Thomas, Paul and Matthieu were on cloud nine. Here in Aubervilliers, on the outskirts of Paris, they were surrounded by treasures, and wanted for nothing in this old junk yard. Scrap metals, random items, construction waste; there was even a scrap yard for cars and trucks. Thomas knew this whole dump by heart. He knew where to find the broken tools, the old tires, and the empty cable spools you could push around. There were ropes you could tie together until they were many yards long. There were puddles to dodge and jump over all along the length of the fence. Its wooden panels were full of holes for peeping or sticking your fingers through, startling the passers-by as they strolled along the path. He knew every nook and cranny of this vast trove. “Hey guys, come and I'll show you the dump at Aubervilliers!” he’d called out as he passed the run-down houses where Paul and Matthieu lived.
Now they slipped inside the fence, pushing up a loose board. “Look at this old truck!” cried Thomas. It looked newly abandoned. Paul was delighted; this was better than any toy. How wonderful it was to be poor, and the son of a railway worker. Papa had always told him that one day he’d have a beautiful wife, one even prettier than Brigitte Bardot. Paul’s father worked all day long on the railways of the Paris Metro. He was always very tired when he came home, but never in a bad temper. He loved Paul’s mother more than anything. Paul was content to have two parents who doted on him; that was all that mattered. Matthieu climbed into the truck. He was like a pig in filth, here in this junk yard. He remembered the words of their priest at mass, who said: “Heaven belongs to the poor!” At these words, Matthieu had squeezed his mother’s hand. She was a seamstress who sewed ladies’ underwear at a small factory. His father didn’t work; instead he drank things that made him crazy. He was an alcoholic, they said. And when Matthieu’s mother came home late his father got angry, and threw glasses and plates all over the place. His mother complained that now all their dishware was mismatched, and all she had left of their wedding crockery was a single soup bowl. That dining set had meant a great deal to her, for it had belonged to Aunt Ursula; the one who used to give Matthieu scratchy kisses because old ladies sometimes grew whiskers on their chins. Matthieu used to love seeing Aunt Ursula because she would give him aniseed balls, and sometimes even a few coins so he could buy his favourites: sherbet pips. But Aunt Ursula was no fan of his father, and said he was a bad seed. Now she was pushing up daisies in Pantin cemetery, and Matthieu sometimes went to visit her grave with his mother so she could complain about his father. Ursula understood, dead though she was. She knew all about it, and she listened. Once, Matthieu’s father had even threatened to smash their old television. Matthieu knew that his father would never change. That’s just how he was. You had to come to terms with it, and not worry about it too much. His mother said that if you worry too much, you’d get an ulcer. That didn’t sound nice. But Matthieu knew one thing: if heaven belonged to the poor, well, he had found his share today thanks to his friend Thomas. “Oh la la, look at that truck! It’s so cool!” he said to Paul, who jumped into the cabin and sat himself behind the wheel. He jerked it left, then right, and stomped on the pedal thinking of Brigitte Bardot.
“Hey Matthieu, you know Brigitte?” he asked.
“Your little sister?”
“No, Brigitte Bardot! The biggest bombshell there ever was. The most gorgeous woman in all of France!”
“Prettier than your Mum?” Thomas asked.
“If only I could drive Brigitte around in the back of this truck,” Paul sighed.
“Tell you what lads, Aubervilliers is heaven and we’re the three best friends there’s ever been!”
The trio set themselves on a mission to prepare the truck for Brigitte. They played freely, and dreamed with abandon. One busied himself here, another there. Paul set about wiping the dust from the front seats, for Brigitte Bardot was not just any passenger, after all. If the most beautiful woman in all of France were to sit in the front, it had better be shining like a new coin. But Thomas thought that Brigitte would prefer to stay in the back, and was sweeping out the cargo bed. Everything had to be nice and neat. Matthieu was beginning to fret, for he was struggling to remove all the grime.
On and on they dreamed, for Brigitte would be along any minute now!
Alan Alfredo Geday