Ma Folie Française (My French Folly) Page 3

  ‘If you were to excavate here, you would find zee staircase leading underground. However it iz now full of rubble and you would never succeed. I remember my father working here many years ago when zee guard tower was struck by lightning, and zey filled zee stairwell with all zee rubble from zee tower. It would be impossible to make your way through it after all zeese years.’

  ‘Of course it would. Don’t worry Jean-Christophe, we were just curious that’s all. It’s so exciting for us to even imagine there was such a thing under our house, once upon a time. You understand, don’t you?’ I said smiling sweetly.

  ‘Bien sûr, Madame. Well I must be off … C’est l’heure du déjeuner. A bientôt. (It’s lunchtime. See you soon.)’

  ‘A Bientôt Jean-Christophe et Merci,’ we replied.

  As soon as he turned to leave, Jean and I exchanged a conspiratorial grin and headed straight for the barre à mine.

  ‘I’ll start tomorrow during my lunch break,’ he declared. ‘No one will be around and they’ll never know.’

  ‘Great. I can’t wait,’ I said clapping my hands mischievously.

  The following day, Jean couldn’t get back from work quickly enough. He shovelled down his midday meal, avoiding his post lunch espresso, in preference to descending into the bowels of our dungeon-like garage. La Barre à mine stood in wait for the assault, all shiny and new. Jean had quickly changed into old jeans and T-shirt in preparation for the dirty job ahead.

  ‘You’ll give yourself indigestion,’ I cried after him.

  ‘Worry about your own stomach,’ he scoffed.

  With a look of dogged determination plastered on his face, the pounding began. The upper levels of fine concrete quickly crumbled under the weight of the powerful barre à mine and within minutes, the first signs of carved stone came to light.

  He scrambled on hands and knees to clear the rubble that surrounded the step. We knew at that moment, we had indeed uncovered the start of something interesting. The pounding resumed, Jean’s enthusiasm peaking as he realised we were onto something big. The sweat now poured from his freckled brow and I stood eagerly watching his every move. Having found at least two steps, we realised we would have to stop. He still needed to shower and dress in time to return to work, although it was with much regret that he lay down la barre à mine for the day. I knew she was in for a royal workout tomorrow.

  Several days passed and we remained totally enthralled with our secret, archaeological quest. No one had even noticed our comings and goings, for once. Usually, we couldn’t step out the front door without someone stopping to say hello and enquire about our health or state of affairs. Jean had cleverly picked his time to coincide with the village ‘siesta’. That time of the day, in most European villages and towns, when every street and laneway resembles a lifeless, ghost town. When every brightly coloured shutter is firmly closed against the midday light and only the odd, lonely pigeon can be seen wandering the footpaths, pecking on the gourmet crumbs of shaken table clothes.

  With walls over a metre fifty wide, we were positive no sound could be heard outside the confines of the stone garage. We guessed that if someone were going to hear, they would have by now.

  It was the sixth day of our ‘dig’ when I ventured to the corner grocer for some much-needed provisions. I had been too preoccupied with our archaeological excavations, to drive as far as the local supermarché (supermarket), all 1.5 kilometres away. I wasn’t particularly fond of the grocery store owner. She was the official, village sticky beak and gossip, whose sickly sweet smile made me want to gag. She had always demonstrated a healthy amount of sanctimonious self-worth but since her beloved husband had recently been appointed as Mayor to our fine, little shire, her elitist attitude has soared to dizzying new heights. Her eyes glistened with newfound self-approval, which bellied her poor and unexceptional beginnings. She constantly charged too much for her shop-goods and gave very little service in return. However, as the newly elected Mayor’s wife, she felt compelled to look her very best at all times and must have spent ages coiffing and preening each morning, as her grooming was always impeccable. She paraded about in elegant, matching twin-set, tailored skirts and lengths of cultured pearls but true to her country heritage, protected her fine garments with an imposing collection of hideous, floral aprons.

  I remained patiently diplomatic whenever in her presence, and I am sure she never once suspected my annoyance or disdain.

  ‘Bonjour Madame Raoul. Vous-allez bien? (Good morning Mrs Raoul. Are you well?),’ she asked sourly through her plastic smile.

