Michel 3

A frustrating phantom (the title is a tribute to MV comic title nr. 33; La Silhouette en colère)

Their last day in Roquebrune was filled with sailing for Michel and Jean-Pierre and with lingering on the deck, watching all the beauties on the other boats for Steve.

Steve and Jean-Pierre had been anxious to know about their adversary but Michel had not confined in them. Without knowing why he had simply stated that when the bar closed, the napkin had still been on their table. Which was not entirely untrue; when the bar had closed, for customers, the napkin had still been on their table.

He didn't understand why he was reluctant to tell them about June. He had been attracted to girls before, there was absolutely no reason to hold back; but still... it somehow seemed different and suddenly a kind of... difficult to just... talk about it, like he would normally. Somehow difficult because Steve would most certainly have a comment about it, like he would normally. Was it because she had so easily guessed his 'nobody can do this'-circuit? Was it a question of pride? Was it because she put him in his place?

He shrugged; it didn't matter any way; tonight he would confront her, no matter what Steve's comment would be. So he should stop thinking about it now and concentrate on the sailing.

He didn't want to admit to himself that he had thought the exact same thing only half an hour ago, and the half hour before that, and before that, and before...

Their last evening at 'Les douze mois' began with a surprise: another waitress and behind the bar a local guy. However, their table had been laid and on Michel's plate stood, folded in a Bishop's mitre, just like Michel had done the other night, the napkin. From the outline of the circuit, little arrows were drawn to bits of writing. "What's it saying?" Jean-Pierre was becoming mildly infected with the napkin virus too. "It describes the best way to race the circuit." Michel stated. And Steve, who, of course, had put his neck almost in an arm lock to read the napkin at the same time, commented: "Look he even knows where to take it wide and use the shoulder to slow down!" Michel pointed: "And look here: 'the rest is just straight, although you make it best if you just slide to the outside first'" They looked at each other; coming to the same conclusion: "He knows it!"; Steve voiced what Michel had thought, only with a different pronoun.

"But... but that's impossible. If anybody from here ever drove there, I would know about it." Jean-Pierre uttered. "No, our adversary has never been there, listen to this:" Michel, remembering the clues for the Phakisa Freeway circuit, had opened the napkin: "I've driven here only in my dreams: Vaillant-circuit" he read out loud. "What's that beneath it?" Steve, again dislocating his neck to see, asked. "It looks like a helmet!" he continued, answering his own question. He was right, underneath the message the shape of a helmet could be seen, an x-shaped design on it. Beside it was scribbled: 'white-on-blue saltire' "So it is a driver!" Steve sat down in his chair. "Or a mechanic, or a helmet salesman or just a huge fan." Jean-Pierre stated reasonably. He continued: "That helmet doesn't mean anything at all!"

But Michel knew better: that helmet was a clue, a clue to find a driver named June.

Unthinkable, impossible, ridicule, nonsense; these were just a fine selection of the words that came to Jean-Pierre's mind while he looked at his brother who was sipping his coffee and reading the morning paper at half past three in the afternoon. They were sitting at the table in the kitchen of La Jonquière. Jean-Pierre sighed. What never happened was happening: Michel; mister confident, mister totally in control, mister know-it-all, was unfocused and restless, lacking his typical and reliable concentration. Instead of the calm and thoughtfulness that characterized his normally gentle person he was snappish, fidgety, distracted. And Jean-Pierre had no idea what caused it.

It had been a slow process. The first one to notice had been Steve; although consumed with his forthcoming marriage on top of the normal demands of the Formula 1 season, Steve had a way of seeing through Michel. He had confronted his friend about a month and a half ago after a rally in the rally-heaven of Finland. The boys had attended it just for fun and because it was a nice alternation between the races at Hockenheim and the Hungaroring.

"It's not in your results, you know. They're just fine. But the way you drive is different." Jean-Pierre had just entered the cloakroom to grab his coat and unwillingly overheard his two drivers talking. From the direction and the sound of the voices, Steve was still in the showers while Michel was already dressing. After some watery-sounds Steve's voice became clear again: "You even got mad at Cheng during the last stage" Michel's voice had sounded defensive when answering: "Well, he did misread the road-book, didn't he!" Something in his brother's voice than had caught Jean-Pierre's attention. If you would have asked him what it was, he would not have been able to voice his feelings but there was just something, something harsh, something irritated. This was not at all strange; since Cheng's fault had cost Michel some places, but it was just so... not Michel. Steve was right. Something was different.

The sound of running water had stopped; replaced by the soft dripping of water on the floor tiles and the little cracks shoes make when you tie your laces. Jean-Pierre turned the corner and saw Steve, just clothed in a towel, hanging in the frame of the shower-entrance and Michel, his back to him tying his laces. Slowly Steve said: "I remember David doing that once causing you two to almost take a dive in a freezing lake. But then you were smiling and suggesting the Swedish vice." Michel had looked up at his friend and then he had positively growled: "This conversation is over Steve!" He had grabbed his coat, hurried passed Jean-Pierre and slammed the door.

That was over a month ago and had Michel's results been as good as ever then, now they were showing something else. It was only during testing, but there was no denying it: Michel was slacking. And Jean-Pierre wanted to know what the hell was going on. Next month there was a charity-event at Le Mans. Normally Jean-Pierre would feel completely secure because normally he could rely on his ace for this sort of thing: Michel. But now... and this morning he had received the final list of participants and one name had startled him. He had to talk to his brother. And Michel would not put his director general and technical director off with fair words like any mechanic or José or Steve. But mostly Michel would not be able to hold of his brother.

