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The highway spat us out at the Pau exit. The Béarn capital greeted us with open arms and Uncle Émile made a beeline for the city ring road. For a moment, we thought he’d studied the map of the region and knew the way to Lembeye, but in fact, his navigational talents were limited to his immediately visible surroundings; it turns out he’d seen the McDonald’s sign at the highway exit.

My father stifled a gag when he saw the intrusive symbol with its brassy colors as garish as the house clown’s costume (the house clown being Ronald, not my Dad).

To come to the Béarn capital, home of foie gras, confit d’oie, magret de canard and the delectable garbure stew, only to lunch on a hamburger in the temple of fast food was a gourmet crime of high treason proportions my father simply couldn’t tolerate.

Screeching to a halt, my father bounded from the car and barked at Uncle Émile who, as his only defense, evoked the restaurant’s new air conditioning unit – an alibi that cut no ice with the Pater, who piloted us towards the city center. All residual hard feelings seemed to evaporate when he offered to pick up the tab.

Armed with the ubiquitous Guide du routard (a ‘must-have’ French travel book), but more often than not using her ad hoc notes, my mother officiated as tourist guide, “Flanked by the Pyrenees, Spain and the Atlantic coast, Pau is a town where living is easy. It is a welcoming town of friendly proportions where the young and the not-so-young unwind on the terraces of the superb downtown cafés. Pau is the native city of good king Henri IV, lover of good food and young flesh…”

“Stop talking about food,” my father barked. “I’m starving!” 

Driving up avenue Foch looking for an entrance to the underground parking lot, we gawked longingly at the appealing rows of cafés where groups of youngsters were nonchalantly building new worlds; we ogled the sublime creatures soaking up the summer sun to set off their hidden (and less well-hidden) charms and gaped at the bourgeois ladies, whose natural attributes no longer being what they used to be, made up for the ravages of time in their stylish twinsets and glitzy jewelry; consolations only women understand.

We soon realized that finding a parking spot on this avenue wasn’t going to happen, so we drove further afield and ended up parking under an imposing residential block. This block, pompously baptized Le Palais des Pyrénées, majestically stood facing the eponymous mountain chain.

Back then, this eyesore hadn’t been refurbished and was a palace only by name: in reality, it was the faithful representative of 60s concrete blocks – colossal and charmless.

The only remarkable feature about the place was the stunning view of the mountains emblazoning the horizon.

On second thoughts, there was another attention-grabbing feature too, namely a woman, lounging seductively on a divan in front of the big bay window of a second-floor apartment on the west side of the building. Amused winks and crude comments from passers-by informed us that this was a strumpet doing some self-promotion. It’s true that in any business, the most important thing is PR.

The view of the Pyrenees scored less of a hit with the family than ‘La Coupole’, a restaurant niched in a road parallel to the palace. Its unexpected appearance was as welcome as a lighthouse in a storm. My father and Uncle Émile, sweat pouring off them as they headed the family procession, gave a gasp of relief and led us into the restaurant. Clearly, this place was uber-chic, frequented by a clientele no less refined.

Many years later, I heard that La Coupole had been razed to the ground and converted into a bank. Whatever the crime, whether it was real-estate speculation, unprofitability or cowardly purchasers, Pau had lost its soul in this heresy.

I can still recall the central aisle and its tables covered with sweet-smelling tartes aux fruits, its red leather armchairs, the velvet-soft atmosphere of the alcoves, and I can still remember the diligence and courtesy of the waiting staff. Were they afraid we’d hightail it when we saw the prices? When the waiters handed my Dad the menu, I watched him turn pasty white and guessed he already regretted his invitation.

No sooner had we taken our seats than a waiter in white livery bustled over to take our orders.

My father and Uncle Émile, pretexting a need for the bathroom, snuck off to the bar for a beer. Watching them perched up there chatting and mopping their perspiring brows with elaborate handkerchief displays, the thought occurred to me that I was surprised they weren’t twins: same average build, same face (red and round), same head (balding), same corpulence  (stocky), and especially the same propensity to hold forth so loudly that half the restaurant was already staring at them.

To tell you the truth, you could only tell my father and his brother apart thanks to my father’s moustache and thanks to... his turbo-diesel. Very little difference really.  They got on like pigs in muck – making as much noise as those charming beasts at the idea of food, and they had an equally jovial sense of humor that matched their corpulence.

The two brothers had married two sisters; I never knew if it was out of sentimental affinity or pure convenience. The wives were as rotund as their husbands, but infinitely more reserved; my mother and Auntie Nathalie had learned, over time, not to be afraid of their husbands’ hot-headed temperaments and angry demonstrations – sometimes daunting alright – but ineffectual all the same. Despite their hot-tempers, they were good sorts deep down (very deep down). The women were housewives, from a long line of housewives whose ambition was to continue being housewives.

My father was a car dealer and Uncle Émile, the family bright spark, worked at the undertaker’s.

We used to howl with laughter listening to his stories! He must have embellished them quite a lot, but nobody minded. The real truth is never as funny. We could have listened to that devil of a man for hours on end.

“It’s a career,” he explained, “that has no unemployment. There’s always folks who’ll kick the bucket. A good bout of flu and you’ve hit the jackpot. Of course, the vaccination campaigns messed things up for us, but not for long; it just meant more pickings for later,” he added, with his dry wit.

“It’s certainly a job that feeds a man,” my father often joked, smacking his brother’s paunch.

Ah! You had to be there to hear jolly Uncle Émile and his slick descriptions of some of the funeral services, recounted with deep fondness,

“You see, every funeral has its own tone, its own special atmosphere: one can be tragic, another comical, another tragi-comical. It’s like a performance in which the audience counts more than the main character. Tragedy or comedy, some of them turn out to be excellent actors. Others play in demi-tones and nuances – these ones dry a tear while throwing an amused wink at the niece or nephew. The scope of the main character is somewhat limited however,” he added, learnedly.

