“That’s crazy!”
“I can’t believe it!”
“What the…!”
“Huh, I don’t get it?!”
A dissonant cacophony arose in a single squawk from the throats of the present committee – dazed, incredulous and indignant.
My father sprang up from his chair and glowered at the notary with the eye of an assassin, spitting out vile words, “What the crap is this?”
My uncles and aunts were like poultry in a pen complete with visiting fox. The incredulous women clucked amongst themselves in outrage. The men were simply fuming, spewing a lot of bad language and eyeing up the notary with airs of vengeance and loathing. Uncle Gus was the only one to keep his cool, remaining aloof from the rest of the fowl. If I wasn’t very much mistaken, he even seemed to be viewing the agitation with an air of amusement.
Regrettably, his stoic attitude stoked the wrath of his ogress spouse, “Haven’t you got anything to say? Are you just going to sit there on your chair while we’re being disinherited! Oh my God!” she wailed, “I married a doormat. A doormat!”
Overawed by all the mayhem, Maître Lafarge took the precautionary measure of stowing away the loose documents on his desk. Like a good ship’s captain in a storm, he waited for the elements to calm down. Unfortunately for him, this was more of a twister than a storm.
As if an accusing finger sharply pointed at the notary wasn’t enough, my father was now banging his fist on the desk and yelling, “What’s all this bullshit? I demand an explanation!”
Aunt Cynthia got up and shimmied to the desk; she stood in front of the notary, requested silence and then cooed in dulcet tones that only just masked her underlying irritation, “Cher Maître, please forgive this excess of emotion, but you do understand that the crazy clauses featuring in this will have left us… somewhat perplexed. I am sure, however,” she mewled, turning towards us for approval, “that we’ll be able to come to an arrangement that will satisfy all concerned.”
Maître Lafarge, with a gesture of appeasement and an awkward smile, invited my father and Aunt Cynthia to sit down. Discomfited, he crossed his fingers on the desk, took a deep breath and said solemnly,
“I am very sorry, but your aunt’s will is watertight. It is dated, signed, handwritten by the deceased and deposited in legal form. The last wishes of the testatrix are indeed eccentric, but she had the absolute right to dispose of her fortune as she wished and to choose the method by which her inheritance would be shared out. So, I repeat, loud and clear, this will is legally unassailable. Anyway, there’s no point in arguing with me since I discovered the content of this will at the very same time as you did. I had no idea what it contained. Now, feel free to ask me any questions you may have, calmly if possible, and if I can be of any assistance to you in any way (looking earnestly at Auntie Cynthia), I shall only be too glad.”
Post-skirmish silence descended. Wretchedness replaced anger. Disheartened, the men shook their heads and the women got out their tissues again.
A clear voice piped up behind me, “Maître, could you please sum up the situation for us?” asked Uncle Gus, “I’m sure it will help clarify things.”
“Sum up the situation?” growled Uncle Émile, “I’ll sum it up for you. We are all in the shit! In the shit!”
“Come now, come now,” softened the notary, “it’s not that bad. Yes, well, to sum things up, your aunt has left four million francs to Mademoiselle Passy-Coucet in exchange for which the latter must look after the defunct’s cat. Have you understood, Mademoiselle?” he asked, addressing Maïté who was still crying into her handkerchief with the meekness and constancy of a pilgrim in Lourdes. “It is all clear, isn’t it?” he repeated, patronizing. “In exchange for the money, you will look after your ex-employer’s cat. You are happy I hope?”
“Oh yes. Oh yes. I am happy,” she finally managed to articulate, pulling out another tissue from her pocket. “I’ll look after the cat.”
She turned to us with a glowing smile, “You see, I’m going to look after the cat! I’m so happy!”
Small things amuse small minds. Happy are the meek and mild because they will see God. Meanwhile, she would also see the color of money, unlike some.
“She’s looking after the cat and she’s happy!” muttered dad. “She’s getting four million smackers and she’s happy about the cat! Am I dreaming or what?”
“As for you,” the notary continued, especially addressing my father in whom he sensed the tribal chief, “the will is clear: you have one month, as from today, to locate the turquoise pendent, the very same as the one in this photograph, somewhere on your aunt’s estate.”
He pointed to the henceforth reviled picture of Aunt Lucie. I don’t know why, but now a ferocious, ironic rictus grin had replaced my first impressions of a mellifluous smile. Sweet had turned to sour, honey to bile.
“The fortune goes to the person who finds the turquoise pendent. You have one month ending the second of August at midnight, by which time, if you haven’t found the pendent in question, you will definitively no longer be in the running for the inheritance. Whoever finds the turquoise after that date will receive the inheritance. Let me remind you that the testatrix left a clue for you.”
He rummaged in the file and got out the paper which he read, first under his breath and then out loud, “Ah! Here we are… I should be warm and cozy, sheltered from the sun.”
“We should be warm and sunning ourselves on the Atlantic coast instead of listening to all this bullshit!” grumbled my father.
“These indications are somewhat obscure, don’t you find?” petitioned Auntie Cynthia.
