I

Rock Francais sucked. Lennon was right. Nixon had long suspected it, but here was proof. Three days of rehearsals wasn't much, but enough to reveal a marked difference in the way that French musicians went about their business. It wasn't about ability, but more specifically, an attitude.

Gil and Nixon had spent the first day rehearsing with the drummer, Mino. He was a professional session player, and spent a couple of hours, not playing, but meticulously transcribing drum notation from the recorded tracks. Nixon had never seen this done before. All the musicians he'd played with, just got on with it, relying on feel alone. Mino played everything competently, as he heard it, but it reminded Nixon of vacuous covers records from the seventies, where a session band played an honest, but lifeless version, completely failing to capture any of the original spirit.

“Have you ever tried to stop ?”

Nixon looked at Isabella, and for a second, wondered if she was talking about the music...no it wasn't that. Perhaps she meant he was talking too much. He had been rattling on about the rehearsals, after all. Today Leo, the keyboard player had shown up, and any hopes that Nixon held for an injection of verve had soon evaporated, and so, the same prosaic routine continued.

“Smoking......What did you think I was talking about ?”

Nixon looked at his neatly rolled cigarette. A thin pair of blue lines, coiled up through the still air. Twenty six years of smoking had subconsciously taught him he had almost one hundred and thirty seconds, until the smouldering ball of tobacco would extinguish. Normally he would take a drag about every forty seconds, and so, he could smoke, uninterrupted until the end. Talking broke the rhythm, especially if he was agitated, and that third drag was always too late.

Nixon picked up his lighter, and paused.

“You don't mind me smoking ?” 

“No, I don't mind.....in fact, I quite like the smell of roll ups. My father smoked them. I just wondered why you do it.......I always meant to ask him, but I never............” she tailed off.

“....got the chance....” Nixon finished off her sentence, and then apologised for reminding her of him, but at the same time, felt a little frisson that she'd associated him with someone so close.

“I suppose they're my subconscious thumb to suck....my comfort blanket. It's a ritual, a precise amount of evenly placed weed, rolling, licking the paper, the flame, then the first draw, and the gentle, calming rush of the perfect smoke. It's a little reward I make for myself .........not exactly a needle and a spoon, but.....well...we all need a reward, no matter the cost, don't we, Isabella........?”

“Like the last cigarette ?”

Nixon continued......

“There's a book by an Italian guy, I read once. He spent his whole life making deals with himself to quit smoking, then savouring that last one before he stopped. The thing is, he never did stop, but he still got the kick from all those ceremonial last cigarettes. I love that idea.”

“Savour the moment ? Yes I can see that. My mother always used to say 'last cigarette, bop bop bop' whenever she saw someone she despised on TV”

“You mention them a lot, your parents, don't you ? You can talk about them.........if you want”

Nixon knew he was touching on delicate ground, and half expected Isabella to blank the subject. Instead she just asked if he shouldn't be busy with rehearsals, almost checking that if she did talk, he'd have time to listen.

“Well Gil's in a mood. He's had a break in at the chalet, and doesn't want to work any more today, so yeah I have time to....................”

“......to burn.......A last cigarette....yes ?” she got up and poured some drinks.

II

Tanner and Cecile breakfasted late on Sunday after the Cigale show. Although Renard had caused Tanner a momentary panic late on, when he'd decided to launch into a few words of French on stage, the evening had passed in a whirl of heady euphoria. Nobody had seemed to notice, or even care that Ren, to Tanner at least, surely couldn't have blagged an authentic, native accent. It was only short phrase, something about his admiration of Joan of Arc, but still, it caused Tanner to casually glance at Cecile for a reaction. Up until now, he'd not told her about Ren's true identity, and only then, did it occur to him, that if the scam came to light, he might lose face in front of her.

Cecile, for her part, appeared to enjoy the show. It was hard not to get caught up in the moment, as the packed hall, as one, lapped up the homecoming of their 'lost' hero, Marrat. Monday's press would, no doubt, confirm whether they were onto a winner, but for now, it was enough to enjoy the moment, and ride the wave. Immediately after the show, Tanner had taken the plunge, and lead Cecile through the ochre red walled, backstage area, to meet the band. The Champagne was indeed flowing as they entered the dressing room, and Nash, ever attentive to the needs of his boss, had quickly found some chairs, and furnished them both with a glass of Reims' finest.

“My dear, what a pleasure it is to meet you. We've heard so much about you. Enchante...” 