He had of course experienced horrible moments in the course of his career: children’s funerals or young parents mown down in car accidents.

When we questioned Uncle Émile about it, he replied gravely, “Either you’re a professional or you’re not. You have to take the rough with the smooth.”

“It’s the same in my trade,” added my father. “When one of my customer’s cars comes in really beaten up, you need courage and professionalism to tell them the truth: ‘two thousand in repairs; best to treat it as a write off’. But it’s hard to say... especially when you’re dealing with people on unemployment or benefits.”

“You’re either a professional or you’re not,” his brother reiterated, solemnly nodding his head in agreement.

 

The lunchtime conversation hadn’t revolved much around Auntie Lucie’s funeral, scheduled to take place at 3 o’clock. Rather, it was focused on what the said Auntie Lucie would be bequeathing to her nephews. The thought that we may miss the ceremony didn’t seem to occur to anyone until there was a sudden general stirring about arriving late to the notary’s.

After questioning the waiter about the best way to Moncaubet, my father cheerfully announced, “It’s fifty miles from here, heading for Morlaàs and then sharp right. Apparently there’s a gorgeous lake not far from the village of Cadillon. We could always take a dip there.”

This news certainly brightened things up.

“And to think I was worried about this funeral ruining our vacation. I’m so relieved!” exclaimed Auntie Nathalie.

“What with the heat wave they’ve announced for this summer,” her husband added.

Their little horror of a daughter clapped her hands and sniggered, probably already plotting to throw sand in my hair and push me under. At least my brother had stayed behind in Paris making one less pain in the butt!

“I hope we’ll get this thing done and over a.s.a.p,” Uncle Émile said, “so we can quit this dump good and fast.”

“She would have to go and snuff it right at the beginning of the vacations!” My father groused. “We could have done without this right now. It was all booked in Hossegor and I’m afraid the hotel won’t pay us back for the lost days!”

My mother took him by the arm, kissing him tenderly on his big face, which was starting to go purple, and, in a voice loaded with maternal wisdom, she whispered, “You know what they say darling, you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth!”

 

We left La Coupole and walked back past the Palais des Pyrénées. The sun had pushed up the thermometer by a few more degrees and the heat weighed down like lead on our heads and bellies.

As we were reaching the parking lot, we came across the funicular which serves the railway station at the foot of the valley. Of course, Caroline demanded that we take the funicular forthwith. The little brat’s caprices could not be satisfied because we didn’t have time to visit the town.

When she had her inevitable tantrum, yelling and thrashing around, her father had to buy her some sweets to placate her. In the process, we discovered a charming local specialty: pale pink oblong-shaped sweets made out of marzipan and called ‘les coucougnettes béarnaises’ (Béarnais balls) in reference to their remarkable aesthetic similarity to testicles.

After this entertaining and mouth-watering little aside, we returned to the cars, and, finding ourselves back at the Pau exit, headed for Lembeye.

 

The name “Vic-Bilh” was really a perfect name for this area. Indeed, the ‘Old Country’ was as furrowed as an old farmer’s wife, and, after Morlaàs, a succession of rolling hillsides cloaked in oak and chestnut forests whizzed by. Corn fields, stiffened in the heat and foothills covered with green dust drew the eye. A smattering of rye, sunflower and wheat fields attempted to defy the supremacy of corn, but the latter was still definitely sovereign here. The heat wave had almost got the better of this countryside invader, but, visibly, the farmers had managed to save the corn by installing irrigation systems.

The Bearn and its generous summer rain-showers opened its chlorophyll arms to many a nature lover. Later on, we found out that pig and duck rearing was reeking havoc among the natives and disturbing the quality of life. It certainly seemed to upset the mayors who were having to referee neighborhood quarrels between ‘locals’ and ‘immigrants’, i.e. neo-rural folk who couldn’t bear the sound of a cockcrow, the smell of slurry or the intrusion of ‘pests’ (weasels, stoats and foxes) emerging from their garden burrows.

In defense of the newcomers, I have to say that living next to a guinea fowl farm is enough to drive you nuts: imagine an ocean of screeching saws scraping together for hours on end! Only two ways of surviving the infernal din: either you’re a guinea fowl or you’re deaf.

Back then, the real estate scene hadn’t taken off yet, and only a handful of British had bought up old stone houses and renovated them under the mocking gaze of the natives, who, a few years later, kicked themselves for having sold off their properties for a song. 

We passed Morlaàs without even a glance at its magnificent sculpted church facade (minds on more down-to-earth considerations), then, after Monassut, we were greeted by a huge billboard bearing a magnificent smiling red cow boasting the merits of Basque linen and Pyrenean wool. We then climbed the hill to Simacourbe.

Slaloming and weaving our way up wooded hills for a quarter of an hour along the main road, now reaching the brow of a hill, we came across a sign post for ‘Moncaubet’. It was fortuitous that someone had thought about placing a signpost here, because otherwise, we would never have found the village, which was almost non-existent: a few old oaks and some withered fruit trees, including fig and vine-peach, languidly framed a little road overlooking a valley. Here, a hotchpotch of houses dotted the hilltop overlooking fields of hay that poured down into the nestling woods below.

I’m sure the word ‘serenity’ exists if only to describe places like this. Time had come to a standstill over this village: a rare, pristine place, haven of tranquility and simple, authentic living. Suffice it to say, I fell in love with this village on the spot.

There are magical places like this that talk to your soul, places which call to you or remind you of dormant memories in ungraspable echoes of times past. You can’t explain it. It’s like being in love. Uncle Gus, the philosopher, explained the love-at-first-sight phenomenon by the fact that souls recognize each other from past lives. This could also explain why you occasionally take an instant dislike to some people for no apparent reason.

