Chapter 6 : It doesn't cost anything to have manners
The conversation between ** are sentences that Victor can't understand because his english his quite bad
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'Why does everyone want to see what's inside my bag ?'
It was the second time in the same day. The first hadn't even asked for his permission before searching through his belongings, while the second had at least let him open it by himself.
'One star for him,' Victor thought, casting an appreciative glance at the man beside him. However, this second individual had forgotten his manners. There had been no hello or please.
'It doesn't cost anything to be polite, and there's no need to rush, we have hours left on this flight.'
Yet, the man seemed indifferent to Victor's opinion. With a backpack that likely contained a parachute and a pistol in his right hand, he appeared neither concerned with his lack of manners nor intent on remaining on the flight until its destination. Victor, with pleasure, willingly opened his bag to reveal its contents, causing the man to hesitate and double-check the seat number.
1A.
No mistake, he was indeed in first class. Why then, did he momentarily feel as if he was doing some second-hand trades ? Perhaps Victor pulling out a screwdriver and some dishware didn't help to relieve the man's confusion.
The man was now looking at him with bewilderment. Here was Victor, in first class, with items that shouldn't have passed security in his bag, dressed in torn clothes, and possessing utterly useless objects.
'What on earth does he plan to do with those butter knives ?' the man wondered in astonishment. He himself had gone to great lengths, calling in favors and spending a fortune to board the plane with a gun and parachute.
Shaking his head, the man decided, 'Let's leave the contents of his bag, but take the rest.' Victor felt the cold barrel of the gun against his temple. "Empty your pockets RIGHT NOW!" the man barked.
'Good Lord, no need to shout,' Victor thought, irritated. He had just woken up, and the man's yelling was getting on his nerves. He emptied his pockets, revealing a wallet containing 5 euros, a cracked five years old iPhone, and the hotel badge gleaming gently in the light.
The sight of such poverty in a first-class passenger was unprecedented for the man, who looked down on Victor with disdain before taking his key card and moving on to the next victim. As Victor considered buying a shovel to avenge the insult, another man entered first class, this one wearing a small bomb that blinked and emitted a soft metallic noise.
"Let's forget about it, it's just a badge," Victor thought, settling back into his comfortable seat. His nap had been cut short, but soon, soothed by the soft ticking of the bomb, he drifted back to sleep.
He didn't wake up until they had arrived. The nearly 8-hour journey had flown by in what felt like an instant, and in such comfort that Victor had only one thought:
'Best means of transport ever.'
The trip would have been perfect if not for the two men who had interrupted his nap. But Victor knew one couldn't have everything in life.
A flight attendant approached him. "Excuse me, sir, the plane has landed, and the police are waiting downstairs for your statement." She looked at him with admiration; he was the only passenger who had slept through the entire journey and remained calm during the robbery. 'No need to stare at me so intently, madam, I'm leaving your plane,' Victor grumbled while gathering his backpack.
He headed for the exit without encountering a soul. As he disembarked, he was met with the spectacle of American extravagance:
SWAT team members everywhere, snipers on nearby rooftops, police managing the civilians, and even a tank.
'Are they filming a TV show or what?' Victor pondered as he was walking down the stairs step by step. Perhaps it would have been wiser to exit with the other passengers, as SWAT team members, or perhaps members of the national football team, charged at him at full speed.
"Stop, I'm not Antoine Dupont!" he exclaimed while getting tackled on the staircase steps.
Only the intervention of the flight attendant saved him.
"**Gentlemen, this man is just another passenger, let him go, for heaven's sake.
- And why is he coming out 10 minutes after everyone else?**" one SWAT member asked, still pinning Victor to the ground.
-**Because I was watching him sleep and didn't want to wake him,**" she confessed, blushing.
'What?!' was the SWAT team's unanimous reaction.
Victor, however, had a different response, mumbling into the staircase.
'Why are they speaking in another language? I can't understand jack shit!'
The atmosphere had turned peculiar after the woman's sentence, but Victor was clueless about what had been said, his knowledge of the English language being limited to "Hello" and "Thank you."
The SWAT team eventually lifted him up and apologized.
"**Sorry.**"
Victor replied with a fifty-fifty chance of being correct :
"Thank you."
Given the lack of reaction from those around him, his response seemed appropriate.
He finally reached the bottom of the stairs. Normally, the police would have searched his and the other passengers' belongings, but after what they had been through, it seemed inappropriate. Instead, they simply asked what had been stolen. It fell to an American policewoman in her fifties the challenging task of trying to communicate with Victor.
"**Good morning, sir, I'm going to need to ask you a few questions,**" she greeted him politely.
"Thank you," Victor promptly replied.
