De Casteljau's autobiography: My time at Citroën

My first contact with Citroën had nothing in common with an entry accompanied by a brass band, so there is absolutely no reason to brag about it. My vague scientific recollection had turned into a faint blur in Algeria, and the advertisement of a job vacancy, for which I was foolhardy enough to apply for, described individuals who resembled everything else which I was not myself. When Monsieur Baron introduced me to Monsieur de la Boixière, I recognised the extent of my incompetence and came to the realisation that I was just the opposite of the man he was looking for—feeling exactly as though I was suffering from a hangover of too much alcohol. What kind of a double Dutch sounding language was this about small vectors, rhythms, stepper motors, about moulded and smelted pieces? And it was only with a totally bad conscience that I let him believe that I could be of any use to him, seeing only the beginning of possibly having overbid myself after I had accepted the position. Monsieur de la Boixière united in his personality the temper of a bold corsair with an unyielding royalist. When I was finally, as an employee, allowed to visit the Holy of Holies, I was overcome by an attack of dizziness. Everything, absolutely everything at Citroën was put together, for instance a pneumatic punched tape reader device, a pneumatically operated stepper motor, switching cabinets crowned by their 6 mercury vapour thyratrons, a huge model, 1 kilowatt, 1 litre, and other decoding devices, without forgetting that much venerated device which was a speed limiter operated by ignition interruption, while connected to a tape recorder with continuously acoustic adaptable speed regulation. (. . .) Where had I ended up? Specialists admitted that all electrical, electronic and mechanical problems had more or less been solved. All—except for one single formality which made up for 5%, but certainly not for 20% of the problem; in other words, how to express component parts by equations. I was assigned with the task to find a solution within three months—before obtaining admission to participate in the much more serious work of the study and research department. These three months lasted for more than thirty years! Here I came across ÑAQUA (phonetic writing of il n’y a qu’à [you only have to . . .] corresponds to the English “it is easy”, the translator) for the first time, that magic word which I never knew how to spell it correctly, undoubtedly of Spanish or American–Indian origin viewing the tilde on top of the letter “n”. This had resisted all preceding attempts, and our slightly disappointed royalist sought his last refuge in a prayer to our Lord in order