We left Moncaubet in the afternoon, August the second, the more philosophical amongst us resigned, the others – that is to say most of us - utterly crushed. That morning, Uncle Émile had left for Pau to return the metal detector; Auntie Cynthia had demanded a lift to the station to catch the earliest train back to Nice. Beside herself with rage at our ultimate failure, she announced that there was no way she was going home by car. She left, not forgetting to qualify us as ‘useless idiots’ and the reader can well image how relieved we all were to see the back of her. Especially poor old Uncle Gus who, since our little affair had taken its disastrous turn, could no longer offer his wife even the few qualities she still begrudged him: those of a potential heir.
So she left, cold, aloof and scornful. Good riddance! Lafarge alone would probably miss her for a while, but you could safely bet the veteran womanizer would replace her in the very near future, seeing what an expert he was in succession.
Still, everyone had garnered something to console them: Uncle Gus his family photo; Uncle Michel a few prize bushes he had carefully pruned and potted for transplanting; the women their jams, which they took care to finish as fast as they could. My father and Uncle Émile had managed to jam a few chairs in the trunks of their cars. As Émile had sighed,
“Better than nothing I suppose, we can always sit on them.”
Which incited the pater to mutter, “Yeah, just like the inheritance!”
Finally, Uncle Michel’s tent was taken down and stuffed into the back of the 4L together with the fleeces and the bushes (there was no way the latter would survive the journey). The household utensils were rounded up, sloppily washed and stashed in compartments in the caravan. Uncle Gus kicked out the concrete blocks steadying the chassis and, under our silent gaze, the hitching ceremony proceeded.
With the preparations complete, we decided it was time to go with no further ado, somehow relieved to be leaving the place. As we drove away, I can safely say that our throats were knotted with regret, anger and bitterness. In the privacy of the passenger seat, my mother burst into sobs, and I later heard that her sisters–in-law had all done the same.
Yes, Aunt Lucie’s was a cruel vengeance but, come to think of it, not any crueler than her family’s attitude had been to our aunt throughout her life. What really got our goat was that we all believed her stone was hidden close by, so near that we must certainly have almost touched it more than once. But now it was too late: time had run out. Our aunt’s last message was clear: the turquoise could be anywhere and both of them - the stone and the old lady - were telling us all to get screwed.
To even have a chance of success, we would have had to dismantle the wall around the estate stone by stone, cut down every tree in the wood, dig up every square inch of dirt to a depth of 3 feet and demolish the house room by room, none of which could be done in a month.
Voicing our collective thoughts, Uncle Émile encompassed the entire property with a sweeping gesture and sighed, “Bloody hell, I wonder who’s getting all this, hey? Who’s it going to? If nobody finds that rotten stone, the inheritance will end up in the taxman’s coffers. What a shame! When I think of how we bust our asses for peanuts and…”
He broke off, lips trembling and eyes swimming.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” broke in my father. “It’s not worth torturing ourselves any more. The whole thing’s over now... Let’s try and forget it.”
“Try and forget we just got screwed? To hell with it!” boomed Uncle Émile. “It’s stuck in my throat!”
He wasn’t the only one. Meager consolation.
My father, somewhat more affected than he cared to show, merely answered flatly, “I’ll go ahead, we’ll say goodbye before we get to the highway.”
Knowing him, he must have been mortified by the defeat, he who had so valiantly led the troops into battle. Nonetheless, no one seemed to hold it against him: the enemy was far too Machiavellian!
“I’m taking the way to Toulouse,” observed Uncle Michel. “Let’s say farewell when we reach the city. And don’t drive too fast,” he added, “the engine in the old 4L tends to get a bit hot… it runs on the smell of an oilcloth but you can’t push it too much.”
My father nodded approvingly at these remarks which, in any other circumstances, would have met with a sarcastic repartee.
“OK, but we’ll stop at the McDonalds’s for a bite to eat. The one at the entrance to the town.”
No more gourmet meals at the Coupole: the soldiery had lost the battle and had to make do with mundane rations now.