Out of the blue Jean-Pierre started: "What is it? Tell me Michel, is it the car?"

Michel was instantly aware what he was talking about. The answer was direct and true: "Non." He had looked up but was now again looking at the newspaper.

Jean-Pierre continued: "The team?" Again the answer was swift and clear: "Non! Jean-Pierre you know I..." But his older brother interrupted him: "You're not ill, I know that for sure, I had doctor Martin check you out last week." This time the reaction was a bit more emotional: "You WHAT?" But Jean-Pierre ignored his brother's raised voice and stern look; considering his position in the company and the team: when Jean-Pierre thought a driver needed to have a medical check, the driver had a medical check. He knew Michel knew, and so he just ignored the comment.

"Papa?" "Non." "Maman?" "Non!" There was disbelieve in Michel's voice and he continued demanding: "Jean-Pierre, stop this!" But that was not Jean-Pierre's intention at all: "Is it my happiness?" A short shake of the head. "Steve's happiness with Gabrielle?" A real strange look this time. "The fact that Gabrielle is pregnant?" "She is? That's so great!" For a moment Jean-Pierre could see the old Michel back and that convinced him even more to ask the next question, but careful, he told himself "Is it... Ruth Wong?" "RUTH?" "Well, the two of you were involved one day..." "ONE day, yeah, about that long. Besides it was a long, long time ago. She's the daughter of the Leader Jean-Pierre AND a nightmare." "You're sure? I'm just checking because she will be at the charity-event at Le Mans next month."

"Fine by me, besides, have you ever seen me slacking over a girl?" The light tone could have had many people fooled that this was just Michel Vaillant playfully bickering with his elder brother. But Jean-Pierre wasn't many people, he saw the exhausted and sometimes haunted look in the once so calm eyes, he had noticed the dark circles beneath them. However his answer was build upon Michel's lighter tone: "Well... yeah!"

Rolling his eyes Michel continued: "I mean slacking over a girl in the sense of: not being able to focus in something on wheels?"

Jean-Pierre's answer was as swift as Michel's had been: "Non, jamais." Returning to his paper Michel stated: "So!"

"So?" Jean-Pierre echoed in another tone. "So is it?" he continued and off Michel's questioning face: "So is it Ruth?" He was treated to an icy look and then Michel raised the paper in front of him: "Jean-Pierre, this conversation is so over." Before Jean-Pierre could react Michel heard running feet approach and lowered his paper again. It was indeed his favourite niece Laura, Jean-Pierre's daughter, who came running into the kitchen. "Ah, Laura!" Michel exclaimed. "You know your papa was just saying what a shame it was that he has not yet seen you drive that little model for the new Vaillante Talia..." this earned him a stern look from his brother, but efficiently ended not only the conversation but also Jean-Pierre's presence in the kitchen.

After an exited Laura had dragged her father outside, Michel rose from the table. He poured himself a glass of water, brought it back to the table and sat down again. He stared at the glass for a moment but left it untouched. Instead he bent his head to rest it in his hands, dropping his shoulders. Despite the confident and light sound of his voice, his heart was in a state of turmoil. During the exchange with Jean-Pierre he had voiced exactly what was keeping him wide awake at night, the fact that something; or rather someone had the strength to break his focus in a car!

He had started his search for June the day they arrived at Magny Cours. On the internet he had found out that she probably was Scottish; the Scottish flag being a white-on-blue saltire. He even checked with David Coulthard. David confirmed the colours of his flag however he had never seen a driver with that particular helmet. And the only "June" that came up in hits about Scottish drivers on Google was the month. Yet he was not discomfited easily... He had read endless lists of members of all kind of clubs; motor-, karts-, cars- even high speed skiing- and canoeing clubs had kept him company at night. Of course he had called 'Les douze mois' but they did not keep an administration of their personnel especially not of 'all' the season-workers. He even had started to call motor shops in the vicinity of Roquebrune to find out if there was any 'June' among their personnel. Finally within two months June had become an obsession. The fact that he couldn't find her anywhere was annoying him; the thought that he might never find her, was consuming him; and last but certainly not least the feelings that these thoughts stirred in him were unbelievable, unwanted and completely out of range. Not that it did him any good to acknowledge that. "Au nom de Dieu, get a grip on yourself Michel!" he exclaimed, hitting the table with his fist. Startled by and startling his mother sitting on the other end of the table.

"Michel..." the soft spoken word had an explosive effect: Michel jumped from his chair, roaring: "NON Maman, NON! No more questioning!" He balled his fists. Confused his mother said: "Mais Michel..." In brisk French Michel rattled: "I thought that I said NO! What part of that word do you people find so hard to understand?"

Immediately after he said the words he mentally slapped himself, his eyes grew wide and he growled. His mother was just staring at him, not believing what she just witnessed. Michel took two quick steps towards her and crouched next to her chair, taking her in his arms. "Oh, Maman, je m'excuse... I don't know what came over me... It's just that everybody..." Softly she interrupted him: "I overheard your conversation with Jean-Pierre... It hurts, doesn't it Michel?" For a moment he was stunned, could she suspect? No, no one could, he had a hard time believing it himself. "It hurts 'slacking' over a girl, doesn't it Michel?" And then it was more her holding him than the other way around.