We didn’t have to look for the church because it was standing, plain as day, at the end of the road. A century-old linden tree stood guard not far from the cemetery –eternal companion of the living and the dead. Several vehicles were arranged along a stone wall girdling the church: a Renault 4, with a local registration plate, greener than green and as shiny as an apple (the kind that’s pumped up with fertilizers and artificial colorings), impudently sticking out like a sore thumb in the sobriety of the décor.

“Ha. There’s that hick's car!” scoffed my father when he saw it. “He’s got a bloody nerve!”

“Looks like he’s bought a new one,” my mother added. “It certainly looks new anyway.”

“Not likely, he’s just had it repainted!” father scorned. “It’s not by breeding chinchillas he’ll be able to pay for a new car! Just look at that pile of junk! What a loser! What a total hick!”

The ‘hick’ in question was none other than my uncle Michel; my father simply had no time for him for a variety of reasons. The first was that he and his brother Émile had had to exile themselves (as they put it) to Paris in search of a decent wage and employment (especially the decent wage), while Uncle Michel decided he’d rather keep the family property in the Pyrénées-Orientales and, being a committed ecologist, went into environmentally-friendly ranching: a praiseworthy project materialized by the purchase of a magnificent herd of cows. Turned out that faith and calling wasn’t enough; having decided to go all out organic, he fed his cows goodness knows what ‘special’ grasses with ‘nutritional’ values. The upshot was that half the poor beasts expired and the other half, visibly suffering, flooded the property with foul-smelling cow pats. Having judged cows as being ‘too fragile’, my uncle transferred his hopes to sheep rearing for wool, cheese and meat production, a traditional but safe bet, he thought. Unfortunately, through another act of fate, his sheep contracted some frightful eczema and didn’t produce any wool.

The vet, who came out on several visits to see the sick animals, declared that he’d never seen anything like it. Given this elusive diagnosis, Uncle Michel turned to parallel sciences and called in a faith-healer. The healer paced around the animals, breathed into their nostrils, ears and various other orifices I prefer not to name, to, in his own terms ‘stimulate energy’. Then he quite seriously recommended brushing the teeth of all these charming animals, morning and night, with a special paste he’d made up to prevent further ‘infestations of the upper digestive tract’. An original and picturesque treatment but which, admittedly, wasn’t the most practical to administer.

As for the ewe’s milk, it gave off such a disgusting odor that nobody dared drink it. However, some of the neighbors came to purchase several liters of the foul liquid because they realized that, when used as a spray, this milk had interesting weed-killing properties for a price that defied all competition.

In desperation, Uncle Michel started a chinchilla breeding business. “Not for their skins!” he hastened to add to the inquirer, “but for the pet market”.

Auntie Agnès, his wife, ten years his elder, had given up her teaching profession to write a book about macrobiotic nutrition, spirituality and ecology. Having made us promise to keep the secret about this ‘revelation’, she divulged the title of her work, “Get fat and you’ll die!”

From that point of view, she and her husband had nothing to worry about; they were both as skinny as rakes! 

Although my father had to accept Uncle Michel’s way of life, he never forgave him for turning the family home into Noah’s ark where donkeys, hens, ducks and pigs ran amuck (they kept a remarkable species of long-eared black pig, stocky and robust, and luckily for them, very different from the shapeless, pinkish creatures you get in industrial pig farming), where goats and pigeons all lived together in total freedom, shitting willy-nilly, much to Auntie Agnès’ chagrin – and where the weasels ate the pigeons – much to Auntie Agnès’ relief.

Suffice it to say, this menagerie created a great deal of mayhem in the property which, since it was built in 1798, had only known strict and orderly proprietors.

My father and Uncle Émile went to park their vehicles at a safe distance, just in case.

“You never know. These farmers are more expert in handling tractors than cars, my father stated.

Having safely stowed the cherished vehicles (in all senses of the term ‘cherished’) out of harm’s way, our cortège congealed in the path leading up to the church. This path also led to the cemetery that housed a dozen or so graves. An old rose bush embellished a little wall with its bright yellow flowers and seemed to flout death that lurked beyond.

We were about to enter the church when the priest suddenly burst forth into the portal, followed by a casket, pallbearers and about twenty people.

Oh là là, we’re late, gasped my father. “I can just hear all the family reproaches!

“Yep, agreed his brother. “Get ready for the scowls!

“And the cold looks. Cold as tombstones.

My dad’s references were always so pertinent and à propos.

The procession started singing a hymn and headed for a corner of the cemetery. Funny how a hymn can move people’s souls so quickly; my mother and Auntie Nathalie instantly started sobbing. Their sobs helped us merge with the procession with clear consciences, and, joining in with the wailing and the tears, Auntie Cynthia and Auntie Agnès vied in the wettest handkerchief competition. Their spouses, dignified and stiff-jawed, put on solemn faces. They greeted us with an impatient frown, laden with reproach.

Despite the circumstances, I couldn’t help but notice the astonishing contrast between Auntie Cynthia and Auntie Agnès: one outrageously curvy, voluptuous and sensual and the other dry, arid, bony and gaunt – such a small creature, on which a pair of trousers and a jean jacket miserably hung. A very sad affair. Auntie Cynthia, on the other hand, was something else entirely. And how! Her blouse was well-filled, outlining her prominent, proud curves and her charming skirt, as figure-hugging as it gets, pleasantly titillated the eye of the observer, especially where it stopped just above the knee. Talk about going from bony to bone-on.

I suddenly felt ashamed of my feelings... uh ho! It was a fleeting shame through fear of being discovered by a maternal look. But I didn’t need to worry, because by now my mother and Aunt Nathalie were leading the cortège, just behind the priest. We stopped at last in front of a hole in the ground. The cortège gathered round the casket, and I was shocked to see that our gathering was mostly male. Apart from my mother and my aunts, there were no other women.

I also noticed that some of the men present, all fifty something, were finding it hard to disguise their sorrow. So Auntie Lucie couldn’t have been the old shrew people had described her as; ostensibly, these gentlemen were paying her a last and sincere homage, probably the only sincere homage she received that day.

