Chapter 6 Chapter Six

The great French writer Flaubert said, "Writing is like a dog's life, but it is the only life worth living." If you choose to climb grids as a career, it is true British Shrimp (1) The great French writer Flaubert said, "Writing is like a dog's life, but it is the only life worth living." If you choose to climb grids as a career, this is indeed the case. Most of the time, writing is a lonely and monotonous job. Although sometimes you will be complacent because you think of a wonderful sentence, but in fact the so-called famous sentence is just what you think, because no one was there at the time. The side said so.It's more about thinking hard for a long time, but you can't squeeze out a word. At this time, you can't help but think about whether you should change careers and seek a solid job like a professional accountant.Do you wonder from time to time, does anyone really want to read what you write?Seeing that the deadline I set is approaching day by day, the whole person will become anxious like the end of the world.To the rest of the world, writing a thousand words a day, or being unable to write a single word, doesn't matter at all, but to you, it's a matter of life and death, and the thought of it is doubly discouraging.This aspect of writing is undoubtedly the life of a dog.

But when you are pleasantly surprised to find that you can provide a few hours of happy reading time for some readers you have never met, the value of writing this life is reflected.If so many of them still write to you, the joy when you receive the letter is like hearing their applause with your own ears, and all your hard work will be rewarded immediately, and you will immediately give up the idea of ​​changing careers to become an accountant. And start thinking about the next book. Not long after (A Year in Provence) was published, I received my first letter from a reader, from Luxembourg, with a humble tone and full of compliments, which made me reluctant to let go for several days.The next week, another man wrote to ask how to grow truffles in New Zealand.Later, letters flowed in continuously, from London, Beijing, to Queensland, Australia, from the Queen's Prison in the Absinthe Forest in England, the expatriate community on the Cote d'Azur to the wilds of Wiltshire and the hills of Surrey.Some were on the fancy blue stamp paper that never fades, others were pages torn from notebooks, and a letter was written on the reverse side of a London Underground map.The address on the envelope was often very unclear, and the post office had to use a little deduction skills to find us with a simple address of "Britishman from Benniu Village", although we did not live in Benniu Village.That's how a letter from "Ménard-Provence, UK Shrimp 6" came to me in the same way, my favorite address.

The letters from readers have been so kind and encouraging that I write back with or without a return address, thinking that will do the trick.But that's not always the case.Before long, we found ourselves inexplicably turned into Provence life consultants, from buying a house to finding a nanny.A woman called from Memphis to ask us how high the theft rate is in Vaucluse.An Essex photographer wondered if he could make a living taking pictures in the Luberon.Couples who wanted to move to Provence wrote several pages of questions about whether their children would be able to adapt to the schools here.Is the cost of living high?How are the doctors here?What about income tax?Will I be alone here?Will they be happy?We always do our best to answer, but there's a vague feeling that it's uncomfortable to meddle in the life plans of people you don't know.

As summer approaches, letters that used to appear in mailboxes are now real people. It was a hot, dry day, and I was weeding Provence-style with a pickaxe on grass as hard as a bone.At this time, a car drove up, the driver held my book in his hand, and waved to me with a smile. "Found you!" he said. "I used a little bit of private eye work in town, and it wasn't hard at all." I signed books and felt like a real writer.When my wife came back from Cavillon and found out about this, she was completely moved, "That's your book fan!" She said, "You should take a photo as a souvenir. It's really rare that someone would bother."

After a few days, she was less enthusiastic.We were going out to dinner when we spotted a beautiful blonde hiding behind a cypress tree in the front garden. "Are you Mr. Peter Mayer?" asked the blonde. "Yes," said the wife, "but it's a pity we were going out." The blond, who had probably gotten used to this kind of wifely attitude, turned and left. "Maybe my book fan." I said to my wife. "She could have been her fan elsewhere," said the wife. "Now you can put that smirk off your face." By July and August, we had gotten used to finding unfamiliar faces at the front door.Most of them will feel sorry and be polite, just want an autograph, give them a glass of wine, or let them sit in the courtyard for a few minutes in the bright sun, and will appreciate it for a long time.They all seemed to be enamored with the stone table we had gone to so much trouble to install.