Ren, almost pirouetting, took her hand, and kissed it. Even, the normally deadpan Damon had to smile, as Ren, flushed with his latest victory, fawned over her.

Tanner ignored him “Well done boys, great show tonight. Everybody happy ?”

“Yeah, even Cliffo's okay...and yet Charlton lost....That's gotta be a first”

“What is Charlton ?” asked Cecile

“Ah, Cecile, the pursuit of petty tribalism. It is something that only the rabble care about, not for the likes of us” Ren grabbed the nearest bottle of champagne and took a lengthy swig.

Cecile watched him with amusement “T'es francais, toi ?”

If she hadn't spotted his accent during the show, she was curious now.

“Aahh bah oui, mais.....” he hesitated, and looked at the others........“I've been living over there a good many years, my dear, so I'm afraid, I am practically one of them now ….still............ great to be back in the old country.......Cheers !”

Once again, Tanner stepped in quickly to head the singer off before he revealed too much, and to make sure that the band were out of the building before any of the assembled music press were banging on the door, chasing interviews. Tanner had stressed to security, that absolutely no one was allowed backstage after the show, but suspected that the press would eventually find a way, by which time, he'd need to have them spirited away from the building. The plan was, that Tanner had arranged to hire a small, backwater club, not far from their hotel, where the band could have an after show party. It was far enough off the main trail for them not to be discovered too easily, and once in, entrance barred to anybody else. It was a sort of private party, in a public place, with enough female company to keep Ren, and anyone else who felt inclined, occupied, while making sure that not too many questions would be asked afterwards.

Tanner was aware that while in Paris, and particularly after the show, media interest in the band would be at its highest, and so he needed to control access. By Monday, he would be handling any press calls himself, and then, they'd be out of town, with their reputation intact. The Paris show was pivotal. Tanner knew that the reviews of tonight's performance would set the scene for the rest of the tour, and especially the festival slot, in two weeks time.

Franck Blanchard, aware of the bands original lack of communication at interviews, had been fed the mythical tale, created by Tanner, of Marrat's twenty five year exile. It was an exclusive, and mindful of how that would create interest in his biography, he was only too happy to go along with Tanner's need for discretion. The story went that Marrat, conflicted by his Marxist principles, had quit the band as soon as he had spelled out his messianic message, contained within the words of his songs. He'd retreated to live on a commune in a remote Welsh village, and only now, seen fit to repeat the message, in a second coming. That was why there were no new songs. 'The song remains the same' was how he put it. Just as in 1975, it was now time to stand up to the system again.

Blanchard swallowed it whole. He was now firmly on Tanner's side, and so, probably with no little misinformation from himself, no word of The Bellevilles presence at La Boite des Fous that night, got anywhere near anyone who mattered. Tanner and Cecile, finally drifted away at three in the morning. The band and crew, with the exception of Cliff and Roger, were still up and at it. Ren, by now, half naked, was sitting on the bar, accompanied by Neil on a borrowed acoustic guitar, strumming through a selection of Stones' covers.

“Childhood living.... is easy to do....The things you waaanted.........I bought them for yooou.....” 

A small group of young clubbers looked on with bemusement, at what, or who, these men could be. Word gradually seeped out that they were in the presence of some elder rock stars, from a band that a few had heard of. Ren reached back behind the bar, pulled a red carnation from a vase, nearly overbalanced.....and then, recovering his dignity, offered it to a girl revealing the most cleavage. He beckoned her to come and sit up alongside, and amazingly, she did. He put his arm around her.........

“Wild, wild horses............Couldn't drag me away.......” 

Damon and Len, sharing a joint on the far side of the room, soon joined in with the refrain, and then, in the way that crowds often follow ringleaders, the whole room was singing. It was hilarious stuff, and Cecile laughed out loud. It was the first time Tanner had seen her do that, and in that moment, he knew he was in love. He squeezed her hand.

“He's not French is he ?”

“No..........” laughed Tanner.....It didn't matter now, he'd tell her the real story later, when they were out of here. It was time to go.

“Goodnight sweethearts !...” Ren, still the centre of attention, and mid song, yelled from the bar as he caught sight of them slipping away.

Tanner and Cecile waved goodbye, then made their way outside onto the cool night street. Arm in arm, neither spoke, then Cecile rested her head on his broad shoulder, as they slowly walked the short distance back to their waiting hotel room.