Salt No More, Chapter 6, with vocabulary for Expressing Opinions

Vocabulary for Expressing Opinions

Gérard’s hand reached for the alarm clock. Putain. This was Sunday, for God’s sake! Monsieur Laporte had only told him about the African family on Friday.

“Save Our Africa is now hiring people from the Caribbean Islands, ha, ha, ha…,” Corinne had laughed when he told her the news. The undisguised hatred in her voice hadn’t escaped Gérard either, prompting him to defend his chef for once.

“No, he’s from Africa, from Malawi. It’s a small country in fact.”

“Is it near Kenya?”

“No, it’s near Tanzania, Zambia and Mozambique.”

Corinne stared at him for what seemed like ages. He was relieved when she finally spoke, her shrill voice bouncing against the small windowless bathroom in their Parisian flat.

“So what are they going to do in Saint-Germain? They aren’t going to live there, are they?”

Silence.

“Gérard, have you seen the state of our flat? Why are we not in Saint-Germain ourselves?”

“You know, it isn’t Monsieur Laporte’s fault. It’s ‘Ze Big Boss’. He’s trying to encourage a multicultural environment in our foundation and he’s enticing highly qualified people from all parts of the world to join us.”

“Ha, ha, ha!”

Gérard had looked away, hoping that the noise would disappear.

“And you? Aren’t you worth enticing?”

Silence again.

“When are we going to buy a flat of our own? The earliest you come back home’s eight o’clock in the evening and still you have to work until midnight most of the times-all this for what?”

“We can move to the Hauts-de-Seine you know. Suresnes, Puteaux, Rueil Malmaison. We shouldn’t be stuck here. We can get a two-bedroomed flat for less than one million francs. In fact, the arrival of that couple isn’t that bad. They’ll teach us English for free. We don’t have to spend thousands of francs learning in a private institution. Free English studies, just imagine Corinne. Free English studies. Who would throw that opportunity away?”

It had been a pointless argument, Gérard thought now as he put on a robe around his slender body that he still managed to keep fit with push-ups and jogging despite his insane working hours. Corinne didn’t want to leave Paris because of its bright social life but everyone knew that the real estate market in the capital city was just ridiculous. Their current flat wasn’t so bad, even with its small bathroom and kitchen. It was near many restaurants, museums and a metro station. Nanterre would perhaps be cheaper but life would be less exciting. Less safe probably with all those stories he saw on TV about unruly boys from high rise towers mugging well-intentioned people in broad daylight.

Corinne was already awake. He wondered how she did it without an alarm clock. By now, she’d have done her physical exercises, waxed her legs, taken a shower, tidied the living-room and the kitchen to a sparkling cleanliness that made him walk around his house like a burglar. He was afraid of soiling the mopped white-tiled floor. He always paid extra attention when he poured himself a glass of juice in case it spilled on the scrubbed white kitchen tops. He actually felt like a stranger in his own house.

“Oh, lazy bones, you’re awake,” she called at him from the breakfast table. There was a half-filled mug of green tea near an open magazine. Probably Femme Actuelle for fashion and general tips or Paris Match for gossip and feature stories about suffering third-world countries. That was what she read, admonishing all the Voicis, Closers and France Dimanches in the world. He read L’Express and Le Nouvel Observateur when he could salvage some time from his tight weekly schedule.

“Don’t forget I had to work again yesterday night. You’re lucky not to have such a demanding job,” he said, drawing a chair and pouring some tea in a black mug. He took a sip and found it cold but felt too tired to warm it up in the microwave.

“Gérard, there are so many things to be done around here. If you came back earlier from work, I wouldn’t suffer so much.”

A steely silence settled around the table. Gérard was surprised by the intensity of Corinne’s outburst. He decided to ignore her anger and concentrate on his hunger. He would break his diet rules. He usually took no sugar or heavy food in the morning. A mug of green tea and a small piece of unbuttered toast were more than enough. He had to have une belle présentation even when talking about wars, starved children, battered wives and corrupt politicians. His belly had to remain flat, his muscles tout, his tan a glowing brown even in winter- even if he had to lay under Ultraviolet lamps twice a week. However, spring was coming now and summer would follow. What a pleasure it would be to bask in the sun and enjoy everything that nature had to offer.

“When are they arriving?” Corinne asked.

