The Dual Carriageway

an original tall tale by

Tony Hesford

The envelope was clearly marked with the logo of L’Association Pour La Préservation Des Hôtels Avec Valeurs De Famille and Henri Le Pen’s fingers were trembling as he tore it open. He read the letter quickly and picked out the most important sentence: My colleague and I will be visiting your establishment next Tuesday to discuss your entry into our directory. He placed the beige paper on the blotting pad in front of him and removed his spectacles. I must call a meeting of all the staff straight away, he thought. And then I have to think about Tuesday.
    “And so you see, Monsieur Le Pen, what we want is a conservative approach to the way our members run their hotels.” Marcel Platini sat back in the stiff armchair and sipped his Remy Martine. “Our goal is to promote those hotels to which you can take your family without fear of them meeting naked females in the corridors being chased by libidinous salesmen.” He smirked. “We don’t want those establishments where the barman is painted like a clown and serving customers of equally dubious appearance. Do you understand what I am saying?”
    “Of course, Monsieur Platini,” Le Pen reassured him, “I am only too anxious for you to regard the Hotel Du Pond in the same light.”
    “Well, that’s excellent,” Platini replied. “What do you think, Eric?”
    Eric Ginola smiled his agreement. “If what Monsieur Le Pen is saying is true, we will be only too happy to include his hotel in our directory.” He leaned forward and gazed at Le Pen intently. “Our aim is to scoop as many hotels as we can into our net – otherwise the penalty will be lost business.” Straightening up in his chair he raised his glass of Chateau Col de Bleu. “Let’s drink to a happy partnership.”

•

    While Henri Le Pen was playing host to his two important guests, Brigitte Deneuve was waddling along the corridor of the third floor pushing a trolley laden with sheets, towels, pillowcases and toilet rolls. Reaching room 69 she stopped and tapped lightly on the door. There was no answer. She tapped again and pressed her ear to the wood. Hearing nothing, she reached into her overalls pocket and fished out a chain from which was hanging a plethora of keys. She selected one of them and turned it in the lock. Picking up a pair of sheets from the trolley she bustled into the room, only to halt at the sight that confronted her. She stared and let out a cry. “Oh, mon dieu.” She dropped the sheets and fled from the room.

•

    “Well, Monsieur Le Pen, I think that will be all.” Marcel Platini rose from his chair and held out his hand. “We will be…”
    His words hung in the air as he suddenly spotted the flustered Brigitte Deneuve bearing down on the three of them.
    “Monsieur Le Pen.” Her chipmunk cheeks were red with indignation. “Monsieur Le Pen, you must come with me to room 69. There are terrible things going on in there.”
    Le Pen turned to his visitors. “Will you excuse me gentlemen – it appears I am wanted elsewhere in the hotel.”
    The two men nodded in unison and the hotelier strode away with the rotund chambermaid scurrying after him. She didn’t catch him until he was entering the lift.
    “What’s the problem, Brigitte?” he finally asked.
    “I cannot tell you, monsieur,” Her podgy hand was at her mouth. “You must see for yourself.”
    Arriving at the room in question, Le Pen found it locked. He knocked firmly on the door. There was silence. Again he knocked, but louder. No answer. A third time he rapped. Nothing. He turned to Brigitte, his face set in a rigid mask. “Your keys.” Her trembling hand gave him the one he needed and he rammed it into the lock, turning it viciously. Flinging the door wide he strode into the room.
    Whatever he was expecting – red smeared corpses on the floor; a carpet of writhing naked bodies with faces contorted in sexual ecstasy – wasn’t what he found. What he saw were two middle-aged men’s faces glaring at him in surprise from under the floral counterpane of the double bed.
    The one on the right was first to speak. “I say, do you mind.”
    “Ah, English,” Le Pen’s expression was one of expectation. “I should have known.”
    “Should have known what?” The same one spoke again. Beside him, his friend lay silent, a look of benign resignation stretched across his features.
    “That the two…” The Frenchman struggled for le mot juste “…perverts.” He almost spat the word out “…perverts, here in my bedroom, would be Englishmen.”
    The supine speaker raised himself onto his elbows. “Perverts? What do you mean – perverts? We’re just trying to relax.”
    Le Pen strutted around the room and drew back the half-closed curtains. “This hotel – my hotel – does not allow people of the same gender to share beds. I must ask you to leave.” He paused for emphasis. “Immédiatement.”
    The right hand Englishman was indignant. “Like hell we’re leaving. We’ve paid in advance for this room. We’re on holiday.”
    Le Pen stood at the foot of the bed, his hands on his hips. “Your money will be refunded.” He could feel the letter from the L’Association Pour La Préservation Des Hôtels Avec Valeurs De Famille poking from his trouser pocket. “You cannot stay,” he hissed.
    The left-hand Englishman spoke at last. “You know what you can do,” and pulled the bedspread up to his chin. His companion followed suit.
    Le Pen exploded. “Out, I said,” He grasped the edge of the counterpane with both his hands and tugged hard. “Out!” He staggered back as the two men failed to keep their grip on the cover.
    “Aaagh.” Brigitte’s shriek echoed around the room. She’d been standing in the doorway watching silently as the tableau unfolded in front of her. But now, as the two middle-aged men were totally exposed to her gaze, she could hold herself back no more. “Aaagh,” she shrieked again.
    Le Pen stared at the bed and it was all he could do to control himself as well. The sight before him was one he’d never experienced before. It seemed like minutes before he could manage to speak.

