FOUR

I parked in the deep, wet grass in the shade of the house, which the sun had not yet crossed. (It took it a long time to get over the hill, and longer still to get over the slate roof.) I reminded myself that I was here on business and must consider the property carefully, in the businesslike way suited to any prospective investor in real estate, instead of gaping like a thirteen-year-old freshman boy finding himself alone with a fabled senior girl, a cheerleader, who happens to be sprawled, somewhat disheveled and tiddly, and whispers to him …

It was not just fifty acres and one big house that I had to think about, but three buildings; not only the pastures, orchards, stream, and crown of woodland, but the ruins, and the potential ruins. Before climbing out of the car, I checked the cottages on either side of the main house. The one we sometimes called the guesthouse, which I had first known as M. Braye’s house and where Great-aunt Janet had lived during her first recovery from marriage, should be empty now, and it actually did seem to be empty this time. A squatter ensconced there once had taken us two years to remove. From the other cottage, Mme. Vera’s, a narrow plume of smoke reached into the warm blue sky, where a few high clouds ambled. This cottage was occupied year-round by Mme. Vera Tonnelier, who had been living on the farm since the thirties, when she came from Poland intending to earn enough to take home as a dowry by working as housemaid for my grandparents, as her elder sister had done before her. Instead, the war intervened, and she married a local farmer and remained in Normandy (a widow now, accompanied by an embarrassment of goats, chickens, ducks, and so on), the property’s most predictable resident. She and her late husband, both ferociously loyal to the Friesekes, had supervised as best they could the protection of the latter’s possessions during the occupation. I did not see Mme. Vera anywhere about at the moment, so I would wait to say hello.

I got out of the car and was greeted by the tribe of wood doves that made a continual activity of Grecian tragic-choral moaning from their nests in the eaves thirty feet above the driveway. I stretched, looked out over the land, and smelled the grass, and Mme. Vera’s smoke, before I addressed the house that the wood doves were warning me about. I noted the ragged string of goats crossing below the ruin of the cider press fifty feet down the hill, in a sweep of pasture where a few trees bloomed late, their cover of white blossom perhaps indicating that they were about to die. Some of the older apple trees were rotund with a waxy green that was in fact illusory, being mistletoe rather than leaves and set fruit. A pair of hawks wheeled overhead, calling to startle the songbirds sheltering below them in the hawthorn thickets and make them, in panic, break for better cover.

“How old is the house?” people sometimes asked, and I could never tell them. My mother, who had been known to see things, swore that one summer when masons were doing emergency work on the mortar facing of the southeast corner (that is, the side cut into the hill), she saw the date 1493 carved into a stone, which was subsequently covered in cement. That was the far side of the house, against the garden. This side, above its masonry first floor along the driveway, was faced with slate still damp with the previous night’s dew—and it was anyone’s guess what might be going on under the slate.

The back of the house with wedding party of Frances Frieseke and Kenton Kilmer, June 2, 1937.

Whatever the building’s age, the probable logic of its architectural history suggested that originally it had only two floors—one carved into the earth of the hillside, used for stables and storage, and the other, above it, providing living quarters (five rooms end to end, each roughly eighteen feet per side), topped by a thatched roof. Some time later, the first roof was removed, a second floor and attic were built up from the original walls, and a new roof was added, thatched to begin with but later redone in thin black slates.

The result is large and solid enough to seem to defy structural change. The effect is of a long shoebox set into an orchard-covered slope, with the earth arriving at a level that becomes garden on the side facing the rise, then continuing upward in terraces. Since the earth does not freeze or heave in winter, there is no foundation. The house, all three stories of it plus an attic in which a person can walk upright, simply sits on a terrace of earth. The lower story is stone, with double walls three feet thick—faced with flint but filled with rubble—that support the standard Norman half-timbered construction of the upper floors. Because the house was large and suitable timbers were scarce, the straight trunk lengths were reserved for use as rafters. The colombages that serve as wall studs display the erratic shapes produced by branches and are up to eight inches thick, while the arched wooden ribs supporting the roof were once ships’ timbers. The intervals between colombages are filled with torchis, a mixture of clay and cow manure reinforced by horsehair.

“That house is made of mud,” Julia liked to point out. And cow shit, she did not need to add. Not even the least practical of the three pigs tried to build with cow shit.

Inside, the floors are made of the same materials, but with the addition of thick cemented tiles eight inches square and of a warm rose color. Called pavé normand, one of the local cheeses is named after these tiles on account of its no-nonsense shape. In all, the house has twelve habitable rooms in which something can go wrong, as well as the attic, which stretches the full length and width of the house and is big enough to sleep forty to sixty refugees, and the storerooms and furnace room on the first level. These last open onto the west side, along the driveway, while the rooms on the next level all open east, onto the garden.

The house is, as I’ve said, half-timbered, but one would not know it just by looking at it, the building having succumbed to trompe l’oeil owing to the efforts of a previous owner, an architect mayor of Mesnil, Isidor Mesnier, who made the place over in the early nineteenth century. It was in his wife’s dowry. What Honorine Bréard brought with her to the marriage was a large farmhouse with the protective coloration of the Norman cow. She and her husband covered its weather sides (south and west) with slate, and its less exposed faces with mortar grooved to resemble dressed stone. They would have entered their house from the formal, garden side, the next level up.

Now, however, of the five garden doors, not one still had a key. When the house was properly closed, only the downstairs kitchen door, opening from the driveway, allowed access. On awkward occasions in the past when, due to my faulty advance communication, M. Joffroy, the manager, had not left a spare key as expected, I had been forced to contemplate breaking in, in rain or darkness or both, sometimes alone, sometimes accompanied by friends or exhausted family; but something or other had always saved me. I had now learned to carry my own key to the kitchen door. The lock was of so antique a make that the key could not be reproduced locally; when I tried once, the wise old men who lived in the hardware store in Pont l’Evêque looked at my original, shook their heads, shrugged, and said despondently, in words paraphrasing those of every preceding generation of wise old men that ever lived, “Ah, in those days they made things differently; they made things to last. It is not that way now. You will find no one with blanks to make a duplicate. Try M. Patte in the zone industrielle, but he will not be able to help you.” (This prediction proved to be correct, though the attempt made for an interesting day.) But one afternoon, while I was looking for something else, I found a spare key hidden in the attic, and I appropriated it to take with me back and forth across the Atlantic. At the back of my mind was the thought that if I should ever lose the house, I’d at least have the key and be like my friend Saïd, the Moroccan architect who treasures the key to his family’s place in Granada, which was confiscated when the infidels were driven out of Spain in 1492.

I unloaded the car, stood in the grass, and commended myself that so far things had gone well. I’d arrived in time to shop; there was a good deal of day left; the house was where I had expected to find it; and I had my key. It remained only for me to open as much of the house as I would need. I would use no more than a couple of rooms, so there was no reason to open all the shutters—a couple dozen pairs of them—or all the rooms. I’d be all right as long as the place had been cleaned: the wilderness of spiderwebs, dust, mold, rats, and dead birds that could accumulate over eight months of autumn and winter could be discouraging on first sight, even to a man in love.

But clean or not, this place could, I recognized for the first time, really become not generally ours but ours specifically: the fields, the doves, the big wooden Dutch kitchen door, and whatever was waiting inside. I maneuvered the key, and it was either I or the house turning over once, twice, until the door could be shoved inward across cold brick and into darkness fragrant with abandon.