French Leave (7 page)

 

 

 

 

 

I
think we're looking good. Do you want to go for a swim?”
“Where?”

“There's a stream, down there . . . ”

“Is it clean?” asked Lola.

“You sure the foxes don't piss in it?” I added.

“Excuse me?”

We weren't too hot about the idea.

“Are you going?”

“I go every evening.”

“Okay, we're coming.”

 

Simon and Vincent were walking ahead.

“I have a vinyl of MC5 for you.”

“No, really?”

“I do, yeah.”

“First pressing?”

“Yup.”

“Awesome. How did you find it?”

“Zounds, there is nothing too grand for our lord and master.”

“You coming for a swim?'

“Of course.”

“Hey, girls! You coming for a swim?”

“No way, not while that maniac is in the neighborhood,” I murmured to Lola.

“No, we'll just watch!”

 

“He's around here somewhere,” I muttered, clenching my teeth. “I can feel it. He's staring at us, from behind the bushes . . . ”

My sister just laughed.

 

“Pinch me, I must be dreaming, I swear . . . ”

“You already told us to pinch you, we got it. Go on, sit down.”

 

Lola pulled the trashy magazine from my bag and looked up our horoscope.

“You're Aquarius, aren't you?”

“Huh? What?” I went, turning around abruptly to scare off Nono the onanist.

“Right . . . are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“
Be on your guard. Venus is in Leo, anything can happen. An encounter, True Love, the one you are waiting for is close at hand. Make the most of your charm and sex appeal and, above all, leave yourself open to chance. Your strong character has played tricks on you in the past. Time to indulge in some romantic sentiment.”

She was killing herself laughing, the idiot.

“Nono! Come back! She's here! She wants to indulge in some roman—”

I put my hand over her mouth.

“Would you shut up? I'm sure you just made it all up.”

“No way! Here, look if you don't believe me!”

I tore the rag from her hands.

“Show me—”

“There, look . . .
Venus is in Leo,
I'm not making it up.”

“What absolute bullshit . . . ”

“Well, if I were you, I'd be on my guard all the same.”

“Tsk. This is all bullshit.”

“You're right. Let's have a look and see who's been prancing around Saint-Tropez . . . ”

 

“Hang on. No way you're going to tell me those are real tits?”

“Yeah, doesn't look like, does it?”

“And have you seen the . . . Eeeee! Simon, get the hell out or I'll call your wife!”

 

Like two dogs, the boys were shaking themselves gleefully, showering us with icy water.

We should have seen it coming . . . Or remembered, rather . . . Vincent had his cheeks full of water and started chasing after Lola, who ran screaming across the field, popping all the buttons off her dress.

I hurried to pick up all our things and went to join them, spitting at every bush I went by, making the sign of snail's horns with my index finger and pinkie.

Begone, Beelzebub!

 

Vincent took us on the tour of his private quarters in the servants' wing.

Basic.

He had brought a bed down from the second floor—where it was too warm for him—and made his niche in the stable. And what do you know, he'd chosen the box that had belonged to Lover Boy.

Between Polka and Hurricane . . .

 

He'd done himself up like a lord. Boots impeccably polished. A pure white 1970s suit. Hip-huggers and a pale pink silk shirt with a collar so pointy that it reached the armholes. On anyone else it would have looked ridiculous, but on Vincent it was as classy as it gets.

He went to grab his guitar. Simon took the wedding gift from the trunk of the car and we headed down to the village.

 

The evening light was sublime. The whole countryside was ochre, bronze, and old gold, resting from a long day. Vincent told us to turn around and admire his castle.

It was splendid.

“You're teasing me.”

“Not at all, no way,” said Lola, always mindful of Universal Harmony.

Simon began to sing, “I'm the king of the caaaastle, and you're the dirty raaaascals . . . ”

 

Simon was singing, Vincent was laughing, and Lola was smiling. All four of us were walking along a warm pavement leading into a little village in the Indre.

