Our House is Definitely Not in Paris (15 page)

Sunday starts at six for me. Although it is not a working
vacances
day, I still leave the door wide open to wake with the sun gently tip-toeing in. I'm full of excitement, for it's one of the most prized
vide-grenier
days of the clear-out-the attic season
—
Blanat. It will be our fourth summer visit to Blanat. It was at the market, in our very first year in our little house, that we found some of our first furniture, four wonderful wooden and wicker chairs to go around our long farmhouse table. As always, I have my large straw basket and change purse ready. I avidly count up the
euro
I have set aside during the week.

I start my day off, one of luxury, with a succulent
pêche blanche
— the white peach juice drips with the taste and smell of a French summer. Dominique has even taken the time to check my
vide-grenier
list, for it is well known by now that my lists don't just exist for the
rénovation
to be done. These are the lists I carefully construct of what treasure I am in search of.

It is indeed a significant Sunday. Blanat always fills our hearts with hope. When I arrive at each
vide-grenier
, I always want to rush and rummage, sift and search. Even though everyone else must surely be consumed by the same feverish desire, they meander slowly, appraising reverentially. The unusual sound of raised voices floats above the morning worship of second-hand goods. It is very possibly a
très cher
dispute. It subsides quickly, but it is sufficient to make people pause and look inquisitively towards the stall. It has stopped. People resume their quiet contemplation and victorious selections. The murmur of voices is now only overlaid by the over-excited barking of a
chien
. It too is hastily hushed. Sunday morning
vide-greniers
are a serious business for the many others like us.

I pause to take photos of a pale green Dauphine, surrounded by a cluster of men examining its engine. A middle-aged man stops to share my admiration. He tells me that it is a sixty-year-old Renault. Monsieur Herbert Herve tips his Panama and wishes me a ‘
Bonne journée.'
I am indeed having the very best of days.

The couple from Paris, who I remember from previous years, are set up outside their beautiful summer
maison
. To my delight, they remember me. I'm especially touched as theirs is a stall people flock to. As we leave, they call out,
‘L'année prochaine
,' ‘See you next year.' It is these moments that I look forward to each year when we pick up the stitches in the fabric of our other life.

Many happy hours later, we return with our basket positively brimming. The jewel in the crown has indeed proved to be so, for we have even found a
petite
bedside table to complete our spare
chambre
. As always, when I lay out and recount our finds, it never fails to remind me of
The Twelve Days of Christmas
. We have late morning
espresso
and
croissant
with
figue confiture
on our
petite
porch, and I count up the treasure.
Une
, our little cupboard;
deux
, six hand-painted watercolours;
trois
, a water jug; and six sharp knives. Beware, I think, as no doubt our friends will tell me when they visit; for they always take delight in examining the chef's knives in our
cuisine
— the scene of my accident on arrival. They always carefully point out that chefs in Michelin restaurants are sure to have them pointed the other way, sharp side up. That way disaster lies for me, I think, since time is always of the essence, I would be sure to grab the sharp end in my haste.

Back to counting treasure. Another vintage tea-towel; quatre, four
petite
sweet spoons for
mousse au chocolat
;
cinq
, four linen
serviettes
. Our
petite maison
will soon be truly bursting at the seams after a full summer of
vide-grenier
outings. Since it is Sunday we are able to have a long afternoon of walnut tree time before our working week
vacances
resumes again. Through the trees I glimpse the tri-colour flags fluttering in the breeze, on the village war memorial. It is Bastille Day, and tonight all over France there will be fireworks in commemoration. Over our simple lunch of
fromage
,
pain
and
jambon
, I practise my pronunciation for directions. Our
petite maison
is on the road that is a tourist trail for one of the most visited places in France, Rocamadour. It is an important pilgrimage site where, reputedly, many miracles occurred. The fireworks will be a splendid affair there, and I anticipate having to give directions any time soon.

As I do each year, I reflect on the lives lost in war. I make a point each time I return to Cuzance to pause at the war memorial in our village and pay tribute to the names etched in stone.
La Paroisse De Cuzance
1914–1918: Alfred Delvert, Lucien Entragues, Marcel Jarzac, Germain Rey, Emile Sourzat. There are many others.

I look at the many older inhabitants of the village and wonder anew at what possible role they may have played in the wars. I think about the impact on each and every one of them. I think about how the
autoroute
to Paris, not so far away, echoed with the thunder of German boots. And I remember again with a thrill that last summer we were told that,
oui
, our
la grange
had hidden members of the
Résistance.
Both admiration and sadness, in equal measure, wash over me.

Ah,
fromage

Monsieur
Jambon

As the temperature rises steadily day by day, the clicking sounds of cicadas whir into life. Fat French bumblebees lazily circle the
lavande
. Birds no longer sing in the intensity of the day's heat. The grass dries and browns and crackles underfoot. The leaves on the orchard trees furl up in yellow protest.