  ‘Très bien Merci, Madame. Et vous? (Very well, thank you Madame. And you?)’ I replied, in politically correct fashion.

  ‘Pas Très bien! No good at all! My poor husband and I haven’t been able to rest for several days, due to that infernal noise. I have a constant headache and it is giving my poor husband severe indigestion, which is no good at all, considering his new and important position as Mayor. He needs his rest, Mon pauvre petit choux (my poor little cabbage).’

  ‘Of course … what noise is that?’ I asked red-faced. ‘I hadn’t noticed any particular noise myself, lately.’

  ‘Impossible! The entire village has heard it. Well … we are not quite sure, but it is an incessant BOOM … BOOM … that always seems to start just after lunch. An indefinable sound that appears to be coming from under the house.’

  ‘Is that right? How bizarre,’ I declared, trying earnestly to hide my guilt.

  ‘Oui. It is très étrange. Very strange. You could almost imagine it to be coming from the underground passageways, but surely it couldn’t be. No one has ventured down there for years. C’est trop dangereux. Too dangerous. Only a crazy person would venture into those old, crumbling tunnels.’

  ‘Yes of course, it would be extremely imprudent. Surely no one would be foolhardy enough to go down there,’ I replied, my hands trembling as I grabbed random tinned items off the shelves.

  ‘I hope not. Anyway, I just wish they would stop. They are disturbing half the village during siesta,’ she yelled; now hot with anger. ‘All my customers are complaining and when we find out who the culprit is, we will be very angry,’ she said, scrunching her chubby fists into tight, white-knuckled balls, then adding with her maple syrup smile, ‘That will be 75 Francs, s’il vous plait, Madame Raoul.’

  ‘Oh … Oui … bien sûr. (of course.),’ I replied, only vaguely aware of my actions as I handed over a one hundred Franc note.

  ‘Well … I hope you find the culprits … bonne chance. (Good luck.),’ I replied, almost running from the store, my semi-laden shopping basket held firmly under my arm as I waved good-bye.

  As I scurried back home, red-faced and panting, I hoped to God that no one, especially Madame the grocer, had noticed my guilt-ridden demeanour. I had to tell Jean quickly, before he started on another day’s energetic, steel-to-stone pounding.

  ‘Jean, we have to stop!’ I yelled at him, as he walked through the front door from work.

  ‘Stop? You mean stop the digging? What for, Marisa?’ he asked; a trifle annoyed by my abrupt manner.

  ‘Because, as it happens … we are keeping half the village from their post-repas du midi (luncheon) siesta. We’ll be guillotined if they find out it’s us!’ I cried. ‘You know how vindictive the French can be!’

  ‘Calm down, Chérie. What are you carrying on about?’

  ‘Madame la Brune told me this morning. I hope to God she hasn’t guessed it’s us. She’s such a suspicious old cow and now that her husband’s Mayor … well … anyway, she told me that an incessant BOOM … BOOM was keeping half the village from their siesta, and she believed it was someone playing around with the underground passages. She said that the noise echoes all over the village. She also said that they are all very tired and very, very irate!’ I rambled nervously.

  ‘Mon Dieu! (My God!)’ he exclaimed. I didn’t think of that. Of course it would … bien sûr. It’s cavernous down there. The sound must reverberate throughout t
he entire network of chambers. Merde! (SHIT!)’

  ‘You can say that again. Merde and double Merde!’ I laughed, now realising the comical situation we had innocently created.

  ‘God, I hope no one has told Jean-Christophe; otherwise he’s bound to put two and two together and tell the whole village. We’ll be discovered in no time.’

  ‘Hopefully not … though you have to admit, it’s quite funny. I mean, here we are thinking we are being pretty darn clever, digging our little secret hole, and in the meantime half the village has heard us.’

  ‘SHIT!’ Jean replied loudly, a large grin on his face, followed by a loud chuckle.

  We both laughed for several minutes. The entire situation was a farce. We could well envisage all these little old French men and women, tucked neatly in their beds or seated comfortably in their reclining, padded armchairs, settling in for their daily, afternoon nap, when suddenly they would be shaken to their brittle bones by the pounding echo of steel on stone. Over a period of five days, we had, with no malicious intent, broken the age-old tradition of the siesta, for many of the village’s residents. Quel désastre! (What a disaster!) We could go down in history for this, if found culpable. We decided then and there, no matter how disappointed we were, that our quest would have to stop, here and now.