The priest was still churning out his hymns but, occupied by my musings, I was no longer paying attention; I wasn’t the only one either because hardly anyone else was singing along with him. Nobody seemed to know the verses at all, let alone remember them, and there wasn’t much effort to keep up, except of course, my mother and Auntie Nathalie who knew the Top 50 hymns off by heart.

I did however recognize the traditional and inevitable I received the Living God that my mother and my aunt belted out with force and conviction, “I received the Living God and my heart is full of joy

Auntie Nathalie came to a spectacular and drawn out close on the final, “joiiiiiyyy!

I now understood what Uncle Gus meant when he said: “It isn’t faith that dies out, but the way it is transmitted. Faith is like a fire that dies out if you don’t feed it”.  A true philosopher, Uncle Gus was.

Ah! I had so much ‘huggy’ love (an expression of mine) for my uncle! With his placid nature, he handled rhetoric with panache and doggedly defended his ideas. He spoke eloquently, always using the right word at the right time and had an opinion about everything. My father and his false twin did too, but neither of them could take anyone disagreeing with them. With Uncle Gus, I could speak freely and express my own opinions. I listened to him with interest, even if I did only pretend to understand his abstract explanations. It was this uncle of mine who talked to me about love, sex, women’s periods and men’s erections and the incompatibility of these two phenomena, about penetration, copulation and, as I was approaching adolescence, masturbation. In a few simple words, full of humor, he demystified masturbation and removed the guilt about ‘those things’. Odd to think I did it without having a clue about what it was I was doing!

Yes! I ‘huggy’ loved my uncle Gus! Another one I ‘cuddle’ loved was his daughter, Valérie: sixteen years of pure freshness, spontaneity and charm. For sure, she didn’t have all her mother’s charms yet, but her genes were about to perform their magic. Time was definitely working in her favor.

I was surprised that she wasn’t there with us; she was most likely resting in the caravan after their long journey from Nice. It had been six months since I last saw her, when we celebrated Christmas together at Uncle Michel’s house in the Pyrénées Orientales, and I longed to see her again and embrace her, make her laugh and touch her. This thought caused some disturbing and somewhat insistent stirrings in the loins.

My sweet thoughts were brutally interrupted by a nasty jab in the ribs.

“Still as skinny as ever! I can feel your ribcage. It even hurts my fingers!

“Be good. This is no time to play!

“I’m not playing. I’m feeling your ribs!   

My cousin Caroline, the eight year old brat who’d given me eight years of hell, looked at me smugly, knowing that I wouldn’t dare punish her for her effrontery. The little fox always managed to rile me with impunity. And if, through sheer bad luck, I let loose a slap (or a light tap more like) or if I just tugged her hair to get her back, the little monster would erupt into frenzied yowling, predictably followed by the adults bellowing at me, “Don’t set her off!... You have to be patient with children, contain yourself! (But I didn’t do anything, in the name of God!) The older they are, the more stupid they become!” (I couldn’t agree more)

The worst thing was that this cousin was devilishly cute – a metaphor that suited her to a T. She was a real Barbie doll and the apple of her parents’ eye. Actually, her parents were still stupefied about having engendered such a gorgeous specimen. It has to be said, when you think about it, the odds were pretty much stacked against them from the start. Among other niceties, she came right up to me and hollered in my face: “Give us a kiss! kiiissss!” until I gave her a peck on the cheek. I would bend down so she could kiss me at which point she would give me her famous ‘slug kiss’: a vigorous, wet lick on the cheek. While I was wiping it off, groaning in agony, she gave me a sharp kick in the tibia, to the delight of all the adults who found this child decidedly ‘spirited’ and ‘vivacious’ or ‘a proper little madam’. This one, you’ve guessed by now, I had ‘razorblade’ love for.

Happily, the ceremony drew to a close. The priest, in a hurry to finish, disgruntled that no-one sang along with his praises to God, rushed inaudibly and mechanically through his requiems in fast-forward mode until he was fiery cheeked and out of breath; he made a swift sign of the cross with martial art precision and expertise, and with a nippy flick of his hand, ordered the four pallbearers – solid fellows with expressionless faces – to lower the casket into the hole.

My mother’s and my aunts’ sobs went up a notch as the casket disappeared into its final resting place. These were perfect sobs: tragic, convincing, and with a certain sense of dramatic escalation. However, they were surpassed in intensity by an invisible weeper on our left. Come now, I thought. We can’t let a foreigner of the family show us up! 

The aunts seemed to respond to my mute call by sobbing even louder and with amplified conviction. Then I discovered the felonious wailer who was hindering their efforts. I couldn’t see his face, hidden under a vast handkerchief, but I distinctly heard a whimper of despair. Now that was genuine grief, the real thing! It wasn’t just playacting.

After several minutes’ careful observation, I saw that the wailer in question was not a man at all, but a woman. So I’d been mistaken: Auntie Lucie did have at least one woman friend in the gathering, and a real friend judging by her emotions.

How could I have confused this woman with the men around her? Was it because of her fine moustache beneath a long red nose dripping tears and other bodily excretions I’d rather not mention? Or the lack of shapes characteristic of the female form: no chest, no hips. Poor creature. She was pitiful to see and hear.

My father, in true chieftain style, lined us up along the path for the predictable condolence handshake ritual. I have never seen him looking so dignified. He was a rock that neither death nor adversity could defy. Truly. He really impressed me. Of course, the female representatives of our family were a bit unmanageable. Such inelegance! Uncle Michel and Uncle Gus were busy consoling their respective wives and managing their tears. But my father, imperial, like an eagle I tell you, his pain kept under stoic self-control, shook hands and gave a word of thanks to each and every person who passed in front of him.

A man in his sixties, dressed entirely in black (looking like a raven in Sunday dress), drew near and grasped my father’s hand with emotion, “I knew your aunt so well… a very good person. We’ll miss her.