“At nine thirty I think. But we have to give them time for collecting their luggage and getting a taxi to come here. I hope they don’t get lost. I don’t want to go to a police station for the first time in my life.”

He finished drinking his tea and stared at his wife absent-mindedly. Beyond her lay a future he didn’t dare imagine. It was a future he didn’t trust.

“What’s he going to do exactly?”

“He’s our Senior Legal Advisor.”

“Wow! That’s a good job. What school did he go to?”

“I don’t know,” Gérard said. He didn’t know. Maybe he had not gone to a Grande école as such. Maybe Ze Big Boss wanted some contracts from the Malawian president and Mr Mhone was the exchange. Everything was possible in African countries.

“And his wife?”

Gérard shrugged.

“His wife, what does she do?”

He shrugged again and looked at the magnets on the fridge. They’d bought them on their last trip to Mexico.

“You said they’ve got three children,” Corinne raised her voice and Gérard turned to look at her again.

“Yes. No, in fact. Two boys. One with an American name like Stevie and the other one’s name is difficult to pronounce like all African names. Something like Vaitu. The father’s got an OK name. It sounds like Emmanuelle but that is a different story.” They both laughed and Corinne continued:

“Is she going to work?”

“No, she isn’t allowed to,” he answered and heard his wife gasp with unhidden horror.

“Nothing! She’ll be bored to death. I can’t imagine a life like that. My husband goes to work and I stay at home, doing nothing. I’d go crazy!”

“You’d go crazy but maybe she likes it. It’s an easy life. She doesn’t have to work and she’s got all the time to raise her children like a proper parent should.”

Corinne stood up and started clearing the table. Gérard knew that he shouldn’t have mentioned the kids. It was a subject they avoided since the day she’d stormed out of his parents’ house, angry that they’d accused her of being a career woman, of thinking only about her job, of not wanting kids, of denying them grandchildren.

Since then, the unborn kid had already wedged a bone of discontent between them. He could still feel the pain. It was lodged in his marrows, not ready to disappear on its own. What else could he do?

***

France at last. France, their new country. Bienvenus en France, they read on placards that a few people were brandishing in the arrival hall. This was French hospitality at its best. Soon they’d see champagne and toasts. Weren’t French hotels and cuisine well-known for their sophistication and warm reception?

Nothing would ever be the same after this once-in-a-lifetime experience abroad. They’d always be known as the family from kuwalo. Akunja. Even several years after this stint, pictures would be there to perpetuate the legend: school photos, photos in front of skyscrapers, photos in amusement parks, photos of all the unusual places that his compatriots couldn’t even picture in their imagination. The Mhone family’s dream was becoming as concrete as their filled-to-the brim suitcases. Soon they’d leave Charles de Gaulle International Airport for their five-bedroomed home in Saint-Germain-en-Laye.

“A jewel only fit for Kings and Queens”. His contract had read. Let it come, Emmanuel had rejoiced at such promises. His employers were offering him a fairy tale life in which all his dreams would come true. Just like in his children’s books, he was going to live happily ever after in this paradise full of milk and honey.

“Thank you daddy!” the children shouted with glee as they took the flat escalators, running and sometimes jumping on them. On and on they went, continuing with their long march to everlasting happiness. Even the concrete cemented floors didn’t alter their enthusiasm.

“People are in a hurry. Maybe they’re afraid that someone will steal their suitcases,” Vitu commented. “Quick Brandon and mum, we have to go. Someone will take our things and we won’t be able to catch him.”

Emmanuel laughed. “Vitu, don’t worry. People don’t steal here. Everyone’s so rich that they don’t feel the need to take another person’s things away.”

“Oh,” Vitu said, looking around him to check if his father was speaking the truth. Yes, everybody was well-dressed and had shoes. There were no beggars, no masikinis calling out “please bwana, just look at me. Give me something to eat. Give me some tambalas”

“So why are we running daddy?” Brandon asked.

“There must be a good reason for that.” This was all he could say as the black conveyor belt that carried their suitcases came into view.

Shortly after, they made their way out of the building, not without a struggle. This wasn’t called an international airport for nothing. There were many people going to and fro and they had to fight their way among the crowd with their trolleys, like lost sheep, all the time trying to read the signs that would show them where the exit was. After much trial and error, and some whining and screaming from Brandon who couldn’t find a chocolate bar, the four pioneers finally arrived at the taxi rank.

