Every year, the same story. Yellow flowers on every corner of the city, even on desserts and the most improbable treats, homes in celebration, and tables laden as if it were already Easter or any other meaningless and hypocritical holiday. Quite a ridiculous day, as if women truly had something to celebrate. Not today, and not yesterday either.
In her family, there was no room for mimosas.
March 8th every year was nothing more than a celebration of the eternal failure that had indelibly stained every medal and gold badge stitched onto her father's uniform. Five daughters, not a single son in sight. A real slap in the face for a General.
Exactly like the one she had received a few minutes ago.
Her cheek still red, her white sneakers' laces untied, and some papers tightly held in her right hand along with her car keys. Françoise ran swiftly.
She fastened her seatbelt and turned the keys almost simultaneously. A quick glance at the clock and the screeching sound of tires on asphalt; she had no time to lose. Worrying about neighbours and passersby who might frown at her? Pointless. Thinking about reprimands and her father's irate face? Equally pointless. Hesitation was not an option.
She would leave the Carabinieri Corps that very day, no ifs or buts.
She drove in fourth gear, disregarding the potholes that — coincidentally — seemed to be waiting just for her. Quick glances at the mirrors, risky overtakes, and ignoring no-entry signs. A red light.
Of course.
She frowned irritably, her gaze falling on the dashboard where she had tossed the documents she'd only read once and signed in a heartbeat. Folded, perhaps even a bit torn at the edges. They'd have to accept them anyway. She just needed to get there on time, before the barracks' offices closed.
Damn it!
She sighed indignantly, leaning her head on the steering wheel, gripping it even tighter.
She had been foolish. Reckless, too impulsive. She should have gone directly to her father's study with the good news, once everything was done, sparing herself that theatrical scene, which was anything but new. Even the walls of the room had memorized their arguments, as had the oldest manuscripts lining the two large bookshelves on either side of the room. A performance to be recited aloud, timely and faithful.
It had been wasted time, but she already knew that. Her sense of duty as a daughter had suggested it would be at least honourable to inform him in advance of her intentions. Mere politeness, nothing more. Without beating around the bush, since it was no secret that the already paved and perfectly outlined path felt suffocating.
Trapped. She wanted to choose her own future, to decide who she would become. The woman she would be. A choice entirely hers, the first of her life. Because now she knew she owed nothing to anyone.
A punch, then another. The honking sound in sync with the green light, her foot pressing down on the accelerator as the cathedral bell behind her chimed twelve o'clock sharp. She turned right, taking a narrow shortcut, then another that led to a broad street lined with tall apartment buildings. An unpopular neighbourhood, known for anything but its tranquillity, but it would save her a handful of minutes and patience. Especially that. Getting stuck in city traffic was the last thing she'd tolerate.
She noticed a yellow blur in the distance, on the sidewalk. Another fool, she thought, with yet another bouquet of mimosas in hand. He seemed to be in a hurry, judging by the swift movements with which he swung the object in his hand along with the flowers. She rolled her eyes briefly, then refocused on the road, adjusting the sun visor to shield herself from the light. It was hot, perhaps too much for it not even being the start of spring.
She didn't have time to roll down the window before she had to brake abruptly. She gritted her teeth and cursed multiple times, digging her nails into the steering wheel.
Nothing ever goes smoothly. It wouldn't be her style, after all.
Then suddenly, like a flash. Two criminals violently snatched that person's bag. She accelerated, shifted to fifth gear, a maneuver so swift it made the asphalt tiles tremble. The deafening echo of the engine's roar resonated deep and muffled throughout the neighbourhood.
She closed in on them. Her glare was more piercing than the gun she pointed at them after cutting off their path. Few words, her voice sharper than a threat. But they were quickly whisked away by two motorcycles, speeding off with that black bag in their hands as if they had won first place in the Grand Prix.
On the ground, a man with long ebony hair down to his shoulders clutched his abdomen. He muttered something and abruptly stood up, his wide eyes fixed on the two departing vehicles. It wasn't long before he started running again, heedless of the yellowed, dilapidated Panda parked to the side.
Françoise let out a long sigh, her eyes half-closed, one hand massaging her temples. She cursed everything and everyone, with a passion.
"Do you really think you can chase them on foot?! Walking?!" she shouted, followed by two short honks. "Get in the car, idiot!"
The man turned around, confused. He tried to make out the figure beyond the windshield as she approached. A woman. Blonde, with wavy hair. Icy blue eyes that, he could swear, might have incinerated him on the spot.
"Move it! I don't have much time to waste, and neither do you, I'd say!"
"Alright, alright!" he replied, his words mumbled as he hurriedly climbed into the car. He had no other options, after all, and he couldn't afford to lose that bag… absolutely not!
