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Notes02/04/2020
Franzuschek
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Franzuschek
4
Friday noon in Beaumont
It is Friday. A Friday in mid-June. And like every Friday, Martin comes to the market place of Beaumont at 10:00 am. Because Friday is market day in Beaumont. And Martin combines his purchases of the regional products of the Perigord with some hours of writing some pastis and studying the many people who visit the market. Most people know Martin and most people know Martin. Over the years that he has brought it to a certain popularity. Although Martin is British. In Beaumont, however, this hardly bothers anyone anymore. It was the influx of British people that invigorated the city. And Martin's popularity is based above all on the fact that Martin pays homage to his love of Perigord and Beaumont through detective novels and cookbooks. Although he's British.
This popularity has its drawbacks. Meanwhile he is discovered again and again by tourists and asked for a selfie and or autograph. That's why Martin is always looking for a place on one of the open tables in the cafés, which is a little bit out of the way. And he never takes off his old Ray Ban and his Panama hat either.
Actually Martin moved here years ago to find a place of peace and quiet. Martin had grown tired of constant air travel and appointments as a top journalist. The hectic pace of big cities like New York, London, Tokyo and similar metropolises gave him a headache. Here in the Perigord Martin came to rest and enjoy. To enjoy the excellent cuisine of the Perigord, to enjoy time.
Martin has taken a seat and placed his well-behaved Caran d'Ache fountain pen with its writing pad ritualistically in the middle of his little table. Martin appraises the market place. The hustle and bustle is just beginning. Not all stands are filled yet. On the one hand it is still being unloaded and on the other hand the first purchases are already being made. The peak of the operation is still in the distant future. In the evening, there is always a lot going on and then it turns seamlessly into a convivial party. Until then Martin has enough time. Time to see who is already here from the protagonists.
Of course, the local gigolo who wants to stay forever prances around one or the other of the well-to-do Brits. Well-off and between 50 and 60 is his territory. No one actually knows his real name. He's Italian, way too loud, and everyone just calls him "Gio." Martin fervently hopes that he can bite into a victim. This italo babble pulls the last nerve out of Martin. Similarly superficial, only more exhausting is the way Martin's eyes see Mr. Creed entering the marketplace. Martin pulls the Panama lower. Much deeper... Mr. Creed is over 60, but he thinks he's 35. Mr. Creed was very successful with his consulting firm. And this must be displayed constantly. An old man with no depth and too much money. A master of brutal and senseless small talk. Martin slides deeper on his chair. Much lower.
Martin almost slips from his chair when the nice waitress of the café, Viviane Belle her name, wants to take the order. Viviane is also not a light, only Viviane is wonderfully fresh. Martin is always happy about the a little too bright make-up and her two really well placed mandarins... Martin is also already in the Ausgedinge, but not completely averse to the beauties of life.
"A Pastis, as always!"
In the meantime it has become pleasantly warm. So warm that one can guess the coming heat of the afternoon. At one of the next stands, bouquets of lavender are unloaded from a delivery van. Freshly harvested. Lavender like only here. So powerful and so fresh. A light gust of wind carries the smell, better a dense cloud of smell to Martin. Martin forgets his camouflage mode, straightens up in his chair and pushes the Panama hat backwards. This lavender smell only exists here. Here in June. Martin closes his eyes and breathes in as deeply as possible. Lavender, the warmth of summer. The power of the historic site. How many people have made Martin equal over the centuries? In June. In Beaumont. At the marketplace.
How many people have stood up and felt like Martin royal with this royal scent?
Martin takes his Pastis glass with closed eyes and leads it to his nose. Another deep breath. The lavender mixes with the aniseed. With the soap of pastis. With the warmth of summer. Martin actually feels like a king. King over the moment of pleasure. It's because of those moments Martin is in Périgord. Is Martin in Beaumont.
The gust of wind has passed. Martin opens his eyes after a small sip. The lavender, however, remains powerfully with him. Has found his place in his linen suit. Martin's ready. Martin puts his hat aside, opens his notepad, picks up the pen. Martin starts to write his new novel.
"It's Friday. A Friday in mid-June..."
This popularity has its drawbacks. Meanwhile he is discovered again and again by tourists and asked for a selfie and or autograph. That's why Martin is always looking for a place on one of the open tables in the cafés, which is a little bit out of the way. And he never takes off his old Ray Ban and his Panama hat either.
Actually Martin moved here years ago to find a place of peace and quiet. Martin had grown tired of constant air travel and appointments as a top journalist. The hectic pace of big cities like New York, London, Tokyo and similar metropolises gave him a headache. Here in the Perigord Martin came to rest and enjoy. To enjoy the excellent cuisine of the Perigord, to enjoy time.
Martin has taken a seat and placed his well-behaved Caran d'Ache fountain pen with its writing pad ritualistically in the middle of his little table. Martin appraises the market place. The hustle and bustle is just beginning. Not all stands are filled yet. On the one hand it is still being unloaded and on the other hand the first purchases are already being made. The peak of the operation is still in the distant future. In the evening, there is always a lot going on and then it turns seamlessly into a convivial party. Until then Martin has enough time. Time to see who is already here from the protagonists.
Of course, the local gigolo who wants to stay forever prances around one or the other of the well-to-do Brits. Well-off and between 50 and 60 is his territory. No one actually knows his real name. He's Italian, way too loud, and everyone just calls him "Gio." Martin fervently hopes that he can bite into a victim. This italo babble pulls the last nerve out of Martin. Similarly superficial, only more exhausting is the way Martin's eyes see Mr. Creed entering the marketplace. Martin pulls the Panama lower. Much deeper... Mr. Creed is over 60, but he thinks he's 35. Mr. Creed was very successful with his consulting firm. And this must be displayed constantly. An old man with no depth and too much money. A master of brutal and senseless small talk. Martin slides deeper on his chair. Much lower.
Martin almost slips from his chair when the nice waitress of the café, Viviane Belle her name, wants to take the order. Viviane is also not a light, only Viviane is wonderfully fresh. Martin is always happy about the a little too bright make-up and her two really well placed mandarins... Martin is also already in the Ausgedinge, but not completely averse to the beauties of life.
"A Pastis, as always!"
In the meantime it has become pleasantly warm. So warm that one can guess the coming heat of the afternoon. At one of the next stands, bouquets of lavender are unloaded from a delivery van. Freshly harvested. Lavender like only here. So powerful and so fresh. A light gust of wind carries the smell, better a dense cloud of smell to Martin. Martin forgets his camouflage mode, straightens up in his chair and pushes the Panama hat backwards. This lavender smell only exists here. Here in June. Martin closes his eyes and breathes in as deeply as possible. Lavender, the warmth of summer. The power of the historic site. How many people have made Martin equal over the centuries? In June. In Beaumont. At the marketplace.
How many people have stood up and felt like Martin royal with this royal scent?
Martin takes his Pastis glass with closed eyes and leads it to his nose. Another deep breath. The lavender mixes with the aniseed. With the soap of pastis. With the warmth of summer. Martin actually feels like a king. King over the moment of pleasure. It's because of those moments Martin is in Périgord. Is Martin in Beaumont.
The gust of wind has passed. Martin opens his eyes after a small sip. The lavender, however, remains powerfully with him. Has found his place in his linen suit. Martin's ready. Martin puts his hat aside, opens his notepad, picks up the pen. Martin starts to write his new novel.
"It's Friday. A Friday in mid-June..."
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