Fate gave them a Peugeot 407 instead of the white Mercedes Benz that they had all secretly coveted. Fate gave them a tall thin man with dark hair. The Mercedes Benz’s driver had been fat and blond like a real mzungu. Fate also gave them a flexible taxi driver who made a detour through the heart of Paris when he was asked to. Yes, they had to pay extra money but he was ready to go that far. Emmanuel wanted to show his family the Eiffel Tower and the Champs-Elysées. He’d heard so much about these places. He couldn’t wait to share his enthusiasm about France with his loved ones. So the taxi driver showed them the Eiffel Tower. This was it, Towera thought. Just a very tall metal structure that apparently attracted millions of tourists in summer.

“Ethel Tower!” Towera shouted. Her first words since leaving Johannesburg. Alelluyah. “Why did they give it a woman’s name? Ethel’s from the Bible, isn’t she?”

“No, Eiffel is a man. He built this tower long time ago. Eiffel is not woman.” He stared at Towera with bewildered eyes.

“Why did they give him a girl’s name?” Towera retorted, not satisfied with his curt answer.

“Eiffel is not girl.” Dark-haired Man’s eyebrows met in the middle, forming a line.

“Emmanuel can you understand anything? If all people here are as stubborn as he is then au revoir. What type of English is he speaking by the way?”

Emmanuel later learnt that this dialect was called Franglais: a mixture of French and English words that didn’t make sense to his family. “I speak English very good,” he’d announced as soon as they got into his vehicle. “I am going to conduire you, everybody to your destination. Welcome to Paree.”

The children had cast puzzled looks in his direction. As if they wanted to say “What? A mzungu who doesn’t speak BBC English!”

He showed them some of the famous monuments in the city of lights that was only a city of small cars at seven o’clock in the morning. Emmanuel had expected to see 4×4s everywhere. What he saw were saloons and saloons. Renaults, Peugots, Citroëns. Didn’t the ŵazungu here have enough money to buy themselves BMWs and the like? Mere business men in his country had convertibles and limousines. Not those ordinary cars. Maybe they weren’t in a rich district. But this was the capital city, wasn’t it? So where were the big expensive vehicles apart from the taxis?

“So everybody is from Africa,” the taxi driver said, raising his voice. Emmanuel didn’t know if this was a question or a statement.

“Yes, we’re from Malawi,” Emmanuel corrected.

“Aah Malawi, very beautiful iceland. You are from the icelands? From Madagascar?” You could hear his “Rs” distinctly. Since when was Malawi filled with ice? Oh, maybe he meant island.

“No, we’re from a hot country. Malawi, in Africa. Lions, elephants, monkeys, you know, Malawi, Nyasaland.” Emmanuel went on.

“Tell him about wars and starved children. Ethiopia or Liberia for example, he’ll understand. That’s what they show them on TV anyway.” Emmanuel ignored Towera’s comment. He went on explaining. “You know, Malawi, in the south of Africa.”

“Why bother? He doesn’t understand a word you’re saying.”

“Vitu’s mum.”

“Ho. Afrique du sud. I know your country. Mandela, you see him? Great man.” Getting no answer he repeated his question “You know him? You understand what I say? Excuse me, you see Mandela?”

“No. Mandela is cousin to Malawi.”

“Malawi is Mandela cousin. Ho,” he parroted. Emmanuel sighed in helplessness, and said “Yes”.

“Look, Mister, what’s your name and surname Monsieur? Look La Défense.” The driver pointed at tall silver and dark blue buildings that were so different from what they’d seen so far.

“That is quartier affaires. You know business,” he went on, proud to show his miniature Wall Street.

The children wowed, their faces stuck to the taxi windows. Towera said “Abroad at last. I was wondering when we were going to see something that didn’t resemble Kosovo.”

“Vitu’s mum,” Emmanuel mumbled in disagreement but after observing the scenery for a while, he understood why only this La Défense had given his family a long lasting impression. Finally this was a place that looked like New York and Miami. The tall structures were indeed impressive, especially a set of square-shaped buildings that formed an arch like their own Independence Arch in Blantyre.

He thought this was the beginning of the real Paris. He was wrong. He refused to believe it when the flashy La Défense gave way to an architectural landscape that he didn’t see fit for ŵazungu standards. He couldn’t help gaping at the old brick-walled buildings that were crumbling and crying for reparation as the taxi sped on Avenue de Colmar that would take them past Nanterre, Chatou and Le Vesinet before reaching their final destination, Saint-Germain-En-Laye.

