Ma Folie Française (My French Folly) (6 page)

Guest
: n. person invited to visit another's house or have meal etc. at another's expense; person lodging at hotel etc.

The Australian Oxford Dictionary

Guests, the human sort, were exactly what I'd expected when we launched our little, village
entreprise
. Even the odd puppy or two were to be expected in rural France and generally speaking, they were as finely groomed as their human counterparts. French people are even dafter about their pets than most nationalities I've encountered. The wonderful thing about French law is that it permits pets into public places, for example, bars, restaurants and even onboard an Air France flight if necessary. We regularly took our own pampered pooch, Guangzhou to the local café for his afternoon session of coffee culture.

However, pets aside, there were some guests, and I use the term loosely, whom I never invited, I never received a reservation from and who definitely never paid for their sojourn. With the exception of family and friends, of course.

Living in a 16th century residence had never struck me as bizarre or even extraordinary. Our home was warm and inviting and it never occurred to me, at any time, that an unwelcome presence could be lingering within the depths of its ancient walls.

I had felt hideously foolish recounting my story to
Jean
and our friends but had found myself so frightened and bewildered by my encounter of the ‘other' kind, that I felt compelled to share my experience.

Jean
worked a rotating roster, which often obliged him to spend the night within the
Fondation Pompidou's
walled residence, guarding vigilantly over its young inhabitants. I was accustomed to this routine and had never felt the slightest bit uncomfortable at home alone. Of course, during the warmer months I was rarely on my own, as there was always a guest or two in the house. This particular night was different.

It was late in the season and the house was empty; just my faithful, wrinkly companion and I. Guangzhou was a great guard dog and I always felt completely at ease and safe under his watch.

It was well after midnight when I was awakened by an ‘odd sensation'.
Jean
always laughs himself silly when I try to explain the events of that fateful evening. He assures me that he never snuck back into our bedroom that night so had nothing to do with me feeling a sensation of any description. I know it all sounds odd but how do you explain the presence of an invisible force without sounding like a complete lunatic?

For some inexplicable reason I was awakened from my deep slumber. My eyes took several moments to grow accustomed to the complete darkness and I instantly froze as I witnessed my bedroom door handle turn in a downward motion. I was shaking like a leaf. Panicked, I leapt from my bed, grabbing the handle and leaning with all my might against the door itself. There was a definite pressure behind the door and I yelled at the unknown person to ‘Get out! Leave me alone'.

The pressure continued for several moments and I turned the key so as to lock myself in.

All this time, my brave watchdog never made a murmur. He curiously slept throughout the entire episode, much to my chagrin. When the mysterious pressure eventually ceased, I returned to bed, where I sat upright for several hours. At one point, I leant nervously from the open windowsill and called out into the village square, hoping I would either scare the intruder or wake someone up. Anything would have helped.

Eventually I telephoned our friend
Thibault
, who in turn called the
gendarmes
. I avoided calling
Jean
in fear of waking the Foundation's sleeping population. Of course, the
gendarmes
found no intruder or any physical sign of a burglary. Everything was intact, except for my ego, by this stage.

The poor sleep-deprived
gendarmes
expressed their shared sympathy at my lonesome state and explained that often, we fragile females allow our minds to play tricks on us when left to our own devices. I nodded my head in loathsome agreement, even though I knew that every fibre of my being was sure that someone or something had visited me that evening.

For weeks,
Jean
took endless pleasure in teasing me about my ‘handsome French ghost'. ‘The one who gave you strange sensations during the night,' he mocked. Thankfully his taunting petered out and the incident was soon forgotten.

Busy days returned at our little B & B and I was soon far too occupied with guests of the human variety, to worry about ‘imaginary' ones.

A young villager, who had become one of our regular acquaintances at
Lacoste's Café
, was to marry at the end of the month and we were generously invited to attend the official ceremony and celebratory drinks in the village square. He had also reserved one of our guest rooms for the weekend, on behalf of a visiting relative from Amsterdam. He thought his cousin would enjoy our eclectic style and explained that as he also spoke fluent English; he was bound to take pleasure in our company.

The weekend of the wedding arrived and the tiny village was abuzz with jubilant friends and relatives. It was to be a rather large celebration and the café terraces were full to brimming with thirsty visitors.

Our ‘Dutch' guest, as we referred to him, arrived late on the Friday evening, not allowing us much time for conversation, as we escorted him to his room. He was an extremely pleasant man and seemed instantly enchanted with our home and his sleeping quarters. I told him we would have a better opportunity to catch up over breakfast the following day and he smiled in agreement. That night the ‘bachelor boys' were to hit the town so to speak and he was pressed for time still needing to shower and change before he sampled the delights of
Treignac's
nightlife with the other wedding revellers.

We never heard him return that night and surprisingly, he surfaced at a highly civilised hour the following morning, joining our other guests for a hearty, communal breakfast. An empty place remained to his right and as I leaned to pour his coffee, he patted the chair beside him, begging me to join him for a chat. I happily obliged, impatient to find out a little more about our new boarder.

‘What is your line of work in Amsterdam?' I enquired.

‘I'm a parapsychologist,' he replied. ‘Do you know what that is
Madame
Raoul
?'

‘Well … not really, though I can imagine, by its name that it has something to do with the paranormal.'

‘Yes. You're right
Madame
Raoul
,' he answered eagerly. ‘Parapsychology is the study of mental phenomena that are inexplicable by orthodox scientific psychology. At present, I am employed in a large hospital where I work amongst aids sufferers and my findings are extraordinary.'

‘How interesting. Though I can hardly begin to understand what parapsychology has to do with the aids virus.'

‘Yes, they must seem an odd pair but I assure you I have great success in easing my patient's suffering.'

