As soon as lunch was over, my father and Uncle Émile hurried off to the telephone booth like hungry beggars after scraps. They returned twenty minutes later bearing a triumphant grin: Mr. Murou had agreed to lend us the necessary equipment. He even offered to bring it over that very evening in his van. When my father brought up the question of price, the man forcefully refused any payment.
“I don’t take payment for a favor,” he bellowed down the phone, “otherwise it’s not a favor any more!”
Nonetheless, my father flatly refused to take what he called ‘handouts’. Not wishing to hurt the mayor’s feelings, he suggested to his brothers that they offer the mayor a few decent bottles of Madiran – fiefdom of the eponymous wine – and a few bottles of Pacherenc which, as my dad (connoisseur of fine wines) used to say, went admirably well with desserts and foie gras.
His suggestion went down very well indeed. Therefore, the men (all except Uncle Gus who preferred to stay and figure out the riddle) set off in the early afternoon.
Before getting into my father’s car, Uncle Émile blurted out, “It’s best if the men get the wine because women know bugger all about it!”
A fine excuse for tasting some local produce in peace.
Consequently, we were free for the day. Auntie Cynthia didn’t wait for her man before kitting herself out for a day at the lac de Cadillon, the lake we’d talked about in Pau. No sooner had the men left the property than she emerged from her caravan complete with parasol, beach bag, sunglasses and shorts up to her neck, causing some friction with my mother and Auntie Nathalie and a different kind of friction in me. Auntie Agnès and Caroline decided to join her. Any desire I may have had to join them, despite my fear of sunburn and exposing my body to all and sundry, disappeared without trace at the thought of putting up with the Brat on a beach for the whole afternoon.
I expected Valérie to jump for joy at the idea of a swim, but when asked, she simply shrugged her shoulders and said, “Sorry, not today. Joseph and I have got better things to do!”
She disappeared behind the caravan. Intrigued, I followed her and saw her untying the straps that secured the bikes that looked like big metallic insects stuck to the back of the caravan.
“I thought it would be a cool idea to go for a ride,” she said. “After all that endless talking, I’d rather stretch my legs than lie around roasting in the sun. There must be some awesome rides round here. On the way here, I saw red and white hiking trail markers... we can just follow them.”
I could have kissed her feet. Not only was I being let off for dodging the beach ordeal, I was also off on an adventure in the countryside, alone with her! She pointed a finger to her forehead and added, “Don’t ride too quickly because I haven’t got Laurent Fignon stamped on my forehead. I don’t want to bust a gut keeping up with you. I’m on vacation to chill.”
I swore I would ride slowly, let her make fun of me in the hills, always stay behind her, be her bike’s shadow… and other promises I’ve forgotten.
She burst out laughing as she finished untying the first bike, “OK. OK. I trust you. With this kind of bike,” she said, maneuvering the gear lever expertly, “you can ride for miles without feeling it. And the saddles are awesome!”
Just as well: my skinny posterior would be grateful for it.
“Need a hand?” asked Uncle Gus, joining us with the rest of the family.
“No thanks,” she assured him as she undid the straps from the second bike, “we’re almost done.”
“Be careful on the country roads,” my mother remarked, anxious. “Stay on the right and pay attention to the road signs…”
Road signs? What road signs? Other than cowpats announcing cattle crossing or the distant barks of dogs meaning ‘watch out, irate animal at large’, I hadn’t noticed any road signs. The local police’s fine booklets weren’t exactly full up with traffic light offenses round here.
“I’m sure they’ll manage!” chimed in Auntie Cynthia, impatient. “Well, if everyone’s ready... then let’s go!”
She grabbed Caroline’s hand commandingly and gave Auntie Agnès a shove forwards.
Agnès climbed into the car and turned to her sisters-in-law with a final plea, “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”
My mother and Auntie Nathalie energetically declined.
“We don’t want to leave Gustave alone you see,” explained my mother.
Auntie Cynthia shrugged her shoulders; clearly, she herself had no problem going off on a jolly without her husband and, throwing him an exasperated look, muttered, “As you wish, if you prefer to waste your time with him.”