“Indeed they are. But I am sure, dear Madam, that a person of your caliber will soon have this riddle cracked,” replied the notary with an obsequious and prolonged smile. “With the help of course of your dynamic family,” he added diplomatically. “However, as the will stipulates, to begin with, I suggest you all get settled into your aunt’s house, and then begin the quest as soon as possible. It would be wise to pool resources and unite; after all, strength lies in numbers and will reduce possible hostilities that may arise between you. That’s my personal advice.”
Suddenly, a piercing cry wrenched my family out of the apathy into which it had slumped.
“I want my caaat!” Maïté yelled.
She sprang up from her chair and continued shouting,
“I want my cat, I want my cat! The cat is mine!”
As I observed this extravaganza, I couldn’t help but laugh, especially at the consternated faces of my family.
“Calm down, calm down,” the notary tried to reason with her, “you’ll have the cat very soon.”
“I want my cat! I want my cat!” mimicked Caroline in fits of laughter.
We managed to calm Maïté down by promising to take her straight away to pick up the cat from her ex-employer’s house.
“And kill two birds with one stone, get rid of the cat and the fruitcake at the same time!” growled Dad.
To make sure she left with all her chattels including the cat, he asked the notary to call the priest to come and pick her up forthwith.
“That won’t be necessary; Father Gracious is due to pick Maïté up at five o’clock, and five o’clock it is, he observed with apparent relief.”
No doubt this’ll be a day he’ll remember too. He certainly earned his fee that day. He rose from his chair signifying to all that it was time for us to go. He swiftly showed us to the door, eager to have done with this turbulent tribe.
“Please, do call me to keep me informed, won’t you,” he added, hovering on the door step. “Rest assured, I’m keeping a close eye on your affair.”
“Thank you for your precious advice,” purred Auntie Cynthia, shaking his hand. “With a bit of luck, we’ll be seeing you before the week is out to bring you the turquoise.”
“I don’t doubt it for a second,” he replied amiably. “I’m sure that it’ll turn out to be a mere formality.”
Famous last words. One can never be too careful with mere formalities!
We chatted on the doorstep until Father Gracious arrived in his Renault 18 station-wagon.
No sooner had he stepped out of his car than Maïté rushed towards him with a heart-rending yelp, “I want my cat, Father. I want my cat!”
In few words, the clergyman was informed about the situation and the ‘terrible fate’ now awaiting our family, and he agreed to drive Maïté to his home without delay.
“Perfect,” declared Maître Lafarge, “I see you’re in good company. Permit me to take my leave.”
We permitted him. Then he disappeared. Good riddance. I don’t know why but I really didn’t like this man. Maybe it was because of the disdain and arrogance I felt behind his fake amiability. I think I can honestly say that I had razorblade love for this man too!
The maid finally stopped bawling and we made to leave. Escorted by Father Gracious, we went back the way we came.
Leaving Simacourbe, we took the little Montcaubet road. To my great joy, and to my father’s joy, several dogs went for Uncle Michel’s Renault 4, repeatedly biting at his tyres. Maybe they were excited by the smell of the billy-goat that sometimes got into my uncle’s car. Admittedly, there was enough to take offence when you consider the morals of such a creature (I mean the billy-goat, not my uncle of course. On second thoughts…). Wasn’t it Uncle Michel who told me once that billy-goats urinate on each other to stimulate the nanny goats’ libido? That explains why these animals stink to high heavens. I could therefore only approve of the canines’ healthy and logical reaction.
As the Renault 4 swerved to avoid the bravest of the canine company (the stupidest if he’d known the state of the car brakes), it almost crashed into a tractor coming head on at full speed.
The driver of the tractor was just able to pull in at the last minute along the ditch, and glowered at us as we drove past, throwing his arms up in a sign of protestation. It turned out to be Mr. Murou who, when he recognized us, gratified us with a friendly but brisk, “Whooah! Parisians!”
They must be used to hectic driving in these parts, because off he went hooting his horn for all his might. Later on, I learned that strangers here took extreme care on these roads because the natives tended to flex their territorial muscles by reeking havoc on the tarmac. This was before road safety laws were reinforced, of course. Politicians finally understood that useless TV commercials didn’t work and that only repression and fines would reduce road deaths. When it touches their wallets, you can bet that people wise-up fast!
At last, we drove past the cemetery in Moncaubet where we noticed Gégène (alias “the Toad”) hard at work, slumped over his shovel. He frantically waved as soon as he recognized us. We replied with a few tactful headlamp flashes: nobody was feeling particularly cheery. The Toad watched us as we drove into the distance. He was still leaning on his shovel, as if set in a permanent pose.
A little further along, the tarmac turned into a dirt track furrowed out by the sun. It ran through oak and chestnut woods, alternating with pastures that suddenly opened out to the horizon on the edge of the valley below. The path split in two and the priest’s car took the left fork, descending a gentle slope down into the valley.
The day was coming to a close and the heat was losing its intensity. On either side of the track stood a compact and impressive hedge of dogwood, oaks, hazelnut, brambles and hornbeam and many more varieties of shrubs and bushes which seemed to join elbows in serried ranks to resist the assaults of the celestial fire and to give mutual courage against the encroaching farmlands and savage hedge hacking that cleared the way for electricity lines.
