The Mas de Colombier was a typical Provençal farmhouse, elongated and built of blocks of pinkish sandstone. The ceilings were low and oak-beamed, and the walls were whitewashed. The floors had octagonal tiles. As it was high up, water came from an abundant source. Then, there was no electricity and it was lit by oil lamps. The bourgeois French can be very helpful when new occupants take over their property. The previous owners had moved down into the valley, and I remember so well that first, cold month of March their driving up in a raging mistral in order to bring me a paraffin stove to heat the bedroom and literally battling their way across the terrace. Since then much has changed in the Midi, including the climate. The mistral rarely lasts long enough to drive away the clouds. Instead, a cold Tramontin wind blows, there is incessant rain and in summer it is no longer necessary to water the garden every evening, as one did in those light-hearted days.
Being isolated high up in the forest, they advised me to keep a gun in the bedroom, as they had done, in case of night prowlers.
The Colombier looked on to a valley and had an extensive view of vineyards surrounded by low, overlapping mountains. At dusk, when the sun set behind the mountains, the entire horizon glowed. The terrace was bordered by a rosemary hedge and on one side stretched a line of cypresses as protection against the mistral. There were six hectares of land, most of it forest.
We took our meals at a bistro table beneath a eucalyptus tree or in the shade of a mulberry, and dotted about were clumps of lavender, sweet-smelling verbena, white clumps of marguerites and little yellow flowers whose petals closed at dusk. A steep, winding dust road led up to the mas. And at the back rose the forest. Those prepared for a steep climb could reach the summit and glimpse the Mediterranean. The surroundings were so peaceful that all one ever heard was an occasional tractor tilling the vines, and myriad birds the moment the shutters were opened in the morning. There was one I called the Woof-Woof bird; another made a strange guttural sound, like the creaking of a limb. There were red-crested speckled woodpeckers, merles, pheasants and cuckoos. In spring, the silence of the night would be broken by the magical sound of nightingales calling to one another.
The only other dwelling to be seen in the far distance was a large property inhabited by an old peasant (always clad in black), her sluttish daughter and drunken son-in-law, who owned the surrounding vineyards; from them, for seventy-five francs a year, I rented a meadow where the laundry got hung between two mulberry trees. In fact, the first person to come up to the mas one Sunday was the drunken son-in-law to show me the red bornes separating our properties. He led the way into the forest. I followed with Mell and Folie. Suddenly, he stopped and suggested we lie down on a pile of bracken. When rejected, he said oafishly, ‘So, you’re indisposée today, Madame. Some other time, perhaps,’ and left me to follow a trail of alcohol back to the house.
The mas was still barely furnished, when at dawn one morning I was awoken by the sound of pebbles striking the shutters of my bedroom window. Pulling on a blue kaftan, I went downstairs with Folie draped round me like a stole, her paws clinging to my hair, and opened the door to see Bernard Frank dressed in a dinner jacket, standing on the terrace. He had just come from a nightclub, where he had been carousing with Françoise Sagan and her faithful ‘bande’ of which, at that time, he was the principal jester. He must have been well received, for he dismissed the car he had come in and entered the mas, where he remained on and off for the next thirteen years, using it as his résidence secondaire.
I have had the good fortune to have loved and lived with two exceptionally talented and witty writers. Though neither of them could have been described as an Adonis, they both had immense success with women and were difficult to live with. Both had had traumatic childhoods. Cyril’s mother had abandoned her ‘sprat’ to join the man she loved in South Africa and Bernard had to flee Paris with his parents, during the German occupation, and seek refuge in the Auvergne.
I had first met Bernard with Eileen Geist. Dropping into the rue du Bac before or after luncheon one day, there was Bernard lying dressed, corpulent and flushed, a cigar in his mouth, stretched out on Eileen’s quilt. Should she say, ‘Another whisky?’ the response was immediate: ‘Volontiers!’ Eileen assiduously gave him all her attention and when not refilling his glass, she held out an ashtray at arm’s length to catch the cigar ash before it hit her quilt. Bernard was then very teddy-bear like; even his hair seemed woolly. He had written six books and all of them lay on the bedside table. He was living round the corner from Eileen and Françoise Sagan, and he and Eileen were discussing all the fascinating people who had been at Sagan’s party the previous evening. Suddenly, as though noticing me for the first time, Eileen turned and said, ‘What are you doing this evening? I’m busy and Bernard hates having to spend an evening alone.’ In those days, being far more puritanical, I did not relish sitting perched up half the night on one of Régine’s bar stools. ‘What a pity,’ said Eileen, ‘then you won’t do.’ And they went on discussing the party.
