The Colonel's DS Citroën

He is in the back seat of his father's dilapidated Citroën when he notices his old man caressing the cracked dashboard of the former jewel in the French auto industry's crown. Melodious pleas, entreaties and promises follow for naught. The ailing DS, a leading candidate for retirement more than a quarter of a century ago, now could repeat the lyrics of the colonel's once swaying serenade with one headlight turned on. The colonel is in trouble and he knows it.

He had graduated from the elite Holeta Academy the year the laureled Kagnew Battalion had returned from the Korean War. As he was one of the brightest students of his class, the imperial government had sent him to Saint-Cyr to study logistics. On the colonel's graduation day, General Charles De Gaulle had miraculously appeared out of a black DS and awarded the overawed novice officers their hard-earned diplomas. A month later, the colonel, drove his shiny new black Citroën down to Marseilles and stood on the dock until it disappeared in the bowels of the Hera, an enormous Greek cargo ship.

The colonel's son, now on holiday from Sweden, did not want his father to see the smirk that had firmly planted itself on his face. He peers through the back passenger window and glances at the weeds that had overtaken the front lawn of the main post office, obscuring the once fashionable Post Rendez-Vous café. Early on in life, the son had learnt that his father's attention could be diverted only after the DS had been parked in the garage, snuggled under its custom lamb's wool blanket.

In spite of his now "adult" status, the son can not help relishing in his father's humiliation. Ah, sweet revenge! Several additional witnesses begin to hover around the stalled vehicle. A few snickers penetrate through the windshield the son had once believed to be soundproofed. Clutching a prayer bead from his coat pocket, the former logistician mumbles an incantation as he rubs the worn out beads against the ignition.

A mechanical engineer by profession, the son does not appreciate this superstitious assault on his core values. "Father," he murmurs with repressed animosity. The colonel continues to massage the ignition with his rosary. "Why won't you allow me to send you a car from Stockholm. I can get you a nice Volvo," the son continues. Irritated by the interruption, the colonel steadies the wobbly rear view mirror affixed on the windshield, a few centimeters above the dashboard, and glares at his son. In the reflection, the son does not see the father that he had once feared but a vulnerable gray-haired man desperately holding onto the familiar. The son abruptly looks away, overwhelmed by the sudden realization.

The colonel fondles the outer ring of the ignition with his left hand as he inserts the key in the groove, notch by notch, ridge by ridge, with his right hand. He gently lets go and begins to hum Tilahun Gessesse's "Mona Lizaye Nesh." Suddenly, in mid-refrain, the colonel quickly turns the key and steps on the gas pedal. The DS roars into life.

Vindicated, the colonel looks into the rear view mirror and smiles. His son, however, was looking up front in concern. The father follows his son's gaze. Large clouds of smoke rise through the hood, blocking Churchill Avenue and the municipality building from their view. The colonel curses under his breath and bangs the steering wheel in anger and humiliation. He turns off the engine and sits still, for a few seconds. He then sighs and rolls down the window. He extends his arm and opens the door from the outside. The son shakes his head in disbelief.

An urchin with a permanent mischievous grin on his face, appears on the driver's side. He looks at the smoke and then at the colonel. "Fazer," he retorts. "Ichi yechesech mekina aydelechim indé?"