The Man Who Risked It All by Laurent Gounelle Read Free Book Online Page A

get bread that’s got a hard crust but you prefer it soft!”
    “That’s right.”
    “You must be kidding! That means you’re not even capable of saying, ‘The crust on this one is overdone. May I have that one next to it?’”
    “Of course, I’m capable of it! It’s just that I don’t want to put the baker out when there’s a shop full of customers waiting. That’s all.”
    “But it would take only two seconds! You prefer eating crusty bread that you don’t like to taking two seconds of the baker’s time! No, the truth is, you don’t dare tell him. You are afraid of annoying him to get what you want. You’re afraid that he’ll think you are demanding and unpleasant, that he won’t like you. And you’re afraid that the other customers will be annoyed.”
    “It’s possible.”
    “On your deathbed you’ll be able to say, ‘I made nothing of my life. I got none of the things I wanted, but everybody thought I was nice.’ Brilliant.”
    I was beginning to feel decidedly ill. I looked away from this man with his upsetting words and allowed my gaze to wander over the buildings, shops, and people we were passing by.
    “I have some great news,” he went on.
    Skeptical, I didn’t even bother to look at him.
    “The great news is that all that is in the past. What’s more, you’ll never again eat crusty bread. Never,” he said, looking around. “Vladi, stop.”
    The chauffeur stopped the car and turned on the hazard lights. Cars passed us, sounding their horns.
    “What do you want from in there?” Dubreuil asked, pointing to a bakery.
    “At this moment, nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
    “Good. So you’re going to go in, ask for a loaf, a cake, anything, and when it’s given to you, you’ll find a reason to refuse it and ask for something else. Then you’ll invent another reason to refuse the second item, then the third and the fourth. And then you’ll say that, after all, you don’t want anything, and you’ll leave without buying a thing.”
    “I can’t do that.”
    “Yes, you can. In a few minutes, you’ll have proved it.”
    “It’s beyond me.”
    “Vladi!”
    The chauffeur got out, opened the door for me, and waited. I looked daggers at Dubreuil and then reluctantly got out. A glance at the bakery: the crowd before closing time. I felt my heart beating at top speed.
    Inside, it was a hive of activity. I stood in line as if I were waiting for my turn to mount the scaffold. It was the first time since my arrival in France that the smell of fresh bread had repelled me. The shop assistant repeated the customers’ orders to the woman at the cash register, who repeated them out loud as she took the money. Meanwhile, the assistant was already taking care of the next customer. It was like a well-rehearsed ballet performance. When it was my turn, there were already eight or ten customers behind me. I swallowed hard.
    “Monsieur?” she asked me in her very high-pitched voice.
    “A baguette, please.”
    My voice was muffled, as though stuck in my throat.
    “A baguette for monsieur!”
    “One euro ten cents,” said the cashier.
    The shop assistant was already talking to the next customer.
    “Madame?”
    “A pain au chocolat. ”
    “A pain au chocolat for Madame!”
    “Excuse me, would you have one less well done, please?” I forced myself to say.
    “One euro twenty for Madame.”
    “Here you are,” said the assistant, holding out another loaf. “Mademoiselle, it’s your turn.”
    “A sliced sandwich loaf, please,” Mademoiselle said.
    “Hmm, excuse me. I’ll have a bran loaf, actually,” I squeaked.
    The slicing machine drowned out my voice. She didn’t hear me.
    “A sliced sandwich loaf for the lady!”
    “One euro eighty.”
    “Madame?” the shop assistant asked the next customer.
    “No, excuse me,” I said, slightly louder. “I’ll have a bran loaf, actually.”
    “And a bran loaf with the baguette for monsieur!”
    “That’ll be three euros fifteen then,”