I used to smoke. Ten years, maybe, when I was young, until I decided enough was enough. As I recall, I tried a number of different brands, depending on how cool they were deemed to be - John Playet Special (that black and gold packet!), then Marlborough, then Camel. Finally, on moving to France, Gauloises, untipped. They were hardcore: that first drag of dark leaf tobacco ripped into your throat like ball of tumbleweed. But even they were mild compared to the blast from a Gitane - the smoker's equivalent of a bunjee jump above a croc-infested river.
Gitanes began life in 1910, along with Gauloises. While the latter were favoured by the likes of Camus and Sartre, Gitanes found their champion in Serge Gainsbourg, who smoked three packets a day. Both brands were part of the state-owned French tobacco monopoly, SEITA, and in the 1980s enjoyed considerable success. But with smoking going from glamorous to repugnant, their days were numbered, and the last cigarette produced in France was in 2017. By then, they were owned by Imperial Tobacco, and though the brands still exist, the market share of dark leaf tobacco, with its stronger taste and higher nicotine content, has plummeted.
Gitane means gypsy woman, and until recently, that's what appeared on the packet, an evolution of the original design of 1927. The dancer herself appeared after the war, but now, having seduced, enslaved and ultimately killed too many, she dances no more. In her place are tar-filled lungs, blackened teeth and heart surgery.
Some people still smoke them, though, one being Yves Balland, the gruff, condescending gendarme who supervises Magali's internship. Not that he hasn't tried to give up - he's trying all the time. But the gypsy woman's hold on him is too strong.
Fortunately, I did kick the habit, by the somewhat unorthodox, but highly effective, technique of increasing my consumption every day for a week until I felt so sick, the only thing I craved was never to smoke again. I haven't yet patented that method but it found its way into Song of Sorrow, a portrait of the killer in One Green Bottle, available free here (only to be read after the novel itself, since it obviously tells you who the killer is). Now all I have from my smoking days is Yves Balland to remind me of what I've very happily gone without.