“Wicked!” the Brat blurted out. “Hey Papa,” she said turning to Uncle Émile, “can I have a Coke?” He promised. “Awesome!” she commented delightedly. “Oh, Papa, I hope we come back here next year ‘cause I just had the best vacation ever! If we could have this much fun every year!”
With that she threw herself into her father’s arms and kissed his cheek with glee.
Nobody answered. Charming child.
I would never have believed I’d be feeling so sad to leave our aunt’s property. So many intense memories would be indelibly linked to this old house: the bicycle rides with cousin Valérie, the men’s verbal jousting, and the formidable ‘treasure hunt’ that had kept us tingling with excitement throughout July. Of course, I had to endure the heat, the relentless work, the mood swings of those around me, the Brat’s presence and teasing but, hey, lots of things are best remembered cold.
I kept the house fondly in view until it disappeared with the first bend. Ciao! My parents, however, didn’t give it a second look. I felt sorry for the old place, we were leaving it in such a piteous state that whoever found the turquoise wouldn’t get much for the house. Still, the person who succeeded where we failed would be getting quite a tidy reward! But let’s leave that painful subject alone...
So we left only ruin behind us… and we were only the first wave of seekers who wrought havoc on our aunt’s property: as we drew near the main road, we saw several cars pulled up on the verge and a few ‘innocent’ walkers – some already toting picks and shovels – heading towards the property. They looked away as we passed.
“Goddamn!” exploded by father as he drove past them, “The scavengers are at it already! As soon as we’re out of sight they’ll be tearing their prey to pieces! How the hell did they get wind of this business? Don’t tell me they taking their shovels out for a walk!”
He ruminated in silence for a few moments and added, “Probably a word too many from Mr. Murou, or his wife. You can’t keep a secret in the country, people can’t hold their tongues,” he vehemently informed my mother. “Unless it’s an indelicacy of our dear notary’s! Whatever happens, the guy will always get something out of this business (and he’d already begun with Auntie Cynthia)… at the very least by pocketing the inheritance fees! Yet another bloody vulture!”
And so, we left like thieves in the night, not even bidding Mr. Murou farewell.
To my great regret I never returned to Vic-Bilh, nor did I ever see Auntie Lucie’s house again. Just as well, I suppose, because the sight would certainly have made me sad. Later on, we learnt that it had been competently ransacked by a legion of determined prospectors.
But someone I did see, gladly, for the last time was Joyeux, our aunt’s cat. As our car drove ahead of Uncle Gus’ Toyota, Uncle Émile’s R25 diesel and Uncle Michel’s boneshaker past the Moncaubet cemetery, I descried his feline silhouette sitting high on the stone wall scrolling past my window. I hurriedly rolled down the pane and wished him a friendly but melancholic,
“So long, Joyeux! So long, old boy!”
He froze, surprised, and I thought I heard him meow. Could that have been his goodbye? It could have... at least I hoped so. Then, with a furtive leap, he jumped down into the graveyard, doubtlessly on his way to visit – as he was beginning to do with increasing frequency –the only being to whom he had ever showed affection.
“Bye-bye Joyeux, bye-bye you rascal,” I murmured as the cemetery drew away behind us. “Say hello from me to Maïté and Gégène!”
Then, five months later, Mr. Murou, who had kept my father’s address to deliver a sample of his winegrowing cousin’s Madiran vintage, called us with a most earth-shattering piece of news: the piece of news we were all dreading. In a voice trembling with excitement, the mayor of Moncaubet recounted the event that had just shaken the region: somebody had found the turquoise! And that somebody was none other than Toad esquire!
My father had to sit down before he let Mr. Murou rip. While a legion of treasure hunters had turned our aunt’s property into one vast worksite since our departure, and with nothing to show for it, Eugène Criquot found the stone without even looking for it. As he was sweeping the graveyard paths one cold winter morning, he found Joyeux dead from the cold (or old age, or sorrow... we’ll never know) on his Mistress’ grave. As he lifted the cat, intending to bury it, he felt something hard around the animal’s neck. The mythical turquoise had been set into a mounting attached to his leather collar. His thick fur was the perfect hiding place for it.
