The Upside of Down (15 page)

***

Though Darryl doesn't see as much of Jean-Pierre as I do, they develop an easy rapport. We grow to trust him and rely on him for advice. He corrects our French, recommends restaurants, suggests holiday destinations and helps us understand the medical system. And as the kids grow, the physio becomes more manageable. Aidan has moved past his crying and squawking phase, instead relying on conversation to divert Jean-Pierre from his task. With his language skills improving rapidly, Aidan is now able to stall effectively in French.

‘Jean-Pierre, did you know that I'm three years old?'

‘Yes, Aidan, I know. Let's get started with physio now.'

‘One day I'll turn four.'

‘Yes, Aidan.'

‘What will I be after I'm four?'

‘You'll be five.'

‘Will I still be Aidan when I'm five?'

Although Jean-Pierre's extremely good-natured about these things, the relationship with him is not always easy. He's usually rushing and occasionally late. By now Aidan has started school at our local French primary school; children in France begin school at age three. If Jean-Pierre isn't on time in the morning, we're pushed to make it to school by the start of class at ten minutes past nine. The school principal is a sixty-year-old woman whose nose reaches about to my sternum. She often loiters outside the school entrance just as the bell sounds, pulling aside tardy parents. With intense eyes, fluttering hands and a well-practised lecture reciting the likely future failure of late children, it's not a good start to the day.

Our apartment building has no public parking so Jean-Pierre parks on the footpath like everyone else in Paris. But after bollards are installed on our footpath, parking becomes a near impossibility for him and an annoying part of his daily visit. My life is complicated by two young children and a lingering case of postnatal memory loss so I occasionally forget our afternoon sessions and am not home when he arrives. When the kids are sick he comes eleven times per week and it feels like our life is ruled by physio appointments.

It's too much for all of us.

Then one day Jean-Pierre takes an extraordinary step. He invites us for dinner. For an American, this is nothing—we'd invite the postman to dinner, and suggest he bring along the butcher, baker and candlestick maker. For a Frenchman, it's significant. The French are social people, but normally this is limited to a close group of friends and family. It's rare to invite ‘outsiders', particularly poor French-speakers. One expatriate couple tell us that after living in France for five years they have never had an invitation to dinner except from other foreigners.

Then there's the issue of Jean-Pierre being our physiotherapist. In just the few years since we began this intimate relationship with the healthcare system in New Zealand, we have already felt the chill of that invisible yet real barrier: professional distance. Health professionals need to give themselves space from the emotional ravages experienced by some of their patients; if they ‘walk the road' too intimately with every patient they could face early burn-out. I understand that and have never pursued friendships with our doctors, nurses or physios. And yet … we have been so deeply moved by even small acts of humanity, of understanding and compassion by them: a ‘just checking in' phone call, extra scripts to make our life easier, a mobile phone number in case there's a problem. Now, a dinner invitation.

The invitation comes, in typical French fashion, a month in advance. He assures us repeatedly that it won't be a formal affair—‘
pas de cravate
'. No ties. Jean-Pierre has invited one other couple, good friends of theirs. ‘Don't worry, the wife is German and speaks English,' he tells me when I express uncertainty about how my French will hold up for an entire evening.

It's a dripping hot summer night when we arrive at his house. The two other guests are already on the terrace sipping champagne. The patio table is drowning in fresh seafood,
pâté
and savoury tarts, resembling a
Bon Appétit
magazine photo shoot. There's not a chip-and-dip in sight. Darryl and I begin with a slice of a homemade terrine. I can no sooner create a dish like this than write a thesis on Descartes, but I'm pretty sure it's not the kind of thing you whip up twenty minutes before the guests arrive.

The hors d'oeuvre conversation begins with light enough topics to allow us to maintain our French without taking our eyes, and hands, off the
Bon Appétit
table.

‘We live in Suresnes … She's American and I'm a New Zealander … We have two boys … He's an economist … We're here with the OECD … Yes, we love living in France so far.'

