Proverb of the day:
“Laugh at a funeral and you’ll cry soon!”
We reached the big main square in Lembeye, a pleasant town hugging the hilly horizon.
After driving right round the square preceded by Mr. Murou, my father expressed his appreciation for the many shops and services the town had to offer. Suddenly, Mr. Murou stuck his arm out of his car window and pointed to a large, two-storey building on the right, distinguishing itself by its superb wooden balcony.
Beeping his horn energetically, he took his leave with profuse waving and affable demonstrations.
We parked in front of the office and its discreet gilded plaque (no frills, nothing tasteless - we were in the provinces after all). I was expecting to meet an austere, elderly, sinister-looking bureaucrat, as dour as his abode. No sooner had my father pressed the buzzer than a dashing, casually-dressed man in his forties, complete with crew cut, greeted us on the threshold of the door with the smile, allure and enthusiasm of an election candidate.
“I hope we’re not too late?” wondered my Dad, shaking his hand with oomph.
“Not at all,” reassured the notary, maintaining his wide grin. “The other person convened has just arrived.”
There was no time to express our surprise about ‘the other person’ because he promptly stepped aside to show us in.
“Shall we?”
He shook our hands in turn and, in true man-about-town style, slithered a term of politeness to each of the ladies, with more emphasis for Auntie Cynthia, who chirruped with pleasure.
We filed into a room which contrasted starkly with the individual who’d just greeted us, but which corresponded perfectly to the stereotypical idea of how a notary’s office should be. An immense oak bookshelf occupied the wall to our left. A heavy wooden desk, covered in green leather and a large chair seemed to glower sternly at all those sitting opposite on the dozen or so impeccably-arranged chairs. To our right, an open window offered a view of a garden planted with trees, adding a cheerful note to the austere décor.
The notary fetched a file from a cabinet next to the window, sat down in his chair, and flashed us a big smile. We observed him mutely as he opened the file and took out a document, which he then carefully placed on the desk. It was the first time my father and Uncle Émile were silent for more than a minute. A notary’s study is a bit like a church in some ways: it’s where you meditate, where you contemplate, and where you feverishly hope.
I sensed Dad’s tension and worry (he wasn’t the only one). He must have been racking his brains wondering who this other person convened for the will opening could be. People’s minds must have been screaming: “One share less for me! One share less for me!”
The notary, afraid that the silence may become embarrassing, cleared his throat and said, “Don’t worry. The person who arrived before you has gone to the bathroom. She shouldn’t be too long. Then we’ll open your aunt’s will.”
“Thank you, Maître,” replied my father. “We’re in no hurry.”
“We’ve got all the time in the world, the whole vacation in fact!” added Uncle Émile, trying to loosen things up. His joke fell flat.
“You’ve got a simply gorgeous place here,” Aunt Cynthia cooed, to attract his attention and break the silence. “It’s obvious that you are a man of taste,” she said, looking around the room like a connoisseur. “It’s a very pleasant location. Of course,” she added, “that’s if you like the quiet of the countryside.”
“You have to be born here to appreciate it,” remarked Maître Lafarge. “As my father used to say, Province is like a beautiful, wild woman of few words who, when you really know how to listen to her and honor her, will reveal to you her deepest treasures.”
“Oh, it doesn’t take much to hear my woman!” chortled Uncle Émile. “Like all women, she’s always blathering, isn’t that so?” he added, seeking his brothers’ agreement.
“I wouldn’t know,” commented the notary, amused, “I’m not married!”
“Happy man!” exclaimed Uncle Émile giving him a complicit wink.
A general “ooooh” of fake and amused indignation was heard from the female party; a general “oooooh!” followed by an “aaaaah!” of relief at the sound of the flush from the adjoining bathroom. Everyone looked at the door.
After one of two tense moments, the door slowly opened, keeping up a degree of suspense, and, to our total amazement, who should poke her head round the door, but Maïté Passy-Coucet? Overall shock.
Drooling on Caroline and me as she tried to kiss us, she was over the moon to see us all again; I couldn’t say the same for my family. Her arrival triggered a few exclamations of surprise and irritation.
I heard my father whispering into Uncle Émile’s ear, “See what they’re like, maids, huh, you see? I should have known!”
His brother grumbled his agreement.
They weren’t the only ones who were annoyed; there was one chair missing and yours truly had to take the Brat on his lap. Maïté sat down and gave each of us a jubilant greeting. Uncle Gus was the only one to return her polite gesture. My father tried not to look at her, already mentally calculating that the inheritance would now be divided by five, and, by the look of tension on his face, that added up to a pittance.
