Ma Folie Française (My French Folly) (13 page)

We gladly made our way to
Lacoste
's for the opening day's celebrations. It was one of those rare celebrations when
Pierre
would allow the merchants to decorate his bar with posters, streamers and red balloons. The atmosphere was intoxicating, with talk of this ‘youngster's' bouquet, ‘perhaps passionfruit or cherry', like last year's, being the only topic of conversation.
Jean
and I never let a season pass without purchasing a case or two, to mark the occasion and it was consumed, as it should be, before the winter arrived.

With winter, no sooner had we stopped discussing
cèpes
,
truffles noirs
and that year's grape harvest, that new conversations of Christmas, New Year and recent snowfield reports, besieged us. As the year had started, so again it would end with yet another celebration or
Jour de Fête
.

‘Free-days in France'

11 paid Public holidays

104 weekend days

25 paid work-holiday days

And they're just the official ones!

VIVE LA FRANCE!

Agnes
was a beautiful woman whom I'll always remember. We had become steadfast acquaintances during my early months in
Treignac
and she always took an avid interest in our progress and the comings and goings at
La Maison de la Coquille
.
Agnes
and
Vincent
, her elderly husband, lived on the opposite side of the market square and we would inevitably bump into each other on market day or on our daily trips to the
René's Boulangerie
.

Agnes
was originally from the northeastern region of
Alsace Lorraine
and her married children were now scattered between
L'Alsace
and
La Régionne Parisienne
(Paris and its outer suburbs).
Corrèze
was her husband's choice of locale, as it was here that his ancestral roots were deeply planted. They had moved to his childhood home as a young couple and had resided in the same house on the square ever since.

Agnes
was a woman of great eloquence and poise, which instantly attracted me. She spoke, what I thought to be perfect French and in her company, I hoped to improve upon my own language skills. In the early days, we were rarely alone in our conversations as her beloved
Vincent
was never far from her side. They were the perfectly devoted couple and seldom apart. I was quick to notice that my outwardly happy and confident friend,
Agnes
, was in actuality completely dependent on
Vincent
for her personal happiness. It pained me to observe my friend's entire loss of self when the day of poor
Vincent
's demise arrived. She was consumed with grief and this fragile soul was going to need all the support and love, we as a community, could muster. Her children visited as often as physically possible during this period of mourning but their work commitments and the sheer distances they had to cover to reach her, made it a virtually impossible situation for all concerned.

Her eldest son,
Jerôme
, insisted she move to
Alsace
to be under his watchful eye but
Agnes
' nostalgia for her family home in
Treignac
was too strong a bond to break. She decided to stay on, live where her beloved
Vincent
had wished to live out his days, no matter how challenging it would prove to be.

I admired her courage and decided I would encourage and support her to my best abilities.

I would often find her at home alone, her pale blue eyes wet with tears and her previously rosy complexion, grey with sorrow. I would drop in for tea every so often and gradually our affection and admiration for each other blossomed.
Agnes
loved to impress me with her collection of English, fine-bone china, which she had received as a wedding gift so many years ago and it soon become a ‘secret ritual' that once a month we would meet at her house for High Tea
à la Française
(French style).

She adored the age-old Anglo custom of high tea. Fine china, excellent teas and delicate finger food served in her gracefully furnished surrounds. With each visit I witnessed her poise and confidence return. Her complexion regained a gentle glow and she smiled more frequently and under less duress.

I cherished my visits with
Agnes
, not only for her generous cups of Orange Peking and pleasant company but for the many wonderful stories she would share with me. Although at times shy in company, she was a natural raconteur and the memories of her youth and the resistance were an awakening to me. I had never discussed the wars in France with anyone until now.
Jean
had occasionally spoken of his father's youth during World War 2 and I knew a little of his sufferings by the German's hands. Even my own parents who had grown up in war-torn Europe had only ever recounted slithers of their lives to me over the years. Never had I experienced these atrocious events through such clarity of thought and detail or with such bittersweet memory.

Now every word seemed to carry more weight and importance, knowing that I presently resided in the very place where this horrid history took place. Every façade now told a new story and held newfound meaning.