"That's the table the book says it is!" they'd say, and walk round the table, running their hands over it as if it were Henry Moore's finest work.It's a strange feeling to suddenly expose ourselves, our dog (which he loves), and our house to the interested eyes of strangers.But when such a visit turns into an intrusion, it feels not just strange but angry. One morning the temperature was over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit.A gentleman took his wife and his wife's friends, and when we were not paying attention, they parked the car in the yard and entered the house carelessly.The three of them were all tanned from nose to knee, flaming red with fangs and claws.My dog ​​was asleep and didn't hear them coming in.When I got back inside to get a beer, I found them chatting in the living room and flipping through my books and furniture.I was stunned on the spot, but they seemed to be fine.

"Ah, here you are!" said the husband. "We saw your article in The Sunday Times, so we decided to come and see you." That was it, no excuses, no embarrassment, no thought that maybe I wasn't welcoming to them, didn't even buy the book.They explained that they wanted to wait until the paperback version came out, as the hardcover was too expensive.The way they talk is very casual, as if it is a kind of gift to me. I don't usually get angry in person, but this time, I told them to leave immediately. The husband's flushed face suddenly became even redder, and he was as angry as a turkey who just learned that he was going to be made into a Christmas dinner.

"We drove all the way from St. Remy." I told them to drive all the way back, and they left cursing. "We wouldn't buy that book of yours! Flip through at most, who would think you're Buckingham Palace here." I watched these men stride back to their Volvos with shoulders stiffened by righteous indignation, I began to think about whether to buy a vicious Rottweiler. From then on, as soon as I saw a car slowing down and stopping on the road in front of my house, the alarm bells would go off in my heart, maybe it was some uninvited visitor. "Don't make such a fuss!" said the wife. "They're coming to us, no, no, they're already parked by the mailbox." Later, when I went out to pick up the mail, I found a book wrapped in a plastic bag in the mailbox with the words "Please sign Put it on top of the well and press it down with stones."The next day, the book was gone.Let's hope it's taken by the understanding fan who doesn't want to bother us.

As summer draws to a close, we're not the only ones in the public eye.Our neighbor Faustin was also asked for his autograph. He still can't figure out why, and he said that he is not a writer.When I told him that a lot of people in England had read about him, he took off his hat, straightened his hair, and said "Really?" twice, sounding excited. Chef Morris also signed an autograph. He said he had never seen so many British people patronize his restaurant. Some people were even surprised that there was such a character. They thought I made it up.Others brought books to the restaurant and ordered the whole course from beginning to end according to the book, until the last brandy.

In addition, there is Mr. Menicucci, a famous plumber.He used to come to my house mid-work, and rant about politics, wild mushrooms, freak weather, the future of the French rugby team, the genius of Mozart, and any exciting development in the plumbing industry. I gave him a copy of my book, pointed him to the passage I had written about him, and told him that one of the fans who came to visit me wanted to meet him. He straightened his wool hat and adjusted the collar of his old plaid shirt. "Really?" "Of course!" I replied.His name is even in the Sunday Thames, maybe I should arrange an autograph for him.

