A French Umbrella

Oui, according to Météo-France, there shouldn’t be snow for another three weeks. So, why am I here, knee-deep in neige, frozen and frost-bitten, in the middle of le Col Agnel, half-way between the Château Renard and Pontechianale, lost and stranded in a 23 kilometer stretch of mountain pass, in the middle of October, tired to the point of exhaustion, huddled beneath this umbrella, without car, without coat, without care, without hope?

Ask Monsieur Oiseau, my agent.

Business in Italie, in Coni, would take me from Lyon, through les Alpes—only, like, the biggest mountain range in Europe—and into Piémont. By rental car. A putain Peugeot 604—I think from 1976—that sputtered and hacked and wheezed for almost fifteen kilometers before coughing a final French curse of black smoke and leaving me to fend for myself out here in the middle of nowhere. I think I passed a cyclist going the other direction twelve kilometers ago.

Right now, my plan is to walk the rest of the way to Pontechianale. Bien sûr, I’m tired. It seems like forever ago that I left that smoking merde, gathered my umbrella and briefcase, and set off. It started snowing an hour ago. I’ve been dying ever since. My legs are so heavy from stepping so high and it’s getting harder and harder to see the road.

I think I’m almost to Italie. I’ll cross at 2 744 meters. I use the mountains as guides. To the north is le Pain du Sucre. To the east, le Mont Viso. Sometimes the peaks are just visible above the forest. Endless queues of beech and ash line up before the huge mountains. Occasionally an oak or sycamore maple budges to the front of the line, waving his arms, in a desperate cry for attention. I completely understand. It’s so hard to be found out here, especially when you’re sleepy. If I look amongst the trees, I can see the yellow eyes of predators watching me, licking their lips, hungrily waiting, waiting for nightfall, as I unknowingly trudge into their trap. I hope they’re as tired as I am.

There are many birds. They come out in pairs or in flocks, searching for something to eat. Or a nice place to rest. Just a bit ago, a little black bird, Monsieur Oiseau, landed on the road in front of me, begging for food. I shoed him away with my umbrella.

It wasn’t long before he returned, pleading “Monsieur Andrews, Je suis très affamé ! On peut aller manger quelque chose, s’il vous plait ?”

“How do you know my name,” I demanded. Really, I was getting hungry and was till very tired from walking. It’s been such a long day.

“It’s only a little further to the fête,” he told me.

Famished and suddenly determined, I decided I’d better go with him. We walked arm and arm to the beach, where he had set up an umbrella. I thought it kind of a strange location, a little alcove in the mountainside, hollowed out by the high tide. It seemed that if we picnicked for too long, the water would carry us away to an ocean grave. I stripped down to enter the water. Peculiar that Monsieur Oiseau would chose such a cold day to go swimming and sunning.

I must have fallen asleep while sunbathing on the rocks. I don’t know where Monsieur Oiseau could have gone. It’s a good thing you found me before that tide did! Especially with the water turning to ice and snow the way it is.

Wait, it’s not supposed to be snow for another three weeks!