Several other stories use French as a theme, but I note that very few authors master the rules of French grammar which is not gender neutral. My recommendation is that you read through at least the first time without looking up the footnotes, as they are only for those that get curious about the details. If you are French you do not need the footnotes at all (maybe when I try to be very phonetic) , and If you know nothing of French the information is probably a waste of time to read them. The pseudo-phonetic parts are rendered in italics, and without translation, just like you would experience if you were the victim..

I hereby give you

A Crash-course in French

This is a work of fiction. Persons in this story are fictional. This story is mainly intended to entertain, though a bit darker than I would have liked to read myself. There is an additional purpose in educating the reader in the intricacies of a foreign language. Copyright yes, but feel free to be inspired.

The sudden darkness. The intense pain. I tried to move to relieve my pain, and I could feel even more pain, and though the pain was painful I also felt that I could not move, that I was somehow restrained.

I could hear strange noises, strong noises, and there was probably voices, but I could not understand where it came from.

During a brief period, when my head was not so woosie, I remembered what had just happened before.

My name is Peter Paul - sounds like a joke, but what do you do, you certainly don’t not start life by choosing it yourself. How many times have I not heard “and Mary”?

I was driving peacefully on the french Autoroute. Toll roads that provide the fastest way of travelling by car from North to South. Cruising at 140 km/h - slightly above the speed limit, cruising under full control. They use the toll gates as speed traps, so there was no point in driving much above. I like German Autobahn far better, but that is another story.

I try to remember, but it is quite possible that my phone was ringing or I got a text message. I remember at least I was thinking about picking it up. Details are very fuzzy at this point, and then all went black, and I only experienced pain.

I had something in my mouth, that was forcing air in my lungs. I had a very awkward feeling of wanting to fight the intake of air. I felt very helpless, and I could not move to get that thing that made me gag out of my mouth. An extremely claustrophobic feeling, of utter helplessness.

...

I heard some voices. Two men talked but I could not understand what they said

''Sellala échoppée bel , la fayi y passé.¹''

''Cheppa si’l ladlavenne, l’é asé cramé é lezieux p’tet bouzillé ²''

This is what they said, at least I try to write now what they said then.

Was it Arabic? - With long sequences of L’s and A’s. No! Arabic does not have a “V” sound.

You may have guessed, dear reader, this is how Frenchmen talk between themselves, and I have a translation in the footnotes, but that would destroy the bond between you and me, at this stage, because I was left in the dark quite literally as to what they said.

“Allez, on a fini ici. On fil” ( OK, we are finished here, We go)

“T’aurais pas une clope?” ( You would not happen to have a cigarette?)

They must have left. The only sounds I heard was the sound of air forced down into my lungs, and the release of air when I expired, and the regular “bip” that was probably my heart - cystole when the heart contracts, and registered on a cardioscope. I tried to move again, and I passed out in a new wave of pain.

I think I had several periods of short consciousness. I tried again to fight the breathing apparatus in my throat and passed out. Then I woke again with someone in the room. I tried to move. It hurt, and I could not help making a cry of pain, that was audible by the person in the room. The clogs of that person did not make much noise, so I pictured in my mind a doctor or a nurse using Crocs or something similar. It was a woman's voice that said:

“Calme toi, ma puce” (calm down, my flea)

Why are thy insulting me? Calling me a flea. I call her frog as soon as they get this thing out of my mouth..

“Tu es a l’Há´pital Medicale Edouard Herriot. T’ as eu un accident grave”

(You are at the Edouard Herioit Hospital³. You had a serious accident)

Now this was spoken slow enough for me to get the details. I was in a hospital, not a surprise after what I could analyse of sounds around. I did not know that this one was special, but - yes I think I must have been through a serious accident.

“On essaye de sauver tes yeux, c’est pourquoi on les a bandées” (we try to save your eyes, that's why they are covered)

I prided myself of having learned french in school, I was best in class and I had to use it during several business trips to Paris. Of course my accent was atrocious for French ears, but they should be grateful that anyone bothers to learn their language. France no longer is a leading nation of this world, in spite of them having the bomb. I was so upset that I did not not catch a little detail in what she said.