The one who could go wherever he pleases and couldn’t give a damn about any of us was none other than Joyeux. It was so obvious that none of us had thought of it! In one fell swoop, Gégène became the richest municipal worker in the department, and most certainly in the whole of France. Good for him: may the meek inherit the Earth, and his wealth was now at least equal to his meekness... Oooh yeah!
It was a big shock for my family, as you can imagine. Being outwitted by the village idiot was quite hard to admit.
True to type, Uncle Gus, found the right words to soothe our bitter feelings, “It’s a good thing,” he declared “that this money is going to some poor devil rather than to someone well off or, worse, to the State!”
That’s one point of view, and, I might venture, probably the best.
After these events, not a family reunion went by without an allusion to ‘the inheritance business’ or ‘that summer’. There was no way we were ever going to forget Aunt Lucie! For one whole month she had not only turned the peaceful course of our lives upside-down, but did the same to poor old Mr. Criquot who, eighteen months after inheriting, died of a fine cirrhosis. Apparently, he had toasted his millions a bit too lavishly. At any rate, at least he made the most of it.
Some members of my family – particularly Uncle Émile – never managed to digest the loss of this fortune. Others, like my father and Uncle Gus, ended up resigning themselves and there even came a day when they started laughing about the whole dire experience. As for my mother and the aunts, they retreated into mortified silence as soon as the subject was broached. They just hadn’t come out of mourning yet!
Uncle Michel would have also preferred a happier ending to the story as his financial situation went from bad to worse. Not producing enough income, he had to give up chinchilla breeding. He also had to get rid of Prosper, his billy-goat who, as he got older, developed a passion for practicing his head-butting skills on any car that came his way, especially since my father had ‘unintentionally’ driven over one of his paws. My uncle finally reconverted to goose fattening and foie gras production. In fact, one Christmas we were all invited to taste his organic foie gras, recently cooked up by Aunt Agnès. As you can imagine, my father and Uncle Émile outdid themselves in finding a way out.
This turned out well for them, but the guests were stricken with a terrible stomach bug, attributed, of course, to the epidemic spreading through France at the time. Just as well for Aunt Agnès.
Despairing to see him land a job one day, the pater ended up hiring my big brother Yves to work in his garage. It goes without saying that my poor bro has been in living hell ever since.
Valérie, my delectable cousin, kept a lasting souvenir of Stéphane, her boyfriend of the time. It’s the kind of souvenir that won’t stop bawling and fills its diapers all the time! I don’t need to elaborate on the scandal caused by the pregnancy. But Valérie, despite the warnings from her family, especially her mother, decided to keep the baby. Once awoken, the nesting instinct in some women can sweep aside years of feminist activism. Uncle Gus stood by his daughter’s decision but paid Stéphane a visit to make sure he would shoulder his responsibility, which the young father promptly did by signing up for the army to get, in his own words, a ‘different take on the situation’.
The take was so different, that we never saw him again.
As Uncle Gus had supported his daughter’s stance throughout the ‘painful’ business, Aunt Cynthia made the most of the opportunity and sued for divorce. She got it. It was the best thing that could happen – to my uncle of course.
As she grew up, Caroline kept that ‘special’, ‘affirmative’ character she had worn so charmingly as a child. Now a teenager, this same character put Uncle Émile’s already frayed nerves to a serious test. The delicious little monster now drove her parents with a rod of tempered steel. And it had only just begun. Ha, ha! It was their turn now!
Uncle Gus had once said to me that whenever a human dreams, a star is born in the heavens. The star guides and protects with its glow the person who dreamed it into being. Something must have gone wrong with mine during birth because up to now, my sentimental and professional plans haven’t exactly lived up to my expectations. I must have raised the bar a bit too high. Anyway, we all walk our own path.
I often go over the whole story in my mind with regret and nostalgia in equal proportions.
That’s when I wonder if my father wasn’t right, “Aunt Lucie must have been a right old bitch!”
THE END