For many years, hedges were uprooted in the name of output and profitability. Men in grey suits from the ministry of Agriculture later realized the beauty and value of the hedges against erosion and water-logging, not to mention the richness and diversity of the fauna and the flora they shelter. Having ripped out miles of hedges for years, and because of the natural disasters actually caused by their uprooting, emergency subsidies were voted to replant the same hedges.
Until he started to talk New Age gobbledygook, Uncle Michel used to talk sense: “Nature always punishes stupidity!” he had once said when teaching me about those things during our vacations in the Pyrenees. He taught me to identify many different kinds of trees and shrubs. In fact, I developed a true passion for wild flowers and plants especially when I found out that some berries caused diarrhea, bloating, nausea and other ‘niceties’, giving me the chance to elatedly try some out on my cousin Caroline in her most intolerable moments. After these ‘experimental tasting’ experiences, she would leave me alone for the rest of the day. I would have been wrong to deprive myself of those little pleasures because I was never found out; it was always blamed on Auntie Agnès’ esoteric cooking.
Oh! The joys and pleasures of Nature!
In the distance, a hedge framed the bell-tower of the church and I guessed that we’d done a kind of loop. The bell-tower now disappeared in a turning, leaving us slap-bang in front of Aunt Lucie’s house.
What surprised me most was that the house hadn’t changed an iota since the photo taken years previously. Obviously, our aunt hadn’t used any of her fortune to do it up or even to maintain the house properly. This you could tell by the state of the roof tiles, all askew and mossy, the bowing pebble walls, the slaking paint on the shutters and the wonky, rotten front door. The whole picture provided a decidedly inhospitable welcome.
The house was one of those traditional longère farmhouses (a long, narrow, low slung building) in the purest Béarnais style with dormer windows in the roof and its typical lean-to behind the house.
A low wall ran along the length of the property. It had crumbled here and there; cypresses and oleanders had been planted to fill in the gaps. The place seemed inhospitable at first, but then I noticed an orchard a few feet away which made me change my mind. From where I was standing, I thought I could see plums, peaches and apricots, and I promised myself I’d go and explore the orchard later.
Father Gracious’ car was parked just in front of the front door. My father and his brothers parked herringbone along a row of healthy laurel palms that bordered the right side of the house. As I got out of the car, I spied Uncle Gus’ caravan parked in the shade of an immense linden tree which gave shade to a whole section of the property. The caravan was resting on a few blocks of cement which my uncle must have picked out from a heap of them lying under a big tree.
We were approaching the house when a graceful figure emerged from the caravan and gave a jolly “Hi!” when she saw us. My cousin, Valérie. What a shock! When I left her the year before, she was a skinny child; now she was a woman. At the age of fourteen, she didn’t have her periods, but she certainly made up for it now. And how!
She suddenly rushed up to me and kissed me twice on each cheek pressing her breasts (still budding but oh so disturbing) against my chest. What a delicious sensation! I was pleasantly disturbed but also slightly anxious: I no longer knew this girl (or was she a woman?) who was pressing against me. I was bothered by the idea that maybe I’d lost my old playmate and confidante. For the first time in my life, I felt the imminent and inexorable abandonment of childhood. Even though we were still children in our minds, our bodies (especially hers) would, from now on, proscribe the caresses, kisses and other spontaneous and innocent effusions of childhood tenderness.
I admired the new young woman but missed the young girl.
“What’s wrong, cousin? Cat got your tongue?” she said, laughing at me while I struggled to find my words.
I felt the urge to hold her close to me in my arms and kiss her, take her hand and run away with her, but I couldn’t.
Nevertheless, I managed to articulate, “You’ve... you’ve changed a lot!”
“Really? Do you think so?” she answered with a falsely detached air.
For sure, she was proud and happy to exhibit this brand new body, this woman’s body, a seductress’ body. I had a twinge of envy and jealousy when I compared my prepubescent body to this babe. Hairiness, well underway for a boy of my age, couldn’t compete with such charms.
My feeling of bitterness soon dispersed when she gratified me with an adorable “I’m so happy to see you!” before she went to meet the rest of the family. I hadn’t noticed the shorts she was wearing, but then realized just how short and how close fitting they were, outlining sensual curves I was too ashamed to contemplate. This was my cousin after all! The brief contact with her tender body, so full of life, caused an unmentionable stirring in the loins. I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t perversity, but a normal and inevitable reaction caused by the hormonal whirlwind of adolescence.
Valérie was welcomed by a concert of “Oooh, hasn’t she changed!” – “She’s a woman now!” and “she’s so beautiful!” – “We wont be able to take you on our laps any more!” making her and her parents beam with delight. Auntie Cynthia was parading around smugly reminding us that she was the progenitor of this delicious creature. She was so scrumptious with her short hair, her green eyes, her fine features, her mischievous, gritty smile, and a body that promised to look like her mother’s.
In fact, her mother even modestly commented, “She’ll be as beautiful as her mom!”
