Ma Folie Française (My French Folly) (9 page)

‘
Salut Marisa
! Are you doing anything zis afternoon?' asked
Thibault
, the moment I opened the front door, before grabbing me for the customary double-cheek kiss.

‘I don't think so
Thibault
. Did you have something particular in mind?' I asked, eager to see what this flirtatious Frenchman had in store, as I led him into the dining room.

‘
Ah! Salut Jean
,' he said, grabbing at
Jean
's hand. ‘I was just about to tell
Marisa
, zere's zis great place in a tiny village, about an hour's drive from here. I waz planning on taking a ride up zere wiz a couple of friends and I'd really like you to come.'

‘What's so special about this place?'
Jean
asked.

‘
Bien
… well … it's like travelling back in time. Zere's a café zere owned by an incredibly eccentric man called
Fernand
. Believe me, it's worth ze trip just to meet him. He's a legend throughout the entire
Limousin
.'

‘If you say so,
Thibault
. We'd love to go, wouldn't we
Jean
?'

‘Oui … yes, of course. Anything for a laugh and a bit of fresh air.'

‘Great! Zen we will meet
chez “Lacoste
” at two, and go from zere, okay?'

‘Okay!
A deux heures.
'

Thibault
departed in his usual energetic fashion, leaving
Jean
and I slightly perplexed. How could a café in a tiny village, lost on the
Plateau de Millevaches
^*
(Plateau of One Thousand Springs), be of so much interest? We knew
Thibault
loved pulling stunts and feared this afternoon could well be one of his spectacular, practical jokes in the making.

‘Do you think
Thibault
was having us on?'

‘How should I know?' replied
Jean
, shrugging his shoulders. ‘He always seems to be up to something, but look … we have nothing else planned this afternoon, so even if it's a joke, we have nothing to lose but a few hours. A change of scenery will do us good and the MG could do with an airing. Let's just go.'

‘Okay.'

An hour later, we made our way to
Lacoste's
, the local riverside café, rugged up and ready for our mountain adventure.

‘
Salut!
' cried
Gilberto
, a happy-go-lucky Nigerian boy who had been raised in the village at the
Centre Claude Pompidou
and was now one of
Thibault
's regular playmates. He was as black as coal and his generous smile shone with a quasi-phosphorescent glow.

‘
Salut Gilberto! Ca va
?' we replied in unison, leaning from the doors of our shiny, red MG.

‘
Extra
. (Fantastic)' he replied, whilst shaking
Jean
's hand and bending to kiss me on both cheeks. ‘
Alors
… we are off to see ze famous
Fernand
and you have let out your little, red beast for zis special occasion.'

‘We sure have,' I replied, patting her gleaming paintwork affectionately… By the way
Gilberto
, have you ever met this famous
Fernand
?

‘
Non
… but I can't wait. He iz a legend around here and
Thibault
has told me so many funny stories about him.'

‘Okay … are we all ready?' called
Thibault
, leaning from the window of his sporty, black Renault as he pulled along side.

‘
Allez
… let's go,' shouted
Gilberto
, as he sprinted towards his vehicle. ‘See you zere
Marisa
.'

‘
Bien
,' called Thibault. ‘Let's get ze show on ze road, as you people say.'

As our modern day cavalcade departed, one shiny sports car after another, our friend
Pierre Lacoste
, stood twisting his luxurious moustache between his thick fingers, a knowing smirk hovering above his stubbly chin. Following
Thibault
through the mountain roads, proved more difficult than we had anticipated. He drove like a maniac. No, I'm serious this time … the French have a reputation for driving well beyond any allocated speed limit, but
Thibault
drove like he was playing Russian roulette … for keeps.

‘My God,
Jean
… we'll never keep up at this rate. Is he insane?'

‘
Non, Chérie
… he is just so used to the roads. He's been driving on them all his life. He's a great driver actually.'

