French Water

By LLN ORTZLN

THERE came a ring at the door of my villa the other day. When I opened it, I found a man in a blue uniform and a peaked cap. He had a smouldering Gauloise in the corner of his mouth. a large satchel dangling from his shoulders and in one hand he was holding a pile of papers. They looked like bills. He handed me the top one. It was indeed a bill, from the gas and electricity office. But it was a bill for so many cubic metres of water-998 francs. " What's this for ? " I asked. " It's your supplementary water-rate," he said.

" Supplementary! But I haven't used more than I'm allowed to."

" You must have done in a big villa like yours," he said airily. " And if it isn't paid your water will be turned off."

" But, look here, this is ridiculous," I told him. "The ordinary water-rate I pay covers me for more water than I'm likely to use. I can't possibly have used more than my allowance. Besides, you can tell that from the water-meter."

" No, you can't," he said, with a slight grin. "The meter doesn't work."

" Oh, it doesn't work, doesn't it ? " I cried triumphantly. "Then, if it doesn't work, how do you know I've used more than my allowance ? "

" How do you know you haven't ? " he said, grinning openly. Obviously, he thought that my English reasoning was non-vintage.

" Because I can't possibly have done so," I explained, patiently I hope. " The fact that I've got a big villa doesn't necessarily mean that my consumption of water is a big one. I haven't got a car to wash down. But the man who lives opposite has a lorry, a large lorry, and he washes it down every evening. And my neighbour on the right has got a large gardcn. I've only got this little bit that you can see. He's had a sprinkler going, watering his large garden, every day for weeks. They're the people who use more than their allowance, if anybody does. They're the people to ask to pay a supplementary water-rate. Not me."

I stopped for breath. It was a masterly exposition, I thought, to which his French mind could make no reply. Obviously, he could think of nothing to say. He just stood there and grinned and sucked at his Gauloise, in discomfort, I supposed. Then he said: " But their water-meters work."

I shifted my attack. " Anyway, how do you know mine doesn't work ? " I said. " Your office has never told me so."

" It's told your landlord, though. Three times it's told your landlord."

" But you don't come from the water company," I pursued. " According to the words on your cap, you come from the gas and electricity office."

" Ah, yes," he agreed. " But we look after the water accounts for the town council. It's the town's water. To be exact," he continued with a burst of frankness, " it's the next town's water, and we pay them for what this town uses. Well, during the summer, more people are in the town, more water is used, and more water has to be paid for. But the people who came and li‘ed in their summer villas here have now gone away."

" And. I suppose that all those bills in your hand are for the people who are still here ? "

" No. Oh, no. They're for people whose water-meters don't work."

" I get it," I said, handing him back his bill. He put it at the bottom of the pack with an automatic gesture. " I'm not going to pay. If anyone pays, it'll be my landlord."

He went off to the house next door. There was a furious barking of dogs as he went through the gate. A minute later there was an even more furious barking of dogs as he came out of the gate.

I went round to see my landlord. " Tranquillisez-vous. Calm yourself," he said. "It's the plumber's fault. I told him to fit a new meter. If anyone has to pay, it'll be he. I'll go and see him."

The next day I received a visit from my landlord. " The plumber says it's their fault," explained my landlord. " He can't fit the new meter because of some technical hitch that only they can put right. So you've nothing to worry about."

" Only that I'm likely to have my water cut off."

A few days later three men came with pickaxes and spades. Ah, I thought, you can get things done in France once you agitate. They began digging holes in the garden, somewhat haphazardly. It appeared that no one knew where to find the stopcock between the meter and the main. " If I remember rightly," said the fore- man, arriving later and tapping the ground with a pickaxe, " just before the war it was about here." But a little later it became obvious that he had not remembered rightly. And the men con- tinued digging holes, in an ever-increasing radius, like people searching for buried treasure. Passers-by stopped to enquire what was going on. " It's an amusement," said the foreman wearily. "Un kit de patience."

At five o'clock they started to fill in all the holes, and at six they went away. The next morning I found the man with the peaked cap and the satchel again on my doorstep. He handed me the same bill as before. " But your office have acknowledged their mistake," I said. " They sent men round to fit the new meter."

" No. Oh, no. They came to cut the water off. This is your last chance." I gave a hollow laugh and handed him back his bill. I noticed that the pile he held was as thick as it had been a few days previously. " I'm going round to see my landlord," I said wearily.

" I'm going next door," he said doggedly.

We smiled encouragement at each other. As he opened the gate next door there was a furious, indignant barking of dogs. . . .