Damn it, what’s up with this thing? Cars aren’t complicated, after all. I’m seven years old, I’ll have you know, and I’ll bet you I can get this car started. I’ve already checked the spark plugs and the tyres – next thing to look at is the engine. Might need to be greased, I reckon. I’m Félicien, the mechanic. No seriously, I’m telling you! If Henry Ford can make a million cars over in America, I should be able to repair this old rust bucket and make it the pride of our little village up in the mountains. I like maths, I do, and physics. I have no time for the milking, or feeding the chickens, or walking the ewes or brushing the goats. Papa tries his best to get me into farm work, but I’ll never settle for it. It’s boring, and unpleasant. Especially dunging out the pens in the cowshed and in the stables – that’s the worst job of all.
One day, people will talk about how I managed to get this old abandoned car to run. It’s not rocket science, just basic intelligence and scientific knowledge. I’ll be even more famous than Henry Ford. In my country we have fraternity, equality, liberty – and pride in our work. I'm Félicien the mechanic, and I’m proud to be French. Papa says that a car can run on alcohol. Of course, he would say that. If he could stop drinking I’d have brighter days ahead of me. If he could stop, and Mama could start, I should be even happier – she could use a drop of wine to soften her bones. Every night they sing the same tune: Do this, do that, Félicien! Bring the bread! Fill the water jug! Félicien, go wash the dishes. Mama is always on my back, always wanting everything to be perfect. She’s like a little bird, hopping around her nest and fixing it up all the livelong day. With Papa, it’s a different story. He’s like an eagle and a rabbit all at once. The rabbit can hear everything, and the eagle sees all. They don’t get along, of course. The rabbit is scared of its own shadow, while the eagle knows everything. That’s how father is; a man of the mountains who can hear an avalanche coming, or forecast a storm with a glance at the sky. So he’s always nervous, but still he likes to contend with nature. He can lift a sheep in one hand, Papa. And he can cross a mountain pass with nothing but a flask of Genépi and a crust of bread in his pocket; he’ll walk twenty miles like that in his big boots and his grey coat. I’m not allowed to do anything, of course. Like a rabbit, he’s afraid that I’ll do something silly and the world will cave in on us. It’s true! I’m not even allowed to play with the spark plugs on the tractor. I tried to have a look at them once, and I got a fair lashing for it. That time it was the eagle who came out.
But I, Félicien the mechanic, am sick and tired of the farm. I want to be like the other children my age at school, who are into maths and electricity, but especially mechanics. One day, I’ll travel to the capital. In the village square I’ve heard people say there are lots of schools in the city for a boy like me. “If you want to get that machine working, you’ll have to go study in Paris!” the mayor told me once. The mayor is a smart man, and he knows about a lot of things; that’s why he got elected. He’s the doctor, too, and he knows a lot of people. He could tell you who’s had chickenpox and who’s had the mumps, and above all he knows who should go to Paris. Mama doesn’t want me to go – she thinks I’ll be happier close to nature than in a grey city where people are always in a hurry. Papa says you can’t foresee what will make you happy, but that Paris is expensive. Where would I live if I went there? There’s Aunt Monique who lives alone with her cats, but she’s gotten a bit grouchy, Mama says, since Uncle François kicked the bucket. Well, we’ll see. Papa says reaching the age of reason isn’t quite enough, and I still have a few years ahead of me before I start dreaming of Paris and the fine cars that parade up and down the Champs Élysées.
Alan Alfredo Geday