There was a faint smell of tar, mint, and freshly mown hay in the air. The cows gazed at us admiringly and the birds called to each other, time for dinner.

A few grams of something sweet.

 

Lola and I had put our hats and various disguises back on.

No reason not to: a wedding is a wedding.

Or, at least that is what we figured, until we arrived at our destination . . .

 

We entered an overheated parish hall that smelled of sweat and old socks. Tatami mats were piled high in one corner and the bride was sitting under a basketball hoop. She looked as if she didn't know what hit her.

The tables were laid out for a banquet worthy of Astérix, with local bag-in-box wine and music on full volume.

 

A huge lady all wrapped in ruffles hurried over to our little brother.

“Ah! Here he is! Come here, son, follow me! Nono said you had family with you. All of you, follow me, come on! Just look at you all, you look grand! What a hat! And what a slip of a girl this one is! You're so thin, don't they feed you in Paris? Have a seat. Have something to eat, children. Eat whatever you want. There's plenty. Just ask Gérard to get you something to drink. Gérard! Come over here, lad!”

 

Vincent could not extricate himself from her hugs and kisses; I stood there comparing. What a difference between this woman, a complete stranger, and the polite disdain of my great aunts just a few hours ago. I could not believe my eyes.

“Maybe we should go and congratulate the bride, don't you think?”

“Go right ahead,” said the huge lady, “and see if you can't find Gérard on the way . . . Unless he's already under the table, oh, that wouldn't look too good now.”

 

“What's the present?” I asked Simon.

He didn't know.

 

We kissed the bride, one after the other.

The groom was as red as a lobster. He was looking skeptically at the gift his bride had just unwrapped: a superb cheese plate, carefully chosen by Carine. It was an oval thing with handles made of vine stock and vine leaves sculpted in the Plexiglas.

I don't think he was particularly impressed.

 

We sat down at the end of a table, and two old guys who were already pretty far gone welcomed us with open arms.

“Gé-rard! Gé-rard! Gé-rard! Hey, kids! Go get some food for our friends. Gérard! Where the hell did he get to?”

Gérard arrived with his bag-in-box and the party began.

 

After mixed veg in mayonnaise on a scallop shell, grilled lamb with French fries à la mayonnaise, goat cheese, and three slices of wedding cake, everyone moved back to make room for Guy Macroux and his
orchestre de charme.

 

We felt blessed. Ears and eyes open wide. On our right was the bride, opening the dance with her dad, to an air by Strauss on the squeeze box, and to our left were the old guys, noisily crossing swords over the new one-way sign in front of the Pidoune bakery.

It was all so picturesque.

No. I can put it better than that, and less condescendingly: it was a moment to savor.

 

Guy Macroux had something of Dario Moreno about him.

Little dyed mustache, a flamboyant jacket, expensive bling, and a velvety voice.

With the first bars of the accordion, everyone flocked to the dance floor.

 

“Pdum pdum pdum, just a little chachacha

Ah!

Pdum pdum pdum, step to the mambo

Oh!”

 

“C'mon, all together now!”

La la la la . . . la la la la . . .

“I can't hear you!”

LA LA LA LA . . . LA LA LA LA . . .

 

“And in the back, there! Our grannies! Sing along, girls!”

Opidibi poi poi!

 

Lola and I went wild, and I had to roll up my skirt to keep the rhythm.

The boys, as usual, weren't dancing. Vincent was chatting up a young lady with a milky décolleté, and Simon was listening to some old timer's mildewed memories.

 

Then we had,
Gar-ter! Gar-ter! Gar-ter!
where things got a little steamed up and there was a lot of joking about big sausages. The young bride was wheelbarrowed onto a ping-pong table and . . . jeez, well, it's not really worth going into. Or maybe it's just me, maybe I'm too squeamish.

I went outside. I was beginning to miss Paris.

 

Lola came to join me for “ze moonlight cigarette.”