The engine roared when she started the car, and after the last kisses and advice addressed by Auntie Nathalie to Caroline, the car took off with spinning wheels. As soon as it vanished round the first corner, Uncle Gus turned to us and sighed, “Well then, I’d better get on with my self-imposed task... figuring out this riddle.”
“Meanwhile,” my mother suggested, “Nathalie and I will hand-wash some clothes... some of us had better make ourselves useful.”
Valérie gave me an emphatic hand-signal meaning we’d better skedaddle before someone found something for us to do.
I grabbed the bike she’d just unlocked, leapt on and sped off hollering at the top of my voice, “If you love me, catch me!”
I don’t know whether it was out of love, or just an urgent need to get away from family pressure, but in a few wheel turns, Valérie had soon overtaken me.
We were well on our way when my mother shouted after us, “And don’t come back too late!”
Bent over our aluminum frames, we yelled back that we would return on time, that we would pay heed to her advice… if we remembered.
If there is one image of these holidays that has remained etched in my memory, it’s the one of my cousin pedaling in front of me. As promised, I obediently stayed behind her, listening with delight to her chat while trying to catch the vapors of her perfume. I became intoxicated with her stirring fragrance as I contemplated the sensual curves in front of me (bikes have that marvelous way of emphasizing a woman’s curves). There was no doubt about it: my cousin had changed. Her body had filled out, forming an adorable bottom that protruded from the saddle, rocking from side to side as she pedaled.
My head was full of erotic thoughts; I’d even stopped listening to what this charming creature in front of me was saying. I couldn’t tell you which way we’d taken or the distance we’d covered. I was following my mermaid, charmed by the harmony of her outline. When she spoke to me, I just kept replying with a blank, general purpose ‘that’s great’. Suddenly, she came to halt, put her foot down, and exploded in a temper,
“I’m asking you whether we should take the road to the lac de Cadillon or whether we should carry on, and all you can say is ‘that’s great’… are you listening to me or what?”
Embarrassed, I felt myself going red from ear to ear and further still. Nevertheless, I managed to pull myself together, apologized for my absentmindedness and told her that I’d let her be the judge. In truth, I didn’t care, as long as I could continue feasting my eyes on her.
She hesitated for a second in front of the signposts and then opted for the lake road. She soon began chatting again about this and that, and I sunk back into my sweet reveries. We left the tarmac and followed a hiking trail. We went deeper and deeper into narrow and mysterious pathways hemmed in by impudent shrubs, the lowest branches sometimes catching our chests making us yelp with joy or pain depending on the intensity of their effrontery. Mindlessly, I followed Valérie, advancing with my head down in the trickier passages. Her liquid movements as she flowed through the branches, which sometimes blocked the way, reminded me of Snow White fleeing in the forest. An inner smile formed as I imagined my family as the different characters in that fabulous cartoon. It was the first and the most beautiful (at least from a design point of view) of all the Walt Disney’s films.
In the role of the wicked witch: Auntie Lucie, of course. Hell, she deserved it! Although this role could easily have suited Auntie Cynthia as well... didn’t her beauty hide a shrew’s soul? The dwarves were as follows: my father as Grumpy (obviously), Uncle Gus as Doc (unquestionably), Uncle Émile as Dopey (‘incomparably’ to borrow his own term), Uncle Michel as Sleepy (picture him meditating on his fleece in the sun). I needed three more dwarves to complete the tableau, but I only had my father and his three brothers. There was Caroline. I pictured her as the poisoned apple (she’s been stuck in my throat for a long time); Auntie Agnès was a little mouse because she ate like an anorexic mouse (macrobiotic cuisine allows no excesses). In my mind, my mother and Auntie Nathalie could only be lovely deer, lovely chickadees or lovely rabbits, or at any rate, they were something lovely and friendly.
As for me, I naturally saw myself in the role of Prince Charming awakening Beauty with a chaste kiss. On screen, the kiss was so chaste, it seems impossible it could have aroused Snow White from her deep slumber. Only a vampire breath could reasonably explain that miracle.
