“The Dangers of Luggage Carousels” and “Meeting a Gendarme”
“Mom, are you OK?” Chris asked as he pulled me to safety. “What happened?”
“Yes to your first question, and I have no idea to your second. We’d better rescue the professor.” We pushed our way through the crowd, none of whom thought to do anything but stare at the dazed and groaning traveler being carried away among the suitcases.
“Help,” he cried. His legs were kicking frantically, one foot over the lower edge of the carousel, while he clasped his head. I could see the blood seeping between his fingers
“He’s hemmed in by the bags, Chris,” I said. “You’re going to have to grab his feet.”
As my son tried, an even bigger bag toppled over onto the professor’s shoulder. He moaned and tried to move away. Chris said, “Shit,” and reached out again to capture a foot.
“Watch you language,” I gasped, breathless because we were both chasing after the victim as he circled the carousel. Chris jumped onto the moving belt himself, heaved off two bags that were pinning the professor, then grasped him under the arms and half-shoved, half-lifted him free. Jean-Claude Childeric staggered and fell to his knees, continuing to moan. I helped him up and kept him from falling over once he was on his feet. The poor man was not only shaken, but his forehead was bleeding copiously.
By the time Chris had jumped off and come back to prop Professor Childeric up on the other side, we had been joined by a French policeman, heavily armed and very stern looking, who proceeded to lecture my brave son and the unfortunate medievalist.
“This man is bleeding?” I broke in.
“Now, Mother,” murmured Chris. “Don’t make a scene.” For no known reason, offspring become embarrassed when their mothers exercise proper indignation in public places.
The policeman had turned to me. “Madam, is not permitted for travelers to ride on baggage facilities. A fine of many francs can be assessed onto such—“
“He fell!” I interrupted. “Look at his forehead. And my son got up there to rescue him. Where were you when all this was happening?”
Blood was running between the professor’s eyebrows and down his nose . . .then off his chin and onto his clothing. I quickly searched my purse for Kleenex and Band-Aids. “It’s bad enough that Air France lost my luggage,” I said to the officer, ”but for the French authorities to harass visitors to the country, one of whom has just been injured in a completely unintended fall—“
“I was pushed!” interrupted Jean-Claude Childeric. Then he translated that remark for the policeman while Chris and I exchanged surprised looks as I tried to clean the blood away with Kleenex. Why would someone push a traveler onto the baggage carousel? I was now wondering how much wine the professor had imbibed aboard the plane and how appropriate a roommate he would make for my son.
Then I got a good look at the cut. It was deep and still bleeding. He must have hit a sharp edge on that suitcase with great force. In which case maybe he had been pushed. What a frightening thought!
I broke into the discussion between our countryman and the French police officer to say, “This man needs a doctor. He needs stitches. Dottore? Comprende?”
“That’s Italian, dear lady, not French,” said the professor. ”Perhaps Spanish, as well. I’m afraid I’m feeling too ill to distinguish.”
“Exactly,” I agreed. “You need medical attention. Monsieur Gendarme, please summon a doctor immediately.”
The policeman produced a cell phone on which he made a call. No doubt, he said unpleasant things about Americans, but evidently he did summon medical assistance.
“Well, I suppose one can’t expect much of the Paris police,” I said consolingly to the professor as I blotted up more blood from his face with a Kleenex and tried to close the wound and stem the bleeding with two Band-Aids. “They were, after all, founded for the sole purpose of protecting people on their way to and from dinner parties, which seems a somewhat frivolous mission.” I used my ministrations as an opportunity to sniff my patient’s breath. He didn’t smell of alcohol. The policeman evidently took amiss my bit of historical information on the Paris police, for he muttered under his breath in French while directing stern glances in my direction.
“Frivolous perhaps, but very French, don’t you think,” Professor Childeric replied, seemingly cheered by this bit of French history. He then thanked Chris for rescuing him. “I fear that I was quite stunned by my collision with that suitcase. In fact, I may have sustained a second injury. My shoulder is aching abominably. Had you not come to my aid, young man, I might well have been whisked off to some baggage room and arrested as a presumptive terrorist trying to tamper with airplane luggage.” He chuckled weakly at his own wit.
“Professor, this is my son Christopher Blue. Chris, Professor Childeric will be your roommate for the duration of the trip.” I slipped the first aid kit back into my handbag and turned to greet my husband, who had just arrived on the scene.
“As of now,” said Jason, “they don’t know what happened to our bags. . . but they’ve provided us with emergency lost-luggage packets.” Jason had three under his arm. “Air France T-shirt and toiletries, I believe.”
“What good will a T-shirt do me?” I muttered miserably. . .
Two men in white rolled up a stretcher, and the policeman insisted that a protesting Professor Childeric allow himself to be put on the gurney and wheeled away. I felt very sorry for him, but he did need medical attention. By way of consolation, I called after him that we’d tell the tour director what had happened to him so that he would be well represented in his dealing with French medical personnel and the police. He raised a hand forlornly as he disappeared into the crowd.
“Carolyn,” said my husband, “you’ve got blood on your jacket.”
Oh dear, I thought. No change of clothes, and I picked this particular afternoon to minister to the wounded. I don’t even have my spot removers; they’re in the lost luggage.
________________________________________________________________________
Travel Journal
Day one, Paris, afternoon at the hotel
Can’t believe I did that!
But then I couldn’t believe it when I discovered that bastard, Jean-Claude Childeric, was joining the tour group. A man I’ve hated for years. A man I’d almost got over obsessing about. Not that I’ve forgiven the S.O.B, but at least I haven’t been thinking about him much.
That’s why I signed up for this trip. A first step toward a less dreary life. Now he’s going it ruin just like he’s ruined everything else.
Even so, I don’t go around shoving people. Not since I was a child. Must have been his self-congratulatory manner. Or his long-winded, boring, offensive flirtation with that blonde woman by the luggage belt.
Suddenly I felt this bolt of Childeric-loathing, and I gave him a good, hard push.
No plan, no hesitation. Just whomp, and over he went.
No one in the department would believe I had it in me.
And it was so satisfying!
To see him sprawling among the scuffed up luggage of strangers. His cherished dignity in tatters. Blood all over his head.
I would have laughed out loud if I hadn’t been disappearing as fast as I could into the crowd.
That’s the really strange thing. I pushed a well-dressed man onto a luggage carrier, and no one noticed.
No one shouted, “Assault” or whatever the French word is.
No one denounced me to the police. I just drifted away in the other direction and picked up my bag about ten feet closer to the carousel entrance. Then turned to watch the hubbub—the blood dripping down his nose. He once described it to me as classic. (Can you believe that? Who refers to his own nose as classic?)
Some young man jumped up on the belt and hauled him off. That must have hurt.
Getting dragged along, hoisted up, and dumped off. He certainly did a lot of groaning. I enjoyed that, too.
Then the blonde woman came at him with Kleenex and Band-Aids.
Professor Hoping-to-be-the-Next-Dean must have been thoroughly humiliated.
Good!
Best day I’ve had in a long time.
If he’s badly enough hurt, he’ll have to go home.