When Bernard turned up on the terrace he was staying with Sagan in a villa she had rented in the Pare St Tropez. Her sister was there, an actor and a film director’s wife, and a few days later there was a big party given for Franchise’s birthday on Madame Hélène Rochas’s yacht, where the dancer, Jacques Chazot, was the most amusing invité.
At that time, Bernard was drinking a lot and constantly falling over. He suffered from slight aphasia and sometimes his conversation became so garbled he made practically no sense. Once, after an evening in a nightclub with Sagan, he got a taxi to bring him back and was dropped off at the bottom of the hill; I looked out of the window at dawn to see him climbing up to the mas à quatre pattes. The first time Françoise came up, I remember her doing a funny imitation of a cripple, hobbling about the tiles with the aid of a stick. There was no hint of reproach, she was merely trying to warn ‘dear Bernie’ of what might happen, if he did not sober up. And in fact, some months later, he did have a serious stroke and was taken into St Tropez hospital.
Both Sagan and Bernard had tremendous charm. Seeing them seated side by side, like siblings, they reminded me of a pair of oddly matched perroquets, one a slight blonde and chirrupy, the other a big, brown, ponderous bird. Bernard had many conflicting sides to his character. Though not always courteous, he was nevertheless still then an ardent handkisser. He could also be very paternal and give sound advice. He was surprisingly uncritical and loyal to his friends, and should you condemn anyone, he’d retaliate by picking on your own hideous faults. His main interests were politics and literature. He was singularly lacking in curiosity about anything else, unless it directly concerned himself. He was a terrible spendthrift. Whenever he had earned a little money writing articles for magazines he would immediately take one to an expensive restaurant.
I had always found flattery suspect. No problem there. It was soon taken for granted that I was merely a ‘connasse’ and that a lot of the time my eyes resembled ‘glaring prairie oysters’. I had never been able to tolerate a bore. One thing he taught me, there can be far worse handicaps than being a bore, particularly when he was indulging in his poltergeist act, skimming plates across the terrace. Afterwards, he would simply say, ‘I am a coléreux, but my rages quickly blow over…’ – like the crockery is all I can say. Bernard had what is known as un bon coeur. He was a very lovable man, but when with a woman he cared about, he could be very sadistic.
The morning of his arrival on the terrace, I went into the village to telephone Eileen, who gave the impression then of having some kind of ownership and having taken on a motherly role with regard to Bernard. When I related that he had turned up in the early hours blotto and was now asleep in my bed, she said, ‘Poor Bernard, when he comes to, he won’t know where he is or who you are!’ But when I got back, he related that ever since our first meeting on Eileen’s quilt, he had had me in mind as a possible future mistress. What could it have been? My woollies? A waning, come-hither look? The fact that I was Eileen’s friend? What is a friend, after all? One joined to another in mutual intimacy and benevolence, according to the dictionary. Not an enemy. Well, that applied. Eileen was not likely to visit you, should you be very ill, as Jocelyn would, bringing you some home-cooked dish to revive your appetite. But Eileen would certainly call up after an operation to find out if you had pulled through. Her mornings were spent on the telephone. Let’s say she was a delightful fair-weather friend.
The morning Bernard turned up on the terrace, mains water was being installed. A trench was being dug all the way up the hill to contain the pipes and a lorry load of whistling Arabs drove up at seven every morning. When later that day I went out, carrying a trayload of vodka, glasses, lemons and a tin of beef consommé – all the requirements of a bullshot* – followed by Bernard crumpled and unshaven, the Arabs stopped digging and, leaning on their shovels, looked in our direction, as much as to say, ‘There’s a lucky pasha who knows how to get through a hot day with the least possible effort!’ They decided to do the same and, squatting on the grass, brought out luncheon packages of sardines, bars of chocolate and bottles of Coca-Cola. As Bernard swayed across the terrace to get into the car on our way out to lunch, I said, ‘They must be thinking, Where on earth did she pick him up?’ And I went on laughing all the way down the hill, until we reached Grimaud village where Bernard asked me to buy him a box of cigars.