We could only wish it for her, although, for her own good, the similarities would have to stop there.
I spotted Caroline sulking in a corner, probably miserable about no longer being the centre of attention and admiration, adding to my mounting affection for my cousin Valérie.
Father Gracious waited until we’d finished our effusions before asking if one of us had the keys to the house.
“I’ve got them!” said Maïté joyfully, taking a large key, as large and as thick as Uncle Émile’s fist, out of the pocket of her shapeless jacket. She held it up proudly for all to see before stuffing it into the lock. After two turns executed with a steady grip, the door squeaked open.
The priest stepped aside for us to enter, “Please. Owners first.”
Nobody budged. The gathering simply exchanged perplexed looks.
“Go ahead, go ahead, Father,” my dad insisted, pointing to the interior. “It’s the emotion, you see and it’s best if God goes first.”
Pleasantly surprised by this mark of respect and aware of the impact on his fans, Father Gracious sensitively added, “You may lean on me as I lean on God.”
It was just as well because, with what lay ahead, we would be needing a sturdy crutch to lean on.
I shared my family’s reticence about the daunting and even angst-provoking prospect of entering Auntie Lucie’s den of iniquity. Heaven only knew what grim surprises were in store for us.
Once the priest and Maïté had passed the threshold, a decision had to be made. Keeping up his leader-status, my father took the initiative and, seizing my mother by the arm, pulled her in. It was our turn to follow. I politely (or rather guardedly) let my uncles and aunts go first.
Our first impression was far from unpleasant. A soothing and welcome feeling of cool freshness greeted us as we entered the house. The thickness of the stone wall, at least two feet thick at its base, made for excellent insulation. The room in which we were standing included an adjoining kitchen and dining room.
Here and there, the terracotta tiles, blackened and worn by generations of feet, still showed their original warm, coppery tones. Some of the tiles had come unstuck, probably because the cement had been eroded away by time and humidity, and I noticed bits of bread and cheese placed in the naked interstices. Perhaps they were bizarre feeding bowls for the cat.
An immense fireplace topped by an oak beam, hugged the wall opposite us, with, at its feet, an enormous pile of logs waiting to be thrown into its jaws. A table of massive proportions, also made of oak, presided in the centre of the room. A small television, yellow from dust and grease, graced the table. At the end of the room, there was a sideboard with a plethora of picture frames displaying photos of a cat taken from all angles. Next to the sideboard was a fridge covered in rust and dirt that would have made any Siberian peasant blush. They should have had this fridge shipped to some indigenous couple in Siberia or elsewhere (Eastern countries don’t have a monopoly on poverty) to break the illusion of capitalistic and hi-tech societies. Sometimes, it takes so little to change an opinion.
A huge ‘Landru’ type stove (so vast that the infamous serial killer could have burned all his victims in it at once) and a stone sink completed the scene. In the sink stood three balloon jars shedding their bluish enamel like old skin. Several pairs of pink rubber gloves were piled in a corner with, on top of the pile, a cube of Marseilles soap that hadn’t been used in many moons by the looks of its dry, leathery surface.
The two windows in the room provided very little light, and the thick beams, blackened by generations of chimney smoke, made the whole place look very dingy indeed.
A few dirty looking bath towels were suspended from nails on the wall among which some unashamedly filthy tea towels were also hanging, complex free.
“I have a feeling that this is the bathroom,” groaned Valérie. “Not going to be easy for washing!”
“It’s all very philistine,” her mother added. “How horrid! Washing in the same place as the dishes! Talk about hygiene. Disgusting!”
“It’s very practical,” said Maïté, “we do a strip wash, then we wash our smalls, and if the water isn’t too dirty, we do the dishes as well. You save water that way.”
A shudder of disgust reverberated through the row of women. The men had to stifle a laugh.
Just as well they used the water that way round and not the other, I thought.
“Of course, you lot would find it amusing!” groaned my aunts and my mother in chorus.
“You’re forgetting that there’ll be eleven of us in this place!” Auntie Nathalie reminded us, indignant. “We’re not going to live in these conditions, are we?”
“And I need to have a shower every day!” Valérie added, backed up by her mother.
My cousin really had changed; she used to love getting dirty and going scrambling with me, and now she needed a daily shower. It’s true that becoming hygiene-conscious is one of those telling signs that a girl is becoming a woman: a sign that is not always clear for some people, alas! I convinced myself that it was different for men. At the time, I used to think that casualness about clothes and a less than thorough hygiene could only enhance a still hesitant virility. I hasten to add that my convictions have evolved with age!
“And the toilets?” asked Auntie Nathalie uneasily, “Where are the toilets?”
“Outside, in the wooden hut,” giggled Maïté, “and you must be careful not to fall down the hole! One day I almost went through the floor!”
“That is philistine! That is really philistine!” stated Auntie Cynthia, at the end of her pip. “In that case, I’m going to a hotel!”
As the anger and laments of the women amplified, the men had to make firm and clearly-stated promises to rig up showers, refurbish the bathrooms and disinfect the sink.