“We already miss her, assured Uncle Émile who didn’t want to be outdone.

Another man with a stern face was making straight for my father (he must have sniffed out the family chief in him) and unleashed a comment that hardly disguised its reproachful meaning, “I’m the nearest neighbor of the deceased… I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting you… It’s true we never saw much of you in the region.

“That’s modern times for you, sighed my father. “Life takes us far from the ones we love…

“And it doesn’t bring us back! Uncle Émile appended emphatically.

What a magnificent and complementary duo!

My curiosity was aroused by the gathering. Why so many men and just one woman? Was this something to do with our auntie’s reputation?

I only knew that she’d probably lived a wild life and that she’d never married and never had children. This did not entirely explain the virulent judgments people made about her, or my Uncle Émile’s crude allusions.

But where was Uncle Émile? He wasn’t in his normal position, standing to my father’s right. I thought he was still giving him a hand (literally) receiving condolences. I searched everywhere for him and found him in deep discussion with a man of small proportions who was holding a spade in his hand and wearing a cap pulled tightly down on his head.

Must be the grave-digger, I thought.

So Uncle Émile was talking shop between colleagues; understandable really. Then I saw him taking a hanky from his pocket and bringing it to his face. What? Uncle Émile wasn’t about to empty his lachrymal glands too! Never! Not him! Not a seasoned professional like him! Did he have conjunctivitis? I considered him with bewilderment. Could I have misjudged him after all these years? Could it be that this big hairy brute was sheltering a sensitive soul? It’s true that at fourteen years old, you are quick to pass judgments about people. Even so, I thought I knew Uncle, given that he was my father’s clone.

Shortly after however, I gave a sigh of relief. What I had at first thought was an outpouring of emotion, was actually a clumsy attempt at hiding an obvious fit of hysterics. What a relief! Ah! You should have seen those two clowns over there in the corner in fits of laughter. The shrimp was guffawing over his spade and my uncle was buffaloing above the shrimp’s head. I was desperate to know what was so funny.

The condolences now complete, the mourners dispersed like a cloud of starlings above a wheat field, not to be alone in front of a tomb, but to chat in groups of two or three.

I saw several men with faint smiles, winking and sighing with nostalgia. They must have been remembering distant (and enjoyable) souvenirs. The priest took his turn in front of my father accompanied by ‘moustache woman’. The clergyman was a tall, dry man with white hair in a brush cut that made him look severe; I bet he didn’t make jokes about religion and condoms. This promised to be interesting, so I came closer, knowing that my father would try to outwit the man of the church and, finesse not being one of his greatest qualities, I waited for him to drop a clanger. The day so far had been dreary, and I thought it might cheer me up.

The priest went for frontal attack in a decidedly frosty tone, “Mr. Castet... Bernard Castet, I presume?

“Yes, Father, replied he, offering his hand which the clergyman limply shook with a remarkable lack of enthusiasm. 

It tickled me to hear my father calling him “Father”.

“A little later and you would have missed the entire ceremony. Traffic no doubt?

“As you say, Father, it’s not just the ways of the Lord that are congested! replied the Pater with a large grin.

“Impenetrable! the holy man corrected him, frowning.

“Sorry?

“The ways of the Lord are impenetrable... not ‘congested’.

My mother and Auntie Nathalie, attracted to the priest like bees to a honey pot, barged in on the conversation.

“Don’t listen to him Father, my mother said, “he often says such silly things!

She turned towards her spouse and gave him a reproachful glare, “Really! You should know that the ways of the Lord are im-pe-ne-tra-ble!

“Yes, alright. Let’s not carp over an adjective, grumbled my father. “Impenetrable... congested, you know what I mean!

“Bowels get congested, corrected Auntie Nathalie, “it’s not quite the same thing, Bernard….

A strangled laugh escaped Uncle Gus; unfortunately, I couldn’t contain mine. Slllaap! The cuff came down promptly.

“What a disgrace! smoldered my father, shooting a sideways glance at me. “Children don’t know how to behave anymore! What a generation, Father... I tell you, what a generation!

“Well, I am pleased to see that you know how to discipline yours, answered the clergyman, now relaxing. “It is so rare these days for children to learn discipline and values. Discipline means punishment,” he added directly addressing me. “And may that be a lesson for you my boy.

“Oh yes, spare the rod, spoil the child, my father agreed (I backed away with caution in case they decided not to spare the rod). “Allow me to introduce you to the rest of my family, he added and pointed to us one after another. “This is my son, my wife, my sister-in-law and her daughter Caroline (who’d watched the cuff scene with jubilation), and my brother Émile...

He looked around for him, “Where’d he get to?

And there was my revenge! I pointed to where Émile was standing, guffawing like a hyena with the grave-digger and I exclaimed, “There he is! Over there!

My father once again demonstrated his monochrome chameleon talents and then said, “Yes, well, er... you’ll meet him later. He’s busy right now.

“Indeed, the priest replied coldly.

Wounded that anyone might have detected a crack in the façade of his family’s respectability, my father hurriedly changed the subject, “But tell me, Father, who is this woman who seems so fond of you? he asked pointing out the poor creature by his side.

“One of my most loyal and active parishioners…

“Active? Really? How interesting! my uncle Gus interjected ironically. “So there are still some left? It’s true that in the countryside, there are still people who are attached to these…

“To these values, Auntie Nathalie broke in, silently begging him to keep his anti-clerical feelings to himself. Her and my mother, anxious about Uncle Gus’ potential outbursts, could hardly hide their embarrassment. Although they were no longer fervent adepts of Sunday mass as they used to be, they still had a deep-seated respect for their religion.

As for Uncle Gus, he was a humanist: he believed in mankind, not in a hypothetical God of love, creator of the universe, of man and beast, of mountains and rivers, of sky and earth (so far so good), as well as (and this was bad press for a God of love) viruses and bacteria and natural catastrophes! The list of catastrophes would be too long to add here. In any case, as Uncle Gus repeated over again: “God doesn't do after-sales service. Look at the mess we’re in down here!” (In defense of the divine, numerous are his creatures who are totally not in their right their mind).