  ‘We’ll have to backfill it immediately,’ Jean said. ‘We can’t leave any traces of us digging down there, just in case someone notices. And la barre à mine will have to go. It’s too obvious.’

  ‘I agree. We’ll hide it in the cellar under the apple crates. No one but us ever goes down there.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll fill in the hole today after lunch … quietly,’ he grinned, holding his index finger to his lips.

  ‘Good idea. Now let’s eat.’

  Following a light and rather reflective lunch of tinned Petits pois et carottes (French peas and carrots) and bread, we both wandered down to the garage for one final look. There in midst of ancient rubble and dirt were the beginnings of our potential ‘Love tunnel’. Jean had uncovered the remains of an ancient spiral staircase, leading deep beneath the recently concreted, garage floor. It was such a shame to cover it up. I could hardly bare to watch.

  ‘What an anticlimax. There goes our “tunnel of love”,’ I said defeated.

  ‘We’re in France, Marisa … we don’t need a tunnel,’ he replied, an irreverent smirk on his handsome face.

  So the garage floor was returned to its initial state and no one, except for Jean and I, would ever be any the wiser, we hoped. For several days, the mysterious pounding was the favourite topic of conversation at every local café and bar. Everyone agreed how annoying it had been at the time, yet now, after its mysterious disappearance, they missed its presence in a masochistic sort of way. You see, in sleepy French villages, not a lot happens. So any new topic of conversation, good or bad, is eagerly received and even though we had caused an almighty disturbance, we remained content in the thought that we had also given the villagers something new to complain about. For, as I have learnt during my brief stay, there is nothing more pitoyable (pitiful) than a blue-blooded Frenchman without a decent gripe?

  CHAPTER 3

  Les Chambres D’Hôtes

  (THE BED AND BREAKFAST)

  Life at La Maison de la Coquille was hectic at the best of times. Spring saw the hefty restorations finish and the pandemonium of interior decorating begin. We had created three en-suited bedrooms for rental and another bedroom with separate bathroom, for ourselves. In an attempt to be constantly more original than the next person, I created name plates for each room, using exotic destinations as my theme and decorating them accordingly. They were ‘Isle of Skye’, ‘Whitsunday’ and ‘Koh Samui’. Created as tiny ‘islands of peace’ floating merrily on our second floor, each one coloured with home invented, ochre-based paints and finished with my own hand sewn touches.

  Situated on the first floor were two generously proportioned, split-level salons, both with monumental granite fire-places, one which bore an ancient coat of arms engraved upon its vast lintel, the other a giant slice of oak. A 15th century water chamber of solid granite sat suspended from the exterior walls of the salon and was considered quite a bonus. It placed our home in the upper echelon of village haut-monde, as interior water chambers were a true luxury in ancient times.

  Further, a large dining room furnished with a three metre long Couturier’s table and an ornate 18th century mirror, which had at one time graced the halls of some Provincial Chateau. Finally, on this floor, sat our vast country kitchen, which we filled with treasures and bric-a-brac purchased on our country jaunts. Copper pots and pans hung from an antique wooden ladder accompanied by bouquets of fragrant lavender and roses. Every room was given the personal touch and the walls had taken on the soft golden hue of yester-year. Antique shop owners and Broccante stores (second-hand stores) became our new best friends, as we searched for original fittings for each newly created space.

  As the European summer approached at Concorde speed, so did my increasing paranoia.

  ‘Would it all be good enough? Were the curtains the right colour? Could I clean things until my knuckles bled? How disturbed could I become? Would I physically survive the summer onslaught, or would I die or be institutionalized before the first twelve months were up?’

  Of course, to add to the generalised mayhem, I did what every sane and self-preserving person does in these circumstances. I purchased a puppy. And not just any puppy. No, I was determined to have the most distinctive puppy dog in town, so I dragged my ‘whyis-this-happening-to-me?’ husband, to a breeder of rare chiens about 50 kilometres from Treignac in the rugged hills north of Ussel.