"Oh, Mr. Peter, you can joke." But he could see he had no objection to the idea.When he left, he held the book carefully, as if holding a fragile and expensive bathtub. British Shrimp (2) ＊＊＊ The voice on the other end of the phone seemed to come from Sydney, pleasant and nasal. "Good morning, I'm Wally Stoll from the British bookstore in Cannes. We have a lot of Brits here and your book is selling very well. Could you please come in for a day during the Cannes Film Festival and make a review for your book Signing event?" I have always been skeptical about the taste of books in the film industry. An old friend who worked in Hollywood once admitted that he had only read one book in six years, and he was considered a rare intellectual in the industry.If you tell them the poet Rimbaud, they will think you are talking about Stallone.I don't expect the author's finger cramp to sell the book, but I think it might be fun.And maybe spotting a star, or an overhead show on the Croisette, or the rarest sight in town, a smiling waiter, on the terrace of the Carlton Hotel.So I told Mr. Wally that I would be happy to participate. It was a sunny, hot day, not a good one for a bookstore, and I quickly joined the snail-like traffic into town.Brightly colored new signs have been taped to utility poles announcing the twinning of Cannes and Beverly Hills.It is conceivable that the mayors will use countless excuses to visit each other and take the opportunity to take a free vacation in the name of promoting friendly relations between the two cities. It seemed that all of the police in Cannes were gathered outside the festival grounds, armed with guns, walkie-talkies and sunglasses, busy creating a series of traffic jams while ensuring that Clinder Eastwood was not killed. kidnapping.Based on the actual combat experience accumulated over the years of duty, they commanded the vehicles to form knots that could not be opened, then blew whistles at them, and then led the vehicles into another knot full of angry heads.It took me ten minutes and I only advanced about 50 yards.When I finally reached the huge underground car park, I saw an earlier victim of the chaos write on the wall: "Cannes is a great place to visit, but I don't want to be in the car park all day!" I went to the cafe on the promenade to have breakfast and watch the stars by the way.Everyone next to me had the same idea as me.Never before had so many strangers observed each other so closely.Every girl pouted and looked bored.Each of the men held the day's movie program list in their hands, and wrote down the key points in the blank space.One or two wireless phones were casually placed in a conspicuous position next to the croissant, and everyone wore a plastic delegate badge, and held a film festival bag issued by the conference in their hands, with the words "French Film Festival/Cannes 90" printed on it. ’, without mentioning British or American film festivals.But I guess that's one of the great things about hosting an event like this, you have the power to decide what's printed on the bag. The Croisette is almost a forest of posters with the names of actors, directors, producers and, as far as I know, hairdressers.The posters were posted directly across from the Grand Hotel so that each poster's protagonist could see his name from his bedroom window before enjoying a traditional Cannes ham breakfast and pride every morning.There was the restlessness of big deals and bills in the air.There was a stark contrast between the ticket sellers active on the boulevard and the old beggar sitting on the pavement of the Palace Hotel with nothing but a pitiful 20 centimes in his battered hat. I reserved it for the big shots, and walked down the narrow Rue Beverac-Napoleon to the British bookstore, ready for the odd experience of sitting in a bookstore window waiting for someone to sign me.I have also participated in one or two autograph events before, but they were all held in a relaxed and happy atmosphere, and people watched me from a safe distance, and did not dare to approach me rashly.They probably thought I was going to bite, but they never imagined how gladly the author would breathe a sigh of relief if a brave man stepped forward.Anything—a book, a photograph, an outdated Nice-Matin, even a check—could be a lifesaver after a few minutes of sitting alone, and he would sign it without hesitation. daimyo. Fortunately, Wally Stoll and his wife had foreseen the author's fear and had already invited friends and customers to fill the entire bookstore.I don't know what kind of reward they set up to catch these people here from the beach.But I was so thankful they kept me busy that I even started to think that Mr. Menicucci, the plumber, should come with me.I find that the British people who settled here are generally curious about the French drainage system, why does it work and smell like this?Mr. Menicucci must be able to answer this question more expertly than I do.Also, France's cutting-edge technology is very mature, such as high-speed trains, electronic telephone systems and Concorde airplanes, but why do French bathrooms still stay in the 18th century?Just the next day, an elderly lady told me about the time she flushed the toilet and came up with a scrap of mixed salad. "It's just too bad it would never happen in the UK, not even in a small town like Cheltenham." After the autograph session, everyone went to the bar around the corner.There are more Americans and Brits than natives.However, there are few locals in Cannes. I heard that even many policemen here are imported from Corsica. When I left, the police were still patrolling the Promenade, taking the traffic for fun and keeping an eye out for the scantily clad girls who were hanging around.The old beggar was still in his old place in front of the Palace Hotel, with only a twenty centime in his hat.I dropped a few pennies into his hat and he wished me a nice day in English.I wondered if he was practicing his English for Beverly Hills.