I don’t remember what year I was born. How do you keep a track of years when you have been living forever? Of course you enjoy as you live because you get to see everything, from Cleopatra to the day man landed on the moon. But it all turned around for me when I finally came to France in 1813.
One day, in May 1815, while working at a grocery cart I was approached by a group of built men, they said something really fast in really fluent French and seeing their confidence I said, “OUI” and the next thing I know I was in a uniform, with a bunch of other men ready for battle. I was in Paris for a good time, but when you are an immortal you tend to run into complications once every decade. As the battle of Waterloo goes, the French lost majorly and I was one of those losers. I died twice on field and I lost one of my dearest ami.
I came back from the war lost, drained, exhausted and, first time in my existence, emotionally paralysed. I never left France after that. 1940, when the Fall of France took place, all the headlines read out how this was ‘the heaviest war of all times’ ‘worse than Waterloo’ WORSE than Waterloo? Then I remember throwing a fit in the middle of the streets, as an old lady threw her baguette at me as she yelled ‘tais-toi’, making me stop and look at the mess I made on the roads. The newspaper I was reading was in shreds and the baguette was, lets say, unedible.
Although I kept moving around, people had started noticing something different, something odd about me. But I manage to keep up with the times so as to not stand out. Finally in 1974, I worked at a lowly music store in Lyon. The store has a purple stained glass door and carpeted floor with polka dots. There are stacks of vinyls. The pillar next to the cash counter had a poster of Véronique Sanson with her popular releases next to it. Everything is more colourful, so much more graceful now. The streets are cramped with youngsters and their new music. And that’s good for business.
The delivery lady entered in with the records of a new hot song by “ABBA”. The store had rush today. I decided to pop this new record for the crowd.
Not that I had forgotten English, but after a century of living as a Frenchman I couldn’t really make out the words in the beginning. Did it.. did it say “Waterloo”. No. Couldn’t be. I started billing as the song, restarted…
Oh la vaCHE! NON!
“The song, is called, “Waterloo”! WHY in god’s name would you make a ‘cheery’ song on the accounts of Waterloo. Its isn’t funny! Get it? Not FUNNY!! We lost men. We lost brave men! History has us known as cowards, whchi we are NOT! What are you staring at garçon, you think this is funny? I lost mon meilleur ami. But what does that mean to you huh? Oh no. Don’t look at me like that. Its MON store. I will rip this poster if I want and now watch me rip that one too.
Huh, mademoiselle, you are scarred, this isn’t even HALF of what happened at Waterloo, même pas la moitié. It was bloody! Say what? Your father was in the French war? It was bad he says? Genre!! I died deux fois there, twice. Now you want to teach me history, I have already lived?
Sors d'ici!! Get out I said.”
I looked around my store as I was trying to regain my calm. The curtains were on the floor. The isles had all kinds of record shattered around. I started to pick them up. “La Vie En Rose, now that’s a good track. “Waterloo”. What kind of fame are you searching for?” I could see my customers slowly leave. C’est nul, they will never understand.
“Waterloo”. oh putain!
Never.