Our House is Definitely Not in Paris (31 page)

We know our Cuzance summer chapter is reaching its finale when we start to count the days and not the weeks. Sadness permeates our everyday actions in our
petite maison
. Each simple task has an air of finality that is echoed in the church bells that will soon ring without us.

I am already conscious that when old age looms there will be a myriad of ‘last times'. The markets in Martel — how to soak up every nuance and make the memories last forever; the locals'
café
for
espresso
— one final lingering look to imprint the faces — our beloved
boulangerie
, our favourite restaurants, the church bells that have marked the steady progression of our unfurling Cuzance summer days. It will be the last lists, the final goodbyes, the closing
au revoirs
on this, the most
magnifique
time of our lives. It is all too unbearably poignant to even contemplate.

I will take out the brightly coloured beads from my jewellery box of memoirs. They will be a string of shining summer memories. I shall gaze at them with equal measures of awe, sadness and sweeping nostalgia. Their shimmering colours will reflect a thousand memories that will never dim with the fleeting passage of time. The brilliance of the beads will reflect back all that was splendid and glorious about our other French life.

For now, we are fortunate enough to look forward to many more French summers, far from Paris. As the years pass, so too will the
beaucoup travail
diminish. Now, on our last evening in
Août
, the light fades ever earlier and we close the shutters one final time. For now, we know that next year there will be another Cuzance summer chapter, and once again, with joy, we will fling wide the shutters.

The sun sinks discernibly earlier than on our arrival at the start of summer. Soon we will return home to spring. When Jean-Claude visits for the last time until
l'année prochaine
, he tells us that in winter it can be as low as minus ten in the day. It is a season of extreme bitterness and invasive iciness that we simply cannot begin to imagine, nor is it one that we have any desire to experience. On that note, it makes our imminent parting from Pied de la Croix just that little bit less sad. His parting words are more information about our commune, for Jean-Claude tells us that all the
grande maisons
in our
département
were built sixty years ago from truffle money. I yearn to find my own secret source to restore
la grange
. Such suggestions are met with laughter, for he assures me that most of the truffles to be found in the woodlands virtually disappeared long ago. Now they are cultivated and closely guarded behind high fences. Since they are so expensive, tales are rife of people trying to steal them from others' land. Only a handful of people are in the know about the buried caches, who sell them in the special truffle markets in Martel each
Novembre
. It is when chefs descend from far and wide to buy what is known as black gold. They are
petite
, black gnarled lumps that look like small rocks. They are highly prized, adding a taste of the exotic as thin shavings over an omelette, or in a rich luscious sauce. It is the stuff of dreams, and dreams are what made our French life come true.

As he leaves, Jean-Claude informs me pessimistically that all the blackberries will return in three months. This is not what I want to hear at all after my arduous efforts, especially when I'm about to go home. It's hard not to feel discouraged at such a prospect. I concede that round one is over, but the battle is not. I will return next summer with renewed vigour and fervour. Let the blackberry war continue, I think, for I am determined to win at all costs.

To balance the sadness at the thought of our French summer ending, we have an early fiftieth celebration
déjeuner
for Stuart, followed by a
dîner
with
amis
. First there is both a farewell lunch and celebration with Lynette and Michael, who have returned for the occasion, at Relais St Anne in Martel. The gardens are a picture of perfection. The old chapel's windows are framed by ivy, the place flanked by a bed of bright yellow
fleurs
. Their heads sway in the light breeze, a nod to the last days of summer.

Lunch is sublime. The presentation alone is what I imagine a Michelin restaurant to be like. Swirls of
basilic coulis
are artfully arranged around the gnocchi and
fois gras entrée
, while the
plat du jour
is an elegant array of imaginatively presented crisp
pomme de terre
and
tomate
nestled beside slivers of rich
canard
. The dessert is the
piece de resistance
, a confection of delicate wafer,
pêche gâteau
and pistachio. It is the lunch of French dreams.

We are grateful that on the same evening as our luscious, indulgent
déjeuner
with Lynette and Michael, Françoise presents a simple supper of home-made olive
pain
, melon and
salade
, served on their terrace overlooking the
jardin
. Over
dîner
, Françoise says in French, ‘There's no smoke without fire,' when conversation has turned to Monsieur Chanteur and his old-school ways. Even their friendship with him has taken a turn for the worse. It is both poignant and telling that he has told them that apparently even his fifteen-year-old grandson declared, the last time Monsieur Chanteur visited his family, ‘I hope this is the last time I ever see you.' Jean-Claude thinks he belongs to a generation that is long past, for his views are unyielding and unbending. So much so that Jean-Claude, at seventy himself, says it's like being with his father.

Tradition and formality still linger in the country, far from Paris. Sometimes when Jean-Claude is walking Henriette he encounters Monsieur Chanteur, sitting with the Dals on their bench. After first greeting Brigitte with the customary kiss on each cheek, Monsieur Chanteur as the ‘ancestor' — the eldest person present — is greeted next, before it is the turn of Monsieur Dal, despite it being his home.

We always find out fascinating insights from the Chanels, both about our village and French life. When we eat in their
jardin
on the upper terrace, Françoise and I are seated so that we overlook the park-like garden. She tells us that in a restaurant it is always the custom to seat the women so they can see the view. When Jean-Claude serves the champagne, he tells us that it is not the done thing to allow the cork to make a popping sound. This would be a distraction from the gentle flow of conversation over
dîner
. At home, this is not something we would give a second thought to, especially when it's the significant sound of a champagne cork popping.

It is altogether a day to remember, with new French friends and old friends from home. Stuart's soon-to-be birthday is the ultimate jewel in the crown; all the work we've done on our
petite maison
, achieved well before fifty.