‘That's wonderful. How rewarding for you and your patients.'

He smiled softly, nodding his head and taking a long drink from his coffee cup.

‘
Madame
Raoul
… or may I call you
Marisa
? I must tell you something in the strictest confidence. It is about your father,' he said gravely.

‘My father,' I replied in shock, ‘What could you possibly know about my father?' I asked.

‘I feel that you have an unresolved issue with your father that you must fix as soon as you can. You mustn't let your differences separate you,' he replied.

I was aghast. This stranger's intimate knowledge of my family life both shocked and intrigued me.

‘You must promise me
Marisa
…can you?'

‘Yes … yes of course. I know exactly what needs to be done and I promise you I'll get onto it as soon as I can.'

‘Good …
bien
. Now may I ask you a favour?'

‘Of course. Perhaps you'd like some more coffee?'

‘
Non Merci
, but I'd love to visit… how do you say,
votre cave à vins
(wine cellar), if I may? Would you mind?'

‘My wine cellar … no, I don't mind at all. But I don't understand.'

‘Well, if you will allow me this visit, I will then be able to explain many things to you, I'm sure.'

‘Right then,' I answered, instantly intrigued and leaping to my feet. ‘Let's go.'

Jean had remarked on our intense conversation and jerked to attention.

‘Where are you off to,
Marisa
?'

‘Oh … well … we need to visit the cellar,
Chérie
. We won't be long. I'll explain later. Please, would you like to follow me,
Monsieur
?' I said, gesturing towards the front entrance.

‘I'm right behind you,
Marisa
.'

I pushed open the heavily-bolted oak doors of the ground floor garages, flooding the area with soft, morning, light. My newly acquired ‘Dutch' friend entered quickly, as if pressed for time. He strode about the dimly lit interiors, silently studying the stone walls with uncommon interest. ‘May I?' he asked, as he approached the glass door leading to the walled courtyard garden.

‘Of course,' I replied. ‘Make yourself at home,' I added, impatient with excitement.

He opened the door, entering the perfumed garden in silent composure. I watched him, curious of this man who seemed to be entering some mysterious new world. His every unhurried step and measured gesture both intrigued and annoyed me. My keenness to know what he was considering or feeling was palpable and I bit my tongue so as not to interrupt his investigation.

Finally, he returned from the garden and paced slowly toward the cellar's carved entrance. He ventured down the flagstone steps and into the subterranean depths of this architectural 13th century wonder, with its beautifully arched, keystone ceilings and large, stone salting trough.

I allowed him the courtesy of some solitary time in the cellar, knowing my presence would only be an uncalled distraction. Although restless, I leant against the oak doors of the garage, my face warmed by the late morning sun. He emerged several minutes later and without hesitation, began to recount his other worldly ‘findings'.

‘This house possesses a friendly presence within its ancient walls. You mustn't fear this presence,
Marisa
, as it means you no harm. It wants you to feel safe and protected and will never do anything to frighten you again.' He halted, as I gasped in amazement. ‘There is more,' he continued. This house was dearly loved by one who has passed over, and when I was in the garden, I encountered the image of a small child. A little girl, in fact, who tended her burgeoning
potager
and herb garden, in the company of her beloved
grand-père
. I now see this same, little girl crying for her loss and in much pain. She must be allowed to return to the garden as she feels such a strong affinity to it. Does any of this mean anything to you,
Marisa
?'

I stared into space, astonished by his words.

‘It does … it all makes sense to me.'

‘Go on, please,' he insisted.

‘Well, as far as the little girl … we purchased our home from a kind family of women. All had lost their husbands, generation after generation. The little girl is a great-great daughter and her name is
Samantha
. She told me the story of her precious
Pappy
(Grandpa) and how they would spend countless, happy hours growing flowers and vegetables from seed. It was, as she put it, their
jardin secret
(secret garden). When her
Pappy
passed away she was distraught and would visit the garden in an attempt to feel his presence. She spent hours alone crying over her great loss. She asked
Jean
and I if we minded her returning from time to time, so she could talk to her
Pappy
in their special place. Of course, we obliged gladly.'

‘What a lovely story. I feel her sadness and I'm sure she feels great relief knowing that she is still welcome to visit. Now what about the other part of my story
Marisa
?'

‘You mean the part about the friendly presence?'

‘Yes, you know exactly what I mean, don't you?' he asked knowingly.

‘Well, yes. I suppose I do … now. I experienced something not so long ago. One evening, when I was home alone. I was petrified. The dog never even barked.'

‘I see. Go on.'

‘Well it's embarrassing actually. Everyone made so much fun of me. I thought I was going slightly mad,' I laughed.

‘Let me assure you, you're perfectly sane. You say you were frightened. Did this feeling last very long?'

‘A few hours, I suppose. I eventually calmed down but what I found strange was the force I felt seemed to diminish once I screamed out.'

‘You see, it never meant to frighten you at all. As soon as it understood your distress, it left you alone. Am I right?'

‘I suppose so and it definitely hasn't happened since.'

‘And I can assure it will never happen again, not unless you want it to. You have no reason to feel anything other than perfect peace. Your home is your haven, rest assured. There is nothing malevolent within these walls.'

‘I can't tell you how pleased and relieved I am. Thank you so much. I can hardly wait to tell
Jean
that I haven't lost my mind. Well not quite yet!' I grinned.

‘Now what about another coffee? Will you shout at me?' he asked smiling.

‘Never. I laughed, but I will “shout you” a coffee.'

‘
Très
bien
,' he grinned. ‘Shout me, shout me.'

We returned to the breakfast room, both smiling widely. I winked at
Jean
as I mouthed a message to him above the heads of the morning assembly.