“J’enlá¨ve le tube respiratoire, évite de parler tout de suite”

(I remove the breathing tube. Avoid talking immediately) .

My mouth was finally liberated, and a source of torture removed, but the other main discomfort, was a dry mount, but it seems that was so about to be taken care of.

“T’es vachement sage, toi. Tiens, je te donne un peu d’eau”

( You are very wise (or calm) - Here, I give you a sip of water)

My mouth was parched, and the throat as well. A small thin spray of water came in and the worse dryness of my mouth and throat was gone.

“Je dois changer tes pansements; ça vas faire mal”

(I have to change the dressing it is going to hurt)

“Tu sais, c’est pas de mauvaise volonté, j’essaie de faire de mon mieux”

( You know, this is is not ill will , I have to do my best)

Oooooaaaaaah - a shrill scream pierced the room and I almost blacked out. It came from me, but it was as if it came from somebody else. The pitch of the scream was almost two octaves higher that what I should have managed. Maybe it was due to the fact that the tube had been in my throat, and maybe my vocal cords had been damaged. This was obviously not my first thought, as I was recovering from the pain, but I had this inkling there was something fundamentally wrong.

Time goes extremely slow when there is absolutely nothing you can do. Actually it is part of the punishment of solitary confinement. You get absolutely mad. The try to slowly explore what I can do, and try to think though my brain is addled by the painkillers, that are also making my thought process all mushy. There was something in what she said that bothered me, but I could not really put my finger on it. So I will try to be systematic and try to think from top to bottom.

I could feel that some kind of dressing is covering my head, and including a large part of face which includes my eyes. It itches a little bit. My head hurts a bit. My throat hurts still. My left arm is in a cast or something. I can barely move my fingers, and it hurts mostly, but I feel the itch also. My right arm is tied down. Probably to avoid me moving it while I was unconscious. I will ask the nurse about it when she comes back. Also about my eyes.

It is difficult to feel anything about my midsection, but I think I feel a plastic tube going between my thighs. Probably a catheter, and I add it to the list of questions.

I have this picture in my head, from an ad for a company specialized in travel insurance: “the victim” in a small hospital in China, unable to communicate.

I did not take a special insurance for this trip. I just had the standard public coverage that also gives you rights within other EU countries. The EHIC⁴ card was in the glove compartment of my car . Thank God this did not happen in the U.S. of A, I would then be bankrupt before I was well enough to take a flight home.

Wonder if my father knows I am in hospital? Has he been notified?

I was thinking about him, and then remember my mother, and tears started to flood my eyes, but stayed there because of the dressings. I really cried and sobbed in a way I have not done for years. Weird. my sobb also sound alien I cried myself to sleep. The nurse nearby tried to comfort me by patting an area where I was not wounded.

I woke up as a nurse was touching me..

“Alors ma poule, tu fais pot-pot au lit maintenant” - Translation started got quicker in my head: (So my hen, you do potty-potty in bed now). Anger at her calling me a hen was quenched at the realization that I had soiled myself in bed. The smell was bad. While unconscious when it happened, it was still a loss of face. She got help from another nurse. The somehow managed to lift me up and get the dirty sheets off and new ones in place. Actually I was impressed: only one of them lifted almost all of me. All when they worked they chatted with me in a one way communication, not waiting for an answer.

They talked about the weather. They talked about their dates for the week-end.

When they cleaned the wounds with antiseptic the sting was terrible. I winced as it hurt a lot, and they tried to sooth the pain.

“Allons ma petite, faut pas pleurer” ( Come on, my little one, don’t cry )

Little one

“Je ne suis pas si petit” (I am not that small) I managed to mutter, irritated at the condescending tone.

