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In short order, the glass was emptied; another was ordered. Gabler ate his bread, drank his Pflümli, and read his copy of Le Courrier, and eventually the odd-looking stranger was forgotten in favor of the long-established activities of his typical afternoon.
And then something happened that attracted his attention. From down the Place du Cirque, Gabler spied a traffic officer slowly making his way toward them. He had a ticket book in hand, and was examining each parked car in turn. Now and then, when he came to an illegally parked vehicle, or one whose time had expired on the meter, he would pause, smile with private satisfaction, fill out a ticket, and slip it beneath a wiper blade.
Gabler glanced at the Lamborghini. Geneva’s parking rules were both byzantine and strict, but the vehicle was clearly improperly parked.
Now the officer was nearing the café’s terrace. Gabler watched, certain that the black-clad man would rouse himself and move his car before the meter man got there. But no: he remained where he was, now and then sipping his drink.
The officer reached the Lamborghini. He was a rather short, rotund figure, with a reddish face and thick white hair curling out from beneath his cap. The car was so obviously parked illegally — squeezed into the narrow space at a rakish angle demonstrating indifference, even contempt, for authority and order — that the officer’s smile was larger and more self-satisfied than usual as he licked his finger and flipped open the ticket book. The ticket was written and slipped beneath the wiper blade — it was recessed into the engine frame and took a moment to find — with a flourish.
Only now, as the traffic officer moved on, did the man in black get up from his table. Walking off the terrace, he approached the officer, placing himself between the man and the next parked car. Without speaking, he merely extended a finger and pointed at the Lamborghini.
The traffic officer looked from him, to the car, and back. “Est-ce que cette voiture vous appartient?” he asked.
The man slowly nodded.
“Monsieur, elle est…”
“In English, if you please,” the man said in an American accent Gabler recognized as southern.
As did most Genevans, the traffic officer spoke decent English. With a sigh — as if making a huge sacrifice — the man switched languages. “Very well.”
“It appears I have committed a parking transgression of some kind. As you can probably tell, I’m a stranger here. Kindly allow me to remove my car, and let us forget about the ticket.”
“I’m very sorry,” the officer said, though his tone of voice did not sound at all sorry. “The ticket is written.”
“So I’ve noticed. And what heinous act, pray tell, have I committed?”
“Monsieur, you are parked in a blue zone.”
“All these other cars are parked in a blue zone, as well. Hence my assumption that parking in a blue zone was permissible.”
“Ah!” said the officer, as if scoring an important point in a philosophic debate. “But your car does not display a disque de statio
“A what?”
“A parking disk. You may not park in a blue zone without displaying a parking disk that indicates the time that you arrived.”
“Indeed. A parking disk. How quaint. And how am I, a visitor, expected to know that?”
The traffic officer gave the man a look of bureaucratic disdain. “Monsieur, as a visitor to our city, it is you who are expected to understand, and abide by, my rules.”
“My rules?”
The officer looked slightly chagrined at this slip. “Our rules.”
“I see. Even if such rules are capricious, u
The little traffic officer frowned. He looked confused, uncertain. “The law is the law, monsieur. You have broken it, and—”
“Just a minute.” The American put a hand on the officer’s wrist, effectively stopping his progress. “What is the fine associated with this ticket?”
“Forty-five Swiss francs.”
“Forty-five Swiss francs.” Still blocking the man’s way, the American reached into his suit jacket and — with insolent slowness — removed a wallet and counted out the money.
“I ca
Suddenly, and violently, the American tore up the bills. First once, then twice, then again and again, until nothing was left but tiny squares. He tossed them in the air like so much confetti, so that they fluttered down, landing all over the traffic officer’s cap and shoulders. Gabler looked on, agape at this development. Passersby and others sitting on the terrace were equally astounded by this exchange.
“Monsieur,” the officer said, his face growing still redder. “You are clearly intoxicated. I must ask you not to enter this vehicle or—”
“Or what?” the American said with acid scorn. “You’ll write me a ticket for littering while under the influence? Pay attention, sirrah, and I’ll cross the street, right here. Then you can write me a ticket for jaywalking under the influence as well. But no, let me guess — you don’t have the authority to levy such a weighty punishment. That would take a real policeman. How very sad for you! ‘Take thy beak from out my heart!’ ”
Mustering all his dignity, the rotund traffic officer reached for a cell phone at his side and began to dial. As he did so, the American dropped the melodramatic attitude he’d abruptly assumed and reached into his jacket pocket again, this time pulling out a different wallet. This one, Gabler saw, contained a shield of some kind. He showed it to the officer for just a moment, then slipped it back into his jacket.
Immediately the ma
The American leaned in toward the smaller man. “You misunderstand. I am not conducting any official business. I am merely a traveler stopping off for a stirrup cup on my way to the airport.”
The traffic officer shook his head and backpedaled. He turned toward the Lamborghini and the traffic ticket, which flapped slowly back and forth in the breeze floating down the Place du Cirque. “Allow me, monsieur, to remove the ticket, but I must ask you—”
“Don’t remove that ticket,” the American barked. “Don’t even touch it!”
The officer turned back, now thoroughly cowed and confused. “Monsieur? I don’t understand.”
“You don’t?” returned the voice that grew icier with every word. “Then allow me to explain it in terms that, one would hope, even the meanest intelligence could grasp. I’ve decided I want that ticket, Goodman Lickspittle. I am going to contest that ticket, in court. And if I’m not mistaken, that means you will have to appear in court, as well. And at such a time I will take the greatest pleasure in pointing out to the judge, the lawyers, and everyone else assembled what a disgraceful shadow of a man you are. A shadow? Perhaps I exaggerate. A shadow, at least, can prove to be tall — tall indeed. But you: you’re a homunculus, a dried neat’s tongue, a carbuncle on the posterior of humanity.” With a sudden movement, the American knocked the officer’s cap from his head. “Look at you! You must be sixty if you’re a day. And yet here you are, still writing parking tickets, no doubt precisely as you were doing ten years ago, and twenty years ago, and thirty years ago. You must be so wonderful at the job, so singularly efficient, that your superiors simply don’t dare promote you. I salute the remarkable comprehensiveness of your insipidity. What a piece of work is a man, indeed! And yet I sense you aren’t entirely happy with your position — that gin-blossom I see writ large across your features implies that you frequently drown your sorrows. Do you deny it? I see not! Nor is your wife particularly happy about it, either. Oh, I detect in your hunted features, your bullying swagger that nevertheless yields instantly to superior force, a true Walter Mitty. Well, if it’s any consolation, I can at least predict what shall be inscribed upon your tombstone: ‘That will be forty-five francs, please.’ Now, if you will kindly step away from my vehicle, I’ll just head to the nearest police station and ensure… and ensure—”