Emmanuel wondered why these four storey buildings still existed like in black and white films when the Millennium was just around the corner. The number of skyscrapers in a country said a lot about the state’s finances, didn’t it? Well, that was how development was qualified at home. Chayamba Building for example. Villagers made special trips to see its seven storeys. Mount Soche Hotel, Ryalls Hotel. Those were real signs of progress. What was wrong with this country? Perhaps it was too expensive even for European countries to have tall buildings like in famous Hollywood and Chicago. Americans swam in dollars; it was no secret to anybody. They alone could afford New York like streets, Emmanuel concluded.

At least the poor Parisians could boast of their numerous traffic lights. This wasn’t a contradiction after all. The city authorities had decided to invest into these robots instead of buildings. You couldn’t eat your cake and have it at the same time. At home they had Delamere and Chayamba Buildings all right but they could count the number of traffic lights on their fingers. The priorities weren’t the same, why hadn’t this thought crossed him before? It could have saved him endless hours of conjecture.

He was jostled when en route, a laughing and surprised Towera pointed at a flat building with boarded windows. “What’s that?” she exclaimed. “How can the tenants breathe in such a closed space? Emmanuel, are you sure this is Paris?”

“No, this isn’t Paree. This is banlieue. Hauts-de-Seine.” Dark-haired man saved Emmanuel from an embarrassing answer.

“Oh, banlieue must be like Lunzu or Area 25 then.” Towera said.

The driver nodded though he didn’t know where on earth these places could be. Meanwhile, Emmanuel planned to visit the city in depth to dispel the stale taste that was beginning to form in his mouth.

“Vitu’s dad, if one day you buy a camera, la Défense will be the backdrop of our snaps. Nothing else.”

“Yes!” the children agreed.

“People should know that we’re abroad. Across oceans not lakes. We’re not in South Africa, Botswana or Zimbabwe. We’re in France and the photos should speak for themselves.”

Emmanuel nodded, his thoughts drifting to his colleagues in Malawi. How they’d switch places with him at the drop of a hat. Everyone wanted to have their honeymoon in Paris. Money was the only problem.

The arrival in their future neighbourhood gave Emmanuel a different view of his new country. Huge houses surrounded by high walls and greenery told him that he hadn’t made a mistake by accepting Save Our Africa’s offer. He was even more reassured by the sight of their house. An automatic gate led to a sprawling yard strewn with various types of trees and shrubbery. The only fly in the soup was the state of the flowerbeds, if they existed at all. What a pity they hadn’t brought their garden boy! Where could he find a man as trustworthy and humble as aPhiri?

“I thought we were going to live in a villa. You know like those you see in the music videos on Channel O.” Towera had another idea of comfort and luxury. She appraised the nineteenth-century structure with her roaming eyes before releasing her verdict. It was still time to turn back the hands of time.

“You’d have been more persuasive when negotiating accommodation. How do they expect us to live in such an old building?”

Dark-haired Man whistled and finally said. “You are very lucky to live in this place. Only the kings and the nobles know this place very well.” With his hands on his hips he took in all its aspects. “Magnifique. Magnifique. I wish I live in this place.”

It was Towera’s turn to be astonished by Dark-haired Man. Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder indeed. She wanted to shake him out of his reverie, tell him this wasn’t being abroad. Kuwalo was big cars, big houses, indoor swimming pools and tennis courts.

“Can we remove the luggage?” she asked him sharply.

“No, leave them there chère madame. I do it.” In a few seconds, all their expandable suitcases had been unloaded from the car. They’d bought them for the occasion. When you were going kuwalo and boarding a plane, you made sure to have the right apparel and luggage. One suitcase was filled with all their best clothes. The other three contained gifts from the village. Maize flour for sima, dried beans and ground nuts, all sorts of dried fish and vegetables. Emmanuel had added two big bottles of Sobo to the load. They’d given away the rest of their shoes and clothes to relatives. All their furniture too. Emmanuel’s Pajel had been sold and the money had been put in a bank account for future use. France would give them back what Malawi had taken away.