‘Prince Charming’ would have done better to look where he was going, because his worthy steed suddenly hit a large rock, woefully changing the story. After doing a brilliant somersault, I found myself spread-eagle in the midst of ferns, the bike lying by my side. Scarcely charitable, my sweetheart laughed at the rip in the left knee of my pants instead of showing concern for my welfare. Not only was my dignity wounded, I’d also torn my favorite pants. This was the one pair I’d managed to save from my mother’s sacrilegious hands as she repeatedly attempted to throw them away. The worst thing was that my mother had only let me bring two pairs of cords. She’d found a bargain in the summer collection of the La Redoute catalogue, had ordered half a dozen pairs of shorts and was determined to see them on me during the vacation. Rather die! I could have accepted a compromise with down-to-the-knee bermudas, but shorts, never!
I got up and rubbed my knee.
“You alright?” enquired Valérie, becoming more serious. “Oh là là! Hellova fall old chap. Hellova fall! Never seen such a spectacular one! I was lucky. I turned round just as you were falling.”
Bully for her. In my shame, nevertheless, I managed to improve my dented image, “Huh. That was nothing! I’ve had much worse....”
I manfully slapped my thighs, repressing a grimace of pain, “Solid stuff this!”
Shortly after my misadventure, as we were leaving a pleasantly shady little copse, I realized with consternation that I’d forgotten to plaster myself with maximum strength sun cream: highest protection, anti-UVA, anti-UVB, anti-UVC and other anti-poor me rays. That evening, I could easily have taken part in the most handsome lobster competition.
Still plunged in my dark thoughts, we began to advance along a hillside spiked with stunted oaks and chestnut trees vying for space alongside cornus sanguinea, thus named because of their blood red branches (using the opportunity to air my knowledge of course); these so called ‘strawberry trees’ with their magnificent, dark green, polished foliage, produce edible fruit in October, fruit that looks like strawberries but don’t have their incomparable flavor. Maples seeds, known as ‘samaras’, the winged fruit of trees that give children so much joy when they spin like helicopter pales, abounded here. This obstinate and courageous vegetation had prospered, concealing a valley now revealed and stretching out before our eyes. Soon, we beheld the shiny mirror of a small artificial lake to our left.
We’d covered quite a number of miles without realizing it, hypnotized by the magic of the shortcuts we’d taken en route.
Valérie pointed out a new signpost nailed to an oak indicating “Lac de Cadillon – 800 mètres”.
“Let’s go down,” she announced. “We’ll try to find Mom and the others.”
Find the Brat? What a horrid way to end the ride! I objected, saying that we’d then have to haul ourselves right back up the hill.
“No, we won’t,” she replied, wiping her forehead. “We can fold up our bikes and put them in the car.”
She had a good point, because my poor muscles, unused to prolonged physical exercise, were starting to ache.
So I granted myself the luxury of a heroic lie, “I could’ve gone on for hours, but you’re right; since we’re here, we might as well see the lake.”
Gleefully, I hurtled at full pelt down the track towards the lake. In that instant, I reminded myself of a doggy showing off and barking at strangers from behind a fence, out of range for reprisals. The minimalist saddle and destitute shock-absorbers did nothing to protect my naturally unpadded backside. Fortunately, my ordeal was coming to an end and we soon arrived at the edge of the lake.
Actually, there were two lakes. The largest, specially furbished for walking, fishing and irrigation, supplied a second, adjoining, artificial lake in the valley below. This lower lake was edged by a corona of poplars and willows, providing refreshing shade for visitors. Several groups of young people were chatting on the grassy verges in the shade of poplars listening to music on their ghetto-blasters; worried mothers surveyed the clumsy gestures of their offspring doing tadpole impressions in the shallows where they could still touch the bottom.
We dismounted from our bikes and were standing in front of a wooden shack. A large imposing plastic sign displayed a list of tariffs. It hadn’t occurred to us that we’d have to pay to get in. Exhausted, I couldn’t see myself going back the way we came. We had to negotiate with the young ladies at the toll booth and explain our situation, promising we’d return to pay as soon as we found our family.
Worthily, they gave us their trust, insisting however that we leave our bikes with them so they could watch over them. There are so many dishonest people around….
We thanked them for their professionalism, and walked through the wire fence that hemmed the lake perimeter.
You could tell by the numerous trees planted everywhere that this place must be very enjoyable when the first winds of Fall arrive, chasing away the throngs of tourists.