I heard them laugh at me, and the other that did not not lift me said

“Non ma grande, tu n’es pas petite” ( No my big one. you are not small )

Something bothered me seriously. This time she was not calling me a flea, but she was pronouncing the T at the end of the word petit. She also pronounced the d at the end of ”grand”. Could it be a dialect form? She was rolling the r’s almost as if she were scottish.

I wanted to ask, but did not quite dare - finally I asked.

“De quelle région venez vous?”

Again they sounded quite puzzled that the question came from me, but the one that had talked the most said:

“Je suis originaire d’Orthez. Je suis donc une Béarnaise - comme la sauce”

( I am from the Orthez, thus I am a Bearnaise, just like the sauce )

“Je suis une Dacquoise comme les gá¢teaux”

( I am from Dax, just like the cakes⁵) ,

said the other one, and they laughed.

They fed me , a spoon at the time.

“Ouvre la bouche”

An older colleague of mine told me he was once on a sales-pitch in Bangkok. His Thai opposite number and other Asian customers had a great time while attending a "no-hands dinner". My colleague hated it, and I now understand it even better.

They then asked if I wanted to listen to the radio - at very low level. While getting the speakers in place they explained that I could ask them to switch it off whenever, that they were sorry to leave me all by myself, but they were extremely careful not get my wounds infected.

At least the radio made the time pass, until I passed out again. This time, it was more normal sleep.

Before they left I also asked them if they could cover me “down there”.

“J’ai honte de tout montrer” (I am ashamed to show everything.)

They covered the area with something that sounded like paper.

“Je te fais une jupe en papier. Voila mademoiselle, tu ne peux pas avoir de culotte a cause du tuyau”

(I make you a paper skirt , here you are miss, you can’t have underwear because of the drain)

They have sense of humour these girls.

I felt like falling, and I had a bout of nausea. When I got my senses back only the saucy nurse was there.

“Alors t’es tombée dans les pommes, ma puce?” ( So you fell into the apples, my flea?⁶)

It was the saucy one, that talked to me. I was beyond being irritated by this

She told me the doctor had looked underneath the dressings while I had lost consciousness.

Yes They had tied my arm so I would not tear at the Veneflon (Peripheral Intravenous catheter).

and they explained that I should not even try to touch my wounds. There was a high risk of infection. They talked slowly and used simple words as if talking to a foreigner - which I am.

They had increased a bit the amount of medication.

I moved my right arm a few times, and the restraint was obviously still there

I managed to point at my lower midsection and said “pipi” ; I thought my voice would not be heard, I barely managed to say that I was very ashamed)

No, They had inserted a catheter and would only remove it when I was well enough, so I did not have to go to the toilet for that, but they would bring a bedpan when I had to do bigger things.

I tried to explain that the skin was quite irritated.

“á‡a me démange” - It is eating me.

“á‡a c’est bon signe” ( that is a good sign) She answered, and added:

“Il faut surtout pas gratter. C’est pour ça que nous t’avons attaché les mains. Tu t'es vraiment brulé les mains”

( You must not scratch yourself. That is why we have tied your hands, Your hands are really burned).

I tried to express that I was a little bit hungry and tried to say “manger”, but I stuttered a bit, and said:

“ma-man-ger”

“Mais oui! - On va la trouver ta maman” (but yes! - we are going to find your mammy)

What a mess. - I did not ask for my mother. At the same time I felt there was a hint untruth in the voice.

“J’ai dis ''manger''” (I said “eat”)

My frustration at the mix-up, permeated my words.

“Soit sage, dans un instant je vais revenir et te donner á  manger” (Be calm, will be back to give you something to eat).

I was some years ago on a business trip to Bangkok, and was invited to a “no hands dinner”. The experience was similar, somehow degrading, although my Thai business contact was very proud to offer this kind of dinner to me, and my customers. The problem was also that now, I could not see what I was fed. In between bites I asked what it was:

“Qu'est-ce que c’est?”

“Náªmes et riz -” Good; I managed to translate that: Spring rolls and rice.

