Yellow Fever

A short family tragi-comedy based on an unusual phobia: the colour yellow.

Photo & Text all rights reserved © Saint-Lazare, 2025.

My aunt Barbara is scared by the color yellow. I swear, it is a true phobia. Some are scared by spiders or by needles; my aunt’s greatest terror is a color, in every shade and form.

Once, when I was a child, I saw her pass out after discovering a cruel dandelion in the middle of her lawn. She had to quit her job because of a Post-it note left on her desk by one of her untactful coworkers. Finally, the canary hue of the mailman’s car turned her into a recluse. Every time we were visiting, my mother had to carefully study my outfit to avoid an unfortunate inch of yellow in it. She was quite mad at my father, as in the 80s it was difficult to find children’s clothing without said color.

"It’s my brother’s wife! We can all make an effort!" He begged her.

I was a little envious of my cousins because they did not have to eat eggs, until I realized that they could not eat lemon popsicles and banana candies either. What is more, we were living in the south of France. I was infatuated with the golden sunlight invading streets and gardens, penetrating deep within our houses with its peaceful rays. But for my aunt, it was a nightmare and her thick curtains were always closed. We were spending summers in the swimming-pool, while she was spending them in the tombstone that was her bedroom. When I asked if she was turning into a vampire, I was spanked. The same evening, we had pineapple for dessert and my parents shared a nervous laugh.

Growing up, I felt bad for Barbara when I realized that she had not read The King in Yellow by Robert W. Chambers. Yellow, however, was the color of cuckolds in French tradition. For years, my uncle had cheated on her with younger women. All bleached blondes.

When I moved to Paris for my studies, I lost touch with this side of the family. But recently, I came across my cousin in a second-hand bookstore in Boulogne-Billancourt. Naturally, we chatted about our relatives.

"And your mother?" I asked.

"Oh well… she recently gave us a good fright. You know, after her divorce, she started to see a psychiatrist and she was doing better. She could even drive alone to her appointments. And two days ago… Well, she lost control of her car in a traffic circle. She crossed the median strip, crashed into some cars and ended in the window of a bakery."

Shocked, I immediately asked if Barbara was okay, and luckily, she was. Her doctor had her hospitalized in emergency, but solely for her post-traumatic stress.

"We have no idea of what triggered this episode." My cousin concluded.

We said goodbye to each other and I took my car back to Versailles where I was living now, fully absorbed in the writing of my next book. I looked forward to starting a new chapter but the traffic jams were more annoying than ever in the beltway and I was restraining my natural French reflex of crushing my horn. The holdup seemed to come from a traffic circle.

The female biker in the lane next to me seemed surprisingly blasé. Lowering my window, I asked her if she knew something I did not.

"It’s about the new taxation the government wants to put on fuel. Protesters are blocking circles and demonstrating everywhere in France." She explained.

I sighed; I should really start to read newspapers more often. When we finally reached the roundabout, I had the confirmation of my ignorance. I could not miss the protesters.

They were all wearing yellow safety vests.