I still don’t understand how this enlightened man could have married such an empty-headed and ineffectual woman. Far from all these philosophical considerations, Auntie Cynthia had one aim in life: appearances. A mediocre bourgeoise who loved herself more than anything else, she dressed in extravagant outfits, excelled in simplistic remarks, and made herself dizzy collecting futile objet d’art which reflected her sterile life. She’d married a teacher because she hadn’t met an available lawyer or doctor. She realized, a little too late, how little people in the teaching profession earn: fatal mistake.

Poor Uncle Gus! He was ready to fight to the last to defend his ideas, and couldn’t reason with this ogress who devoured his enthusiasm, his mind, his life, and… his bank account ever since they were married. I fantasized about him doing some other job like Karate teacher for example. And bing! An empi-uchi in his wife’s midriff... And bang! a mawashi-geri in her kisser... And bong! A triple toe loop in the butt! (Oh dear, I got mixed up with ice-skating).

For Auntie Cynthia, as you have guessed by now, I had ‘razorblade’ love. And I wasn’t alone. My father accused her of bankrupting the couple. My mother and Auntie Nathalie (the two ex-country ladies in their Sunday best!) found her proud and dismissive towards them. Uncle Michel and Auntie Agnès hated her guts, venting their spleen with horror and indignation whenever Auntie Cynthia boasted about her collection of fur coats. “The highest quality fur, taken from foxes and minks killed in their natural habitat!”

Last summer, when the family was on vacation together in Prats-de-Mollo, in the Pyrénées Orientales, Auntie Cynthia and Auntie Agnès had almost come to blows when Cynthia, visiting the chinchilla farm, had asked Agnès how many animals it takes to make a coat. I have to say that Uncle Michel and his wife were what you’d call extremist ecologists (or ecological extremists, which is the same thing).

I was relieved that the stay had only lasted two weeks because, what with the daily quarrels between the two women, the macrobiotic food, the smell of pigs, billy-goats and the ‘Brat’, pardon me, I mean the ‘spirited’ child (alias the pest), the vacation had been a total nightmare for me, and remains etched forever like a black stain in my memory.

My uncle’s billy-goat, Prosper, had also got himself noticed the day we arrived when he sent my father flying with a forceful head-butt and then again, when he scraped the door of our car with his horn. This extraordinary animal must have had it in for my Dad because he went for him several times during our stay. My father, who refused to see the funny side, took his revenge – even though he denies it – on the day we left, by running over Prosper’s hoof ‘by accident’ as he was reversing. From that day on, Uncle Michel had to lock up the billy-goat every time a car that looked anything like a Renault 25 appeared on the horizon. The testy creature would have made mincemeat of it even if it meant busting his head open. And a billy-goat’s head is hard!

This was the 80s and the New Age was in full swing. Fervent adepts of the New Age, so-called ‘extremists’ were practicing a sort of parallel religion involving a mixture of meditation and stretching exercises, all on a backdrop of macrobiotic eating. You should have seen them, after lunch, stretched out in the park (more like the zoo), dressed in swimsuits, their feet and legs spread out ‘soaking up the goodness of the solar astral body’.

“They’re out to dry!” my father would sneer.

“So long as they keep out of our way,” said my uncle Émile.

“I’m sure they get naked when they’re alone!” my father added.

“No! Do you think so? They can’t do!” echoed the two astonished voices of my mother and Auntie Nathalie.

Uncle Gus, who was more tolerant, tried to explain that the New Age was above all a way for its adepts to ‘access a state of inner spirituality’, but my father and Uncle Émile were having none of it: ‘The New Age, was at best about sects and fanaticism, and at worst, clubs and orgies!’

Uncle Michel was hirsute from head to foot and only by his blatant baldness could anyone who didn’t know him tell him apart from a monkey. Auntie Agnès, out of conviction or solidarity to her husband, had also decided not to shave; after all, what’s more natural than hair?

Fortunately for her, she hadn’t developed much hair in the upper portion of her body. Not so in the nether regions, where thick, unsightly tufts of light brown hair protruded from her panties. I stifled a frown at the thought of this being just the tip of the iceberg... And when you think that the visible part of the iceberg is just a tenth of its total volume!

I must say that the specimen now standing in front of us, also had what it takes to make an impression on a teenager like myself. Father Gracious, the priest, at last introduced her to us,

“This is Mademoiselle Maïté Passy-Coucet... She spent many years with your deceased aunt. As you can see, her death has affected her deeply.”

The poor creature couldn’t stop sobbing. If she continued leaking in this heat, she ran the risk of dehydration. Her tears ran down her reddened face and landed in the interstices of her fine moustache, while others, seeking refuge in lower pastures, slid down into the thick hairs on her chin guided by a budding beard. Luckily, a plain black dress covering her from head to toe concealed the rest of the hairy creature. On the crown of her head a bald patch was making its debut, just like on Uncle Michel. A comparative genetic study could have been highly instructive.

Father Gracious (his name ‘Gracious’ hardly befitting the character), having taken his turn in line, turned to the ‘genetic curiosity’,

“And here, my dear Maïté, are the nephews and their wives of your beloved Mistress, Mademoiselle Lucie Castet, who left us too soon,” he said in a sigh for our approval.

Maïté’s tear-drenched face instantly lit up, transformed by the priest’s words (or abbot, I never knew the difference).

“Ooooh!” She began to coo, taking my father’s hand.

She examined us all in turn, still crying, but now from joy. She shook the hands of the uncles and aunties still cooing “Ooooh”, finishing on a crescendo when she got to me and Caroline. All covered in tears, snot and saliva, we watched with relief as she went back to Father Gracious.

