Around the World in 50 Years Read Online Free

abruptly cut perpendicularly in front of me, risking a collision. I yanked the wheel violently left and crushed the brakes to bring the Toyota and camper to a slithering stop inches from the crazy Citroën.
    The nurses and I tore out of the Cruiser, raging at the Citroën, who responded in French with a string of curses. Our normally phlegmatic Manu came up with a barrage that culminated in a pledge to defecate on the man’s mother’s genitalia to which the Citroën retorted, “May a pig die on the grave of your grandmother!”
    The villagers rushed to the road, a crowd of about 40, to whom it was obvious, from the position of the cars, that the Citroën was recklessly at fault. Yet all of them took his side, as if they were afraid not to, even those who had seen him force me off the road.
    A woman ran out of the house into whose courtyard the Citroën had been turning, waving a broomstick, screaming in French, “Go away! Go away, foreigners! Always foreigners. Always making trouble. Leave my husband alone!”
    But I wasn’t backing off: “Let me see your license,” I demanded.
    The Citroën’s mouth fell open in shock, but he didn’t budge.
    â€œI said show me your license,” I shouted, moving in on him.
    â€œThere, that is my license,” he shot back in French, flashing a card from his pocket.
    â€œThis isn’t a driver’s license, and you know it,” I yelled, after I caught a glimpse of an ID card that read MINISTRY OF PUBLIC WORKS at the top. “All this probably says is you dig sewers or haul shit away. It’s a very fitting card for you, I’m sure, but I want your driver’s license. I’ll see to it you never drive again.” I walked behind his car and wrote down the plate number.
    That did it! The Citroën flew into a sputtering rage. He ran at me. I pulled back to punch him. Willy kicked him in the leg. The crowd started to move in. Steve jumped in to break up the fight. We couldn’t understand why the Citroën hadn’t just made a polite apology to get rid of us, but he was in no mood to apologize now, and we couldn’t take on the whole village.
    Two uniformed policemen broke up our squabble. They were somewhat embarrassed, but obviously on the Citroën’s side. From the one who spoke English, the truth began to emerge: The Citroën was an important chap, the police commissioner of the entire district. (The card he’d flashed me didn’t authorize him to dig sewers, but to arrest people, a job he’d won by being a fierce guerrilla leader in the war against the French colonials.) He was a notoriously reckless lead foot whose wild driving was diplomatically ignored in deference to his position. We, however, had caused a contretemps by calling him out on it. The only way he could regain his stature and his village’s respect was for us to admit that we were wrong and make peace.
    And so we did.
    The police built a roaring bonfire in the commissioner’s courtyard, over which the nurses boiled soup and heated tins of meat. The commissioner contributed a five-gallon jug of wine. We were all friends now, en rapport, and the commissioner was happy. He showed us a postcard of Manhattan that a nephew had sent, and asked if we had ever been there. He told us how he’d blown up a train with plastique during the revolution, and that he’d killed at least 15 French settlers. He pulled out his gun and fired three shots into the night for emphasis. He drank until the wine ran down his cheeks. He chased Barbara around the campfire, trying in vain to pat her outstanding butt, as we wondered how to limit our camaraderie without giving offense. He sang bawdy French songs and roared with laughter when we played him back the tape recording.
    Then things took a turn for the worse: He made a request we had to somehow refuse.
    â€œI wish,” he said, “I wish to buy that girl from