The Little French Car in Paris

The Little French Car in Paris

WRITTEN B Y

Stan Cheren

With a little help from my friends

© R A N C H O PA R K P U B L I S H I N G • 2 0 2 0

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he sun inched quietly across the factory parking lot where the new cars shone like a field of metal flowers. The Little French Car shook her gray chassis to clear her head of the loud factory noises—the clink-clunk-clunk of the conveyor belts and the banging of heavy machinery.

The bright, green car next to her sneered, “Your gray color is so dull.”

“Dull? Am I really dull?” she thought sadly. Why hadn’t they sprayed her body tomato red or tinted her canvas top buttercup yellow?

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Sounds from the farm across the street calmed her.

“Cocorico,” crowed the rooster, the chickens pecked “cot, cot, cot,” and a tiny warbler in a tree above the Little French Car joined in with a “cui, cui, cui.”

“I hear you all are off to Paris today. How exciting! Maybe I’ll see you there.

Bon Voyage!,” she chirped.

The Little French Car sighed happily.

“Merci,” she said to the warbler.

Deuzy’s stripes

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The shrill horn of an approaching transport truck interrupted her thoughts. With a long, sad sigh, the Little French Car drove aboard, leaving far behind the fields of corn, carnations and bluebells.

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M

any miles and hours away, the Little French Car found herself blinded by the glaring lights in a Paris showroom. Business men in dark suits (and shiny, black shoes) crowded around her, gawking, peering nside her trunk and poking at her engine.

“I wish I were still at the farm with the donkeys and daisies, or racing down a country road,” she whispered to herself.

Suddenly a young man dressed in faded jeans patted her hood and murmured, “I love your quiet color and that handsome swirl on your front door. I’ve never seen a Deux Chevaux like you.”

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“How can you say that with all these bright and colorful cars around me?” protested the Little French Car. “Mademoiselle, you’re beautiful and you talk, too?”

The little car perked up. She knew she had been built with a sturdy body, but she never thought of herself as being beautiful.

“But Maman said I must get a van,” continued the young man, “Will you really have room for all her flowers?”

“Certainly,” said the Little French Car, “My trunk is roomy enough to haul bags of potatoes and my backseat moves out easily so I can carry baskets of fresh eggs. And with my top rolled back, there’s room for flowers as tall as trees.”

If only he would buy me, she thought.

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Then Luc, the name of the young man, looked her over very carefully and said, “You’re small enough to wiggle in and out of traffic and big enough for Maman’s sunflowers. We don’t need a van for the flower shop, we need you. You’re really special - more than just a simple Deux chevaux. So how about I call you Ms. Deuzy?” he said with a bright smile.

“Deuzy? Deuzy?,” she said. “I do like that.

Bonjour world - I’m Ms. Deuzy!”

“I’m a really special car as you can see.

Ms. Deuzy is what my friends call me.

My top rolls back, my seats come out I’m a very classy car, there can be no doubt!”

With that, Luc opened Doozy’s door, slid onto the soft seat and closed his hand on the round shift knob of the dash. “A perfect fit,” he said. He quickly paid the salesman and they were off.

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all trees lined the wide boulevards of Paris where brakes squealed and sirens shrieked. Doozy shuddered in fear until Luc softly brushed his hand along her dashboard. “Ça va bien mon amie. All is well, my friend.”

Doozy and Luc threaded their way through traffic to Maman’s flower shop.

Golden curlicues and swirls of fancy letters spelled out “La Fleurette” above its wide glass doors. On each side of the doors, the large picture windows were crowded with an explosion of fresh flowers.

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“This shop feels so much like the farm,” Deuzy hummed.

When Luc tooted his horn, Maman stormed out of the shop shouting, “What are you doing with this toy car? Didn’t I tell you to buy a big van?

Are you trying to ruin our business?

C’est pas possible, this is impossible.”

“Chere Maman, everything is possible . . .” Luc started. But his mother interrupted, “We can’t deliver flowers in that teeny-weeny car. C’est pas possible,” she muttered. “Just park it in the back.” She slammed the door and disappeared.