“Mademoiselle Passy-Coucet is deeply affected,” explained the priest. “Your aunt, in her immense generosity, gave her employment ever since she came out of the medical rehab centre. After fifteen years of therapy, Maïté at last found a home and a stable emotional and material situation which gave her much joy and serenity.”

“Oooooh... Oooooh!” Maïté went on resolutely (fifteen years of therapy: makes you wonder when you see the result).

“There, there,” my father reassured her, patting her on the back. “I hope you’ll find another job very soon...”

“Don’t worry about her,” interjected the priest. “I was in need of a housekeeper. Yes, well you know what it’s like when you’re alone, eh?” he said apologetically.

“Just goes to show that one man’s loss is another man’s gain,” remarked my mother.

“A bachelor living alone, we know what it’s like!” added Auntie Nathalie.

“And it’ll be good company for you,” approved my father. “It’s best when you’re living in these remote areas. You could take a bad turn one of these days and die all by yourself at home, forgotten by everyone like an old carcass. With all due respects, Father.”

The cooing slug started up again “Oooooh! I... I…” but this time she was about to emit a sentence.

“I... I take care of the cat!” she cried. Her words at last set free, a luminous smile spread on her face.

“She looks after the cat?” Auntie Agnès repeated, not knowing whether to be surprised or amused.

“The cat? How charming!” Auntie Cynthia uttered, unashamedly indifferent.

“The cat? What cat?” asked my mother.

“Joyeux. The cat of the deceased Mademoiselle Castet,” specified Father Gracious. “Maïté has been feeding it since your aunt’s death. A courageous little animal.”

Maïté or the cat? I thought to myself in amusement. In fact, I later discovered that Maïté was a very good person, as good as good bread (or should I say as good as a simpleton because it’s hard to find good bread these days). And, as if often the case with simpletons, they have no meanness in them at all; meanness comes from people around them.

I have often thought about this poor Maïté who must only have encountered love through the affectionate attention of her boss, and for sex, the floaty and breezy caresses of her own knickers.

“Joyeux? How charming!” Auntie Cynthia piped up again in a very haughty air.

“Charming” and “philistine” seemed to be the only two adjectives the conceited bourgeoise used.

“That’s that,” the Priest said sharply, curtailing the conversation (he probably hadn’t liked the ‘old carcass’ reference), “I have to take Maïté to a very important appointment, so you’ll understand if I take my leave.”

“Of course, of course,” answered the two church mice.

As Father Gracious was leaving, ushering Maité ahead of him, Uncle Émile brought us another unusual species of biped. With his jolly mug and wet eyes, he introduced Criquot Esquire to us, the shrimp he’d been joking with since we arrived at the cemetery. By the looks of this man, it was obvious that it had taken several generations of interbreeding to get to this result. Without mentioning incestuous relations between fathers and daughters!

This phenomenon must have been a good (and generous) four foot nine at most; he harbored a blooming smile revealing teeth that were as engaging as the rest of him. I’m not talking about his shabby clothes (which would have made a ragman blush), but the cleanliness of his overall look.  He had an oily sheen on his brow, greasy hair stuck in patches on his head, ‘strong’ breath with overtones of red wine and, to top it all, an overall smell that reminded me of the time our electric toilets got clogged in a power cut.

“My friends,” proclaimed Uncle Émile, “this is Mr. Eugène Criquot: state grave-digger, municipal worker and road mender if you please. It’s hard to remember it all off by heart because this man is not a talker, but he’s a jolly fellow, aren’t you Gégène?” he chortled, patting him on the shoulder.

“Oooh yeah!” replied Gégène Esq., gratifying us with a laugh that thrilled our little party. For many years hence, Uncle Émile and my father tried to reproduce the same laugh, failing miserably. It’s difficult to get it down in writing; it started out very high-pitched, like a mouse stuck in a trap, “Heeeheeeheeeheee!” and finished on a crescendo like an asthmatic donkey “Hahahauhauah!”

It went something like this: “Heeeheeeheeeeheeehauhauhauahauh!”

I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so much as I did listening to Gégène and his grotesque snorting. My father and his brothers took turns getting him to talk because his responses, which were as varied as school dinners (“Oooh yeah”), were often punctuated by this simply hilarious laugh.

It was fortunate that we were the last stragglers in the cemetery because ‘family respectability’ so dear to my father’s heart, would have dimmed somewhat had anyone seen us.

“That poor schmuck, Gégène!” Uncle Émile choked, “that poor schmuck!”

“Dear me! Oh dear me!” howled Auntie Agnès.

Even Auntie Cynthia, who had moved away because of the smell, was chortling into her hanky. What a dirty slut she was!

My mother and Aunt Nathalie tried to be serious, fearing Father Gracious may return. But they had nothing to worry about. The priest had had about all he could take. Oooh yeah!

“Say, Gégène,” asked my father, regaining his composure, “would you know the quickest way to get to Lembeye from here?”

“Oooh yeah!” replied Gégène, who then fell silent, gratifying us with a toothless grin.

“So,” Uncle Émile said, “which way is it?”

Criquot Esquire still did not react, and just looked at us inanely.

“We’re not getting anywhere fast,” sighed Uncle Gus. “Could you at least tell us if we’re far from Lembeye? If you don’t know the distance, perhaps you could tell us how long it takes?”

At Gégène’s bewildered silence, my father started to get annoyed, “You do know the direction at least? That isn’t too complicated, in the name of God!”

The cross-examined man looked at us as if we’d all gone completely mad: too many questions for his alcohol-addled brain. He scratched his head as if it would help clear his mind (or cure the antics of some local louse), and then pointed towards the horizon and declared, “It’s that way!”

“Right, but that’s quite vague,” commented Uncle Émile.

“Oooh yeah,” replied Gégène.

“Could you be more precise?” asked my mother.

Mr. Criquot managed at last, after a long pause, to stimulate the last remaining neurons in his brain,

“It’s far like when I go to the bistro, but it’s near like when I go to confession, or to the dentist’s.”

