The day after July 14, 1946, a year after the end of the Second World War, Michel Audiard, still a young journalist, wrote a report on the rediscovered and carefree happiness of Parisians on the day of the French national holiday. In his spirited style, which a few years later would contribute to his glory as a dialogist, the “little cyclist” – as Jean Gabin liked to call him – recounted his joy at seeing again “the lanterns, the balls and the dancers with their legs and with wedge soles…”.
Discover this joyful article, written to the sound of the blare and republished today republished among fifty in a book entitled Michel Audiard: It does not concern me… (editions Joseph K), presented by the historian of literature Franck Lhomeau . Chronicle of a past but not so distant time when “beautiful loves and less prosaic adventures were tied to the rhythm of La Java bleue and La Valse à tout le monde.”
July 14, 1946… A July 14 without meat, without fever, with flags on the buses and far fewer flags in the windows. And no sun at all. One even has the right to wonder what possessed him, in the sun, to give up on a day like this? On the other hand, and this compensates for that, a July 14 with lanterns, garlands of tricolor paper, accordions and people. Yes, people. A crowd of people singing all the same. There were even, among this crowd, people who were walking, people who sat on the terraces to watch the other people go by, and people who were dancing. It goes without saying that there were a lot of people in the streets and in the squares. So much so that there must not have been many people in the apartments, except, of course, the sick and the malcontents who, one hundred and fifty-seven years after the event, still resent that the Bastille had been taken. Because there are people like that, who have very definite ideas about history and mainly about the famous storming of the Bastille. Fortunately, these are only isolated cases.
We danced in my neighborhood and in the neighborhoods next door. From Vincennes to Neuilly, from Clignancourt to the Porte d’Orléans, all of Paris waltzed and swinged on the asphalt to the sound of amateur orchestras and second-hand pick-ups.
The accordion and jazz enthusiasts started spinning and swaying on Saturday evening, immediately after the storm, on the still wet sidewalks. We didn’t want to waste time, since we had taken to the streets for that. Then on Sunday, while the saucers were piling up and the cans were uncorking, the couples out of the night multiplied in the blare and the jingles of the party. The beautiful loves and less prosaic adventures were tied to the rhythm of the blue Java and the Valse à tout le monde. “Kiss your date!” The commemoration of the storming of the Bastille in 1946 takes on the flavor of lipstick and mint diabolo. The artistic side, which never loses its rights, was represented by various attractions. In the verdant little square of La Chapelle, a contest of grimaces, fiercely disputed, opposed the emulators of Fernandel. In the subtle art of torturing their faces, the competitors showed, one would have guessed, infinitely more disposition than their male adversaries. On the other hand, the leaping representatives of the stronger sex took a dazzling revenge in the sack race between the J3s of rue Philippe-de-Girard.
However, the big success of the day goes to a charming and casual competitor in the greasy pole championship. After practically getting rid of a too embarrassing skirt, the dashing beauty hit the jackpot amid endless applause from sports and peeping fans.
Then, the games over, the ball resumed its rights. While the wind gently rocked the lanterns, the dancers with bare legs and platform soles turned until dawn in the arms of soldiers, neighborhood roosters and one-night lovers. Since a July 14, with or without meat, must end like this. And it’s perfect like that.
“It does not concern me, Reports, news and unpublished stories, by Michel Audiard, Joseph K, 236 p., 18.50 euros.