Auntie Lucie’s legacy was darkening into nightmarish shades. We skipped these rather unpleasant considerations and continued inspecting the premises; perhaps the turquoise pendent – the obligatory key to our aunt’s fortune – was lying hidden just a few feet away.
“Since Mistress went into hospital, I’ve been looking after everything,” said Maïté as we continued our visit.
This would explain things.
She was about to lead us through a door located just beside the oven when a guttural, threatening snarl was heard from beneath the table. The women screamed and the men couldn’t help jumping in their skins at this sinister occurrence. Our gathering drew away from the table en masse, except for Maïté who didn’t seem too fussed about the growl emanating from a gullet that could only belong to something non-human. Nobody dared move.
Caroline started to yowl and leapt into her father’s arms, and I must say that, in that instant, I expected to see a spectral form of Aunt Lucie, escaped from her tomb, surging forth in front of our eyes. I imagined an Auntie Lucie caked in mud, her flesh covered in worms, a large blue stone around her skeletal neck, pointing a vengeful finger at us spitting from her toothless mouth, “Screw you all! Screw you all!”
The growl was terrifying enough to evoke such images in my mind and we would all have made for the front door forthwith had it not been for Maïté’s sudden dive under table, knocking over a few chairs on her way. She gave a triumphant shriek as she thrust an arm forward and pulled out a large ball of fur, which she brandished under our noses, laughing gleefully,
“It’s Joyeux! This is Joyeux! Don’t be afraid. He’s a bit grumpy, but he’s not nasty! Eh. You’re not nasty, are you, my little pussy-wussy?”
The hysterical meowing coming from ‘pussy-wussy’ most definitely contradicted this affirmation. The creature seemed to have inherited his Mistress’ charming character. I had never seen, and have never since seen, such an enormous cat. He must have weighed at least twenty two pounds. A massive, squat head emerged from his body which was covered with long, silky, russet-colored fur. A ball of fur in which two fiery yellow eyes sparkled like set gems. Impossible to identify to which race he belonged.
After proudly displaying the cat to the gathering, keeping a tight grip on the scruff of his neck, Maïté put him down. No sooner was he set down on terra firma, than he ran and hid under the table. Sociable little sod; another trait he shared with his Mistress.
“Well, that animal can congratulate himself for giving us a real fright!” thundered Uncle Émile.
“A real demon!” his wife added.
“Did you hear him meowing like that?” exclaimed Auntie Agnès. “I thought for a moment that a dangerous beast was lurking in the kitchen getting ready to devour us!”
“I’ve never met such an aggressive cat,” observed Uncle Michel. “It’s strange actually.”
“I believe I can explain this animal’s aggressive behavior,” interjected Father Gracious. “First of all, we frightened it by trespassing on his territory. And then there was that most dreadful deed of Maïté’s,” he said, giving Maïté a reproachful stare, “which certainly didn’t help the poor creature’s character. Entirely understandable really!”
“I thought I was doing the right thing,” replied the accused, lowering her eyes guiltily. “My Mistress punished me for it alright. Oh yes. But it wasn’t my fault! I thought I was doing the right thing!”
“What happened?” asked Uncle Émile, greedy for gossip.
“Oh, it’s quite simple really,” said the priest. “One day, Maïté here had the most unfortunate idea to – how can I put it without shocking the children? – Um… to sterilize the poor animal using the most drastic means.”
“Sterilize?” my mother gasped, dismayed by what she had already grasped.
“Yes. Huh. Let’s see. Without entering into the details,” he explained, now embarrassed, “well, Maïté cut off his noble parts, if you see what I mean.”
We saw what he meant! Seeing our consternated and accusing faces, Maïté tried to defend herself, whimpering, “When the female cats from the neighborhood were on heat, the males pissed all over the place! And I had to clean it all up. So one fine day (not a fine day for the cat) I cut off his balls!”
The women gasped in horror, while the men, out of male solidarity, looked daggers at the castrator.
“It was meant to calm him down!” Maïté pleaded (well, as far as female playmates were concerned, Joyeux had certainly been ‘calmed down’). “And anyway, he didn’t feel anything! I had a proper utensil you see. Look.”
She scuttled to the sideboard, opened one of the drawers and took out an enormous and worrying (especially in her hands) pair of secateurs.
My hand automatically dropped down to protect my nether parts, afraid for a moment that she may want to carry out a further demonstration of her surgical talents.
“We believe you, Maïté, we believe you!” assured Father Gracious. “Put down the secateurs; we don’t want to injure anyone now, do we?”
She gently put down the instrument, almost regretfully, with the respect and love of a craftsman who stows away his best tool, then she turned her back on us and went off to sulk in the corner of the kitchen.
“Hang on. Did she cut them off just like that, without an anesthetic?” inquired Auntie Agnès grimacing with horror.
“Indeed,” sighed the priest. “The poor animal was hovering between life and death at the vet’s for a few days. His robust constitution and youth kept him alive. I can tell you that this sordid story spread throughout the entire region.”
“I can believe it,” added Uncle Gus.