Like a sheepdog nipping at our heels, the cooler morning air is a harbinger of autumn. In the last few days before departure, the first hint of chill that descends on Cuzance does on our hearts as well. Cutting my
lavande
down to ensure it flourishes in the future is both a sad and symbolic act. It is made even more so as it's still in full bloom.

A few discordant notes always disturb my romantic cocoon. There has been a final summer surge of
les mouches
in our
maison
. Their constant background buzz is almost in rivalry to our ongoing cries of, ‘Where do they keep coming from?' and ‘How do they keep getting in?' They are the consequence, as Jean-Claude informs us, of a farmer on the edge of the village cleaning out his sheep sheds. Windows open, windows shut; nothing works at all to dispel them. How well we remember our notebook notations from five years ago, the very criteria that formed our checklist for buying Pied de la Croix. Don't ever buy a house next to sheep, for the invasion of flies will dispel all passionate thoughts of wanting to buy a little house in France. What we didn't know was that the invasion could extend from the
peripherique
of the village. The aroma of pig wafts across nightly. Paris this is not.

Towards the end of our two-month summer
sojourn
, the tentacles of our other life start to reach out across the oceans in between and enfold me again. Thoughts of our reunion with our beloved little Henri flood my thoughts, as well as a reunion with our family, friends and my students. Soon it will be time to pick up the threads of my other self and stitch that life into place again.

For now, as time passes as quickly as a ripe
pomme
falling from our apple tree, I creep out before the first glimmer of light. The stars are still peeping through the velvet sky and the last of the night air is crisp and damp. Startled
lapin
s pause in their play and look my way from under the curved street lamps. Once the day breaks, I creak open
la grange
door and set to with my wheelbarrow. The silence is so complete and encompassing that I feel utterly alone in my own special
petite
world.

Three full moons is a full measure of our Cuzance summer. The next full moon I see will be shining in a band of bright light at home. I am so utterly immersed in my country life that everyday life at home seems altogether remote; it is another country in every sense.

Life in Cuzance is an ongoing dichotomy. By the end of every day, the morning always seems an improbably long time ago. Each day contains a short story, book-ended by the rising and setting of the sun. While a day seems to stretch forever, it is also a constant chorus of ‘
Bon appétit'
. Our village is a fragment of the whole of France, for three times a day the refrain is like the circles in a pond, rippling out when a stone is dropped.
Bon appétit
is carried on the soft summer air like the flight of a swallow.

Both Marinette in her familiar blue and white

When I'm in Paris, my heart sings; when I'm in Cuzance, a full symphony plays. As the sun draws its shutters ever earlier, it signals the day when we too draw the heavy wooden shutters of Pied de la Croix closed one last time. May the snow not envelop you too heavily, I always murmur in a sad farewell to our
petite maison
. Who knows what will transpire in the year until we return? What I do know is the symphony in my heart will be at its fullest crescendo, when once again I pause before entering under the symbolic stone-encased heart, and then tiptoe in for my loving reunion with Pied de la Croix.

When in Cuzance, in our beloved
petite maison
, I never feel like a foreigner in a foreign land. I immerse myself fully in my French country life. When we leave I try to look
tout droit
, straight ahead, but my heart always looks back.

Like rain trickling down the
fenêtre
, the weeks have simply slipped away. At the outset there is always tomorrow, with a glorious summer still stretching before us. And then, like a favourite old jumper caught on a barbed wire fence, it has torn, rapidly unravels and cannot be repaired. The wool flutters forlornly on the fence. With time it will fade and then eventually be whisked away on the vicious winter wind. The day will come when we too, the
rénovation
Australians, are a faded recollection. And as the old people of the village become but a memory, our presence will also simply be part of the long-ago chapters we wrote upon the stone walls of our
petite maison.

So the golden summer unfurls and flies away. As I prepare to take a final farewell glance at the
très joli
steps, I hold happiness in my hands. I pause and let my eyes linger on the symbolic stone-encased heart. It holds a whole history in its engraving that I will never fully know. We have been carving our own history. Who knows who will follow in our footsteps in our little corner of France? That is an indeterminate fragment of the future. For now, I step one last time over the stone entrance smoothed by the footsteps of decades and the French farmers before us.

Life at home in Australia always seems to move at a rapid pace, for such is life for all in today's world. Yet when we return to Cuzance, time seems to have passed it by. Time has almost imperceptibly slowed. It is only the quartet of seasons that mark the passing of the years. And so each year, for one fleeting summer, we step back into a world that is gentler, that moves more slowly, a place where our hearts brim with contentment and happiness. It is a place of peace, of solitude. Even when silver sheets of rain tumble down, the arms of Pied de la Croix still wrap us warmly in its embrace.

As the decades pass, when the day comes to turn the key in the lock of Pied de la Croix for the very last time, knowing there will never be another Cuzance summer, my heart will be heavy with unbearable sadness. It will be the end of what has been our other, glorious French life.

What I do know is that we have lived a life of dreams come true and that my precious memories of Pied de la Croix will always be indelibly imprinted. For now, I resolutely take one final loving glance, knowing that I am privileged indeed to return to our other life, our French summer, each year.

Fin

David Tenenbaum, of Melbourne Books, for the joy of offering me a contract for my first memoir.
Our House is Not in Paris
was Melbourne Books' first ebook, and then their first ebook to go to print. The day I got my contract was one of the most exciting of my life. The icing on the cake — or should that be
gâteau
was when I was given a contract for my second memoir and ‘subsequent books in the
Our House'
series. Knowing that after writing my first book the next would be published, with readers already waiting to read more about our other life, was an ecstatic feeling.
Très merci beaucoup,
David.