As I was to learn through
Agnes
' words, the
Corrèze
region had been a major stronghold for the
Maquis
or the French Resistance, during the Second World War. Due to the region's rugged, forested terrain and steep impenetrable mountain slopes, it had proved the perfect cache for the resistant fighters and their ammunition stock-holds. The high mountain plateaux proved excellent supply drop points for the English Air force planes and many resistance fighters obtained their arms via this method. They hid their stockpile in deep mountain caves and if local legend is correct, the remains of these arms still exist, guarded carefully by the peasant farmers.

I now acknowledged why there were so many war memorials and plaques throughout this otherwise modest village and the surrounding countryside. Thousands of people had brutally lost their lives in these remote hills whilst fighting for the freedom of their country and the bullet holes in the granite walls of the township, were living proof of their sacrifices.

Agnes's
account of the first wave of German tanks into the sleepy village sent chills down my spine. She vividly described her feeling of utter disbelief and terror, as the massive metal monsters could be heard from miles away rumbling over the cobbled streets into the heart of the village. From that day forward, she would never feel safe again. If these monsters could take away her freedom here in the heart of this gentle country, she could only imagine in horror what they would achieve elsewhere.

Living here now, I found it impossible to envisage this quaint and picturesque village under the occupation of opposing army forces. My admiration for these proud, country folk soared to newfound heights, as I learnt more of their physical endurance and immeasurable courage.

On one of my many visits,
Agnes
asked, whilst pouring our first cup of ‘Russian Caravan' whether I was acquainted with a certain
Madame
Coulloumy
. She lives by the ancient, stone bridge, she explained. I replied that I did know of her vaguely, and I believed her to be the mother of one of the storeowners in the village. She nodded in confirmation.
Agnes
then related the story of this young woman's plight during the occupation. She had been renowned in the village for her delicate, dark-haired beauty and petite figure. A young German officer, who had requisitioned one of the finer homes in the village, had publicly admired her on several occasions but she endeavoured to keep her distance and played ignorant to his romantic advances. Eventually, the officer forced her arm, by offering protection to both her family and herself, if she would only reconsider his improper requests. She finally succumbed. Although she insisted on meeting him in private and tried desperately to hide their liaison, the word soon spread throughout the village and her name was dirt to the general population. In the minds of the villagers she was a traitor and collaborator, who would pay dearly for her actions sooner or later.

On the day of liberation, this beautiful, young war collaborator was shaven and marked with tar. The disgrace of her actions would remain with her until her death and many of the villagers continue to malign her to this day. Here we were at the conclusion of the twentieth century and the scars of war still marked those whom it wouldn't forgive.

After hearing this terrible story, I made a concerted effort to smile at
Madame
Coulloumy
each time I spotted her in town. It happened that she rarely left her little cottage and I could only imagine why. If I could simply show her that someone didn't judge her for her past mistakes. She had barely left childhood when she suffered this condemnation and it pained me to hear of her continued suffering and vilification.

Under such threats of violence and at such a vulnerable age, I can only imagine I would have followed in her shoes. Who can say what one is capable of doing in such horrible circumstances?

Agnes
and I sipped on the final dregs of the teapot and nibbled on the remaining petit fours in silence. This story had shocked me to the core and as we sat in hushed stillness she reached out and touched my hand.

‘It is the way of the world
Marisa
. People have long memories. You cannot change these things.'

‘Maybe we can
Agnes
. We can change little things. We can be less judgemental and perhaps try to let go of old, bitter memories. It's not good for the youth of today to see their elders still so critical and unforgiving of the past. If only people could try to let things go.'

‘Yes, that's the hardest part,
ma chère amie
. Letting go is always difficult for some. Even I find it hard to let go of those terrible days. I'm not happy about this “Twin Village” farce they are trying to force upon us. Why does
Treignac
need to link itself with a German village?' she asked, showing her pain and anger.

‘
Agnes
… it was along time ago. We need to move forward for your grandchildren. This “twin village” ceremony could be exactly what we all need. Something that heals old wounds. Brings people together in an amiable, celebratory way. This has nothing to do with the past.'