This guy followed her out, his matted body hair gleaming with sweat. He just had to ask her to dance again.

He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, viscose pants, white socks with a tennis stripe, and woven loafers.

Irresistibly charming.

And, and, and—I almost forgot: one of those black leather photographer's vests! Three pockets on the left and two on the right. And a penknife in his belt. And a cell phone in a case. And an earring. And dark glasses. And a chain attached to his wallet. All that was missing was the whip.

Indiana Jones in person.

 

“You gonna introduce me?”

“Uh, yes, this is my sister Garance, and uh—”

“You forgot my name already?”

“Uh . . . Jean-Pierre?”

“Michel.”

“Oh, yes, Michel! Michel Garance, Garance Michel . . . ”

“Hi,” I said, as sternly as possible.

“Jean-Michel. My name is Jean-Michel . . . Jean like John and Michel like Mont-Saint-Michel, but hey, I won't hold it against you . . . Cheers! So you're sisters, huh? It's weird, you don't look at all alike . . . Are you sure one of you wasn't delivered with the mail?”

Ha. Ha. Ha.

 

Once he'd moved away, Lola shook her head.

“God, I couldn't take it anymore, how did I get stuck with the biggest creep in the county? Did you note his refined sense of humor . . . Even Comedy Central couldn't find him a slot. That guy is a disaster . . . ”

“Shush, he's headed back this way.”

“Hey! You heard the one about the guy with five dicks?”

“Uh . . . no. Haven't had that good fortune.”

“So there's this guy. He's got five dicks.”

Silence.

“So?” I ask.

“So his briefs fit him like a glove!”

Help.

 

“And the one about the whore who wouldn't suck dick?”

“Sorry?”

“You know what men call a whore who won't suck dick?”

More than anything, it was my sister's expression that made me want to laugh. My sister, always so classy with her vintage Saint Laurent, her refined ballet school gestures, her intaglio ring, and the way she could get all flustered just eating off a paper tablecloth . . . So with her flabbergasted air and her eyes big as Sèvres bisque saucers, it was glorious.

“Well?”

“Sorry, no. I give up, too. What do you call a call girl who, er—”

(Classy
and
funny. I adore her.)

“Well, they don't call her! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

 

He was on a roll, now . . . He swiveled around to face me, hanging by his thumbs from the pockets of his vest:

“And you? Have you heard the one about the guy who wrapped his hamster in duct tape?”

“No. But I don't want you to tell it because it's too disgusting.”

“Oh, yeah? So you have heard it?”

“Uh, look, Jean-Montsaintmichel, I need to have a few words with my sister, here . . . ”

“Okay, okay, I'll go. So, anyway, see ya later, pussycats!”

 

“Is he gone? Really truly gone?”

“Yes, but Toto is coming to take his place.”

“Who's Toto?”

 

Nono sat down on a chair across from us.

He was looking at us, very diligently scratching the inside of his pants pockets.

Oh-kay.

Probably it was his brand-new suit; must have been causing him some local itching.

 

Saint Lola gave him a faint smile to put him at ease.

Of the type: Hiya Nono. We're your new friends! Welcome to our heart . . .

“Are you still virgins?” he asked.

 

Did he have a bee in his bonnet or what?! (No way!)

 

Our Singing Nun kept her cool: “So, it seems you're the caretaker over at the château?”

“Hey, you shut up. I'm talking to her, the one with the big tits.”

 

I knew it. Yes, I knew it.

Someday we'll all laugh about it. Someday we'll be old and gray and since we won't have done our Kegel exercises the way we should, we'll piss our pants when we look back on this day. But at the time, it didn't make me laugh at all because . . . because Nono was drooling a little bit out of the side of his mouth that wasn't holding his cigarette butt, and it really spooked me. The thin thread of saliva just kept coming, in the moonlight . . .

 

Thank God, Simon and Vincent showed up just then.

“Shall we be off?”

“Good idea.”

“I'll catch up with you, I just have to pick up my honorarium.”