But before we can finish our first glass of top-rate champagne the gears have changed, the French have moved on to meatier topics and we're digging around for past participles, conditional perfects and unlearned vocabulary.

‘New Zealand has forged its own path politically, hasn't it?'

Darryl nods in reply, and then looks down. I can tell he's madly trying to organise a proper response in French. Before he scrounges together a reply, the conversation continues.

‘As an economist, what do you think of the proposed thirty-five-hour work week?' Darryl stares blankly at the questioner, then at me, as if begging for help. Why he thinks I'll be able to lend a verb or two is unclear as he knows I'd struggle to answer the question intelligently in English. A few minutes later the spotlight's on me.

‘How do Americans feel about the Kyoto Protocol? Why won't Clinton sign it?' I wish I could rant on about how I want him to sign it, along with the International Criminal Court and half a dozen other policies which are sensible and would improve my country's standing overseas. But I'm worried I'll end up saying the opposite. The French are keen to talk politics—and popular culture, music, literature—at dinner parties. But it's excruciating in a not-yet-second language. Jean-Pierre's friends wade on patiently with us, though for them it must be like trying to discuss Nietzsche with a toddler.

By the time we move inside to begin dinner the chatter has dropped down a few notches to more accessible topics. We've already eaten too much and I'm wishing I had given myself more expansion room by opting for a looser, less French skirt. The table is not exactly our definition of ‘informal'. Laid with the best china and crystal, including knife holders, three wine glasses per person and well-polished silver, it's an intimidating sight. Jean-Pierre and his wife Karine hurry about in their average size Paris kitchen, about as big as an American walk-in closet.

Soon the appetiser arrives. Thick, smooth wedges of
foie gras
are carefully laid on the plates in front of us. Rich and filling, I spread a thin layer on my toast, pausing to enjoy the intensity of taste on my virginal taste buds. As I listen to the rapid-fire conversation and laughter, watching Jean-Pierre rib Darryl about rugby, I'm surprised to feel tears gathering in my eyes. I glance down, retreating from the conversation to collect myself.
What's going on?
I am moved by who Jean-Pierre is becoming in our lives. This warm Frenchman, with his strong hands and sensitive heart, is now so committed to keeping Aidan and Oliver well. He knows them. He can pick when they're poorly and he understands their routines, their quirks and their moods. And we know him, his strengths and his weaknesses. Our lives are totally enmeshed. Right or wrong, despite professional distance, how could we not have become friends?

The meal progresses in a leisurely fashion, with plenty of conversation allowing time to digest and make space for the main course—
blanquette de veau
, a creamy veal stew. It's cooked to perfection, reminding me of a French friend's rule of entertaining: never serve a dish to guests until you have made it successfully eight times for your own family. I would never again entertain if forced to follow this guideline. I grew up in a family where the foreign culinary influences primarily came from south of the border rather than across the Atlantic. In our house, entertaining meant an oversized pot of steaming chilli on the stove with some hot corn bread on the side. It was a warm and comforting cuisine that definitely didn't involve days of precise cooking, a full morning at the
marché
and an eight-week course in
Art de table
. Where besides France is table-setting an art? The end result can be a wonder to behold though not realistically achievable for someone like me who still can't negotiate a tablecloth on an ironing board.

It's past midnight when we begin the cheese course. Naturally, we're completely out of our cheese-league here. Even after several years in France, when asked by the
fromager
what we would like to buy, Darryl and I inevitably end up staring at him, expressionless, mumbling ‘
Du fromage, s'il vous plait
…' Some cheese, please.

But we know enough to realise that Jean-Pierre isn't serving us wimpy, expatriate cheeses—the kind that can be purchased in our local grocery store. No, these are runny and gooey with rough and rugged rinds, all the hallmarks of major league cheese. We wade in slowly.