‘Perhaps you're right
Marisa
. I'll try to let go … I really will.'

We continued our tea parties for many, many months. I looked forward to each and every visit and only hoped that perhaps these innocent meetings were helping
Agnes
to release her demons. Unfortunately, our tea parties were not to last.

Despite her courageous efforts,
Agnes
had started to lose grip. She was no longer in the best of health and her children became exceedingly alarmed at her significant loss of weight. She could no longer resist their persistent demands and was too weak to fight. She eventually surrendered the family home, in exchange for a new home in
Alsace Lorraine
.

I miss her. I will always miss her timeless elegance and her eloquence. She never did write as promised, as she deteriorated steadily following her departure from
Treignac
. I will remain forever thankful for her generosity of spirit, fine intellect and endless cups of China tea.

Virtually every literary work published about France, sings the fervent praises of
Provence
. I was yet to experience the allure of this famous and much written about province and my excitement grew as we approached the departure date of our southern escapade.

I had been thorough and meticulous in my planning of our little
séjour
, so desirous to achieve perfection in every detail for both
Jean
and I. We had worked long and hard to arrive at this moment and we desperately yearned for a romantic interlude far from the chains of our now, highly successful business.

I had scoured endless guidebooks and magazine features, searching for that ultimate, peaceful solution. Led by the names of villages I had noted in the pages of Peter Mayle books, I eventually reserved a suite at an authentic
Mas Provençal
, close to the renowned, antique-rich village of
L'isle-sur-Sorgue
. It lay within easy driving distance of all the major tourist haunts and would therefore secure us a prime vantage point to start our little adventure.

I had paid a substantial deposit for our accommodation, after securing a decent discount with the owner. He had agreed, as a fellow tourism operator, to reduce the otherwise expensive tariff and I happily mailed off the hefty cheque in anticipation. I had informed him of our approximate arrival time, so I felt sure all would be well on our day of arrival.

‘It's rather expensive, considering it has the same star rating as us.'

‘Well … that's
Provence
for you. They can afford to rip people off down there, because they are guaranteed of a full house at almost anytime of the year. It's not as seasonal as
Corrèze
, so they hike up their prices,' replied
Jean
.

‘At least he gave us a discount … though the reduced price is still dearer than our full tariff. Oh, well … we've saved for this, so I'm not going to get all stressed about the price of things. It's going to be perfect, just you wait and see.'

‘I'm sure it will,
Chérie
,' and with that, he hugged me hard and kissed my cheek. ‘I can't wait,' he whispered tenderly.

‘Neither can I!'

Provence
is quieter in winter and the villages are void of the hordes of noisy tourists that they are obliged to embrace during the warmer seasons. We had chosen to visit the region purposely at this time, knowing that we would be free to amble the sleepy village streets without the jostling of foreign tour buses or masses of day-trippers.

As we entered the
centre ville
of
L'isle-sur-Sorgue
at mid-afternoon, we realised the village was still slumbering from its midday meal.

We decided to take a well-needed stroll through the peaceful streets and stretch our car-lagged bodies. It was a brilliant, clear-skied day and the glacial chill that slapped us, as we stepped from the car, would have frozen the balls from a brass monkey, as my Devonshire-born Granny would have eloquently put it. We held onto each other, coat collars dragged high about our ears, trying desperately to stay warm.

‘My God it's cold. The wind chill factor must be sub zero for sure.'

‘Don't be misled, Marisa.
Provence
can be one of the coldest places in France when the winter
Mistral
blows. People don't realise how unforgiving it can be and all those English tourists that dream of fairytale lives in
Provence
, rarely understand how cold and miserable it can get. That's why there are so many abandoned homes, during the colder months. Once they survive their first winter, they usually end up packing their suitcases and searching out warmer shores. Did you know that the suicide rate here rises considerably when the
Mistral
blows?'

‘Wow! I didn't know that. How depressing!'

‘Yes, in local legends, they speak of the
Mistral
winds sending people round the bend, pushing them to insanity and beyond.'

‘That's incredible. You never hear about that, when people speak of
Provence
. It's all sunshine and
Rosé
, lavender and
Pastis
. What a fairytale.'