We were walking along the beach, visually rummaging through the mass of flesh offered up to the assassin sun – another fake friend that one – it warms you up in springtime and then burns you to hell in summer. I loathed the oily texture of sun creams on my skin, and all the rubbish that sticks to it, so I’d decided once and for all never to expose my delicate skin to this dermal pyromaniac.
At one point, I feared that my aunts may have already left before our arrival, and I was about to share my thoughts with Valérie, when, out of the blue, I was violently struck in the face by some flying object, followed by a cold shower. The impact threw me to the ground, half stunned, and I brought my hand to my injured, bleeding lip. The offending object, a plastic bucket, was lying at my feet. Hesitantly, I got up and saw the triumphant face of the Brat laughing her head off in front of me like a scourge from hell!
Valérie rushed towards me, scolding her cousin and dabbed off the blood and water that was pouring down my chin with a handkerchief.
“What did you do that for?” she yelled at the little monster. “You could have hurt him!’
I wanted to reply, despite the pain in my swollen lips, that I really was hurt, but the little monster didn’t give me the chance.
“It’s not my fault!” she whined. “The bucket slipped out of my hands (The nerve!) And that stupid idiot moved just as I was aiming for his back! I only wanted to spray him! (So now it was my fault?) He never wants to play with me, and that gets on my nerves!”
Yes, I’d noticed. I wasn’t a masochist and wasn’t about to become one.
“Anyway, it’s alright. No harm done,” concluded Valérie putting her perfumed handkerchief back into her tight shorts (Decidedly, her shorts contained many treasures). “Men can put up with pain, can’t they?”
I gave her a forced smile… how could I complain after such analysis?
“See. He’s fine,” grumbled the Brat. “You didn’t have to tell me off!”
And she ran back to join Auntie Agnès who was lying with her wings spread out to dry at one end of the beach.
Our aunt was stretched out, arms and legs asunder using her favorite cooking style on the hot sand. Although hard to believe, she wasn’t sweating at all. It was just as well for her, because otherwise she would have been heading straight for mummification. Her eyes were wide open and she was blissfully staring up at the sky.
Make the most of it eyes, I thought to myself, because in a few years time, your foolish owner will be in for a double cataract operation.
Our aunt took a while to emerge from her contemplation, and still more time to recognize us when we spoke to her.
“Sorry children,” she finally responded with an elated sigh. “My senses were so impregnated by the nurturing fire of the sun that I found it hard to disconnect and come back to earth…”
In my opinion, the ‘impregnation’ hadn’t only affected her senses.
“Where’s Mom?” asked Valérie, looking around.
“She was thirsty so she went to get a drink at the bar just before you arrived. She isn’t ready to enter into osmosis with the sun yet, if you see what I mean…”
We lied to the wrinkly old hag that we saw what she meant, and then went to meet Auntie Cynthia, flanked by Caroline who, of course, was thirsty-hungry-tired- wanted-to-wee-go-play-on-the-swings-break-her-neck. (No, actually I made that last bit up).
We found Auntie Cynthia installed at a table not far from the bar, in lively conversation with a man my mind was trying hard to place. Orange polo shirt wide open at the neck revealing a tanned, muscular torso, very sexy bathing suit, a foot nonchalantly placed on a chair facing him. Why, it was Mr. Lafarge! Maître Lafarge looked more like a playboy out for adventure than a respectable notary. He must have been making a big impression on Auntie Cynthia because she was giggling and gazing at him. Our arrival (intrusion?) seemed to dampen her fun.
“Oh, the children!” she squeaked when she saw us. “I didn’t expect to see you here!”
You don’t say! You should have seen her face fall. She pointed to the man by her side with an elegant gesture and said, “You do remember Maître Lafarge, don’t you? Incredible as it may seem, it so happens that Maître Lafarge here is also co-manager of the lake. Not only does he provide us with his precious advice, look how generous he is!”
She pointed to a glass full of some sort of fruit cocktail.
“Oh, that’s quite alright,” the striking fellow offered with lashings of smarm. “It’s such a pleasure for me to meet people a little more... well, a little less…”
“A little more stylish maybe than the people you meet in these parts,” she concluded, soberly. “Unquestionably, la province is only livable in the bigger, more sophisticated cities.”