The car sped off before he could even close the door.
"You know… if you keep pressing the accelerator and clutch together every time you take a turn, we'll end up crashing into the guardrail!"
His muscles were tense, his hands clutching the seatbelt. His voice was firm enough to conceal the agitation that seemed to be taking over.
She, unfazed, ignored him. A glare, her foot pressing down on the accelerator as she shifted into fifth.
"So?"
He, practically flattened against the seat, attempted to sit up and assume a more comfortable or suitable position, which might have been the same thing. His pine-green eyes were fixed on the road, one hand running through the tuft of hair covering the left side of his face.
"You have no reason to be in such a hurry!" he said to her, a sly half-smile forming. "Your driving reminds me of a—"
"Drunken truck driver, right?"
It was her turn to glance at him, quick and sharp.
Many people had told her that, even though not many rode with her, and the amusing jokes were always the same: "Woman at the wheel, constant danger!" or, indeed, the classic and timeless "truck driver." The usual nonsense.
Now he, noticing her displeasure, might feel sorry — he'd have to make amends to not ruin everything (whatever everything was?!) — and he would apologize and…
"No," he said bluntly. "I'd have said a… musketeer, yes. You drive like a musketeer!"
"What?!"
"Exactly what I said."
"A… musketeer…"
He nodded victoriously.
"You change gears as if you were trying to skewer someone with a sword! You're literally torturing, no, gutting that poor gearshift…"
He pointed at it, the leather fabric torn at the base. He barely managed to stifle a laugh in time, a quick hand to his mouth, his eyes still on her figure, devoid of any makeup and as beautiful as few others.
She shifted to fourth, then third, then second, and then stopped, the highway fortunately clear. She glared at him, icy and haughty, irritated, though his goal was precisely that. And she had realized it and knew she had fallen for it entirely.
"If you don't like how I drive, you can just open the door and get out! Nice way to thank me!"
Insolent… nice way to thank me, indeed!
Maybe those classic idiocies were better, after all.
She had helped him because it was her duty to do so, and thanks to her, that fool had at least managed to recover his stupid bag, abandoned on the roadside before the highway entrance. The wallet was gone, the two motorcycles long gone.
Nothing new, after all. It wasn't the first nor the last theft to occur. But Françoise would never say no to an adventure and chasing someone — as car chases rarely happened — certainly qualified. Her duty, because every injustice inexplicably and coincidentally ended up being her task. Always!
And now, as if that wasn't enough, she had also allowed that guy to provoke her!
He, however, quickly corrected course. Both hands raised, palms open, his voice low and calm. His gaze, now humble, still on her.
"I apologize, really. I admit I got a bit carried away…"
She shifted to first, then immediately to second, as she couldn't remain stopped in the middle of the road. He seemed sincere, but she still gave him a dirty look.
"If you don't shut your mouth, I might skewer you with a sword or hit you with a gun… your choice! I'm proficient with both!"
He widened his eyes. The memory of that gun — so it was real… — aimed at his muggers, from beyond the window, vivid and swift before him. Then he squinted, rubbing his chin, that irreverent expression returning to his face.
"So, I wasn't wrong… You really do know how to use a sword!"
Her anger flared again. Her hands clenched tightly around the steering wheel. She bit her lip, as he… as she… had been fencing since childhood… And he…
She wouldn't let him win!
Damn him! Him and his damn musketeer!
And that guy, his eyes gleaming, serene and unshakable, kept smirking. And he continued, still, as if he was genuinely enjoying teasing her.
"Then I choose the sword!"
She raised an eyebrow, her brow furrowed. She was losing track of everything, and he was smiling, and he was really making her lose her patience, and…
"I wish to perish by the sword, Commander. At twilight, but not before the first stars appear in the sky… and the moon too, why not?"
And then it was her turn to stifle a laugh, but it escaped anyway, and the anger slipped away as if it had never been there. Her face relaxed, softened. She laughed, and he laughed too, and they laughed together, even harder when he had to remind her to look back at the road instead of staring at him because she'd been doing so for too long.
Then a small risk.
"On the condition that it's you who kills me, to be clear…"
She turned serious and rigid again, her sapphire irises bright but still smiling. Her voice, however, was calm, and he hadn't heard it like that yet.
"You'd need to specify the type of thrust and revise the form of your request…" — a brief pause to emphasize that "want" he had uttered, overly out of place — "A Commander does not take orders from their subordinates, ever."
Her expression turned proud again. Finally, she had silenced him!
He offered a mock salute with his right hand, thumb bent over the palm and only the other fingers straight to his forehead.
"And that's vaguely acceptable…" she mocked him.