‘That's right … it's all just a myth. Well not entirely … it's gorgeous here most of the year and its beauty is unmistakable. Plus, the people are renowned for their gregarious, Mediterranean character and their laid-back
savoir vivre
.'

‘That has to be true, otherwise people wouldn't flock here in their thousands every year, seeking the consummate
Provençal
way of life.'

‘True,
Chérie
. That's what we've come for… a little taste of the south. Hey, look the cafés are opening, let's warm ourselves with a little beverage. This
Mistral
is giving me a headache.'

‘I'm right behind you.'

We entered the sun-bathed interior of the canal-side
Café-Restaurant
, to the twinkling of a tiny bell. The swarthy, unshaven barman smiled softly, nodding his welcome and approval. A sleepy-eyed waiter approached to take our order.

‘
Bonjour, Monsieur-dame. Vous désirez?
(Hello Monsieur, Madame. What would you like?)'

‘
Deux Chocolats chauds au Kirsch, s'il vous plaits.
(Two hot chocolates with
Kirsch
liquor – a clear cherry liquor).'

‘
Bien sûr, Monsieur
. (Of course, sir)'

‘Yum … I love hot chocolate with
Kirsch
, especially on a day like today.'

‘I thought we should kick start the afternoon with something delicious and warm. Keep us going until dinner.'

‘You're full of good ideas, aren't you darling?'

‘I try.'

We let the delicious heat of the sweet, liquor-laden beverage slither down our throats, whilst staring onto the gently glistening waters of the neighbouring canal. The soothing warmth of the pale, winter sun penetrated through our clothes and thawed our frozen limbs.

‘Just what the doctor ordered,
n'est ce pas?
'

‘Absolutely,' I sighed.

‘Though I suppose we should be making a move soon … it's almost three and
Monsieur
Pascal
is expecting us around that time, isn't he?'

‘You're right. I told him around three and by the time we find it …'

We set off carefully following the instructions
Monsieur
Pascal
has forwarded me, yet we managed to lose ourselves up mystical country lanes on several occasions.

‘Half of these laneways aren't marked on this map. It's very confusing.'

‘Don't worry Marisa. We'll get there. It must be around here someplace. We're definitely in the right general area.'

‘Wait a second. Look … over there to your right … I can see a sign of some sort.'

It was indeed the green and gold sign of the ‘
Gîtes de France
' association, so we drove past the timber gates and down the rocky driveway, towards an assembly of mismatched buildings. There was a large, wooden barn to the left, a generously proportioned farmhouse in the centre and several, modern motel-style studios to the right. These otherwise banal studios overlooked a winterised swimming pool and paved terrace.

‘Surely this can't be it? The guidebook described it as an authentic
Mas
, but apart from the main house, the rest is a hideous attempt at seventies chic.'

‘Are you sure this is the place? Maybe we made a mistake?' asked
Jean
.

‘I'm not sure, but there's one way of finding out. I'll go and see if I can find someone,' I said, as I opened the car door.

‘Okay
Chérie
. I'll wait here.'

I ventured down the gravelled path leading to the large timber barn. There was a persistent tapping emanating from the interior and it suddenly occurred to me, that
Monsieur
Pascal
had mentioned he also restored antique furniture as a professional side-line.
This must be it!
I thought, instantly disappointed.

‘
Monsieur
…
Monsieur
Pascal
…,' I called above the clatter of hammer and nails.

‘
Oui
…,' came a voice from beyond the timber walls. ‘
Qui est la?
(Who's there?)'

‘
Madame
Raoul
…
Marisa
…
de Treignac
.'

‘
Ah, Oui. Madame
Marisa
,
Bonjour
,' he replied, now standing before me and extending his slender hand in welcome. He reeked of turpentine and his hands were stained yellow from walnut oil.

‘
Bonjour
Monsieur
Pascal
. We are so happy to be here. It wasn't easy to find, with all those little country lanes shooting off in every direction. I'm sorry if we're a little later than predicted.'

‘Late? You're not late … anytime will do. Here, I'll show you to your studio … follow me.'

