Our House is Definitely Not in Paris (7 page)

When we arrive in Cuzance after four splendid nights in Paris, we are lucky enough to have the luxury of almost two glorious months at our
petite maison
. Though the sun rises at six and subsides in a soft glow at ten, there are simply never enough hours in the day to do all that we want to. Our body rhythms adjust quickly to the tempo of each unfurling day. We rise soon after
le soleil
does, when chattering birds also greet the new day. I retreat to bed each evening as their lyrical chorus sinks in synchronisation with the final splinters of sunlight. I like being in harmony with the ebb and flow of French rural life. This, I must confess, is the part of me that tends to put a romantic film over the realities of life. I am quite sure that if I had to rise before dawn and crack the ice on a well to draw water, or milk cows in the snow, my vision of country life would be altogether different.

For us, it is always a struggle to juggle the demands of
rénovation
, the desire to spend time with
amis
, the longed-for leisurely
déjeuners
that we dream of while far away — the ones that stretch indulgently for two luxurious hours — the necessity of shopping for all our
rénovation
needs (after four years the lists still loom large in our life) and, of course, the highly prized hours of relaxation under our much-loved walnut tree. Stuart whiles away his walnut-tree time by browsing through the luxury
journal
,
Propriétés De France — Le Figaro.
He tells me how many millions the extravagant, luxurious
maisons
and properties are in the Côte D'Azur, Provence and Paris. He informs me about the abundant number of
chambres
and
salle de bain
they have; which has a vineyard, how many acres some encompass, or a private marina or helipad. The price for each is denoted by the number of
maison
or
châteaux
symbols. There are one, two or three. Three
châteaux
indicate that the property is more than ten million
euros
.
Oh là là
, we constantly exclaim as he turns over the glossy pages.

Even more fascinating is when he tells me all about the unique arrangement for the buying of some apartments in Paris, an arrangement called
en viager
. Property is the one thing that Stuart loses himself in dreams about.

As always, the first week slips away in a flurry of frenetic activity; in and out, back and forth, here and there. By only our second weekend, we reassess how many
vide-grenier
we will be able to visit over the summer. The names of the villages flow like words in a French sonnet: Autoire, Bio, Catus, Cazals, Floriac, Glanes, Lanzac and Saint-Felix. This weekend there are twenty altogether to choose from in our
département
alone, let alone the two that border le Lot: Corrèze and Dordogne. This number in one weekend is unheard of. We are torn between all the choices and the lure of treasure that is sure to await. Even more unusual is that there are
vide-grenier
to go to on Saturday, for normally Sunday is the sacrosanct clear-out-the-attic day for each village every summer, no matter how
petite
it is. Our excitement knows no bounds.

After only a week, the temperature is already starting to soar. It has changed from just fourteen degrees on the day of arrival — and it is summer, after all — to the low thirties. As Stuart reads
Le Figaro
over
petit d
é
jeuner
, he tells me that Paris in spring was like winter, with incessant rain and an utter absence of sun. Summer is predicted to be even more of a contrast.

This does not suit the plans we have made for our agenda at all. We have planned to tackle the next step in our crazy paving project in our third week. I'm predicting that in a superb stroke of irony, this is precisely when the mercury will truly start to rise.

For our second week, we have planned a two-night stay in a
chambre d'hôte
in Toulouse. This is not a mere tourist trip.
Non
. It's been planned for many months to combine it with yet another visit to IKEA. Once again, I can't imagine that IKEA features on the agenda for many other people on
vacances
. It will be our third IKEA trip in as many years — Bordeaux and now Toulouse. I'm thinking of writing a personal shopping guide to the IKEAs of France. No doubt it will be a best-seller. To ensure that it is, I will include a comprehensive IKEA
cuisine
guide. It still delights us that French IKEA offer
menu du jour
and
vin
. In my usual fanciful way, I imagine getting sponsorship for my shopping trips.

Irony is a word that often occurs to me in Cuzance. This is particularly so when I start my first serious foray in
le jardin
at the end of our first week. As I start to labour long and hard in our rambling
rustique
wilderness, I rant and rave at the ridiculous growth of
les herbes
. Why are the weeds so strong and healthy? So ferociously determined to flourish? In stark contrast, our carefully planted rows of laurier are languishing. As for the parallel row of photinia, planted by our second gardener who we have long suspected has no idea at all about gardening, they are dead. All dead.

All too quickly, my unorthodox style of gardening returns in full force. The only possible way to even try to wrench the tenacious
les herbes
out is to sit on the stony ground and apply all my might, which I hasten to add is not too mighty at the best of times.
Baguette
references once again come into play. Not the long-as-a-
baguette
-knife accident.
Non.
The tentacles of weeds descend into the rock-strewn ground, the length of a
baguette
. Their roots are almost invincible. Like in previous years, they jeer at me and mock my efforts. Despite my enormous determination, I simply cannot remove their intricate subterranean network. Their root system spreads under the ground like the Metro in Paris.

Meanwhile, Stuart is working on the spare
chambre
. He is efficiently and steadily finishing the skirting boards and conduit. While enormously reluctant to do so, I have to concede defeat in my battle against
les herbes
. I mark the invincible ones with cairns of stones — never in short supply on our limestone-riddled land — in readiness for the greater force of Stuart. Like many others frequently say, is there nothing he can't do? It would appear not.