•

    Angelique Le Pen sat in front of the dressing table mirror combing out her auburn hair.
    “So what was it you saw?”
    “You won’t believe it,” replied Henri Le Pen.
    “I will. Just tell me.”
    “It was unbelievable.”
    Angelique swivelled on the stool and threw the hairbrush at her husband, who was lounging on the bed. “Then tell me, you teaser!”
    The brush landed harmlessly on the pillow at Henri’s side.
    “They were Siamese twins, joined at the waist.” he said quietly.
    “No.” His wife stared at him in amazement. “Siamese twins. How bizarre. What did you say to them?”
    “I was mortified.”
    “Yes, but what did you say?”
    He shook his head slowly. “What could I say? I apologised profusely, of course.”
    “And then?”
    “They were quite decent about it. They said it was okay.” He shrugged. “You know how polite the English are. Too polite sometimes.”
    “So what did you do?”
    “I offered them a free meal in the restaurant in recompense. I felt so guilty.”
    Angelique wandered over to the bed and sat on the edge. “I’m not surprised you felt bad. I’d have wanted a hole to swallow me up.”
    “The trouble was,” said Henri, “they turned down my offer. They said they hardly ever went down to eat. People keep staring at them.”
    “Well, you did your best.”
    “I know, but I still wanted to do something so I said I’d pay for them to go to the theatre. The Moulin Rouge perhaps.” He grinned. “I thought they wouldn’t get noticed in the dark.”
    “Good,” said his wife. “So that’s that then.”
    Henri shook his head. “They didn’t want to go there either. They said they never went out at all. They prefer to stay in their room.”
    Angelique looked puzzled. “So why do they come on holiday to Paris at all?”
    Henri nodded. “That’s exactly what I asked them. And what astounded me was that they come to France about six times a year.”
    “But why?”
    “Precisely. I asked them why they didn’t stay in England and visit London and Stratford and Oxford and Bath. Do you know what they said? Or at least what the talkative one said – the one on the right.”
    “No. But you’re going to tell me.”
    “He said.” And her husband began to smile broadly. “He said…he said…” Henri began to chuckle. “He…he…” He burst out laughing, and laughed and laughed and laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks, “he said…” and then stopped, unable to go on.
    “What did he say?” Angelique pleaded, “I can’t stand the suspense.”
    It took almost a minute for Henri Le Pen to regain his composure enough to reply. “The right-sided Englishman said they always came to this country because it’s the only chance his brother gets to drive the car!”

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Copyright © Tony Hesford