“There are few as valiant as Maïté, although she does sometimes lose the plot. Once, to beg forgiveness from her mistress, who was furious about this mutilation (the cat too, I presume), Maïté found the testicles, dried them, wrapped them in a little leather purse and gave them to poor Joyeux to play with!”
At the thought (horrible though it was) of this poor cat playing with his own balls, everyone burst out laughing. A fine state of affairs: the maid lost her marbles and so did the cat, as it were.
“So, all in all,” said my father, “Joyeux isn’t joyful anymore because he’s lost his goolies!!”
He and his brothers laughed so much their jaws ached. The ladies, more reserved in the priest’s presence, smiled bashful smiles.
“Oh my God. Bloody hell!” my father panted. “Joyeux lost his goolies! Joyeux lost his goolies!”
Maïté, aware that she was somehow the star of the show, joined in the general hilarity. I even saw her greedy inquisitive eye seeking out something under the table – was there something else she could cut off to amuse the peanut gallery?
Impenetrable to this kind of humor, the clergyman let the gathering calm down before continuing the discussion in a stern tone of voice, “I hope that Maïté will henceforth be more charitable with this poor beast.”
He turned to her, “Don’t forget that your mistress left you in charge of the cat. It’s in your care now!
“I’ll take care of him as well as I took care of the house,” she promised, candidly.
Poor, poor Joyeux.
“And don’t forget that if you hurt this cat, even if I don’t see it, even if I don’t hear about it, God sees and knows everything, and he will punish you one day for your actions!” threatened the priest.
Joyeux now had divine insurance.
“But what if he’s naughty?” asked Maïté. “I’ll have to give him a spanking; when he used to pee everywhere, the mistress always did; she used to swipe him with the tea towel. That’s why I wanted to calm him down,” she hastened to add.
“Yes, yes. We’ve understood,” cut in the priest, obviously irritated. “I’ll see to it that your aunt’s cat is well taken care of. Count on me,” he assured us. “He’ll have a peaceful life from now on.”
At that moment, the subject of the cat’s peaceful retirement was as important to my family as a flea bite or a dead fish.
And we had other fish to fry.
“Now then, we’ll leave you to visit the house in peace while I help Maïté pack her bags. I took the liberty of removing most of her personal effects before you arrived. We won’t be bothering you for much longer.”
“Oh you’re not bothering us at all,” my father admirably lied.
“Perfect. In that case, and if you don’t mind, we’ll go into the other room.”
“Shall we follow you?” said Uncle Michel, “That way we can explore the premises in your company.”
Father Gracious, escorted by Maïté and our group, crossed the threshold of the door we were about to enter before the ‘castrato’s’ performance.
It gave onto a dark, narrow passage with flaking plaster walls, revealing disjointed boards underneath. At the end of the passage, a wooden ladder missing a few rungs was leaning against an opening in the ceiling.
“It is definitely... rustic,” remarked Aunt Cynthia. “I’m sure we’re in for more delights.”
The future proved how right she was.
At first, we were formally forbidden from entering Auntie Lucie’s room (“we” meaning Caroline, Valérie and myself). The adults feared that the sulfurous vestiges of our aunt’s past still haunted this place of debauchery.
The ban, issued to preserve the moral integrity of our innocent souls, excited my curiosity even more and triggered exasperated “Oh là là’s!” from Valérie. Chance would have it, however, after a long and painstaking inspection of the ‘premises’ by the morality squad, we were allowed through the left-hand door into our aunt’s chamber. Living statues, my mother and aunts were standing at the foot of the bed, a serried rank of grave and speechless countenances witnessing a scene of sin.
Instant disappointment. I was expecting decadence: garish colors, satin sheets, saucy paintings, indiscrete mirrors and shag-pile (suitably named) rugs full of intimate secrets: in a nutshell, the kind of suggestive images you see in the media. Instead, I saw an ordinary, desolate room full of sadness: nothing at all to excite my fourteen year old curiosity.
No rugs, no carpets, no arousing canvases to amuse and tease the senses; no fantasy whatsoever in this humble bed with its rough blankets and impeccably laid white sheets. On a bedside table, the heart of a large copper-color alarm-clock had stopped beating at 8:40 (morning or evening? We’ll never know). A massive wardrobe, as high as it was wide, seemed to bear the weight of the ceiling on its broad shoulders.
The men were already rummaging through it. The bedroom hadn’t been aired for a good few weeks, and there was a tenacious, acrid smell of sweat and dust.
The smell itself summed up a life of solitude and resentment.
Unusually quiet until now, Caroline suddenly jumped onto the bed and bounced up and down,
“This bed is so comfortable! I want to sleep in this bedroom tonight!” she demanded.
“Yes, I must say, it is comfortable!” my father agreed, testing the bed springiness with his big hands, “our aunt had professional knowledge!” he laughed, “You can tell good craftsmen by their tools, hey?”
His comment made the men guffaw and the women protest with their prissy, “Not in front of the children please!”
Valérie turned towards me and whispered in my ear, “They think we’re complete idiots. We’re not children any more; we know more than they did when they got married.”