My mouth did hurt a lot, and I did not get a lot to eat.

I was quite exhausted, and the nagging feeling of being treated as a retarded. Did they think I was brain-damaged?

The day or was it night passed. Time went very slow. I could not read. There was no television to watch. Anything had to be done to fill the boredom, by replaying in my mind things I have experienced, to books I have read. Fortunately I was able once in a while to catch some of the chit-chat outside the room. I imagined there was a glass wall in this room to a central room where staff could monitor several patients in separate rooms. I obviously had been burned in the car accident. Mayby I have watched too many TV series and films. I know burn victims are extremely costly to treat, because of the constant care the staff must give.

They must have some other patients too. I could hear them talk about a little girl. “La petite Virginie”. I had to concentrate to catch the phrases, but it made time pass, and concentrating on hearing made me forget some of the pain I experienced. What I was able to catch from phrases was that she had parents that had quarrelled over something in conjunction with a divorce. If I understood correctly the father had set fire to the house. Hearing about her sad story made me feel a lot better myself.
Thus I endured the pain when they changed my dressings, the boredom of having absolutely nothing to do, and the ignominy of helplessness going from eating to cleaning away what comes out of the body.
Days passes — at least I think it was days. Maybe I should have asked them to call some friends, or get some help in updating my status on Facebook, to inform those who cared, if any. At this stage they probably had contacted the nursing home where my father was placed. Alzheimer having taken over his brain.

“Bonjour - t’as bien dormi?”
(Morning - did you sleep well)

A new nurse came in and did adjust the angle of the bed, and started to take temperature, and other vital information. She also explained in a few words that I was supposed to go through a medical check of my wounds that would be so painful that I was about to receive a sedative.

I kind of of woke up while a male voice which I assumed was the doctor, was giving his information to the rest of the staff:

“Les deux cornées sont endommagés. Il faudra faire des greffes. Quelques greffes de peau seront aussi nécessaires”

I assumed “greffe” translates to transplant or graft, thus he said: the two corneas area damaged, transplants required. Some skin graft also required.

The nurses were however more worried about the girl next door, because I heard a female voice ask:

“Et la petite Virginie s'en tirera?” (And the little Virginie will get out of it)

to which the doctor replied:

“Oui, mais nous craignons encore des infection et elle aura aussi des cicatrices”
(We still fear infection, and she also will have scars )

“Il faudra donc redoubler la vigilance contre les infections”
(Thus, more care is required in avoiding infection)

It was nice to hear she was making it. Shame she would have scars, but as the doctor informed that I required skin skin grafts and thus would quite likely also be scarred, that made two of us. Men can more easily live with scars, so I sympathised with the little one. I was slightly irritated by the lack of confidential handling of information of the patients. I should really not have heard this, and for some reason a lot of people consider a child's medical status as deserving less respect. But I hungered for something to keep my mind active, and alert, and not centred on my own sorry state.

When I woke the next time somebody sat next to me. With blindfold, there was no way I could know who it was. There was also a nurse in the room, but I did not hear her immediately.

“Who is there?” My lips were still so numb, that I had problems to properly shape my mouth to say it correctly, and it sounded somehow as if said by a Frenchman. I did not say “zer” either. The pitch of my voice was still an octave higher that I wanted. Anyway... I remembered that I was in in a French hospital. : “Eh... Qui est lá ?”

“á‡a fait du bien de savoir que tu te souviennes des leçons d’anglais. ” ( It’s good to know that you remember your English lessons) said a woman’s voice, and she proceeded to say:

“Je suis Maíwenn LeBun , je suis représentante de l’adas .” ( I am Maíwenn Lebrun,, representing adas )⁷

I heard it as if she said l’adace, and I had this vision of cars driving around with ADAC painted on, so I assumed it was some insurance company. No, ADAC that is the equivalent of AA in Germany. Still, ADAS is probably some insurance company.

The pain relief was ebbing, so I had problems focusing on our conversation.

“On te traite bien ici?” ( You are well cared for here?)