‘You would say that … you men are all the same … how could you possibly say he is safe, when is driving up the middle of the road like that? Now look … he's waving to all the passing cars as if he knows them all.'

‘He probably does,'
Jean
chuckled. ‘Remember this is
Corrèze
; the population here, isn't that big.'

‘True. Though I can hardly believe he knows everyone. Look at him waving like a raving lunatic,' I smiled, shaking my head.

We passed through hamlets and
lieu dit
of such miniscule proportions, you could barely imagine the presence of modern day man surviving in such places. The odd waft of smoke rising from a crumpled granite chimneystack seemed to be the only visible sign of human existence.

‘Can you believe people still live out here? This is what I call the quiet life.'

‘You can say that again … and they are probably living in exactly the same way that their ancestors did. I bet some of these houses don't even have electricity. You know, I've heard stories of people living out here who don't even realise that World War 2 is over or that we won.'

‘Unbelievable. In such a technologically advanced country, you'd never suspect it.'

As
Thibault
continued on his merry, albeit homicidal way,
Jean
and I did all we could to keep up, while still enjoying the magical scenery. We had never travelled on such remote roads in France and the journey was proving visually unforgettable. These were ‘wild boar'-filled hills, rugged untouched slopes where ancient, pristine forest engulfed remote outposts of humanity.

After we had passed an innocuous sign for
Faux la Montagne
our vehicular parade came to a grinding halt. This town wasn't sleeping: it was comatose.

We slipped from our vehicles, keen to rendezvous with
Thibault
for an update on our expedition.

‘Is this it?' I queried, seriously doubting the existence of a functioning café in such a dull and dingy village.

‘Zis iz it!' he exclaimed joyously. ‘Izn't it wonderful?'

‘It's probably the most morose place I've ever been to,' I answered, sending
Thibault
and the others into fits of laughter. ‘I was right. This is a joke!'

‘A joke? Not at all
Marisa
. Zis is a great place. Almost heritage listed. Just wait and see.'

‘You're having us on,
Thibault
… for once I agree with Marisa,' added Jean.

‘Have faith,
mes amis
(my friends). I promise you, this will be a day to remember.'

We all looked at each other in disbelief.
Thibault
, however, smiled broadly, melting the pessimist within me and sending me into a fit of giggles.

‘You're a conundrum,
Thibault
! Okay, bring on the famous
Fernand
… that was the purpose of our journey, wasn't it?'

‘
Bien sûr
. (Of course) Look … ze café is just over zere,' he said, pointing towards the dirty, derelict façade of a 19th century dwelling. If he hadn't pointed it out as our final destination, I would have rightfully mistaken it as a condemned building. Its woeful remains sung of prior beauty but its current state reeked of abandon and neglect.

‘That's it? That's what we've come all this way to see?'

‘
Eh…Oui! C'est super, nest-ce pas?
(Oh…yes! It's great isn't it?)'

‘
Super
! You are pulling my leg?' I cried.

‘
Marisa
… I never touched you. I did not pull your leg,'
Thibault
replied aghast.

‘Sorry
Thibault
… it's just a term of speech … I meant that you were really and truly joking this time.'

‘
Mais non
… I don't joke!', he replied miffed.

‘Okay… so this is it,'
Jean
replied, ‘so what's next?'

‘Ah ha! That's the good part … follow me,' he replied grinning, as he strode towards the filthy front entrance of the now, obviously condemnable building.

It was difficult to see through the tea coloured windowpanes, as they were taped up with mould-eaten newspapers.
Thibault
struggled to open the entrance door with its rusty, antique handle. It eventually gave way with an atrocious creak and grind. The stained, linoleum floors were sticky underfoot, covered with a thick blanket of food crumbs and age-old grime. There was that putrid stench of imbedded tobacco fumes mixed with the smell of stale beer and acrid, spilt wine.

‘
C'est dégueulasse
. (This place is disgusting),' I whispered, unsure of whom might be lurking in the corners. ‘The health inspector hasn't been in here for a while.'