The kids went for their small Mickey Mouse back packs that were lying on top of the small mountain of luggage. They pulled at them hastily, upsetting the equilibrium of the makeshift pile. “Watch out Vitu!” Towera cried as her hand caught the straps of one unfortunate bag that had almost got soiled on the dark gravel. She put it back in its original position and told her kids to pay more attention next time they tried to take something from the heap. “We’ve already got what we wanted,” they replied and started chasing each other in the yard. Then they sat down on a wooden bench at the far end of the garden, facing a small water fountain. They watched water spurt from the statues’ white mouths, their tiny brown hands enveloped around medium-sized Mars chocolate bars.

There was more from where those long caramel and chocolate strips came from. Their red and black bags were crammed with real treasure by Malawian standards. Relics of the sweet shops in Johannesburg. Emmanuel recalled how the children’s eyes had widened when they’d seen the different types of sweets and chocolate waiting invitingly in rows. Their bright colours beckoned, their fruity smells tantalised their hungry noses and generated rivers of saliva in their mouths. They lay there, small, big, long, thick, thin, animal shaped or looking like legs, with wrappers so beautiful you could use them to carpet your own house. Emmanuel and Towera had let them pick whatever they wanted. It was so inexpensive that only their appetite could curb their buying impulses. Now, they were enjoying their treasure.

“Maybe it’s too much now,” Emmanuel told Towera as they watched the boys eat unrestrainedly. “They should keep some for later.”

“Let them enjoy life,” Towera reasoned. “They never had such things in Malawi. When the chocolate’s finished, we’ll buy some more. Hey Emmanuel, have you seen the prices? Things here are not expensive. On top of that,” Towera added, “Save Our Africa will not keep on sending us abroad.”

Emmanuel agreed with her. Yes, rotation, like with plants, was required when it came to jobs like his. In five years’ time, another family would shamelessly replace them.

He was awakened by the sound of a slamming bonnet. He looked towards the noise and saw Dark-haired Man coming towards him. He announced the number he’d been waiting for all along. 900. He supported his claim by pointing at what he’d thought was a digital radio in the car. Still red figures bounced back at him. They remained the same. 900 francs for an hour long trip. Well, one and a half but still. Emmanuel took out his wallet and fished out francs notes. He counted them carefully. Two hundred, five hundred, eight hundred, nine hundred… 900 francs. Not more, not less. The small numbers on the digital clock said: “Don’t haggle over the price. I’ve already calculated the fare.” Nine thousand kwacha. How many packets of milk and sugar for ŵamama?

Dark-haired Man smiled when he got his money but didn’t get into his car.

“Is everything ok?” Emmanuel asked.

Dark-haired Man laughed. Shifting his eyes, he said: “You ask if everything ok.” He cleared his throat twice and repeated. “Yes, everything ok.” Then he turned his back and muttered something under his breath, something like ‘heavy traffic on the ‘périphérique’ and ‘générosité’. The smile was gone from his face. Emmanuel waved at him as he reversed the car. He saw the back of the 407 leave his premises. His saliva seemed to have dried, leaving a rancid taste in his mouth. Had he offended him? Maybe it was the handshake or the way he’d said goodbye. Well, things like those happened. Being abroad was a learning process. He’d made his first faux pas but next time he’d pay more attention. He’d ask his new colleagues what was the correct way of bidding farewell to a taxi driver.

“I thought someone was supposed to be here to welcome us,” Towera pointed out as soon as they were left alone. Emmanuel didn’t answer. His mind was still with Dark-haired Man. “Vitu’s dad. I thought someone was coming here to greet us properly so we don’t feel like thieves in this country,” Towera said again, her eyes on her husband’s face; her husband’s eyes on Dark-haired Man’s car, or what was left of his Peugot 407.

“What thief?” Emmanuel was startled. Towera shook her head in disbelief and dragged her feet towards him. “I hope things will change because this isn’t a good beginning.”

“What are you talking about Vitu’s mum?” He looked about him. The kids were chasing each other again. His watch read nine o’clock. What was holding Mr Chantereal up? Chantereal, Chanterelle, Chanterage. This wasn’t proper behaviour letting guests arrive at a new place without help. Back home, they’d have had a welcoming committee.

“What type of people are they? Our colleagues in Malawi would have collected money for a feast. Instead of silence, we’d be dancing and drinking. We wouldn’t feel so abandoned.”

Emmanuel agreed with his wife. It was as if they were unwanted. He had no keys and he didn’t know any other French words apart from ‘Bonjour’ and ‘Au revoir’.