I remembered the photo taken fifteen years previously; the one Dad had taken from a family album to mentally weigh up the inheritance: a derelict hovel from what I could make out that probably hadn’t improved since. In any case, at first glance, it wasn’t much more than a pile of old stones.
And that was it.
Once Maïté was finally settled, the notary plucked the stretch loop on the file that sat on his desk, opening it with great care and maddening slowness, as if savoring the power he wielded – the power to make people wait, the power to let them stew in their juices of hope, the power to make them slaves of the master’s supremacy. My family regressed to infancy, patiently and reverently waiting for the ‘master’ to speak. I now understood the true meaning of the word “Maître”.
At last, the fittingly titled Maître Lafarge deemed it fit to abbreviate the cruel suspense. He plucked out several sheets of paper, and laid them out in order on his desk. He was looking increasingly like a magician performing his skilful artistry in front of a gaggle of transfixed children.
“Well,” he began, solemnly, “I’m going to read out the handwritten will that Mademoiselle Lucie Castet, domiciled in Moncaubet in the Pyrénées-Atlantiques, deposited here in my study on the sixteenth of April nineteen eighty-one. It is a holograph will: dated, signed and handwritten by the deceased. I have here (he brandished a piece of paper in his left hand) instructions relative to the will and testamentary procedure, and on these documents (which he was holding in his right hand), instructions relative to the testament itself. The testatrix was well-organized it seems,” he added.
“Just like her life was, poor woman,” my father retorted with his own idiosyncratic hypocrisy.
“The first elements constituting these documents involve the persons to contact before the opening of the will,” the notary continued. “I will name these persons in reading order: Mademoiselle Passy-Coucet Maïté, domiciled in Moncaubet; Mr. Castet Bernard, domiciled in Paris – I’ll skip over the full addresses; Mr. Castet Émile, also domiciled in Paris; Mr. Castet Gustave, domiciled in Nice in the Alpes-Maritimes, and Mr. Castet Michel, domiciled in Prats-de-Mollo in the Pyrénées-Orientales.”
He took a moment to examine the page in his left hand, the one containing the will procedure.
“Perfect. Since you are all gathered here according to the wishes of the deceased, we will continue accordingly.”
The notary delicately produced a glazed picture frame, which he placed in full view in front of us. The frame contained a photograph of a smiling old woman with smooth, round cheeks and a white neck around which hung an azure-colored stone set in a pendent. She seemed to be watching us from her glass encasement.
“Auntieee Luciee!” croaked Auntie Nathalie.
While everyone was surprised to find themselves face-to-face with a picture of the deceased, nobody found it bizarre. Uncle Gus summed up the general feeling perfectly when he declared,
“What a very thoughtful gesture on her part.”
As I observed the picture of our aunt, I still couldn’t understand how this face, which seemed so affable, could have attracted so much gossip. Sniffing distracted my attention, and I saw my mother and aunts, their bodies shaking with sobs brought on by the picture of our late Aunt Lucie. My father and uncles hastily pulled out handkerchiefs and handed them to their wives. What with one thing and another, we’d wasted enough time already. It wasn’t time for more lamenting.
“Oh! Auntie Lucie!” sighed Auntie Cynthia, “thank you! What a charming idea! Yes, thank you for letting us see you one last time!”
She could talk, the bitch! She, who always refused to pay Lucie even a weekend visit during vacations, preferring to top up her tan on a Mediterranean beach and, most of all, rub shoulders with ‘interesting’ people. For Aunt Cynthia, people are ‘interesting’ when they make money, prove that they make money, and want to make more money. I always asked myself the same eternal question: how could she have married Uncle Gus? He, who had as much drive and ambition as a boiled egg! And yet, she had won his heart, the poor chap. He had tried for his professorship a dozen times (university professorship is in a whole different social league, not to mention the salary), but his efforts were vain. Motivation was clearly lacking; he considered the exams more of a hassle than an opportunity for social climbing. In fact, it often made him furious: “I’m not prepared to stab people in the back just to get higher than they are”, he would say – heretical words that would cause his wife to fume in exasperation. Poor Uncle Gus! His ambitions to study and understand the world’s greatest thinkers were seriously compromised. His mission in life was enriching, but only intellectually so.
The notary observed a minute of silence in honor of the emotion caused by the picture. My father cleared his throat to attract the notary’s attention and, with a nod of the head, invited him to continue.
“So now I’ll proceed with the reading of the will itself; the second set of documents is composed of three handwritten pages as well as two black and white photocopies.”
He paused, then, “I’ll begin without further ado if you all agree.”
All agreed.
