Ma Folie Française (My French Folly) (10 page)

BOOK: Ma Folie Française (My French Folly)
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‘I knew I had one somewhere,' he announced triumphant.

‘It's a strange colour, don't you think?' I questioned.

‘
Non … non … il faut secouer
. You must shake it,' he insisted, handing the bottle to a horrified
Gilberto
.

‘It's funny. I thought zey stopped making zem in zat shape bottle years ago,' added
Thibault
.

‘Don't drink it,' I whispered in
Gilberto
's ear, ‘it's likely to poison you.'

‘Zey usually sell zem in cans zese days,'
Thibault
added.

‘You're right
Thibault
,' replied a worried
Gilberto
, ‘I haven't seen a glass bottle like zis in ages.'

‘How long has it been down zere
Fernand
?'

‘Bof. (Um … ) Let me zink … I remember ordering a case in about … let's see… 19 … er … 68,' he replied, letting out a gut-wrenching chuckle.

We all fell into hysterical fits of laughter.
Gilberto
breathed a heavy sigh of relief, realising he would live to see another day.
Fernand
's broad hand slapped him with such force, that the slightly built
Gilberto
almost flew across the room.

‘You didn't zink I would let you drink zat old
Merde
, did you?'

‘Well … I wasn't sure …,' mumbled a shell-shocked
Gilberto
.

‘Zat stuff will kill you for sure. Get some red wine into you, young man … it's zee nectar of zee Gods.'

‘Cheers' we all shouted, clinking our chipped and cracked glasses together. ‘
A la votre
! (To your health!)'

‘So, young
Thibault
, what brings you to zese parts?' questioned
Fernand
.

‘I brought my new Australian friends here to meet you. Aren't you impressed?'

‘
Mon Dieu! L'Australie
! Zat's a long way to come, just to meet me!'

‘
Non, Fernand
… zey live in
Treignac
now … zey have ze
Chambres D'Hôtes
in
Treignac
, on the
Place du Marché
, opposite the church.'

‘Ah ha …
c'est très
bien.
(That's very good.) Cheers,' he shouted again, and once more we clinked and swigged from our questionably clean glasses.

‘Anyway
Fernand
, where were you when we arrived? We didn't see you as we came in.'

‘Behind ze bar,' he replied nonplussed.

‘Behind ze bar? But I didn't see you zere.'

‘
Non
…zat's because I was asleep on ze floor.'

‘How come?'

‘Well … you see …
Jean-Paul, Michel
and I, had a razer heavy session last night …zey left early zis morning. I had to kick zem out in fact. I woke up at one stage during ze night and we were all huddled together in ze middle of ze room.
Putaing
! Zey're a smelly lot,' he laughed. ‘I couldn't believe zat
Michel
was cuddling me like a baby, so I belted him, and set him scurrying. Zat's ze last thing I remember, until you walked in. I heard voices, so I got up.'

We all stared at each other in bemused surprise.

‘
C ‘est le Rhum, mon ami! C'est terrible!
(It's the rum, my friend. It's terrible!)'

‘
Eh, Oui
… Rum can be fatal,' laughed
Thibault
.

‘
Bon… Je vous laisse
… I'll be off…to bed. Leave whenever you're ready, just close ze door behind you.'

‘But
Fernand
, we haven't paid yet.'

‘
Pas de problème
. No worries. Put whatever you zink on ze bar when you leave … I trust you …
A la prochaine
! Until next time!'

With his final goodbye,
Fernand
drifted into the back room behind a moth eaten, moss green curtain, leaving us to our own devices.

‘Didn't I tell you, it would be worth ze trip?' asked
Thibault
.

‘I'll never doubt you again, I promise … cross my heart,' I giggled.

Thibault
threw a 100 Franc note on the crusty, linoleum bar as we left, ample payment for our beverages and the valued added entertainment that accompanied them.

We drifted aimlessly down the sinuous mountain roads towards
Treignac
, our contagious laughter clearly audible above the rumbling engine of our little red car.
Thibault
continued to salute happily at every passing vehicle, as we swerved our way through hairpin bends and over steep valley passes.

‘A day to remember?' laughed
Jean
, winking at me.

