The Reliable Sausage Poem Inspirer

Gaius has gone back with Proust to his apartment.

While Proust packs a small bag, Gaius looks round the apartment.

It is very untidy. Scraps of paper and broken pencils litter the floor.

Wizz Air is very strict on baggage allowance, says Proust, discarding grey boxers and socks.

No bother, says Gaius. I'll leave my bike here. How far to the airport?

Eighty eight point nine kilometres, says Proust. We could take a taxi. It costs one hundred and thirty euros.

Waste of money, says Gaius. I won't leave my bike after all. Do you have one?

Only a trick monocycle, says Proust. It really won't do for that distance.

Never mind, says Gaius. You can perch on my back wheel.

But what will we do with the bike when we get there? asks Proust.

I'll call Arthur, says Gaius.

He calls Arthur.

Arthur is in Café George V with Belle and Sweezus, when his phone rings.

Da-da-da-DAH!

Yes? says Arthur. When? Where? Beauvais? Okay.

Was that Gaius? asks Sweezus. I thought he might ring you.

He just wants me to pick up his bike, says Arthur. He's flying somewhere.

To Romania, says Belle. With that clown, Marcel Proust.

Yeah, says Sweezus. Clown, literary giant and microbiologist. Who knew?

Romania? says Arthur. What's he going there for?

There's this poisonous underground cave in Constanta, says Belle. Full of horrid creepy crawlies.

New species of creepy crawlies, says Sweezus. That's why I thought he'd ask you.

Well, he didn't, says Arthur.

He still might, says Sweezus. If you get to the airport before they fly out. Are you going?

No, says Arthur. Why would I want to?

I would, says Sweezus. Travelling with Proust. You might get some tips.

I don't need tips, says Arthur. Why don't you go?

Broken collar bone, says Sweezus.

So, nobody goes.

Proust and Gaius arrive at Beauvais airport three hours before take off.

Wizz Air ground staff grimly measure their bags.

Gaius's bag is one centimetre too long lengthways, and five grams too heavy.

They insist that he takes something out.

Outrageous! says Gaius, eyeing his contents, all of which are essential.

In the end, he discards the fish glue. He can always make more.

They wait for Arthur.

This Arthur, is he reliable? asks Proust.

Oh, yes, says Gaius. Most reliable. If ever I mislay anything, a knife or a pencil, for example, as I do quite often, Arthur can be relied upon to replace it. Quite miraculously, in some cases.

What a gem, says Proust. Is this the Arthur Rimbaud who rides with Team Condor?

Yes, says Gaius. It is he. A competent rider, and a talented poet, along with his friend and fellow poet Pablo Neruda. In fact, Arthur was the inspiration for Pablo's Sausage Poem, which caused such a stir in the final stage of the Tour. Did you happen to hear it?

No I didn't, says Proust. How did it go?

I'm not good at these things, says Gaius, but it went something like this: swallow me fast, and...um... something about a moist tip inside... of course it was about a sausage, nothing saucy.

Proust is not convinced that the Sausage Poem is not saucy.

Time for boarding, and the reliable Sausage Poem inspirer has not yet appeared.

Last call for passengers for Wizz Air.....

Proust stands up. Gaius leans his bicycle against a wall. Is this goodbye to his relatively expensive road racer....?

But then.

Arthur and Belle appear in the departure lounge.

Gaius is relieved.

Belle takes charge of the bicycle.

Proust eyes off Arthur.