After mains water, electricity had to be installed. The electricians swarmed all over the house, so that Bernard moved into a beamed cabanon just below the terrace. He would tiptoe up to the house as though he felt in the way. In those days, there was never a cross word.
Then central heating was installed. I became demented on days the workmen did not turn up because they had been sent to complete some other job. So we decided to take on a budding architect to harry the men in my stead – a frequent custom in the Midi, where the work is generally slipshod.
Carelli sought out rare objects for those willing to pay for his impeccable taste. His aunt ran the antique shop in Grimaud, where I had bought old glasses, Provençal coffee cups and carafes, one blue and one golden, like the carafe in Degas’s ‘Absinthe’.
Carelli would come hurtling up the hill in a Deux Chevaux and, leaping out, with an eager smile on his face, would come running across the terrace like some newly appointed lieutenant, exclaiming, ‘How I love this house! The view is so superb.’ He then drew up a plan for converting two barns at the far end of the mas into a kitchen, and another bedroom and bathroom that were to become Bernard’s quarters. Carelli then dismissed my equipe and called in another builder, carpenter and electrician, and gained a commission from each.
One afternoon, Mell and Folie were lying sprawled out in the sun, when a lorry mounted the hillside, bringing the residue of my furniture that had been shipped over from the States, and Bernard helped me unwrap the china and books that he assiduously arranged in alphabetical order in the new bookshelves in the sitting room.
‘I’m not very affectionate, am I?’ I said.
‘Oh yes, you are,’ Bernard contradicted. ‘I don’t like cloying women. Anyway, from now on, this is going to be my workroom.’ Alas, not for nothing had I been divorced on grounds of incompatibility. The, sitting room, with its newly built-in bookshelves and Provençal fireplace, black plaque of shepherdesses, sphinx fire-dogs and curtains drawn, as in the best parlour for guests, was going to remain a sitting room.
Bernard liked to gamble. On some evenings, we would drive into Cannes. My diary records: ‘Lose money gambling in the Casino. Began to feel attached to B.F. My birthday. B.F. gives me one of his old pullovers. Have to support B.F. Blue sky fleeced with rain. Today he was sulky from the start. Would I lend him 200 francs? Am accused of being avare. The plumber and the mason arrive. We all clear out the garage where Bernard’s new room is going to be. The gardener has planted more almond trees. Compressor all day. B. has written to his tailor and to his lawyer, sending money on account. Insulting letters both.
‘If you devoted as much time to writing your book,’ I say, ‘there might be some point.’
Wants to know what his new room will be like. Can he have grey walls? Discuss what’s for dinner. Hear a car, the builders burst in. Very aggressive. B. pretends there’s no drink. Offers them beer. The ugly one says, ‘No whisky or vodka?’ Bernard goes on swilling. I say, ‘You’ve got that idiotic look on your face.’ He says, ‘If you’re going to be disagreeable, I’m off to bed.’ Saturday keeps to his room; when seen slinking in and out, mutters, ‘Bonjour’. Sunday wasn’t much better. Comes upstairs. Sees all the animals on the bed, goes out again. Gigot for lunch.’
Two tragedies occurred about this time. Mell broke a leg being chased up a tree by the builder’s chien de chasse and Folie disappeared into the forest, never to be seen again – chased and killed by the same dog, I presumed. For dogs are a coati’s worst enemy. And the poor little beast couldn’t climb. I was terribly distressed. So more coatis were flown over from a New York pet shop. I had asked for a couple, hoping they would breed, but they both turned out to be males. One was reddish brown and I called him Nig. The other was sandy coloured. As soon as he was let out of his travelling box, he made a systematic tour of the terrace, grubbing for slugs and snails. He was so auntyish that Bernard named him Tantine. Later, he became so chubby that I called him Fatty Fat Fat. When one picked him up it was like hugging a little bear. All coatis are intrigued by anything scented; he would scuttle into my bathroom, get hold of the soap and scrabble it all over his ringed tail, forming a thick mousse. Both of them ran about free and sometimes they disappeared into the forest for days, causing many sleepless nights. But I would always leave the front door ajar so that I would know when they got back, when they would clamber up the stairs, give my hand a lick and then curl up on the bed.