‘Without a doubt,' I replied, as the wind caught my scarf, sending it and my unbridled laughter, flapping wildly in the breeze.

Footnotes

*
Millevaches
– A word in the ancient Occitan language once spoken in the region.
Vaches
– the Occitan word for underground spring.

*
Orangina
– The trademark name of an orange based fizzy drink. It was based on a pure orange pulp and was sold in an orange-shaped glass bottle. The trick was to shake the bottle well, lifting the pulp from the bottom.

CHAPTER 10
Christenings, Communions, and Other Catastrophes.

I'm going to be a French Godmother. I'm thrilled and excited about the prospect, though I'm hesitant about the compulsory, post-repast speech that I will be expected to make.

Baptisms, communions and other religious events are given great reverence in France and are regarded as momentous occasions worthy of seriously prolonged celebration. Celebrations, which we Anglos would normally organise for a wedding reception, only just suffice under French, country christening standards. Having been honoured by my delightful sister-in-law,
Genevieve
, to assume this important role, I felt a definite responsibility towards my extended family, to do them proud at the post luncheon toast.

I was determined to attack this task alone. I refused to ask
Jean
for help and spent hours researching my trusted English-French dictionary, in the hope of delivering the perfect discourse.

My young, religious
protégé
is my husband's adopted niece,
Cindy
. She is an adorable child, with a will of steel and a smile to melt hearts. Her eyes and thick, lustrous hair are as black as the night, in vast contrast to her pale skin and strawberry pink lips. She's a pretty little thing, who I see blossoming into a very attractive young woman, one day.

Cindy
and I have an easy rapport and bonded from our very first meeting. She was just a toddler at the time and I believe she was intrigued by my comical accent and odd command of her language.

She has grown into a precious, little
Mademoiselle
who knows her own mind and is fiercely independent. Having intelligently been left to choose her own religious path, she has now decided, at the ripe old age of eleven to become a baptised Catholic. She has attended regular, after-school catechism classes and is now spiritually prepared to enter the realm of Sunday choir and communion.

The quintessential village
Curé
, a rotund, Friar Tuck look-a-like, has welcomed me to my position with a jovial vivacity, which I find an uncommon characteristic for a Catholic priest. He is a true ‘
bon vivant
' whom I think, does his calling a wealth of good. If all catholic priests were as charming and liberal minded as him, there would be a stampede to join the club.

I have been invited to read from the scriptures during the official mass, which I'm really quite nervous about. At least that should be a simpler task than performing the communion speech. I can practise my reading beforehand and there's nothing to memorise. After the odd baptismal toast, I'm concerned my memory may falter and things could go terribly wayward.

Although initially determined to go it alone, I have reluctantly resorted to seeking a little outside help. I'm keeping this a secret from
Jean
, as I dearly wish to impress him with the gargantuan leaps and bounds I've achieved. I'm determined to prove to him that my language skills have improved through sheer perseverance and endless hours of solitary study.

My naughty but nice friend,
Thibault
, has generously offered some literary assistance and has promised our assignment will remain strictly confidential. ‘Mum's the word', I told him. He laughed at my terminology initially, then agreed it would be best if we used the utmost discretion. ‘He is the truest of friends', I reflected, as I memorised the short but apparently, very effective discourse he had helped me create.

The day of judgement arrived under a blaring,
Corrèzien
sun. The perfect day for a cool morning of prayer and ceremony, followed by an afternoon come evening, of copious Champagne and mega, culinary indulgence.

We arrived at the ancient stone church to be greeted by a throng of relatives and friends, all dying for their first aperitif of the day, though I do suspect a few had already partaken in a pre-emptive, celebratory tipple at the local café. I could have done with a quick Cinzano Rosso on ice myself, purely for medicinal value, of course. I was a little shaken by the size of the crowd and the summer heat was proving uncomfortable. My polyester sundress clung to my damp breasts and I was glad of its loose flowing skirt about my thighs, catching the light breeze.

I gladly proceeded into the cool, cloistered interior and sat myself in the front row, to the right of the altar as requested by ‘Friar Tuck'. We had a great view of the proceedings from here but were in full view of the entire congregation, which meant we would have to behave. No hanky panky in the pews, I warned
Jean
in a whisper. I'm the Godmother.