I was told by my French teacher that the second person singular was in French reserved for familiar relationship as in parents and children, or between lovers, or, close friends.

I had always used the second person plural “vous” in business relationships - Was the French polite form in decline?

She must be from some insurance company, so I answered finally with some difficulty:

“Oui je suis content du service, Madame” ( Yes, Ma’am, I am satisfied with the service )

I thought that sounded very French what I managed to say, I could hear my intonation was perfect, as it never been before. I sounded maybe a bit childish, as my voice was kind of thin. As you know, your voice is always different from what you hear yourself.. The Rs were pronounces with the right sound at the rear of the tongue. I was therefore a bit irritated by her correction:

“Je suppose que tu veux dire que tu es conten'''te'''” ( I assume you want to say that you are satisfied )⁸

The nurse interrupted and asked for a short intermission, in order to liberate my arms, so she could wash the inside of my hands with a product I learned later was called Furacine.

“Ne touche pas aux pansements. Promis ma puce?” ( do not touch the dressings. Do you promise? )

This one also called me her flea, and the way she spoke was as if I was retarded or a child, or a foreigner. Yea - I’m an alien here. My hands were numb and swollen from burns.

The lady from the insurance company, Maíwenn LeBrun went on telling me

“Tu es maintenant pris en charge par nous” ( You are now taken care of by us )

Great! so I was not assumed to be responsible for the accident. and I said so:

“Je ne suis donc pas responsable de ce qui c’est passé!” (I am therefore not responsible for what happened?)

The nurse was rewinding gauze around my right hand. I assume it looked as if I was wearing a boxing glove.

“Mais non chérie, ça ne sera jamais ta faute” ( No my dear, it will never be your fault)

But why does she call me dear. We hardly know each other. Weird, but then in a large parts of Britain, I could be called “love” by the shopkeepers. I let my arm touch my belly. I could confirm I was quite naked, except for a kind of thin shirt that covered my upper body. I started to feel the need to cover up my lower abdomen by pulling the shirt down. This insurance woman was most likely seeing “everything” down there. Quite frustrating this to be blindfolded. I let my right arm up to my head and felt the dressing around head, and the smoothly shaved chin underneath. Wait a sec.... something was wrong. There should be stubs... Quite long stubs probably.

“Pas Toucher” (No touching ) said the nurse.

“Je suis obligée de te rattacher les mains” ( I will have to re-tie your hands)

“á‰coute soit pas vilaine et ne te gratte pas. Sinon ça faire trá¨s mal” ( Listen — don't be naughty: don't scratch, else it will hurt) ⁹

I was about to try to formulate an answer, because I was upset at being called a villain. Though not noble, my ancestors were mostly shop keepers and tradesmen, but my efforts in formulating a retort were curtailed by the other woman present.

“C’est mon triste devoir de te dire que ta maman est morte” ( It is my sad duty to tell you your mommy is dead)

What? My mother dead? Was it a joke? I felt like laughing. They must have read 5 year old news

Before I really could really absorb the information she added

“tu est donc orpheline” ( You are now orphan )

I was trying to pierce through contradicting information. Why did this insurance woman tell me that I was orphan now, five years after my mother died, and anyway I was adult, so the status of orphan was irrelevant. Did “orpheline” mean something else? By the way, why did she not say “orphelin”?

I had to do one major check of sanity, but my hands were tied.

In frustration I screamed in a way I have never screamed before, high pitched and without restrain.

I tried to throw myself free of the bed. My wounds were painful, but my sanity was lost.

The nurses started to scream

“Elle est folle de douleur, la pauvre” (She is mad from pain, poor little thing)

The surge of adrenaline spread through my whole body, a spasm that contracted all the muscles in my abdomen and lungs as I started to howl and wail. I went for the dressings around my head, and tried to take off whatever covered my eyes.

Several persons were required to hold me down, despite my arms already tied.
The nurse injected something into my body, and I was relieved by oblivion.

- The end or a new beginning -