Brief Encounter

A school, in France, 1964.

Six months after my arrival,
the directeur emerged from his office,
doing his rounds, I assumed.
He met me in the corridor.
‘Vous êtes de la maison, monsieur?’
I was the assistant d’anglais,
I explained, holding out my hand.
He clamped it lightly
with moist finger tips,
and told me the Lyonais
were cold people, adding,
‘C’était difficile pendant la guerre,’
whereupon he adjusted his trilby,
minced out of the building
like Hercule Poirot,
and I never saw him again.