This was probably true. At that time, the Internet hadn’t yet woven its web, but some of the encoded TV channels swept away the innocence of young teenagers in one fell swoop. I still remember the shock when I saw my first porn film recorded and projected in secret on the video recorder of one of my friends. The romanticism and innocence of my youth were dashed against the rocks as I watched the different positions, penetrations, ejaculations and other fellatios embedded in this magnetic tape. Of course, I had already touched and kissed a member of the opposite sex, but compared to those childish, chaste pleasures, the bestial copulations on tape opened a vast abyss in the child I was then into which I plunged in a nose-dive.
Yet, I heroically bore the shock of these images, and even passed the tape around my group of friends obtaining the enviable status of being ‘in’ and a ‘good buddy’.
So you see, the bedroom of the deceased, even though it sheltered the memories of many passions, didn’t impress me at all. Maïté’s room on the other hand, on the other side of the corridor, was much more interesting. It reminded me of a sweet shop after a hurricane: piles of sweet wrappers, ice-cream sticks, half-eaten lollipops, old chewing gum stuck all over the place like ugly drawing pins, chocolate bars left in ashtrays, the floor strewn with layers of sweet, sticky, multicolored litter. You couldn’t even see the floor in some places.
“Wow! It’s lovely!” Caroline cooed in ecstasy. “I’d like a room like this!”
“What a pigsty!” said Auntie Cynthia, disgusted.
As we entered this sweet-shop, Father Gracious was already tying up a garbage bag full of papers and bits and pieces including an assortment of cut up fashion magazines, TV reviews, crumpled clothes, half-opened packets of sweets and other unidentifiable items.
He had to go get another garbage bag for the sheets Maïté was taking off the bed. I noticed in passing that the sheets were soiled with suspect, yellowish stains that could have been sugary sweet stains were it not for their telltale places leaving no doubt as to their origin.
Helped along by a smell that I’d charitably qualify as ‘present’, this revolting scene made me retch, completing the enchanting tableau. Fortunately, the men rushed to open a small window that gave hardly any light to that area of the room. Pity that this window gave onto a pond and an abandoned chicken pen from which rank, putrid odors emanated. Nearly suffocated, the women hurried things along by stuffing the offending articles into the bag held open by the priest’s two hands.
“There you are!” mother said to Maïté, “You just have to wash and iron them. But, given the state they’re in, I don’t know if they’ll go back to white.”
The white must have quitted a long time ago in disgust.
“These sheets are a cotton-linen mix,” noted Auntie Agnès. “Very resistant: if you wash them once on a boil wash, you’ll get the stains out, I’m sure.”
I felt a twinge of pity for the washing machine; with the work it was about to tackle, its motor might just decide to pack up go on strike.
Uncle Gus and Uncle Michel helped Father Gracious tie up the two bags, threw them over their shoulders and escorted the priest to his car. Maïté started in on a plastic closet that was spewing out more gubbins. She madly stuffed her various belongings into an already full to brimming enormous brown suitcase. When she couldn’t stuff anything else in, she started to stomp on top of the clothes wrathfully yapping, “You, my little piggy, I’m gonna get you!” and “If you want it, you’re going to get it piggy!” and more a simple version “You dirty little piggy wiggy pig!” You never know, she may have had a bone to pick with the porcine species.
After much damning and cussing against this pleasant animal, she finally managed to close the suitcase, but because it was mostly her smalls and underwear, the ladies had refrained from helping her. There are limits to what a human being can do.
“Perfect,” declared Father Gracious joining us soon afterwards, “I don’t think we’ve forgotten anything. I’ll just finish cleaning so you can move in straight away.”
“No, really. Please, don’t bother!” protested my mother vigorously. “We are already so indebted to you! And you’ll have enough on your plate looking after Maïté,” she added throwing a sorry look around her.
“Yes. I know,” agreed the priest solemnly nodding his head. Well. In any case,” he said meekly, “I am alone with nobody to look after except my parish, so I can accept this responsibility for as long as I am able.”
And he added with a sigh, “On this earth, we all have our crosses to bear, don’t you think?”
Taking on Maïté was like having the cross, the nails and Jesus Christ to bear as well.
To lighten the load for this poor burdened man, everyone gathered in the kitchen to catch the cat. Maïté, Uncle Gus and Uncle Michel tried several times to grab Joyeux. It took at least three men to corner the cat under the table and then Maïté, used to handling the terrified animal (understandably terrified), grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him back flailing like a furious fish.
The indomitable creature was now with his new master or rather his new mistress. You should have seen the force and determination with which Maïté held him up in front of her.
“You’ll suffocate him!” cried Auntie Agnès, always prompt when it comes to animal welfare.
She turned towards us for support, “She’ll end up skinning the poor thing!”
I smiled as I idly imagined Maïté, stupidly standing there holding an empty and bloody cat fur in her hand, contemplating Joyeux, skinned like a rabbit without his pajamas.
She was parading around the room holding this poor unfortunate creature with as much delicacy you would a sack of potatoes, so Father Gracious suggested locking it into the trunk of the car until they got back to his house.
Heartened by the imminent departure of the priest and his new protégée who were holding up the works, everyone thought that was a good idea.