“I, Lucie Castet, born 18/08/1922 in Prats-de-Mollo in the Pyrénées Orientales and currently residing in Moncaubet in the Béarn, wish that all of the following be reported in its entirety. First of all, and above all else, I, now speaking to you from beyond – if indeed I am there and if indeed there is a ‘beyond’ – which is not certain, would like to tell you two or three things via this upstart of a notary…”
The ‘upstart’ came to an abrupt halt, stunned by what he’d just read. We watched as he scanned the document, his face now crimson. Then he looked in consternation at his audience, an audience now divided into two camps: those who did everything possible not to laugh (the men above all) and those who were as consternated as the notary by such insulting prose. A silence you could cut with a machete (a mere knife being too inadequate a tool) descended on the assembly.
“You know, Maître,” commented my father to break the embarrassing atmosphere, “don’t take it to heart; our aunt was a character, uh… she was (looking for his words) ‘odd’. You know what old people can be like.”
I felt his unease and concern; he was obviously worried about what was coming next, which did not bode well.
“Let’s put it down to age,” said the notary, forcing a smile. “It’s not for me to judge the content of the will, but to proceed with its implementation.”
A concert of approvals came bouncing back.
“Mais oui, put it down to age! Don’t take it badly,” Uncle Émile repeated several times, nodding and shaking his head.
Maître Lafarge reread the sentence, this time omitting the injurious comment about himself, and continued, “…I want to tell you two or three things before justifying the long journey that brought you here. I know perfectly well that you have not come all this way to pay me a final homage, but to receive your inheritance. And believe me, from this point of view, you will not be disappointed. Indeed, are you not my only remaining relatives?”
The faces of my entourage radiated joy. Carried away by the general enthusiasm, Caroline still perched on my lap, gratified me with one of her ‘leech’ kisses. But, just like the rest of my family, I was too excited to be angry with her. This loving side of Auntie Lucie stirred us up; even the men had to get their tissues out, which is to say!
“I would like to tell you a few home truths about your father. My brother was a total moron and an idiot of the worst kind. God, in his mercy, gave me the pleasure of seeing him die before me. And you, my dear nephews, no surprises about who you take after, I assure you. Nevertheless, as for my inheritance, I have decided not to hold your defamations, your indifference and your lack of concern against you. I know that you are more stupid than nasty!” (You should have seen the outrage on the faces of her dear nephews: ‘put it down to age’ was taking on a new meaning). “It is true that my life did not always match the canons of morality. However, this is the life I chose: no husband to give me orders, no children to cause me anguish, and no family to spoil my weekends (On that score I had nothing to worry about from you). Free I was born, free I lived and free I died. Free to give out my fortune as I see fit.
Yes. That’s what I said. My fortune! I now require the imbecile reading this document to pass around the two appended photocopies”.
In funereal silence, the said imbecile handed the photocopies to my father who sat on the edge of his chair to retrieve them. The Pater looked at the documents, suddenly changed color, his eyes widening, before passing them along with trembling hand to his brother Émile before collapsing back into his seat. As they were handed round, a series of stupefied, incredulous and, above all, awestruck shrieks were heard. It was as if Father Christmas himself had dropped in for a second visit: ‘Ho, ho, ho, here I am for extra goodies!’
The documents were passed among all the adults present and then came back to my father, now hugging them to his chest. I was abundantly ignored in the proceedings.
Once everyone had seen the documents (except for muggings), the notary continued reading, “Light does sometimes shine on the path of whores, even though it is harder for it to get through, perhaps because the forest of their life is denser and darker. And, yes, I was loved. I did not give this man more affection than others who came to see me. However, as I always say, ‘One good deed deserves another’. This ex-lover bequeathed all his assets to me on his deathbed. I didn’t know he had so much money. It was about fifteen million francs at the time.”
The notary stumbled at the significant sum.
“Unfortunately for me, this windfall arrived a little late in my life: a life without any major needs, without any major troubles, but also without any major joys; a life that happened in spite of myself. At first, I admit, I was hurt by your attitude; you disappointed me. When you were children and we lived under the same roof in Prats, I believed, hoped even, that you would turn out to be more intelligent and more tolerant than your father. Not satisfied at having darkened my childhood, he managed to get me disinherited thanks to the sacrosanct issue of birthright, as advised by the family notary. As you’ll understand by now, since then, I have very little esteem left for that particular species. Some professions are like toilet paper: a bit disgusting, but necessary.
I never forgave my brother’s rotten, lowdown pact or my parents’ weakness when they gave into him. I then decided to leave the family house forever, but to keep in touch with you, whom I loved like my own kin. And then, I saw you again years later. I did not find the young children I had known. No; I found judges. Time is carnivorous; it eats children and their soft, laughing eyes only to defecate adults who call themselves honest and responsible. I soon understood that we had nothing in common, and so I let go of the fragile bond which had held us together over the years.