“So what do we do Vitu’s dad?” Towera was now sitting on the porch. There were four steps leading to the front door. It was made of massive wood. No burglar would try to break into their house with such a door.

“I don’t know. Some Mr Chante whatever his father’s name’s was supposed to be here by now but I see there’s nobody.”

“Yes, we can both see that. That’s not the question,” Towera answered, choosing to ignore Emmanuel’s rising voice. She knew where all this was leading to.

“So why do you keep on nagging me with your useless questions?”

“Oh is that you Mr Em-hone,” a male voice called out from behind the door. Husband and wife looked at each other, their unaffected surprise hiding their former grudges. Someone had come for them after all. Emmanuel put a finger on his mouth to stop Towera from spoiling this moment. She nodded in acquiescence, standing up to see the person who was talking. It wouldn’t be polite anyway to sit down on the steps, while someone, especially a male, addressed you from the top of the stairs. The round black knob turned, revealing the figure of a well-groomed man.

“Sorry I couldn’t come at the airport. We had to finish a few things in the house before your arrival.” He was smiling. Emmanuel ran up to meet him. The sun’s rays heightened the brown strands in his host’s hair. He smelt of good health and his clothes obviously said more about his tastes and bank account. There were no apparent labels but you could tell from far that his attire hadn’t been bought in a normal store. These were boutique clothes, like the few you found in Lilongwe and Blantyre.

Mr Chante something, if this was his name, Mr Chante so-so had money. There was no doubt he was a real French. He sounded like one but his English grammar was excellent. He shook Emmanuel’s hand before advancing towards Towera. She held out her right hand and slightly bent her knees to show him respect. Mr Chanteranger seemed not to have noticed this. He kept his stride, his feet barely touching the steps. Towera retreated till she was on level ground. “We kiss in France.” Emmanuel’s mouth opened but he had no time to protest. Mr Chanterogue accomplished his deed. Two pecks on each cheek punctuated with “Welcome to France Mrs Em-hone. Feel free, this is your home.” Arms resting on her shoulders for a few seconds. He spoke good English but still pronounced ‘the’ with a ‘z’, Emmanuel thought. “Zis is called a ‘bise’. We give ‘bise’ to women. We shake men’s hands,” Mr Chanteraunchy articulated. His eyes never left Towera’s face. Her eyes dropped.

“I’m Dr Mhone,” Emmanuel introduced himself. “This is my family. We’re very honoured to meet you. Please receive my boss’s greetings and best wishes.”

“Oh, I thought you were a lawyer. I didn’t know they were sending us a doctor. Are they going to send you to Sudan for emergency cases?”

Towera laughed.

“No, of course not,” Emmanuel burst out. “Oh, that’s very funny. I’ve got a PhD. I’m a professor.”

Their host raised his eyebrows, opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, and then closed it in a tentative way before turning to Towera.

“Do you like it here Mrs Em-hone? What do you think of France?” ‘Think’ not ‘sink’. Emmanuel decided he hated that voice and the way it stressed the ‘dos’ in the questions.

“It’s fine. I haven’t seen much of it but I think it’s a beautiful country.” Towera’s voice was warming up, becoming cheerier, softer.

“You will fall in love with it.” Not ‘wis’. “This is ze most beautiful country in the world.” The. Emmanuel wanted to pronounce the ‘THEs’ for him. He shot a questioning look at Towera but she didn’t get the cue. Or she chose to ignore his pleas.

“Wait until you taste our cheese and wine. You’ll keep on asking for more.” Persuasive voice, throaty laugh, tap on Towera’s shoulder. No flinching, no stopping the conversation. Only another laugh coming from both parties this time. The French man’s deep voice going on top of his wife’s, laughing and laughing while Emmanuel fought the urge to snatch his wife from his colleague’s roving eye. That would teach him to respect other people’s property.

“Let’s go inside, I‘ll help you with the luggage. You have to meet my wife Corinne. Mr Em-hone, you can take this suitcase; I’ll take these two,” he commanded. What was his rank at work to be giving him such orders? With the heaviest suitcases in each hand, Mr Chanterobust climbed the four steps as if he was carrying bags of feather. He disappeared behind the massive door oblivious to Emmanuel’s fiery gaze.

Salt No More, an English English Novel (Level B1-B2) (Click on the image to go to our Amazon store)