‘It's original … to say the least,' replied
Jean
, holding me firmly by the hand.

‘There doesn't seem to be anyone in … perhaps we should leave,' I suggested, turning to
Thibault
.

‘Oh, don't worry … he won't be far. He's probably asleep or in ze bathroom.'

‘Bathroom? Yuk! … I hate to think what might be lurking in there. Remind me not to go,' I giggled, winking at
Jean
.

‘
Regardez
,' pointed
Thibault
, ‘take a good look around you.'

Realising we were quite alone and free to wander at no risk, we began to take in our lugubrious surroundings with a burgeoning interest. In every fathomable spare inch of floor space, were pile upon pile of yellowed, rotting newspapers.

‘I bet you'll find some interesting reading in zose,'
Gilberto
laughed. ‘Look zis one dates to 1954.'

Everything was soiled. No cloth or detergent of any description had touched these surfaces in decades. It was, in effect, a time capsule of sorts, though not a very alluring one.

‘Take a look at zis,' called
Thibault
from the adjoining room.

‘What? Why does he have two televisions, one on top of the other?'

‘Zat's a good question
Marisa
, but the answer is simple. Many years ago, his first television lost its sound, so eventually he had to buy a second one. Zat one eventually burnt its tube, so it lost its picture. Consequently, by putting one on top of ze other, he has both picture and sound. Perfect,
non
?'

‘My God…that's incredible.'

‘I told you he was a character.'

‘
Alors les jeunes … vous allez bien
?' (So young ones … how's it going?)' came a husky, sallow voice from behind the bar.

‘
Mon dieu
! (My God!) You nearly scared us half to death. Salut ‘
Fernand. Ca va
?' replied a startled but jubilant
Thibault
.

We all turned to gaze upon the legendary
Fernand of Faux La Montagne
. Unfortunately, I have to report that he was almost as soiled as his café and he reeked of alcohol and
Gitanes
. Apart from that, he was remarkably bright eyed and surprisingly articulate. I began to understand what
Thibault
was taking about. This man was a story, waiting to be told.

‘
Vous voulez boire quelques chose
? (Would you like something to drink?)' he asked, nodding his head in our general direction.

‘
D'accord
… okay …
Une bierre pour moi
(A beer for me) …
Marisa
what would you like to drink? I would suggest something simple, if you know what I mean?'
Thibault
said.

‘
Bien sûr, un vin rouge, s'il vous plait
. (A red wine, please)'

‘
Moi pareil
. (The same for me)' added
Jean
.

‘
Bierre, pour moi… et moi aussi
,' the others chimed.

Having all ordered wine or beer, as that seemed the easiest thing to do; we awaited
Gilberto
, who hadn't quite decided, considering he didn't usually drink alcohol.

‘
Gilberto
, what are you going to drink?' I asked.

‘
Un Orangina
^*
Merci
.'

‘
Orangina … orangina? Ah Oui
, I zink I remember what zat is. I'll have to look in ze cellar.' And with that,
Fernand
disappeared into the musty depths of his underground cellar.

‘You should have asked for somezing else,
Gilberto
…
Putaing de Merde
… he'll never find an
orangina
down zere,' said
Thibault
, stifling a laugh, ‘and if he does, it won't be fit for human consumption.'

‘
Merde
! I never thought of zat. What will I do?' cried
Gilberto
.

‘Just wait and see.'

Fernand
was gone at least ten minutes and having decided that he had probably passed out, we were about to venture into the depths of the ‘cave' ourselves, when we heard his raspy breath rise from the wooden steps.

‘
O, putaing
!' he laughed, gasping for breath. ‘
J'ai trouvé, mon dieu
! I found one! (Oh, ****, I found one, good God!)'

We gasped in horror at the cloudy, yellow substance that filled the dusty, bulbous bottle, he held proudly before us. A thick, pulp-like substance sat at the bottle's base, whilst the rest of the bottle was filled with some insipid, milky liquid.