*
From the start, Bernard made it clear that he had other ladies lined up, awaiting his return to Paris. When Sagan drove up unexpectedly one autumn evening and, after comparing the view to that of an Indian jungle, drove away taking Bernard and his four suitcases, I watched them go. Then I polished off the rest of the whisky, drove furiously down the hill and landed in a ditch. The next day, the car had to be hauled out by a crane. On the opposite side of the valley, a track led up to a run-down farmhouse hidden behind a copse of cork oaks, where Thérèse lived with her husband, Joseph, and their four children. Thérèse came from Aix-en-Provence. She had very green eyes and brown, sturdy legs, and she always came to clean wearing a sleeveless print dress, walking down her side of the valley and up to the mas. Thérèse knew how to mend a fuse, remove any stain and foretell the weather from the way Joseph’s hair behaved.
‘It’s very bouclé today,’ she’d say. ‘It’s sure to rain.’
Thérèse never spoke evil of anyone, even when they were caught out gathering her home-grown vegetables. ‘It’s human nature. What do you expect?’ was her philosophy. Thérèse never flinched on entering my bedroom to see the tiles chipped after a hammer had hurtled through the window or the bed collapsed with castors rolling in all directions, her attitude being that so long as there were no broken teeth or bones to be swept up, everything was all right. And once, after a tap had been left running in my bathroom (Bernie’s attempt to drown Mummy, one could say) Thérèse made no comment. She merely hauled a pail up the stairs and spent the afternoon swilling. It was only towards the end of the affair and she arrived to find the dishwasher overturned, and all the crockery in smithereens on the kitchen floor, that she admitted to being scared.
When not tending thirty hectares of vines for an absentee landlord, Joseph came up and gardened. He always had something cheerful to say.
‘Il fait beau aujourd’hui,’ he would say, even if a mistral raged. His laugh was infectious and made you feel that life was worth living. Joseph liked to tipple and, at the end of a day’s gardening, he would come into the kitchen to have a chat and I brought out the bidon of wine.
When not bottling, cooking or sewing for her family, Thérèse often had relatives to stay. It was a mystery where everyone slept, there being only two bedrooms in their farmhouse. Joseph’s retarded brother slept in the stable with the mule. Should they have an excessive overflow and I was alone, Thérèse and Joseph came over and slept in the mas. I enjoyed their company, even if, like all the locals, they repeated everything four times over and, after their departure, the spare room remained redolent of copulating beasts. It was, however, preferable to the stench of stale tobacco or face powder. They never left the mattress covered in coffee stains or the walls spattered with mosquitoes, as more sophisticated guests sometimes did. They would arrive early in the evening and, before going to bed, talk in front of the fire, then leave early in the morning, when their alarm bell went. I became very fond of the whole family and often gave them things. Should I, for some reason, walk over to their farm, after visiting their mule, the pigs and the four chained dogs, I would go into their kitchen to find everyone rigged out in one of my discarded garments. The eldest daughter would be wearing my pretty Capri sandals, Joseph that old Isle of Aran pullover and the youngest son, Joel, looked so dashing in my Mexican sombrero that I often felt tempted to ask for it back.
On a clear day, when Joseph was tilling the vines, one could hear him cursing his mule, and if it wasn’t for the echo of the buzz-saw carving wood, or the children’s voices in autumn as they gathered cèpes or pine cones for a fire, the quiet of the valley might have become unendurable.
In the early days, when I went to England, they would take care of the cats, until one year Mell ate their pet canary as it flew out of its cage; and though Joseph admired Mell’s ability as a rat catcher, she was never allowed on to the farm again.
* The perfect hangover cure.