It's past two in the morning by the time we have finished dessert and coffee, begging off after-dinner drinks in an attempt to get home before our babysitter's bill runs into four digits. We seem to spend twenty minutes on the kissing phase, doubling up on some people and missing others, restarting the process after each foray back into conversation. Mentally, we're exhausted; an extended evening of speaking only French is still the intellectual equivalent of riding the
Tour de France
. But we leave knowing we have been spoiled. Jean-Pierre and Karine must have been working on this meal for days: every vegetable painstakingly chosen, each spoon polished and properly laid, wines carefully selected and the food flawless. For someone who tends to try to do everything in five minutes, I'm humbled by their preparation and attention to detail for us. They, our friends, have given us a generous gift, as only the French can do.

9

NORTH AND SOUTH

It's Christmas Eve 1998, our second one in Paris, and I'm at the GP's office, worried about three-month-old Oliver's lungs.

‘
Il va bien, Madame. Partez en vacances
.' He's fine, she reassures confidently. Of course, take your vacation.

Others must experience this odd emotion at one time or another when shooed out of the doctor's office with such assurances, half-relieved but half-wondering. I want to be calmed by her words, but something's still scratching uncomfortably.

He doesn't seem fine to me.

Two days later, we're in front of a roaring fire in an ancient farmhouse we have rented in Normandy, several hours north of Paris. Our sweet sixteen-year-old babysitter and friend Talitha has come from New Zealand to spend several months with us in Paris. We are also joined by some friends from our London days and their young daughter. Retreating to northwest France in late December is not everyone's idea of a holiday; the days are shockingly cold, often coming with a light drizzle, while the brief hours of light can suddenly vanish over the cheese course of an extended lunch. But we haven't come for the weather.

First we visit the Bayeux Tapestry. This seventy-metre-long piece of linen is like nothing we've ever seen before—ancient history on early butcher's paper. It sets out in a continuous picture the story of Duke William's invasion of England in 1066, followed by the defeat of the Anglo-Saxon Harold and the victory over England by Normandy. Though sewn more than 900 years ago, the tapestry's colours remain amazingly vivid and the craftsmanship is remarkable.

All of this is lost on our opinionated three-year-old who finds museums about as stimulating as I find folding the laundry. So, we make deals.

‘Okay, we get thirty more minutes at the museum, then we'll have a play at the park', where we will find an exact replica of the climbing structure from our park in Paris and the searing cold will drill through our thick gloves, but this is parenting compromise.

Down the road, Caen, our closest town, is refreshingly untouched by the vast blanket of tourism normally covering France. This city lost its soul to bombing during World War II, leaving only the occasional remnant of its distant past; hence, the lack of visitors. Today, the old and new rub against one other, revealing a fairly true picture of modern France: crooked little streets lined with centuries-old buildings, back-to-back with McDonald's (
Mac-doh
to the French) and multi-screen cinemas.

Another day we head south to join the crowds at France's third most popular attraction (after the Eiffel Tower and Versailles): Mont St Michel. This rocky island has a monastic presence dating to the eighth century. Besides the main church perched on the tidal outcrop, there are dozens of thousandyear-old buildings cluttering the few narrow streets, all of which are vastly outnumbered by tourists. Even in December.

Back at our rickety house the heating hasn't worked since our arrival, forcing us to rely on the huge open fire.

‘The weather here is even worse than Bristol,' comments our British friend Julian, ‘and that's really saying something.'

Darryl enters the living room carrying hot cups of tea and pastries. ‘Yeah, I just heard the news and apparently tomorrow is meant to be freezing rain. Maybe we should book in an indoor day.'

As he finishes speaking, our conversation is interrupted by what sounds like a teapot whistle from the next room. It's Oliver. Despite our GP's belief that all was fine, his cough has worsened and his breathing is increasingly laboured.

‘On second thought, maybe it should be a hospital day,' he adds, knowing we have waited long enough.

The next morning we leave Aidan in the capable hands of Talitha. We arrive at the local hospital in Caen just as the early shift is reporting for duty. After several return trips to the Emergency over the next two days—with the doctors reassuring us Oliver will soon improve—we decide to go home. He is admitted to our hospital in Paris that day with bronchiolitis: infection and inflammation of the smallest airways. It's not an unusual illness for a baby, but treated seriously in a child with a lung condition.