No point trying to understand his logic. He and Maïté were a marvelous duo! The radioactive cloud from Chernobyl, over on its spree a few years previously, must have hung around a bit longer in these parts.

In desperation, we decided to let Gégène get on with his task... which he hadn’t yet started.

“Forget it,” grumbled my Dad. “We’ve wasted enough time already.”

“You’re right,” agreed Uncle Émile, amused, “might as well ask a snail to give a racing commentary.”

A general “Bye Gégèèène!” chanted in a single voice signaled our departure. The friendly shrimp accompanied us to the cemetery gate and, as we were leaving, warmly shook the hands of all the men, and was making for the women to dish out kisses, had they not beaten a hasty retreat like fleeing damsels into their respective cars. Gégène walked around the cars grinning through the windows at the women, letting out his deranged laugh.

Yet another simple-minded bod.

“EUGÈNE, THAT’S ENOUGH! Get back to work!”

The deep, rocky voice, now full of anger, put a stop to Gégène’s horsing around. He cast a beaten dog look at the cars and then scuttled back to the cemetery. A tall, burly man, somewhere in his late fifties, was walking towards us. Judging by his rugged face and powerful, calloused hands he must be a farmer. How rough those hands felt when he squeezed mine like a compressor lined with sand paper! It was the opposite of Uncle Michel’s delicate handshake: a hand that only knew the caress of the silky fur of chinchillas.

“I hope Eugène didn’t annoy you too much?” he asked with a smile. “He’s impossible when he drinks,!”

“No worries, no worries, Sir,” reassured my father, “he’s a curious beast alright, but we knew he was harmless.”

“Not that he can’t take his drink. In fact it makes him rather merry and that’s why the local council, of which I am a member, keeps him on. I am Philippe Murou. Please accept my condolences and apologies for not having attended the funeral. As mayor of the town, I have many obligations, you see,” he squeezed the hands of the women, who’d now come to join us.

“He must keep the troops entertained,” joked Uncle Émile.

“Oh, yes. He’s a real poem,” agreed Mr. Murou. “Only last month, we found him as drunk as a lord at the bottom of the crypt, blissfully snoring his head off collapsed over a casket.”

The whole family found this highly amusing and everyone laughed.

“The neighbors weren’t going to wake him up, that’s for sure!” chuckled Uncle Émile.

This remark triggered another round of laughter. Ah! We won’t forget Auntie Lucie’s funeral in a hurry! A real success.

“That’s all very well,” my father said suddenly, “but we’ve got an appointment with the notary; he’ll be waiting for us.”

He turned towards Mr. Murou, “Very pleased to meet you Sir, but duty calls you know!”

My father was feeling very strongly about sense of duty and family values these days.

“We have to get to Maître Lafarge in Lembeye,” said Uncle Gus. “Could you tell us how to get there? We’re afraid of getting lost on these country roads and...”

“I’m going that way myself!” Mr. Murou interrupted. “Just follow me. I’m going to Madiran to pick up some of my cousin’s wine; he’s a winegrower. I’ll point out the notary’s office when we get to the main square in Lembeye!”

“OK, let’s go!” added my father. Then he clapped his hands and cried, “All aboard!”

The group moved in a congealed mass except for Uncle Michel who went up to Mr. Murou and murmured into his ear,

“Don’t drive too fast... I haven’t got a luxury limousine like some.”

He pronounced ‘luxury limousine’ with a certain disdain, and even with a hint of disgust while throwing a disapproving glance at the Renault my father was revving up.

“Well. Don’t just stand there!” my father barked at me, “Get in!”

Which I did, on the double, and forthwith. Preceded by the friendly Mr. Murou, we started on the second leg of our journey. We headed back to the main road, soon leaving behind us Moncaubet’s single main street.

The road rose and fell along the hillsides, winding this way and that; it felt like it had been designed by one of Gégène’s ancestors suffering from delirium tremens. But Uncle Michel had nothing to worry about: the mayor’s Renault 12 was advancing as rapidly in fourth gear as our turbo-diesel in second.

Because my father didn’t like the thought of Uncle Michel’s ‘garbage can’ behind him, he waved to him to overtake.

“The brakes must be as rotten as the rest of it, no point in taking any risks,” he declared.

Uncle Michel’s flashy Renault 4 seemed to wind up the local dogs, and my father drew enormous pleasure seeing them go for the tyres of the ‘garbage can’. My uncle, not wishing to squash a doggie, made some dramatic swerves to avoid them, running the risk of ending up in the ditch. My father smirked with satisfaction at Michel’s car as it veered this way and that: he must’ve been thinking, with a bit of luck, he could sell him a new car, or at least a good second hand.

He left a wider berth between us and the Renault 4, obliging Uncle Émile and Uncle Gus, both tagging behind, to slow down even more. When I asked about the whereabouts of my cousin Valérie, my mother informed me that Aunt Cynthia had left her in the caravan to rest: she was... “indisposed”!

“Indisposed?” I asked requiring further explanations.

“Yes. That’s how it goes… she’s a woman now,” she answered modestly.

I understood that Valérie was having her periods. I knew that when girls have their periods, it’s a great big hoo-ha, and I chose to end the subject there and then. I was more than grateful that I didn’t have to check the chairs and sofas every time I stood up several days a month.

“It’s a shame she can’t attend the opening of the will,” my mother replied. “It’s always interesting.”

“And a great shame she didn’t get to meet Gégène,” added my father. “She would have been tickled pink!”

At this, he let out a raucous guffaw.

“What a toad that one was, what a total toad!”

I must admit that my father’s original expressions and adjectives remained etched in our memories, delighting his entourage for years hence.

I don’t know where he got that name from, but from now on it would replace “Gégène”.

“The Toad! The Toad!” He almost choked himself laughing. “Oh! Bloody hell! I’ll remember this funeral! I’ll remember it, and that’s for sure!”

He didn’t know how right he was.