He took off in the general direction of the units, passing swiftly by the main farmhouse, to my regret. I beckoned to
Jean
, who joined us, a perplexed expression on his face.

‘
Bonjour
Monsieur
. I was just showing your wife to your studio.'

‘
Merci
Monsieur
, but my wife was under the impression that we were staying in the original,
Provençal Mas?
'

‘Ah, yes … well … the
Mas
is here, as you can see … but only my wife and I reside in it. The accommodation is in the new studios that adjoin the main house. They are very comfortable, you'll see,' he replied, lacking any true conviction.

‘I see. Never mind. It's probably just a misunderstanding, though the guidebook clearly states …,' I added, but was instantly stopped in my tracks by the view before me.

Monsieur
Pascal
led us to a studio about half way along, overlooking the blanketed pool. He turned the key and led us inside. We both stood quite still in the centre of the room, neither of us prepared for what we saw. He pointed out the main features of the otherwise, barren room and turned to leave. It was then that I found my tongue.

‘
Monsieur
Pascal
, it's freezing in here. Isn't there any heating?'

‘I forgot to turn it on … don't worry it won't take long. It will be nice and cosy in here if you give it an hour or so,' he replied nonchalantly.

‘I told you of our arrival time. Surely you could have warmed the room in advance? I booked ages ago.'

‘I told you … I forgot what time you said you would be arriving,' he argued.

‘Fine … fine. Well, we'll just have to wait, won't we?' I smiled at
Jean
, hoping he wouldn't bop
Monsieur
Pascal
right on the nose.

‘
Bon
… I'll leave you to settle in … I have work to attend to,' he said, leaving both of us in jaw-dropping silence.

I walked around the one room studio, searching for any glimpse of authenticity hidden amongst the stark, modern interior.

‘Look,
Jean
… there are
Provençal
-style cushions on the lounge chairs,' I smirked sarcastically.

‘Big, bloody deal!' he exclaimed. ‘What a joke. This place is as
Provençal
as our apartment back in Neutral Bay.'

‘I know … look … I'm as disappointed as you are, but what can we do? I've already paid a hefty deposit that he is unlikely to refund, at this stage. I suggest we just enjoy ourselves as best we can. Look, I suppose it's only a place to sleep, at the end of the day.'

‘Yes I know that … a bloody expensive one, and not nearly as lovely as back home. They should be ashamed of themselves charging what they do.
Les salauds!
(The bastards!)' he swore.

‘Listen
Jean
, Why don't we both take a nice, hot shower and change into warmer clothes. We'll feel much better and then we can get out of this provincial icebox and discover the village properly. Look for somewhere to dine and not think about the adorable,
Monsieur
Pascal
and his you-can't-stay-in-it
Mas Provençal
for a few hours.'

‘OK,
Chérie
. I'm not going to let that bastard ruin our holiday. You go first and I'll fetch our bags and things out of the car.'

I shivered as I lay my coat on the bed with its frightful, replica bed-head and stingy, feather light cover. For someone who supposedly dealt in antiques, I couldn't spot a solitary one. At this point in time I think the oldest and most attractive thing in the room was me! He must keep the good stuff for himself, I thought, as I undressed and headed for the tiny cubicle he called the bathroom.

I stood naked in the middle of the tiled floor, instantly realising there wasn't a towel or soap anywhere in sight.

‘What the bloody hell …
Jean
, is that you?' I called angrily.

‘
Oui
, Marisa…what's wrong now?'

‘There aren't any bloody towels or soap in this place … I can't believe this. What's he playing at?'

‘Calm down Marisa. Call him … he's probably forgotten, that's all,'
Jean
replied, trying desperately to quell my anger.

‘My God … this is ridiculous. No bloody towels, no soap, no heating, no
Mas
… what's next? No sheets on the bed?'

‘Maybe we had better take a look-see, just in case?'

We both yanked on the patterned bedspread, hoping we wouldn't find a bare mattress.

‘Thank God for small mercies,' I declared. ‘Aren't they generous in
Provence
, they even gave us sheets to sleep on. Oh, and look … a thin, woollen blanket … how perfectly cosy!'

‘How on God's earth did he get his star rating? He must have bribed the judge.'