He had wanted to be silenced, finally. A few moments of silence and the time to find the words again because she was funny and sharp, so much, and light. Light because she had made him forget everything, the documents, the secretary, the supervisor, and…
His face darkened suddenly. His eyes fixed and dull on the papers sticking out of the worn-out backpack at his feet. He pulled them out, organizing them in his hands. Lined and yellowed sheets, the rounded and neat handwriting that looked printed. They were torn at the edges, dirty and crumpled.
She understood.
"If you hadn't been around, I wouldn't have even found these. This is the only copy I have of my thesis…" he murmured, almost.
She understood, yes, the reason he had barely cared about the money in his wallet, the stolen ID, the driver's license, and the ATM card she had to remind him to block. Spotting the backpack, he had been interested only in those scattered, trampled papers, hastily gathering them without saying a word.
Now she understood.
She grew somber, but only inside herself. She signaled left, overtook a car, the clicking filling the void that had settled. The corner of her eye slid to him as he looked out the window, his chin resting on his right hand, the other hand holding the thesis as if to protect it.
Françoise barely curved her lips into a bitter, mute comfort. She spoke softly, cautiously.
"What are you majoring in?"
"Literature, I have only one exam left… Unless fate keeps playing tricks on me, that is." — he turned to her again, his index finger rubbing the bridge of his nose. — "I was supposed to submit this draft today, or rather, a friend of mine who works in the secretary's office had kindly offered to type it up before forwarding it. My final course exam is the day after tomorrow, and now that I think about it, I no longer have any documents with me…"
A thesis… to be typed on the computer… Who on earth still writes by hand?! A thesis, no less…!
"You don't know how to use a computer?!"
"Of course I do! But I prefer writing on paper, that's all…"
He's a scribe! A bloody scribe!
"…sometimes I feel like I'm a bit like a scribe!"
She jolted. And this time, stifling the laugh — which she imagined to be long and loud — was difficult. But she recovered immediately and didn't even glance at him. A strange feeling crossed her, as she had felt sorry — a lot — but he made fun of himself, and in the meantime, he also made her light up again.
"Consider yourself lucky, then. Imagine if you had to rewrite it all from scratch…"
"I'd say so, indeed…"
"As for the documents…" — she concluded gravely because someone had to think about it, and that someone evidently had to be her — "Tomorrow you'll file a report and then go to the Municipality to request a new ID card. Don't worry, it won't take long. They'll give you a provisional document you can also use at the university, while for the driver's license, you'll receive a permit from the Carabinieri… I'll personally handle that."
She had said tomorrow. The offices were already closed, and she had also forgotten her own papers and signatures.
Closed, damn it… closed!
And she jolted again, nervous, shifting forcefully into fourth gear with a feline leap.
He glanced at the gearshift again, but this time he remained silent.
"Thank you, you're very kind," — his sweet and good-natured smile now on her. — "But so… if I may… you're with the Carabinieri, right? I should have figured it out earlier…"
Françoise nodded. An almost imperceptible sigh that he, however, noticed.
"Well, now I can truly feel safe and no longer fear for my life!"
"What?!"
"What?!"
"Don't you think it's inadvisable to get into a car with a strange woman brandishing a real gun?"
They vanished again. The anger, the irritation, all of it.
There was only room for laughter, light and carefree. A laughter that was genuine and heartfelt, the kind she had never experienced before.
Then just a few moments of silence, enough time to find the words again, because this guy with the beige turtleneck snug over broad shoulders and loose dark jeans seemed to have erased everything. The Corps, the secretary, her father...
"I'd say it's more about men telling a woman how to drive her own car!"
Another laugh, one of many more to follow.
The wind, the blue sky, and the sun slowly setting over the sea.
They laughed, so much.
And argued. Over music, because she couldn't stand the melancholic songs he played, and he grew bored of her rock choices. But at least they both liked "Bohemian Rhapsody." Over whether the windows should be open or closed. Over books, as Françoise loved historical treatises, and he loved romances. However, both shared a fondness for Virgil.
And she—though she didn't want to admit it and didn't even realize it herself—was captivated listening to him talk about things she'd never read, because every word seemed to offer her a piece of him.
Another laugh, one among countless others.
The highway travelled again and again, road signs and exits ignored, the fuel light on and soon forgotten.
They talked at length. He, parentless, forced to work since he was a child. He lovingly cared for horses and joyfully carved wood to keep his father's craft alive. He dreamed of being a writer and had written many poems but never shared them with anyone.
She… Françoise spoke about herself, and she never told her story. Rich family, a General father who was never home, and a mother always traveling for business. A uniform, a foil in the cradle, and a blue ribbon. A life chosen for her from her very first cry.