As you have always been indifferent to my ups and downs, let me come back to the point which interests you the most: my estate! This fortune has significantly increased a life’s savings. Oh, I can’t complain because you’d be surprised to know how much success a prostitute has in the countryside. Yes, I was a whore! Yes, I sowed my wild oats! But I remained free despite people’s meanness and humiliations. Let me tell you that I always spat once on notaries and twice on yes-men! This money brought me great joy: it enabled me to pay a housekeeper. It was one of the best decisions I made in my life. Maïté loved and accepted me just as I was, without ever judging me or paying attention to any of the malicious gossip. Some may say that it’s because she wasn’t intelligent enough to understand my situation, but I choose to believe in her simple, good nature. Even if I never told her before, I want her to know that I loved her as much as she could have loved me.”
A loud “Pouaaah!” resounded at the end of the phrase. Mademoiselle Passy-Coucet bawled noisily into a large tissue, her body rocking with sobs. The notary stopped reading, visibly bothered by this embarrassing demonstration of grief. Auntie Agnès took Maïté by the hand and whispered a few soothing words into her ear before the atmosphere returned to the serene dignity required for the occasion.
“A bit of modesty if you don’t mind!” Uncle Émile grumbled, frowning.
“Nobody ever knew that I was a millionaire and it was just as well,” continued the notary. “I never spoke to anyone about it, and least of all you lot: I didn’t want to tell anyone about it, especially not you because I had no wish to see you all turning up on the doorstep with your wives and children coming to see your ‘dear’ – between speech marks,” said the notary, “‘Aunt Lucie’. I didn’t squander this money; I never bought anything extraordinary except for special gourmet cat food for Joyeux, my cat. This fifteen million – as you will have seen on the photocopy of my bank statements – has been deposited in the building society in Morlaàs. The account number and bank address feature on the second photocopy. You will see that the capital has more than doubled in ten years. This comfortable capital gain will serve to pay most of the rights of succession: the notary will inform you on this particular issue.”
Stone. We had all turned to stone! We could no longer breathe, we no longer existed, and all you could hear was Maïté’s snorts and Caroline’s shuffling feet, meaning that she badly wanted a pee: quite normal for the little piss artist she was. We had just entered the fourth dimension where space and time stand still. I was examining my entourage to see which among them would break the barriers of this dimension – I saw that my father was the least impressionable, but I was mortified to see Uncle Gus’ chin trembling ever so slightly. I was embarrassed when I met his eyes filled with ineffable sadness.
I decided to focus on Maître Lafarge who, after picking up the last page, was about to read on, after a theatrical pause for added suspense, “After this long and necessary digression, here are my wishes... I, Lucie Castet, leave to Mademoiselle Maïté Passy-Coucet the sum of four million new francs (we hadn’t yet known the joys of the euro conversion). This should enable her to find a high quality residence: her money, of course, must be managed by a tutor. In memory of our friendship, I ask her to take care of my cat Joyeux, which I took in many years ago after he was abandoned by some bastards, and I wouldn’t want more bastards to abandon him again at the cat rescue centre or anywhere else for that matter. He’s not very smart but he doesn’t deserve to be put down.
As for my nephews, Messrs Émile, Gustave, Bernard and Michel Castet, I ask them now to take a good look at my photograph, which should just be in front of them (all eyes move to the photo of Auntie Lucie.) Cancer took me in the end. It is a terrible disease for sure. However, it left me time to think. An amusing idea arose in my mind. As you can see, in this picture, I am wearing a turquoise stone on a chain. This stone has no value except for the one I am about to give it. I have carefully hidden it away somewhere in my estate, and, as per my latest wishes, I bequeath my entire estate to the nephew who finds it.
In addition, one month after the opening of this will, during which time my nephews can reside in my home, the nephews will no longer be able to inherit my estate if they fail in this task. In this case, the person who does find the turquoise stone will inherit my estate.
I would also like to add that Maître Philippe Pécastaing, a bailiff in Pau, possesses an exact copy of this jewel, and only he will be able to verify the authenticity of the stone you present to the notary. This is, of course, in case one of you tried to do a dirty deal with the latter or present a fake stone. You can never be too careful when dealing with such a lot of money!
To assist you in your quest, I am giving you the following clue:
I should be warm and cozy,
Sheltered from the sun
And finally, before leaving you for good, I’d like to say just one last word from the bottom of my heart - screw the lot of you!”