A Love Story
(of the cinema)
I cannot remember when I was not enamoured of the cinema. In my town of Port-Louis (in Mauritius) there were 4 cinemas of varying degrees of decrepitude. One theatre showed Bollywood films, although it also programmed so-called French films, but the three others only showed French films. Most of those so-called French films were in fact Hollywood productions but dubbed in French. Tyrone Power, Gary Cooper, Tom Mix et al, all spoke exactly the same, as they were all dubbed by Marc Vaubel or Valbel. French films were obviously quite popular too. Fernandel and Jean Gabin were household names.
I was not allowed to go because “I had done nothing to deserve the treat.” I was a poor pupil, noisy, disobedient and_ ugly. I was the darkest of all my siblings. At first my unquenchable love was nurtured by listening to the stories of those who went. My brothers, my rich neighbours, but above all Nani Gateau, a widow who earned her living by selling cakes which she carried in a small tin trunk on her head. She was probably the most welcome visitor to our house in Rue Labourdonnais. She saw every film released by the Luna Park, and with her photographic memory, could relate a scene with all the details. As in Bollywood films there is usually a lot of singing, she would hum the tunes.
However, Amor omnia vincit. Love conquers all. I had to find a way and I did. At any given time Maman needed to know exactly where I was. My visits to my friends who lived round the corner from us was strictly rationed. Our house was just minutes from the Champ de Mars, where there was a racecourse
track. For some strange reason, going there early in the morning to watch the horses training was not verboten and I was not one to let opportunities like this slip from my hands. The racing season lasted six months during the cooler part of the year, and was hugely popular. On Saturdays, from early in the morning people began trundling in from every part of the island, small small traders and purveyors of falafel or peanuts, candy floss and grotesquely coloured sweets, lemonades and aloudas, a refreshing drink made with tukmaria. The general public arrived much later, as the first race usually commenced at 1.30.
Again, for no reason that I have ever understood, I was allowed to go to the races without entreating or haggling, alone or with my neighbour friends. The races finished before sunset, around 6.00 p.m. I devised my strategy, based on the serendipitous fact that on Saturdays the cinemas had matinées, usually starting at 2.00.
The Saturday offerings were usually three films, a western starring Tom Mix
or Randolph Scott, a Tarzan or similar jungle adventure plus a comic offering, usually with Fernandel, or a musical with Ginger Rogers or Fred Astaire. So clearly there was a window of opportunity here for me, but there were obstacles on the way to it. A half-price 3rd class ticket (for kids) cost 50 cents, and I got given one cent pocket money every school-day. Clearly I needed a strategy. I was often given the task to go to the Central Market to buy vegetables. It was the practice to sell things by the pound, which was in fact 500 gms. I had two strings to my bow. If I was asked to bring a pound of haricot, I’d ask for 400 grams, and if it was 20 cents a pound, when I had to account to Maman, I’d swear that it was 25 cents, and that put 9 cents in my pocket. I could never quite muster the whole price of one ticket in a week, but my father had pockets and I had fingers. My poor old man had never stolen half a cent in his born life, and he would have put his head on the chopping block and swear that his children did not steal.
All the elements that were needed for me to indulge in my illegitimate pass were thus gathered.
Come Saturday, I’d announce that I’d be off to the Champ de Mars with my friend Dawood, and at 1.15 I’d leave home and walk to the hippodrome. I had enough time to watch the first race, but immediately it finished I’d rush to the Rex and just in time buy my ticket and get lost in the heroics of Tom Mix or John Hall, or gawp at the cleavage of Dorothy Lamour. Sadly time played against me and it was not possible for me to catch the third film as it would finish long past the sixth (and last) race.
With the film still playing in my head I’d make my way home, but not before I’d extracted the results of the five races I had missed from people going home. There was the risk of someone asking. My loving one-year older sister (who was my sworn enemy in those days) was always out to trip me up. She was obviously never allowed outside the home on her own, and suspected me of the many misdemeanours that I indulged in. Intuitively she had guessed about me. Possibly she heard me talk about all those films and must have broken my code.
That was how my addiction began. Sadly things were to change.
TBC