For my aunt, any agglomeration with less than fifty thousand inhabitants was synonymous with African bush.
“You have to be born here to appreciate it,” he acknowledged, bringing his glass to his lips. “Oh, now that I think of it,” he announced, putting his glass down, “maybe the children would like to do some pedal boat or aquabiking? Please feel free. It’s on the house.”
“Yeah!” cried Caroline, “I love pedal boats!”
“That’s very nice of you,” added Valérie, offering him a wide grin.
“You’re spoiling them,” cooed her mother. “I don’t know if I should accept…”
“Please, I insist,” affirmed the hunk getting up from his seat, “the pleasure’s all mine (he was starting to get on my nerves with his princely airs). And the children can go and get a drink at the bar if they’re thirsty…”
He gave the appropriate hand gesture to one of the bar employees.
“Drinks are on me. But I’m afraid I have to go now. I’ve got so much work what with my office and the leisure center.”
“I hope we’ll have the pleasure of seeing you again soon,” twittered Auntie Cynthia again, “other than professionally, of course…”
“Most assuredly,” he affirmed, shaking her hand for what seemed to me a very long time, longer than decency permitted. “I often come to the lake after work. Adieu then and enjoy yourselves and don’t forget to send my regards to your nice family.”
“Yes. We will. Goodbye Maître,” she replied with honeydew eyes. Remembering the modus vivendi of a good mother, she took Caroline by the hand, her daughter by the elbow and led us to the bar, not before flashing a last smile at the notary.
“Let’s have a drink before pedaling in the sun,” she declared. “May as well make the most of it since it’s on the house, hey?”
“Yeah!” cheered the Brat, “We’re going to do pedal boat!”
And she started to chant, “On the pedalo… into the water with Jojo!”
This ‘amusing’ little ditty entertained my aunt and her daughter who both burst out laughing. It was so amusing that I spent the rest of the afternoon having the ditty shouted, chanted, yelled and bawled in my ears, “On the pedalo… into the water with Jojo! On the pedalo… into the water with Jojo!”
I really had to control myself to keep up a calm, carefree appearance and just take the pain… a lot of pain! To prove to you how much pain I was in, I totally ignored the female creatures all around us in bathing suits, whereas, in normal circumstances, I would have been somewhat moved, right down to my extremities, which will remain unnamed.
No matter how long it takes, all things (good and bad) come to an end in this world. I was thrown into the water right in the middle of the lake; they tried to take off my pants and throw them overboard, all under the humiliating gibes of the Brat. I wasn’t ready to have a second dip in the lake. The sunburns were starting to radiate heat from my thighs and shoulders because, after my torment, I had to take my clothes off to dry them. Of course, what with the wind and the (enforced) swim, I hadn’t noticed the fiery caresses of the solar astral body, but it was now reminding me about its earlier bake.
On our way home in the car, Valérie nicknamed me her ‘little lobster’, but Caroline promptly corrected her, “He’s too skinny for a lobster... more like a crayfish!”
What a great day!
As the car was pulling into the property, putting an end to my ordeal, we saw a van parked in front of the house next to my dad’s Renault. The men were back from their errand. And, indeed, we found them all seated round the kitchen table having a drink with Mr. Murou, mayor by profession.
“Ah, here’s the bathing party, did you have fun?” my father asked in a voice that alcohol had rendered more cheerful.
“Good evening ladies and gentlemen!” Mr. Murou greeted us in a gravelly voice (a voice born and bred on the land). “So,” he continued with a merry laugh, “are we using the vacations to converse with the fish at the lac de Cadillon?”
“What a lovely surprise to find you here, Mr. Murou,” replied Auntie Cynthia, always very urbane. “We didn’t see any fish but we did meet Mr. Lafarge – you know – the notary managing our affairs. By the most providential stroke of luck, he’s also co-manager of the leisure center. I believe he’s also your notary if I’m not mistaken? A man of class, don’t you think?”
“I knew his father more, the previous notary that is. This one’s nothing like his father,” he added with a hint of regret. “This one’s a more…modern man. Professionally speaking, he’s experienced and capable. You know what people are like in the country,” he added, apologetic, “they don’t like change, above all in certain professions. For example, if you saw a bank manager in shorts and T-shirt sitting behind a counter, it may not change his professional qualities, but it would certainly shock a lot of people. In any case, I’m convinced that Maître Lafarge is the best man for managing your affairs.”