You only had to look into the eyes of my entourage to see the feverishness and impatience blazing in their greedy minds.
The cat was stuffed into the trunk and the trunk promptly closed, then we helped the priest heave the suitcase onto the back seat. Maïté sat in the front, not before smothering us with various unspeakable bodily fluids as she bade her farewells.
They were all set to leave when Maïté bounded from the car and ran into the kitchen.
“She must have forgotten something!” Auntie Agnès commented wearily. “In any case, Father, I do hope we see you again. As a man of the church, an open-minded man,” she stated, throwing a knowing glance at her brothers-in-law, “it would be very interesting to discuss spirituality with you.”
“Oh, with pleasure,” smiled the priest.
Clearly, he didn’t know what he was getting into.
“You know, Father,” she continued, “in my view, religions are like communication doorways; you must first open them and, more importantly, walk through them to discover what lies on the other side.”
It sounded like her neurons had been caught in too many draughty doorways.
“This is true spiritual seeking; and yet traditional religions don’t dare go through the doorway. They are spiritless and that’s why I find fault with them. Have you heard of the most famous Haïku by Bashô, Father?”
“The Haï-what?” stuttered Father Gracious.
“Haïku is a form of philosophical poetry. Master Bashô revolutionized my ‘inner self’ (fortunately for her; her ‘outer self’ wasn’t that great). It’s the ultimate synthesis of Philosophical Thought. Let me deliver it to you as it is, in its entire glorious splendor.”
She paused to concentrate and then spoke, “Old pond… frog jumped in… sound of water!”
Glowing, she stared at the priest and then said in a voice pregnant with emotion, “There’s nothing to add is there? Religions haven’t got a leg to stand on!”
Judging by the priest’s consternated look, for sure, there was nothing to add.
“A bit of moderation, Agnès,” said Uncle Gus. “Not in front of Father. You’ll damage his convictions.”
I sensed he was holding back a loaded urge to laugh. (My uncle that is, not the priest you understand.)
The latter had scrambled back into his car and started the engine – the valves were rattling like a set of dentures trying to escape to freedom, and the exhaust pipe clattered loudly, enough to make Uncle Michel gloat – when Maïté returned.
We expected her to come back with some crumpled old frock stuffed into a corner of the house, but to our general surprise, she brought back a large box of matches which she was rattling madly, yelping joyfully, “The cat’s baubles! He loves playing with them!”
What a horrible sensation it was to hear the tom-cat’s virile attributes bouncing around in a box! There was huge relief all round therefore when the car finally disappeared around the first bend carrying with it its cumbersome baggage: the priest, the maid, her bags, the cat and the cat’s nuts. A large flashing sign lit up in front of our eyes: “Good riddance”!
As soon as the sound of the car had died out (which seemed to take an age), my father rubbed his hands together and said, “Right. It’s almost seven! I suggest we get settled in. The men will do the bags and the women can start dinner (not an original plan, but tried and tested all the same). We’ll have to sort out accommodation,” he said. “Gus and his family can stay in their caravan, but there are only two rooms for three couples and two children. I don’t know how we’ll manage.”
I wanted to protest that I wasn’t a child anymore but Uncle Michel didn’t give me the time to do so.
“No problem,” he said. “We’ve got a tent. A five-man,” he added. “So we can take Joseph and Caroline with us; that’ll free up the rooms.”
“Yippee!” cried the Brat, “we’re going to camp in the tent like Red Indians!”
And she started to whoop and holler like a castrated Indian, running around us.
“Kids!” my mother sighed, “doesn’t take much to amuse them!”
“She’s so lively!” stated Auntie Cynthia, laughing.
Everyone gave their dose of flattery. Black day.
“What about you, Joseph?” asked Uncle Michel, “Are you OK about sharing the tent with us? Will you feel like you’re a Red Indian too? If the weather’s good, you could even sleep outside.”
Yeah. Just great, I thought bitterly, and get bitten to death by mosquitoes!
I suddenly turned red and looked at Valérie: I really did come across as a late starter. But shit! I wasn’t a kid anymore; Uncle Émile could have told them that. Hadn’t he observed the tangible proof of my emerging manhood, my new hairy body? He certainly went on about it enough, the fucking jerk.
But no, he preferred to stab me in the back and started to do Indian whooping too, “Uuuyuuuuuyuuuu! Beware,” he scoffed, “the Apaches are on the war path!”
“Lucky you,” added my mother, rubbing it in even more. “You can be in Caroline’s tribe!”
“Oh yes! Yeeess!” replied the Brat, clapping her hands. “We’re going to have so much fun with Jojo!”
She loved making fun of me calling me Jojo.
“That’s right! With Jojo!” repeated the whole committee, laughing.
I even saw Valérie laughing with them. Supreme humiliation.
“Meanwhile,” grumbled my father, “Jojo here, before putting on his war paint, is going to help me get the bags out of the car. I know that Redskins love physical effort!”
It was no longer a wound but a gaping gash! Oh là là! This vacation was going to be a bundle of laughs (not), and I wished I’d stayed in Paris with my bro.