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Bob -- at full size I’m having to crop a little off the bottom trying to make this fit -- still cuts a little close to the word “drove” at upper right. Also note image needs bleed added for final (as most images do, I believe).--SG

Ms. Deuzy said to Luc “Is she always like that?”

“No,” Luc responded, “Only when she doesn’t get her way.”

He drove around the corner to a dusty, dark storage room behind the store. It was crowded with water barrels, buckets and flower pots.

Deuzy shivered as her tires rolled onto the ice-cold cement floor. “I know it looks a bit dismal now,” said Luc, “But I’ll clean it up as soon as possible.” He touched her side softly before turning out the lights. “Bonne nuit mon amie, good night my friend.

Things will be better in the morning. You’ll see.”

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The next morning, Luc opened the garage door, his arms filled with colorful bouquets. Maman followed him, wagging her finger, “The tour boat on the Seine leaves the docks precisely at 10:00. That puny car better not make you late.”

C’est pas possible,” she grumbled as Luc pulled out the choke, turned the key and started Deuzy’s engine.

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Deuzy plunged bravely into the dense Paris traffic, which grew more impossible with each turn. She darted between cars, dodged traffic snarls, zipped around a double-decker bus as she raced toward the tour boat dock.

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She and Luc arrived just in time to see the Seine tour boat pull away and a coal barge slide into its space.

“I can’t believe we missed the boat.

Maman will have a fit,” Luc said, hanging his head.

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“C’mon Luc, don’t give up, shouted Deuzy!

We can catch that boat!”

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And before Luc could put her into gear, Deuzy shot onto the coal barge.

“Wow!” cried Luc, his eyes as big as Deuzy’s headlights.

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The captain, startled by his new passengers, walked up to Ms. Deuzy.

“What’s going on?” he asked Luc. When Luc explained, the captain chuckled, “My barge is faster than those silly looking tour boats. Full steam ahead!” he called to his crew.

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The barge whished and whooshed through the cool waters of the River Seine and finally pulled alongside the tour boat. Luc jumped aboard and pushed the bouquets into the arms of a waiter. “ ‘La Fleurette’ always delivers,” he shouted as he leaped back onto the barge.

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Luc breathed deeply and leaned again Deuzy.

“The water’s always a great way to see Paris,” he said.

“Just look at the Eiffel Tower.” The building stood far taller than any sunflower Deuzy had seen on the farm.

Further upstream gargoyles atop Notre Dame Cathedral grinned at children scrambling onto weather -worn carousels in the Luxembourg gardens.

And finally, Luc pointed to the Louvre Museum to their left as they sailed by. The two travelers reached the loading docks on the Seine and they zoomed back to the flower shop.

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M

aman was waiting in the storage room, her face in a scowl.

“You had so much fun zipping around town in your little car you couldn’t make it to the docks on time. I know­—they called,” she scolded.

“Where is your sense of duty, Luc? We don’t need a vehicle for play.”

“But Maman, wait until you hear the story of how Deuzy and I delivered the flowers.”

“Deuzy?” Maman’s eyebrows rose, “You’ve given the car a name? That’s absolutely the last straw. Tomorrow will be Deuzy’s last delivery. We’re getting a van.

A van is bigger. It’s faster. It. Is. For. Work.”

“But Maman, Deuzy is my friend.”

“A car? Your friend? Let me be very clear, my silly son. You will be on time to make the delivery to the Tour de France tomorrow morning. After that, it’s back to the showroom for your Deuzy. Do you want to put us out of business? C’est pas possible!” she finished.

She spun on her heels, slamming the door once more.

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Luc stomped across the storage room. “Maman is so impossible!” he roared, kicking a flower pot out of his way. Deuzy was startled as it shattered.

“I’m staying here tonight,” he said, crawling into the backseat of the car and closing his eyes.

Deuzy whispered “Bonne nuit mon ami, good night my friend.

Things will be better in the morning. You’ll see.”

