Ii faut un President. . •
Gerda Cohen
Picardy The delectable scent of a working man's dinner — warm giblet juice, sole cooked in butter — wafts us into the Palais des Sports for a Socialist rally. It's called un meeting, draped with tricolours and the exceedingly dour countenance of Francois Mitterrand. He is corpse-white in the posters, bald, mouth shut to hide his bad teeth. Crafty old Mitterrand, until now the most experienced loser in French politics. His best hope is everyone's acute fear of communism. His party may be the largest, but one wouldn't think so tonight, in a 'depressed area' of the Pas de Calais. Half the sportsdrome is devoted to loyal veterans selling booklets on 'Martyrs of the Revolution'. At the door we are invited to buy hot-house crimson roses, five francs apiece. Five? `Merde, they cost four in the market.' A fist grasping a red rose is the Socialist emblem. Old men sit patiently at the front, their mauve, worklined necks bent, and one red rose wilting between them. Who can afford more on a pension? Plenty of young men are here, dut to vote for the first time since the franchise was lowered to 18. They wear snappy zip jackets and an expression of decent gravity — perhaps through having dined well. A kind of digestive torpor holds the entire audience rapt, throughout speeches of unbelievable length and tedium. On the platform sit mayors from the industrial north, droning platitudes of a type which are only conceivable in French. Taccuse le gouvernement', began the Mayor of Boulogne, a strapping fellow, Taccuse les communistes, j'accuse les anglais . . . ' In brief the Mayor of Boulogne indicted Britain for treacherY towards the EEC and perfidy towards .the French fishermen. He is perfectly right. H. e gets muted applause — would a Socialist regime do any better? At least anti-Englisb rhetoric kept us awake until the guest of honour burst in, brown and bouncy as a chimpanzee. Michel Rocard brought all to their feet. Ah, if only he had stood for President. If only he had betrayed his leader, as Jacques Chirac did Giscard d'Estaing. On the other hand Michel Rocard's loyalty will ensure a Cabinet post if Mitterrand should win: he might well be Prime Minister. Now, Rocard's speech revives the rally. Of course everyone knows what he's going to say ('more government spending to reflate the French economy ), but how he can enunciate! How the sonorities roll forth, cladding vagueness in the elegant logic expected of an 'Marque . He too, like Giscard and Chirac, graduated from the Ecole Normale d'Administration where the future rulers of France acquire their polish. All 'Marques' talk the same way, which accounts for a turgid solemnity in French politics. As Rocard boomed on, paralysing us with percentages, the smoke of Gitanes rose thick from the faithful.
'C'est chianf , mutters a young mechanic behind us, 'it's crap.' C'est chiant', agreed his mate. Only half the new voters have bothered to register on the electoral roll. Tonight, whenever Rocard swears to create 'a more joyous society', the young look more dispirited. Unemployment has risen to 1,600,000. At last the Marseillaise, ear-splitting, while everyone rushes out for a drink except two dear old men with fists upheld in egalitarian salute. The Palais is full of half-dead rose buds.
So on to Amiens, across the plain of Picardy rippling with little streams, the beauty of poplars in first leaf, their transpa rent copper-pink whipped by an April wind. Picardy is all shimmer, even the steely underside of willows by the Somme and the wreaths in rows on identical graves. From the train small stations pass, their pleached lime trees daintily amputated. Military cenotaphs stand stiff in pathos. 'Oh, you really should see Thiepval', a couple from Preston tell me, 'it's got a monument, well, higher than Blackpool Tower and completely covered in names.' They beam at us, he belted into a gravy-coloured mac, she in vermilion crimplene: 'There's altogether 7,000 names of men killed in battle, grave unknown.' Blown up', she said, offering us a chocolate Crunchie bar, 'British and French too, they don't discriminate.' Not like nowadays', he grunts, looking sad and grubby as we arrive in Amiens, glorious with chestnut blooms against an azure sky. Amiens floats in a perfume of prosperity. We're drawn along by the aroma of roast duckling, pate de canard, warm scented women, towards the cathedral. Right opposite the south portal, Jacques Chirac has planted his campaign headquarters for the Somme region. Cheekily he has outdone Giscard, whose party offices occupy a nearby square. If you come to Mass, you're. bound to meet Chirac's team, suited in pastel mohair like keen insurance salesmen. They're selling a new slogan, le Bonapartisme Radical', and it almost put the Gaullist poll in jeopardy.
France, however, will stay in dizzy equilibrium. One only needs to experience Amiens Cathedral, held in High Gothic balance, a trapeze act of soaring upward height and compelling eastward drive. It's more daring than Chartres, shafted slim and perilous. Immense light floods the chancel, because all the stained glass was wrecked by edict at the French Revolution. Anarchy is always around the corner in rich and lovely France. No one will reveal their voting intentions; it's not done to probe. Canvassing is forbidden by law. So you just have to guess. Amiens votes Socialist by tradition; but Chirac supporters honk around the new university in chirpy motorcades, while in town, innumerable saints, engrimed prophets, virgins white with pigeon muck, crowd with subtle blackened smiles to the culminating figure on the Cathedral: Le Beau Dieu. He bears an uncanny resemblance to Giscard d'Estaing, remote and aloof, one hand aloft in autocratic gesture, even a long nose. `Le Beau Dieu is our most celebrated statue', we are told by a guide, and one felt the deep, daft truth of Giscard's election call: 'II faut un President pour la France'. (No doubt, or why hold an election?) 'Le Beau Dieu', said the guide, 'presides over the city'. Gargoyles jut and grimace from Amiens, to mock its elegant absolutism. `Voici Monsieur Chirac', added the guide, to our surprise, pointing out a particularly vulpine gargoyle which did bring to mind the Mayor of Paris, with wolfish teeth and snout.
But he has leapt to popularity. Ageing Paris admires his energy. Pensioners are now guaranteed £50 a week by the city. A mother or father with three children will get paid for staying at home to look after the baby. Moreover Chirac, although as intellectual as Giscard, does enjoy plebeian stuff like stewed calves brain and a game of billiards. Or if he doesn't, he has made sure the voters think so. 'You must try his latest innovation' — friends introduce us to an oval concrete structure by the Beaubourg. We had naively taken it for a police strongpoint to quell the next revolt. Once you're trapped inside, automatic plastic doors snap together, and discreet Hollywood dance tunes accompany you. It has the same elegant centralism as Charles de Gaulle airport. Of course the old pissotieres don't enhance a Fifth Republic dignity. But in the new ensemble siege-cuvette , anyone who fails to comply with the mechanism is flushed by a chill torrent of disinfectant.
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