'Wrong choice,' he thought, noticing the confusion on the policewoman's face.
The man before her seemed to be suffering from post-traumatic stress, judging by the puzzled look on his face. So, she started again, this time with a softer voice and a more patient approach :
"**How long do you plan to stay in our beautiful city ?**" As she spoke, she handed him a glass of water.
Victor accepted the glass of water. He didn't know it yet, but he was already in a checkmate situation. Unaware, he still tried:
"Hello."
The policewoman realized that the issue wasn't post-traumatic stress as she had thought.
'This man only knows two words of English,' she thought, looking around for help.
Unfortunately for her, none of her colleagues spoke more than two words of French and, fortunately or unfortunately for her, an air hostess who had been following Victor offered to act as a translator.
The policewoman tore a sheet from her notebook and handed it to the air hostess, politely asking, "**Could you ask him to write down his name, first name, address in France, and a way to contact him, please ?**"
"**No problem, ma'am,**" she replied with a slight smile.
She then turned to Victor to translate: "She is asking if you could kindly write down on this paper your name, first name, your address in France, your personal phone number, and where you plan to stay during your visit. By that, she means the names of the hotels, their addresses, and the dates and times you will be there," she asked as seriously as possible.
'They really ask for a lot,' Victor thought, looking gratefully at the air hostess who had agreed to translate for them.
'But I have no idea where I'm going to stay,' he continued, thinking of a solution.
He then asked the air hostess: "Can you ask the policewoman if I can avoid writing down all the addresses of where I plan to stay during my visit for privacy reasons and to protect my personal life?"
"No problem, sir," she responded before turning to the policewoman.
"**Is it possible to give me a copy of his information to facilitate his travel by overcoming the language barrier ?**"
"**If that's his wish, no problem at all miss,**" the policewoman replied, impressed by the air hostess's willingness to help.
She then turned back to Victor with a big smile. "I'm sorry, sir, but the policewoman just informed me that it's not possible. She also specified that you need to write this information in double, one copy for the police records and the other to help the investigation.
"If I have no choice, I might as well write. Thank you, ma'am, for your precious help.
"No problem, sir, and with a little luck, we might even bump into each other again."
'And now what am I supposed to write? I guess I'll stay at a hotel but which one and for how long. Let's just write the same hotel name as the one in Lille; I'm sure they have a branch here,' he thought as he began to write his information in two columns.
It only took him a few seconds to finish. After all, he had only written four lines in each row.
De la Fayette
Victor
06 XX XX XX XX
135 Avenue de Xxxxx
Promise Hotel of New York for an indefinite duration
He gave the sheet to the air hostess, who tore it in two while Victor was distracted and stuffed one of the pieces into her pocket before handing the other to the policewoman.
"**Why did he write down the hotel where he intends to stay ?**" the confused policewoman asked the air hostess.
"**If you need to ask him more questions and he doesn't answer the phone, at least you'll know where to find him**," she seriously replied with what seemed to be flawless logic.
The policewoman slowly nodded before resuming her questions: "What was stolen from him during the flight?"
This time, the air hostess translated the question precisely, and Victor replied: "Just an insignificant badge. I guess it would be good if you could find it, but it's no big deal if you can't. You'll easily recognize it by the black salamander on a white background."
The policewoman noted all this information in her notebook. She then thanked the air hostess for her help and Victor for his time before moving away to report to the brigade chief.
Victor glanced at his phone.
8:00 AM
He had received a worrying message from his telephone operator.
United States! A change of country and a friendly reminder from your mobile operator.
With your plan:
- Calls made to this country: 15.50€ per minute
- Incoming calls: 7.50€ per minute
- Sent text messages: 6.50€ per use
- Received text messages: Free!
- Internet: not included
And, of course, have a great stay.
Victor didn't even know the hotel's address, but he figured he could wait until he was out of the airport to find his way. He thanked the flight attendant before slipping away. She watched him leave with a huge smile that would have sent shivers down Victor's spine if he had seen it. By the time he reached the exit, there were families in tears, probably reuniting for the first time in months or even years, and taxis with signs hanging above their heads. The drivers held signs inked with their clients' names. For instance, a bald man in his fifties in a suit had "Belmont" written, a young man in his twenties seemed more interested in observing the women around than the exit, holding a "Brison" sign over his shoulder, and a woman in her thirties with red hair and captivating beauty had "Victor de la Fayette" written in exquisite calligraphy on her sign.
"Huh?" was Victor's only reaction upon seeing his name.
The woman must have already had a photo of him because she approached him before he had even given his name.
"**Hello.**"
She spoke with a melodious voice, in perfectly comprehensible English, even to a perfect novice.
He responded with:
"Thank you."