It was a lengthy ceremony, as there were several children involved. It was also an unusual, religious celebration, as not only were children being baptised but they were also receiving their First Holy Communion and some were even being confirmed into the Church, all in the one process. This was taking the wording ‘package deals' to the extreme. I had never seen religious ceremonies
en masse
in Australia, but the French obviously have it down to a fine art. This conveyor belt style ceremony was also a convenient and less costly alternative for the families involved, as they could throw just one large party, rather than the alternate three. Additionally, it saved on the purchase of several hideously frilly, white dresses and veils that would never again see the light of day.

My scripture reading went off without a hitch and I was sincerely proud as I acknowledged a nodding of approving heads and smiles from the congregation. One down, one to go, I reflected. After much kissing on both cheeks and a multitude of required photo opportunities, we sped towards the much-awaited
Repas du Midi
and associated drinks. It was thirsty work standing in a packed church for ninety minutes and we could hear the bubble–filled,
Kir Royals
beckoning us from beyond the limestone walls.

The reception of sorts was to be held on the property of a close family friend. This wonderfully gregarious couple had generously prepared a lavish, alfresco setting under the gentle and welcoming shade of a flowering Linden tree. It sat deep within an emerald hollow of their country garden and was picture perfect. The site oozed subtle elegance and was extremely appealing on such a sultry afternoon.

‘
C'est parfait
! (It's perfect!)' I said to our hosts, as I chose my spot under the dappled shade.

‘
Merci
, Marisa,' they replied. ‘We are glad you like it.'

‘It's beautiful … isn't it
Jean
?'

‘
Superbe
!' he replied, patting our host on the back in jovial appreciation.

‘Well I think we better get some refreshments going. I'm dying of thirst,' called
Francis
, my fellow Godparent and partner in crime.

The popping of Champagne corks commenced and the
Crème de Cassis
began to flow. The crisply chilled, bubbly nectar was swallowed with rapid abandon as glasses clinked in salutation. Thank goodness for those delectable, little inventions,
hors d'oeuvres
, because if it weren't for them, I would have suffered from a rapid case of premature inebriation.

The gastronomic courses arrived in rapid succession and were devoured amidst an eruption of accolades and cheers. I have never understood how the French manage to digest such copious amounts of food at one sitting. I'm larger than most of the other women present, yet I cannot, no matter how hard I try, keep up with any one of them. They eat like there is no tomorrow and I admire, somewhat enviously, their total lack of restraint. Where does it all go? They're such a petit lot and obesity doesn't seem enter the national vernacular, as it does in our lives.

After a solid, four hours of wining and dining, it was unanimously concurred a digestive interval was called for. A friendly match of
Pétanque
(Boules or Bocce) was suggested and we staggered arm in arm from our comfortable surrounds, onto the neighbouring gravelled playground.

Teams were assembled and the games began. It was probably the most unlikely match of
boules
I have ever witnessed. An alcohol induced swagger was not conducive to throwing a metal ball in a straight line, nor did the intense heat of the afternoon help our endeavours. The park was desperately lacking in shade and we struggled to keep our cool between rounds.

Francis, the jolly godfather, suddenly took a turn for the worst, his usually tanned complexion taking on a pallid shade of green. He speedily disappeared behind a hedge of rambling roses and wasn't seen for at least ten minutes. When he eventually emerged, his cheeks had regained a little blush and he declared himself ready to take on the world. We all doubled with laughter and I grabbed him by the arm and dragged him giggly, back towards the party house.

Strong coffee and a splendid
Gateau au Citron
(Lemon cake) decorated in appropriately girlish pink and white icing, awaited us under the Linden tree. My moment to shine had finally arrived and I blessed my lucky stars that everyone, including myself, was under the influence of our lengthy
repas
and would therefore be unlikely to find fault with my toast. I chose my moment and tinkled my crystal flute high in the air.

‘Hmm … hmm …
Attention, S'il vous plaît
,' I called above the giggles and raucous conversation. ‘
S'il vous plaît!
'

‘Silence! Silence!'
Genevieve
cried. ‘
Marisa
, our new Godmother has something important to say.'

