Elementary, my dear Watson

The mystery of the living room bugler is resolved. Yesterday morning, as I walked through the courtyard to get to my office, I noticed the poor devil (a little old man lost in a uniform he no longer fills out) getting ready, shining his antique bugle vigorously and generally making himself look a lot busier than he needs to be. I asked him kindly if he could please aim his instrument away from the houses behind him, and towards the police building. He gave me the vigorous nod and “Oui Maman, merci beaucoup!” so characteristic here (people call each other ‘Maman’ and ‘Papa’).

Thirty seconds later, the now oh-so-familiar insufferable notes began, and I realised that the sound was coming from the back of my office near our house, not from the front of my office near the police building. I stormed out of the building and sought the man out. He was standing in the small space between the building where my office is and the outer wall of our flat, quite contentedly aiming his bugle towards our living room window and playing the damn thing with all his heart. No wonder Fred and I thought the man was in our flat! He didn’t even notice me approaching with a deep frown on my face and my hands on my ears.

I tap him severely on the shoulder, and he turns to me with a large, proud grin.
- “Excuse me, what are you doing?” I ask.
- “Practicing my bugle for when the General arrives.”
- “Excuse me, why are you aiming your bugle towards this particular window?”
- (still beaming) “So as not to disturb the other policemen while I practice my bugle.”
- “Excuse me, do you realise that this is a house? That people actually live here?”
Suddenly a look of deep distress creeps onto his face as it dawns on him that I may not be here to congratulate him on his exceptional musical talents, but rather to proffer some kind of criticism. You have to feel sorry for the poor sod.

So I explained, more gently than intended, that there had been complaints from the people who lived there. I asked if he could please practice his bugle elsewhere, particularly on Saturdays and Sundays. “Oui, oui, bien sûr Maman, je ne le ferais plus, c’est promis!”

This morning, no bugle practice under our windows. Ah, the quietude. The only time I heard the bugle was when the General arrived, and it was even worse than usual. I couldn’t help wondering if our friend had decided to skip his practice altogether, now that I’d given him a good excuse. This may yet return to haunt me.