  We returned with a sandy haired, pyjama wearing, Sharpei bundled upon my lap, whom we named ‘Guangzhou’ or ‘Guang’ for short. He was so timid and tiny and his grotesquely wrinkled skin often made it difficult to distinguish his top from his bottom. Laurent, our recently arrived, village Vet poked about for ages before finding the correct hole to place the thermometer. These Belgian vets have a lot to learn, I thought to myself, then realised it was his way of breaking the ice. ‘Guang’ was a baby orb of sagging, silky skin, whom at close inspection resembled a hundred year old man, rather than an eight-week-old pooch. He was my pile of crinkled joy, though the little parcels of caca (poo) he left about the place, were not exactly the type of gifts I longed for, at present.

  My darling Jean set off to work each morning, breathing a hefty sigh of relief as he waved Mummy and pampered pooch Au revoir.

  Well, this was my first attempt at running a business, so a little self-induced psychosis was an unquestionably normal condition in my opinion. Of course, I wanted everything to scream perfection. I am a self confessed perfectionist, have been most of my life. As a brave psychologist once informed me, ‘You are compelled to be everything to everyone, all the time’. How bad could that possibly be?

  As a direct result of my delusional insecurities, I project myself as the ‘quintessential hostess’. Always the eager beaver; yearning to please. My success in my current role was solidly confirmed, as our widespread notability increased at ‘Mach 3’ speed. Travelling journalists visited frequently, leaving us with positively glowing reports of their short sojourns. In no time at all, we were to appear in the national media and on the glossy, travel pages of ‘Ailleurs’, ‘Avantage’ and the Air France in-flight magazine. Scores of visitors came from near and far, flashing their cut-out magazine articles and beaming satisfactorily, as they handed over their French Francs and American Express travellers’ cheques. All was well in the world and our Crédit Agricole bank account, for the first time in history, was affirmed ‘in the black’.

  I found myself entertaining the Encyclopaedia Britannica of European who’s who, as well as an assortment of unlikely, bordering on unsavoury characters, who tested my multi-lingual skills on a daily basis. From the urban Princess, to the projectile-vomiting Dutchman. From the arrogant American, who directed his questions via the
interpretation of his wife, to the highly amiable, Belgian, nuclear-rocket Scientist. We greeted them all, regardless of race, age or creed. As my language skills improved, so did my enjoyment of French country life. I became more relaxed in my position as the ‘Hostess with the mostess’ and as keen as I was to please, a newfound confidence encompassed me.

  No more did the ugly, uncouth traveller walk all over me. I had written my new manifesto and intended on following it. I religiously defended my right to accept whom I felt deserved to stay at my elegant establishment. ‘Sorry, we’re full tonight’, was my new catch phrase. One learns the tricks of the trade quickly, if one wishes to keep their sanity in check.

  The priceless freedom I gained from running this type of establishment was, that no longer could the nosey, ‘get-a-life’ neighbours, question who was coming or going from my door. People entered and exited incessantly and even the most adapt sticky beak, found it difficult to keep up. My God, it must drive them insane with curiosity, I thought. Good. It’ll give them a purpose in life, if not a slightly psychotic one.

  Our friendship bloomed with the neighbourhood Boulanger, René, who enjoyed our regular morning custom and treated us with exaggerated respect. He was a jolly bloke from the ‘burbs’ of Aube, a province just north of Paris, who spoke more slang than French and held a repertoire of jokes that border-lined on a triple X rating. I decided, that had he been born ‘down-under’, he would certainly have been a beer swilling, pub-crawling, ‘Bondi boy’. His perennial joviality was refreshing and I was soon au fait with enough slang, to understand things that I shouldn’t have. He baked the best croissants au beurre (butter croissants) in town and their deliciously intoxicating perfume, wafted through the lofty windows of our home each morning around 6am.

  There’s nothing like the aroma of freshly baked baguettes or calorie-laden pastries, to stir the loins of the average Frenchman or woman, as we soon discovered. Countless were the mornings that we woke to the wholehearted, verbal delights of our female guests. We soon realised that the acoustic linings we had employed in our renovations, were no match for the early morning throes of French lovemaking. Communal breakfasts were most amusing on those particular mornings, as we tried to guess, whilst pouring steamy café au lait, who the romantic culprits had been.