Amelia in the Tunnel

We were staying with my parents-in-law. They lived in a typical apartment in a typical old-fashioned apartment block in the avenue d’Italie in the 13th Arrondissement of Paris. As a typical old-fashioned apartment block in Paris should, it had a typical old-fashioned concierge. As a matter of fact, in two respects she was quite untypical, for she was good-humoured and hard-working. In addition to being concierge, she was cleaner and general help around the household to my parents-in-law, whom she revered. In fact, she was fond of all the family, even us occasional visitors from London, and we were all reciprocally fond of her. To continue the trope and complete the description, she lived in a typical, old-fashioned concierge’s flat by the main entrance. She was Portuguese and, as you have probably guessed, she was called Amelia.

One winter day we decided to visit a son of ours who lived with his family in Senlis, an attractive little town about 35 miles north of Paris, and we invited Amelia to join us. On the outward journey she sat in the back, but we decided as it was supposed to be a treat for her she should sit in the front on the way home. I was driving and for the first part of the journey she prattled away and I listened happily. I was astounded to realise that, in all the years she’d been there, this was the furthest she’d ever been from the avenue d’Italie. In fact, she’d never left the 13th Arrondissement.

We were on the A1 motorway. This was the main autoroute to Brussels and was a disgrace. It must have been just about the most heavily travelled road in the country, yet for long stretches it was only two lanes, along which an endless flow of massive lorries pounded. On this evening it was getting dark, it began to rain and the closer we got to Paris the thicker the traffic became. My cheerful chatter with Amelia tailed off. I tried to curb my ill-temper, but I can still see myself, crouched over the wheel with a little black cartoon cloud over my head. Any remark addressed to me, whether by Marie-Claude or Amelia, was snapped at or greeted with a grunt.

As you approach Paris, the A1 goes into a tunnel. At least that kept the rain off, but by now we were almost at a standstill. The tunnel was so ill-lit as to be almost dark. All I could see was red tail-lights way into the distance or, every so often, as the vehicles in one lane or another suddenly lurched forward for a few yards, flashing amber indicator lights as idiots tried to change lane in the futile hope of gaining a little speed. These various lights were high or low, bright or dim, depending upon the kind of vehicle, but they were all infernal. Sometimes interior lights were turned on and you could make out enraged couples gesticulating at each other as they disagreed about which way to go home once they emerged from the tunnel at the Porte de la Chapelle. It was a good question without a good answer.

Amelia spoke unexpectedly beside me, in a soft, wonder-struck tone. “Why, it’s beautiful!” she exclaimed. I looked again at the panoply of dancing lights in front of me and she was right. It was beautiful, magical. The waltz of the lights might have been at a ball in fairy-land. Suddenly, we started singing, and we sang all the way home.