
And yet here I am, writing for Reaction, with the curtain half-closed to prevent the strong sunshine from obscuring my computer screen. Later on, I will resume pruning the buddleia and the lavateria. I try to forget that I am 71 and apparently at high risk should I contract the disease because, as my father would have said, there’s not a whole lot I can do about it.
But, oh God, what’s this I hear? Thousands of Parisians, in their designer masks, are apparently rushing to get out of the city to pass the emergency in the countryside, which is where they all like to imagine they come from. It will be like 1940 all over again, except that the Government is unlikely to set up in Vichy.
Alternatively, it will be like August, when it is impossible to get a table in a decent restaurant… except that none of the restaurants will be open anyway, and none of the bars. But we’re all pulling together, aren’t we? There’s been no unpleasantness – not round here at any rate – and no sense that the nation, and the commune, cannot cope.
But it is early days. Paris is like an unexploded bomb. The best of times and the worst of times, it’s hard sometimes to tell the difference.