‘
Merci
,
Genevieve
,' I replied. ‘I would like to give a short speech in honour of this very special occasion.'

‘
Bravo
,' the assembly cheered, applauding my presence.

I commenced my well-rehearsed phrases before the admiring gathering. There was unbroken silence as I continued with greater found confidence and I smiled to myself victoriously.

‘…
et pour conclure, allez vous faire foutre par un gros noire avec une bite molle
…
Merci
…,' I concluded, raising my glass.

The silence lingered longer than was appropriate and I was suddenly aware of the bewildered shock on certain faces and wide grins on others. Then, to my great delight, the entire assembly rose in standing ovation.

‘
Bravo … bravo … encore … encore
!' they yelled and cheered.

The only person, who remained stunned and silent, was
Jean
. How sweet, I thought, he's completely overwhelmed. He can't believe his ears, that's all.

He glared at me, shaking his handsome head, as the rest of the crowd, applauded me, calling for more.

‘Who did you learn that from?' he whispered sarcastically.

‘Why? No one … I made it up myself,' I lied.

‘That's impossible
Marisa
… don't lie to me,' he growled.

‘I'm not lying … it's the truth, I swear,' I replied.

‘Well in that case,' he added, ‘you have achieved an astonishing command of the local slang,' he replied snidely.

‘Slang? What slang? I worked hard on that speech … look … they loved it,' I cried, turning toward the appreciative crowd.

‘That's for sure … they can't believe their ears and they are too pissed to be shocked. No wonder they loved it. You're lucky you're amongst adoring family and friends'

‘Why? What did I do wrong? Did I say something wrong?' I asked, now anxious.

‘You tell me. You invented it, didn't you?'

‘Oh… all right … all right! You've caught me out. I asked
Thibault
to help me because I wanted it to be perfect. He promised me that it would be a speech to remember.'

‘Now, why doesn't that surprise me? I should have known he would be behind this. He's a cheeky bastard,' he said, suddenly laughing.

‘What have I done? What did I say?' I questioned, my heart beating faster.

‘Well, basically,' he jeered. ‘You've just intimated, in a particularly lewd fashion, that these lovely, God fearing people, should finish their day by doing some quite obscene, and in some countries, illegal sexual acts, with a tall, exceptionally well-endowed man of the African persuasion.'

I sat silently horrified. As I glanced about me there wasn't a dry eye in the group. Tears of laughter rolled off every cheek and I now realised why my little speech had caused such a sensation. It was not exactly the kind of result I'd dreamed of but a memorable sensation never the less. My little niece giggled and blushed as she hid behind her mother's chair. What kind of Godmother was I? A disastrous one. Thank God the
Curé
hadn't stayed on after the luncheon to hear this. My poor in-laws must have been reeling with horror, and yet, as I looked their way, I could see nothing but bemused delight on their faces.

‘
Oh mon Dieu! Genevieve, Georges … Je suis tellement désolée
! I'm so terribly sorry. Can you ever forgive me?'

‘Marisa … don't worry … it was fantastic! Sensational! We didn't know what to expect, and yes … it was a little unusual for a Baptismal speech but…well…it was very funny. Can you say it again?'

‘Yes … yes …
Marisa
…
encore, encore
,' the others hollered.

‘No I couldn't. I'm so embarrassed as it is.'

‘Please
Marisa
,' they pleaded.

‘Well … if you insist …,' I laughed, turning to
Jean
, who shook his head in amused disbelief.

And so, I repeated my surprisingly popular speech, much to
Jean
's despair.

By all accounts, my family and friends were more forgiving than I deserved and fortunately all had excellent senses of humour. Had this happened before a more
Bourgeois
gathering, I would have died a slow, painful, social death and would probably have been deported for lewd behaviour. Thankfully, I was amongst people who loved and appreciated me. That day, I became a genuine member of my French family and perhaps their preconceived image of me changed a little that afternoon, but oddly enough, I knew it was for the best. They saw a new side of me and they liked it. Their opinion of my friend
Thibault
… well that was a matter yet to be discussed.

BOOK: Ma Folie Française (My French Folly)
10.56Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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