The downfall of the French middle class

The chesty Corsican taxi driver was giving me his earnest appraisal of the way things were headed in France politically. On the right we were passing the battlefield of Aquae Sextiae where the Roman general Gaius Marius, commanding 37,000 legionaries, massacred a 100,000-strong Teutonic horde thought to be headed for Italy after laying waste to northern Spain. Then, on the left, the church of Saint-Maximin-la-Sainte-Baume with its fragment of Mary Magdalene’s cranium displayed in a spookily lit showcase. Later, turning south, we would pass through the countryside of Pagnol’s childhood, now split by the motorway. And a bit further on — glimpsed through roadside trees at Aubagne — the Foreign Legion barracks and parade ground.

All very fascinating, but this journey back and forth between our obscure village and the enormous hospital at Marseille has, I’m afraid, staled with repetition. It has also become subliminally associated in my mind with uncomfortable truths and disagreeable procedures involving unconsciousness. So I don’t enjoy the scenic ride as much as before.

I refocused my attention on the Corsican’s well-fed face as he painted for me a thrilling picture of impending social revolution and catastrophe attending the financial ruin of the French middle classes. He stated his gloomy forecast cheerfully, perhaps confident that people other than the middle classes are always going to want taxis, if only to escape the rain of tear gas and cobblestones. He concluded his tour d’horizon by coughing his lungs up. ‘I can’t wait,’ I said when he’d finished. ‘Serves them right.’

He dropped me at the hospital gate and my self felt immediately diluted by the immense structure. Today my oncologist was attended by a student who sat there radiating nervousness and perhaps uncertainty about his career choice. The oncologist studied the reverse label on the bottle of Louis Latour I handed over with boyish enthusiasm, then came to his senses by clearing his throat.