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E

arly next morning, Luc loaded up blossoms of all colors and fragrances for delivery to the Tour de France. “You smell as sweet as a field of flowers,� he whispered to Deuzy as they drove off to the award stage.

Fans lined the Champs Elysees, waiting for the cyclists to appear. Luc swooped into a parking space near the podium, scooped up as many bouquets as he could carry and scooted along the sidewalk to deliver them.

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As Luc returned to fetch others, the loudspeakers blared, “Thief! Thief!”

Looking up, Luc spotted Maman’s sunflowers racing through the crowd.

“These thieves stole Maman’s flowers,” he exclaimed and hopped back into the car. Deuzy shifted herself into first gear as Luc hit the gas.

They darted between cars and wove around trucks following the two boys and the bobbing blossoms they held. Blocks away, the police car sirens screamed.

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The boys dashed into a narrow alley that ended in a brick wall. They tried to change direction, but before they could escape, Deuzy blocked the entrance so there was no way out. She blasted her horn to draw the gendarmes closer.

“You’re under arrest,” one policeman cried when they arrived. The other reached into a boy’s pocket and pulled out a handful of gold medals.

“You scoundrel,” he scolded, shaking his baton.

“It wasn’t the flowers they were after,” Luc whispered to Deuzy.

She, equally surprised, blinked her headlights.

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T

he next morning, the names of the winners of the Tour de France were announced in the Paris newspapers. Deuzy and Luc were in all the headlines, their heroic acts splashed across the front pages.

At breakfast, Luc pointed to Le Figaro and said “You know, Maman, all we have to do is paint ‘La Fleurette’ on Deuzy’s side door and the shop will be known throughout all of Paris.”

“C’est possible,” said Maman slowly with a slight smile on her face.

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L

ater, after returning with Deuzy from the sign shop, Luc swept out the storage place, removed pots and buckets, laid down an old rug and hung up a bright poster of a flower farm.

Deuzy smiled, “Paris may not be as peaceful as the farm, but there is certainly nothing like a city adventure.”

Luc grinned. “For us, everything is possible, mon amie.”

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Maman came into the storage shed, hugged Luc and gave Deuzy’s hood a soft pat. “I have to admit it—you’re quite a team, mes amis.

Let’s celebrate with a lovely drive in the country.”

And with that, they slipped onto Deuzy’s soft seats, fired up her two cylinders and were off with Deuzy singing: “I’m a special 2cv as you can see.

And on a farm is where I long to be.

My top rolls back, my seats come out I’m a classy car, there can be no doubt!”

And guess who was driving?

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Copyright © 2020 by Stan Cheren/Rancho Park Publishing.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written per-mission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

Stan Cheren/Rancho Park Publishing 130 Fearrington Post Pittsboro, NC 27312 www.RanchoPark.com ranchopark@gmail.com Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Book design © 2020, Rancho Park Publishing Ordering Information: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address above.

The Little French Car in Paris — First Edition ISBN 978-0-9981766-4-2 Printed in the United States of America

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Welcome to the world of our Little French Car The tales of our little French car are set in France and England in the 1980’s.

Ms. Deuzy is a 1985 “Charleston” model 2CV manufactured at the Citroën factory in Levallois outside of Paris. We fell in love with her on our travels in 2012 and brought her back from Belgium to live with us in North Carolina.

Ms. Deuzy is a real character on four wheels who talks to Luc and her animal and automobile friends. So, in these stories, we will give her the ample opportunity to meet exciting and fun folks and go to exciting places.

Her constant companion is Luc, an 18 year old student at the Sorbonne in Paris. He spends the summers on his family farm outside of Aix. We write these stories to share the incredible history of these 2CVs with the collectors who grew up with them and with their children and friends.

We invite you to share your stories of your experiences with your favorite 2CVs and to tell us where you would like us to take our Ms. Deuzy in the future.

This is just the beginning…

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The Little French Car at the Farm coming soon

$9.99 ISBN 978-0-9981766-3-5

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32 9 780998 176635