His statement had an inbuilt tacit question, which my father preferred to dodge, saying, “We had a great afternoon as well! Mostly thanks to Mr. Murou whom I thank again.”
Everyone seemed delighted with their day. Bully for them.
“Wouldn’t you know, ladies,” continued the mayor, smiling, “your husbands insisted on offering me these bottles of wine.”
He picked up a crate of bottles at his feet, and patted it affectionately.
“You know what I told them… no need for all that rigmarole for me! If I lend you the tools you need, it’s out of friendship, not gain! Not gain!” he boomed, nodding his head.
“We know,” replied my father, patting his arm in a friendly gesture, “however, one good turn deserves another.”
“Well, that’s different! Anyway, so you see, we’re drinking a cup of friendship together,” concluded the mayor, putting the crate down.
“Exactly!” approved Uncle Émile heartily. His face red and his eyes glazed (he must have drunk his cup of friendship dry). “Let me say, dear Mr. Murou,” he emphasized, “that we’ll never forget your generosity and your big heart! Yes. I repeat, your big heart!” he gushed, “You really had to twist our arm to drink the wine we just offered you!”
“We won’t forget your kind gesture in a hurry,” replied Uncle Michel, also overwhelmed by Mr. Murou’s beautiful show of friendship and generosity.
And so it was, I found out that the mayor had lent us a lawnmower, a brushcutter, two scythes and a chainsaw, enough to clear the Amazonian forest to hear them talk.
“With this equipment,” Mr. Murou explained, “you’ll have everything you need.” The future would tell otherwise. The motors have been overhauled and the tanks are all full. All you need now is some elbow grease.”
Whenever one of us added a word of thanks in praise of his generosity, he invariably added, “That’s what neighbors are for. It’s nothing.”
“Mr. Murou,” my mother said, bursting into the kitchen, “you must stay for supper, it’s nearly ready. We’d love you to stay. We’ve set up a little barbecue outside. It’s nothing fancy, but if you’d like to….”
Her proposal triggered a noisy ovation.
“Yes. Yes. Stay to eat!” exclaimed Uncle Michel, “We can talk about work. I’m in the same branch as you.”
“You can’t refuse!” thundered Uncle Émile, “We would be offended!”
“Well, I’d better not offend you then!” laughed Mr. Murou.
“Perfect, perfect,” concluded my father, rubbing his hands, “and maybe...”
He threw a guarded eye around him, leaned towards the mayor and said under his breath, “…your knowledge of the region might throw some light on the problems we’re facing at the moment.”
Mr. Murou suddenly became serious, replacing high spirits with curiosity, “If I can be of any use, just let me know. Without wishing to pry, I presume that the affair in question has to do with… your legacy?”
My father turned to his brothers (the women not included, as usual) and asked, “What do you think? Shall we tell him?”
“The whole story?” wondered Uncle Émile.
“Well,” Uncle Gus said, “everyone will find out sooner or later, so if this gentleman can be of help to us...”
“I know we can trust him,” Uncle Michel assured. “You know the old saying: if you don’t go forwards, you go backwards.”
As the dialogue unfolded, the mayor’s eyes ping-ponged from one to the other like a dog under whose nose a bone is passed from left to right.
“Well,” concluded my father, “since we all agree, we are going to put you in the picture, Mr. Murou, about certain facts which may surprise, or even shock you. We must first ask for your utmost discretion about this painful family affair.”
The mayor swore, promised, and gave his blood oath that we could give him our absolute trust and tell him everything. That’s what neighbors are for.
While I was showering, the man who was to become the family confident had called his wife to tell her he’d be staying to eat with us. We all met around the table at eight to devour succulent barbecued meat cooked by my mum and Auntie Nathalie. Careful not to omit the tiniest detail, my father monopolized the conversation throughout the meal. Mr. Murou showed keen interest, punctuating my father’s explanations with deep head nods and numerous questions, some indiscrete. Clearly, he was pussyfooting around the burning question, and the one we all wanted to avoid, namely how much?