After weeks of being immersed in a
rénovation
life, we over-compensate for our rural setting by dressing as if we are in Paris when we venture out for
déjeuner
and
dîner
. After all, our
petite maison
wardrobe contains sufficient smart clothes for several summers' worth of Parisian
soirées
. However, I know we are definitely not in Paris when I read the signs along the country roads on our outings.
Légumes
and llamas. I know
légumes
is vegetables, but llamas? I later check the dictionary and it proves to be one and the same. What an odd combination, I think.

It is unusual for a day to go by without someone dropping in. Our
beaucoup travail
still seems to be a constant source of curiosity. We think we are actually alone for a whole day until early evening at the
apéritif
hour, when Monsieur Chanteur visits yet again, a habit he seems to be getting into. A conversation with him is always an intensive French lesson for Stuart. I can still only follow a fraction of the
rapide
flow in French. He conveys the extraordinary coincidence that his wife went to the same
lycée
as Françoise in Lyon. How astonishing, that many decades later they now live in the same
petite
village in France. The conversation then moves on to an explanation of the long pealing of the church bells at seven each evening. He tells us that there is a minute's pause before it tolls again for its final clamorous ringing of the day. We have always assumed that it is imperatively crying out to the village and the farmers toiling in the fields that it is time to down tools for
dîner
.
Non
,
non
, he laughs. It is telling everyone, both Catholic and Protestant, to stop and pray. He adds, quixotically, that it is the angels being released. Even when I contribute a simple word, Stuart still has to translate for me.

Monsieur Chanteur indicates that if I stay a whole year, I will be able to speak fluent French. I assure him that I will never be in Cuzance for the long, harsh winter. I keep my thoughts to myself, despite this seeming confidence in my linguistic prowess, given sufficient time, that I doubt I will ever achieve any degree of fluency. After all, when I lived in Istanbul for eighteen months I didn't progress beyond a handful of words. Naturally, Stuart was able to conduct entire conversations in Turkish. I well remember groups of Turkish students, from our days at the English House Language School, clustered round him, all in animated conversation.

Nevertheless, one of my greatest triumphs was having my wedding dress made by a Turkish dressmaker, with barely a word exchanged between us except my profuse, ‘
Teşekkür ederim
.' Oh yes, learning how to say ‘thank you' in a foreign language can take you a long way. Even several decades ago, my theatrical skills took me far. And indeed, my wedding dress was the fairytale, ballerina-style one of my dreams. Well, to tell you the truth it may have been a fraction tight, for our fondness in those long-ago Turkish days was for boxes of baklava, dripping in sweet syrup. Now my head has been turned, not to mention my lustful eyes, to
viennoiserie
— and, of course,
pâtisseries
and
boulangeries
.

Viennoiserie
is a new word I have just recently added to my limited lexicon. If a word relates to
cuisine
, it is one that I seem to more readily remember. I learn quickly how to distinguish between them and
pâtisseries
and
boulangeries
. These are the critical things to assimilate in my new French world. A
pâtisserie
is where pastries and cakes are sold, and the gleaming special-occasion
gâteaux
that I am so very fond of
. Boulangeries
are bakeries that specialise in baking and selling their one extensive array of
pain
. I resolve not to venture near a French seamstress any time soon. I can just imagine there would be more than a few ‘
oh là là
's murmured.

It is only through such visits that we also find out news about the outside world. Monsieur Chanteur tells us about a recent
catastrophe
that we had not heard a murmur about. Truly, it reinforces how locked away from the world we are in the country life we have created in Cuzance. There has been a terrible train accident on the line from Paris to Brive, just two days ago. Six are dead, forty are seriously injured. It is not clear yet whether it was an accident or sabotage. The grey shadows of last year are in the look of horror Stuart and I exchange. It is the line we travel on when we return to Paris each year to fly home. And last time our train was sabotaged, too. We were told then it is a far from rare occurrence. It's a horrifying thought.

There are other times when the visits are very much in the old-school category, a term Jean-Claude is fond of using when referring to Monsieur Chanteur. He does not seem to think it may include him. It is, however, often reflected in his attitude. They both express endless admiration for Stuart's
beaucoup travail
and the fact that he can turn his hand to anything. While this may in fact be true, my considerable efforts are often glossed over. There have been times when I have been perched high up on a windowsill, precariously painting, and Jean-Claude has not taken note at all despite the fact that I have chatted with him from my high-up perch. On more than one occasion it has even been suggested that I should be in
la cuisine
, conjuring up
gâteaux
. Ah yes, we are in the country indeed, where even now roles remain quite traditional.
Mon Dieu!
I fume silently on these occasions. In an inverse echo of Marie Antoinette across the centuries, I mutinously paraphrase, ‘Let them eat
pain
.' There is no time in a
rénovation
life for sleight of hand culinary delights.