She… listened to him.
"Are you really doing this for yourself?"
And she would have remained silent because answering felt unnecessary and obvious. And so she did. This was truly the only thing she was doing for herself, without any doubt. And she would never give up the uniform. Even though…
"But you wouldn't do it for your whole life."
No. Because the world seemed too big to be confined behind an office desk or within a soulless barracks. She could never do it for her whole life, and she had always known that, even without asking herself. And not even the officer's life suited her, and certainly not because she was a woman. Giving orders, deciding for others in a reality that crumbled daily… No, she could never do it.
"It's not too late to enrol in Physics or Biology. Maybe even Chemistry, you know? You can do whatever you like."
The RIS had always fascinated her. If she had really been able to choose, right after high school, she would have enrolled in any course of study that could have taken her to crime scenes. Even Medicine, despite the boredom of being stuck with books for so long.
"You're smart and quick-witted. You won't have any trouble if that's what you want, I'm sure. You're brave… but you already know that."
Perhaps it was his calm, kind voice, so firm and sure, or the fact that every piece of advice seemed genuinely impartial and pure, like nothing she had ever heard from anyone. Or maybe it was the way he gave voice to her silences without adding anything but looks as gentle as a caress, even when she aimed steely glares and sparks of fire at him. He argued, agreed with her only to dismantle her pride piece by piece. And rarely, so rarely, could she not hold her own against someone.
The fact was, there was a stranger on her right who seemed to know her better than anyone else, even though he didn't even know her name. And it was strange, terribly strange, to let her guard down without realizing it. It was beautiful, very much so.
She had even stopped waiting for a misstep, as those always come and never take long to arrive. Sometimes he tried, other times he hesitated awkwardly… so she took the initiative.
They shared their stories, even without words, in long and comforting silences.
And the secretaries, the university, the resignations… All roles disappeared.
There were no names or important surnames. There were just a girl and a boy in a car, as if they had lived within those close metal walls forever. Where they could freely make mistakes and simply be themselves.
Then, index finger against index finger on the stereo, there by chance, their hands brushed ever so lightly.
A gentle touch, a shiver down her spine.
They looked at each other for a moment, a tiny grain of sand in an amber expanse that seemed imperceptibly infinite. And the scenery rushed past the open windows, yet everything around them was still and motionless, as if nothing else existed.
A road they wished would never end.
And then a ringtone, followed shortly by a high-pitched, worried voice. Their hands withdrew at the same instant. He, embarrassed, apologized and then explained his address. It felt like waking up suddenly from a beautiful dream that, if you went back to sleep, you wished to continue. And the anguish of having to stay awake was the same. Sad and gloomy.
The building where he lived was reached quickly. Nobody spoke.
An old woman wearing an apron and a purple bonnet waited outside on the balcony, arms crossed and holding a wooden spoon. He pointed her out so she could see her too.
"That's my grandmother… Look, she's already ready to whip me into shape!"
To Françoise, that woman seemed more intimidating than a General in the Army.
He leaned forward, gathered his things, and the bouquet of mimosa he had placed on the dashboard in front of him. Slowly, the car door opened.
And one last look, one last laugh.
The last of many others.
One last glance again.
The same question, anticipated by her.
"André."
"Just call me Oscar. I like it that way."
Finally, they said goodbye.
She retraced the road in reverse, the omnipresent traffic, her face illuminated by the red glow of taillights. A half-moon high in the bluish sky.
This time, though, her mind was light and empty.
Françoise returned home and climbed the stairs quickly, heading straight to her room. Fireflies danced over the ivy framing the French door. She threw the documents into a drawer and shut it, where they would stay a while longer.
The uniform lay on the still unmade bed. She stared at it for a long time.
"Are you really doing this for yourself?"
It echoed solitary and resounding.
She listened to it again and heard herself louder than ever.
Maybe she just wanted to defy her father's orders and prove she didn't need anyone to build her future, least of all him or anyone else. But maybe she didn't need to leave the Corps to do it, as she was already free in her own way… Thanks to a uniform, her uniform…
Without it, without the military school where she was sent at just fourteen, she would never have been able to reach the RIS! And three years of university would pass quickly because, after all, even a degree could be considered a kind of military strategy.
She would truly choose for herself this time.
A smirk, as that insolent guy was right, and she couldn't wait for tomorrow. At the barracks, at nine sharp.
That March 8th, for the first time, mimosa flowers entered the Jarjayes home.
A single dry twig with twelve yellow puffs, fallen and forgotten on the seat of a car parked in the garage. The other siblings of the bouquet were already in a vase, neatly arranged by a sprightly grandmother.
Françoise Oscar De Jarjayes' car. André Grandier's mimosa.