OPINION: At the Salle des Mariages in the Menton Town Hall, there was a delay. We waited until it was announced, “The Mayor himself will attend.” This, apparently, does not usually happen. He arrived soon after, closely flanked by two functionaries, and was immediately one of those people whose authority is expressed in a quality of stillness and opacity. The room rearranged itself for him.
Ushered into a chair at the front, I had no idea how the Key Ceremony would proceed. Foreseeing trainwreck and disaster, I remained calm. Monsieur le Mayor spoke solely in French. He read out my biography, and made kind comments. Then he presented me with the key to the writing room that the town so generously provides, as part of the Katherine Mansfield Menton Fellowship.
When it was my turn, I opened with my finest French, a spiel I’d laboured over on the train from Paris. The mayor listened, inclining his head, as I talked about the beauty and charm of Menton. I imagined him breaking into raucous hilarity, but he maintained his perfect front. I thought, as a student of power and charisma, how effortlessly some are able to project it. After the ceremony, he cemented my admiration when he clinked cups with me and murmured, “cin cin”.
The writing room is on the ground floor of the Villa Isola Bella, where Katherine Mansfield lived while seeking a warm climate for her health. It’s a lovely space, recently renovated, aesthetic and perfect for writing. The villa is next to the Garavan train station, the first stop in France after Italy. The border is at the end of the town, and you can walk to Italy in 10 minutes.
Every train that stops is boarded and searched by the police. They march through the carriages, throwing open toilet doors, searching storage areas and demanding papers. Those who “look the part” are taken off the train and questioned.
They are searching for illegal immigrants who gather on the Italian side, trying to cross. If they’re caught, they’re sent back. It’s a cat and mouse game, welcomed by some locals and condemned by others. It depends on who you ask: either France is acting harshly and depriving itself of a useful workforce, or it’s preserving the precious national way of life.
Everywhere, the talk was of the upcoming vote. There was widespread uneasiness about the gamble President Emmanuel Macron made, calling for an election when the far-right, anti-immigration party is polling so strongly.
On the train to Nice, I was asked for ID, but I had only a credit card. The policemen were emphatic. No proper ID: big problem. One of them, deadpan, mimed putting handcuffs on my wrists. I found this amusing; we beamed and chuckled at each other, and they moved on, looking for the ones they really wanted.
It’s interesting to experience this; it’s instructive. This is how it is, when people around you are treated as “other”. The guilt, and the sense of belonging. It’s insidious. With a nice buzz from the policeman’s beautiful smile, I watched him out the window, lining people up against the wall.
This is how it must have been, and how it could be again, in multiple ways, as far-right groups gain ground in Europe. Can memories really be so short?
It reminds me of the observation by the Norwegian writer Karl Ove Knausgård on the dangers of extreme nationalism: “If evil comes it will not come as ‘they’, in the guise of the unfamiliar that we might turn away without effort, it will come as ‘we’. It will come as what is right.”