Stuart is passionate about many things, and one of these is real estate. Wherever he is in the world, he avidly absorbs all the facts about the area. So it is that he is fascinated by the unique French way of buying and selling homes. It's called
viager
, a system akin to a lottery or gambling. The difference is that the risk involved relates to how long a seller is likely to live. There can be great gains for the buyer — or an interminable waiting game. The practice allows the elderly to sell their homes but still live in it for the rest of their life. In essence, the longer they live, the more the buyer has to pay. Sometimes the gamble does not pay off, and the seller far outlives the buyer. In rare instances, when a Parisian sells their property
en viager
and dies within a short time, well, the buyer is in an enviable position. In short, they have won the real estate lottery. It is the potential of this Parisian real estate lottery that captivates Stuart and fires his imagination. I know that he can already see himself in a spacious apartment on the banks of the Seine.

Intrigued by this unique real estate game, I research and learn more. So entrenched is this system in the French psyche as an acceptable method of buying, that sellers at times resort to extraordinary lengths. There are tales of the elderly pretending to stoop over in pain, camouflaged with heavy make-up, so that they literally look at death's door. Once the contract is signed, they improbably spring back to life. I am sure that the spring in their step is far livelier than it has been for decades once they have an assured healthy income for the rest of their days. Mind you, it involves being prepared to take risks, big risks, for the
viager
undertaking to pay dividends for the buyer. I start to feel very wary on a number of levels; one: Stuart's propensity for real estate and risk-taking, and two: his penchant for Parisian apartments.

The whole process is apparently quite straightforward — or so it would ostensibly seem, notwithstanding the well-known machinations of French bureaucracy. It is agreed between two private parties and overseen by a
notaire
, who keeps an eye on the process by tracking it through its lifetime, so to speak. Sellers tend to be widows, or widowers, who want to cash in on the value of their property in order to get an enticing lump sum, the
bouquet
and a monthly payment from the buyer for the rest of their lives. The system was devised in the Middle Ages and has experienced resurgence in popularity. It would seem to be a win-win for all parties involved, except, of course, in the untimely demise of the buyer before the seller. It is no wonder that the practice is banned in some European countries.

I can already see it; when Stuart finally finishes
rénovation
, perhaps he will add ‘attending funerals' to his ever-growing list of activities. Perhaps cultivating a friendship with an
amie
of the one recently departed? They are sure to be susceptible to his charm and willing to entertain the notion of an agreeable Australian entering into
en viager
arrangement for their luxurious apartment on the Champs-Élysées. Or perhaps, an even better idea, since bridge is usually the province of the elderly, an invitation to their
maison
and then an attractive proposal — of the
viager
kind, that is.

The very nature of
en viager
means that wild and extravagant stories abound, making it virtually impossible to discern what is fact and what is fiction. One such story involved an old woman who, despite being from a very well-off family, admitted that she'd squandered the considerable family fortune. So it was that despite her aristocratic family, she found herself penniless at the end of her life. Perhaps that should be
euro
-less? What better solution indeed than to embark on the financial rollercoaster, with its risks of highs and lows, than
en viager
? Enviably, her
très chic
apartment was in no less than the Marais district, one of Paris' most stylish
arrondisements
.

No matter how early I rise, I always know that a day in Cuzance will be a huge one. I also know that invariably there's an element of the unexpected. Who will visit? What tasks will be accomplished on today's list? And, of course, what will we eat? Life is condensed to its basic elements in a Cuzance life: work, eat, relax, socialise and sleep. As always, in all we do, the weather plays a key role.

Despite my unwavering love affair with Paris, I muse that in every possible way, the relentless pressure to achieve endless sartorial
chic
would be overwhelming. As it is, when Stuart chooses stylish cardigans in his favourite shop in Brive, and selects a scarf to complete his ensemble, he asks the shop assistant to demonstrate how French men tie it in their inimitable, nonchalant way. He tells me this is how he has seen men in Paris wear their scarves.

To say I am astonished by his observations is an understatement. What a long way he's come in his sense of style since our wedding two decades ago in Istanbul. In those long-ago days, he borrowed his wedding suit from one of the hospitality students he tutored at the English House Language School and wore his long hair tied back in a pony tail. It was the first time he had ever worn a suit in his life. And now, he's emulating the
élan
of Parisian men. His desire to do so is confirmed when he's flicking through a copy of
Le Figaro
and triumphantly points to a men's scarf tied just so, with ever-so-casually contrived style.
Oh là là
, I think to myself. Reading
Le Figaro
is one of his favourite pastimes, usually with a
pastis
in hand.

When we
promenade
through the village on our way to
apéritifs
with Gérard and Dominique, we greet all the villagers we have come to know. Marinette, the matriarch of Cuzance, Monsieur and Madame Dal and, of course, the inimitable Monsieur Arnal. Even though he has sold his restaurant, Hotel Arnal, Jean-Claude has told us that it was part of the negotiation to eat his
dîner
there every day. Is it now just the
dîner
hour that he is present?
Non
. He stills stands proprietarily in the doorway of Hotel Arnal all day long. Perhaps it is because the name is still to change that he feels such an enduring attachment to it. The furthest he ventures is to sit at his customary table outside in the courtyard, where he watches the
petite
world of Cuzance pass by each day. As was his manner in previous years, he inquisitively probes us each time we walk past. Where are we going? When will we open
la piscine
? Each year, he is always immensely curious to know when we will have the
grand
opening of the pool. The fact that we don't open it immediately on arrival seems to be a perpetual source of consternation to him. Clearly showing upon his face each time he queries us is his bemusement about the puzzling ways of foreigners. We shake our heads and tell him that for now we are still embarking on the serious and pressing business of
rénovation
. I wonder more and more frequently whether that word will ever leave my French life.