“You know,” he observed, when my father had finished telling the story, “in the country, we hear many stories like these; all sorts of stories about husbands who, in their will and testaments, recognize illegitimate children, children who demand their share when the parents don’t bother to bequeath to the last survivor, people who disinherit their sometimes needy descendants in favor of the Church, charitable associations or animal associations, but I must admit, your story should be featured in the Guinness book of records, because it really takes the biscuit!”
“You’re telling me,” continued my father. “Well, things being as they are, there’s no point in crying over spilled milk. In this family (looking to the family in question for support), we are constructive! (The magic word was said). If we manage to find this famous turquoise, all well and good, but we’re not going to make ourselves sick about it.”
He’d paved the way for Mr. Murou’s next question, which he slipped in forthwith, “Without wishing to pry… how much are we talking about?”
“Bah,” scoffed my father with superb aplomb, hoping that Auntie Lucie had revealed nothing of her providential inheritance, “the money from the property and what was left on a savings account. Enough to pay for the transfer fees.”
My father turned out to be an exceptional actor and improviser. In the circumstances, it was beyond doubt that Lucie’s legacy was enough to give even the most second-rate artist wings.
“As you can see, the house is falling down, and that’s after cleaning it from top to bottom. As for the land, you couldn’t really imagine building a tennis court on it,” he concluded, forcing a smile.
“A swimming pool neither!” chortled Uncle Émile, echoing his brother.
“Unless, of course, your aunt buried some treasure somewhere!” joked Mr. Murou.
“Treasure?” Uncle Émile choked, “What treasure? Did anyone tell you about treasure?”
“Don’t be daft!” grumbled my father. “Can’t you see that the mayor is kidding?”
“I didn’t wish to cause such emotion,” laughed the mayor. “Although, under the circumstances, I’m sure you’d rather come across a nice big pot of gold rather than inherit this hovel and the dearly departed’s meager assets. Between you, me and the gatepost, all the villagers knew that your aunt wasn’t rich; otherwise she wouldn’t have lived like such a poor wretch. Excuse the adjective, but it sums up the opinions of my fellow citizens. No mod-cons, no toilets, not even a bathroom. In this day and age! As a matter of fact, some neighbors were quite concerned about the state of the property and came to tell me about it. The walls were starting to crack, and, in an attempt to help your aunt without having it looking like charity – rural folk have their pride you know – I mentioned it to an entrepreneur friend who had the unfortunate idea of offering to buy Mademoiselle Castet’s property from her as a life annuity sale in exchange for the complete renovation of the house and an attractive monthly rent. He even had a batch of breeze blocks delivered the day before coming to talk to her about it, in an attempt to coax her into it. Poor man! The result couldn’t have been worse if he’d offered a delivery of holy wafers to the devil! Shrieks and insults were heard at the other end of the village! She even broke a sweeping brush over his head! He had to kiss those breeze blocks goodbye, I can tell you!”
At this, he roared with laughter, clapping his hands.
He was probably referring to the pile of breeze blocks lying under the linden tree, the ones that Uncle Gus had used to prop up his caravan. Not a cooperative sort, our Auntie Lulu. Mr. Murou had thus unknowingly reassured my family that nobody else knew the exact amount of the legacy. This gave us until the end of July to search in peace. We knew one thing though, if we failed, there would be a stampede once the affair was out in the open.
“You know,” my father remarked, skillfully, “if we are taking this story so much to heart, it’s so that our aunt’s estate stays in the family. You of all people must know how important family values and tradition are in the country, traditional family values” he solemnly affirmed with one of his favorite mottos.
“I understand all too well,” agreed the mayor. “Such a noble intention deserves success and I’ll help you as much as I can. Unfortunately, as for the riddle, I’m afraid I’m at a loss. I’m not clever enough for that sort of thing and, to tell you the truth, I’m even rather surprised that Mademoiselle Castet could have concocted such complications. There were many different sides to her. I don’t know if you’ve heard anything about her life, but…”
“Yes, we have. We have!” the female censorship committee piped up in a single voice. “We don’t talk about it in front of the children, you see…”
“Of course! You’re so right,” agreed the municipal chief. “Don’t wash dirty laundry in public, hey?”
In our family, we had enough dirty laundry for a fair few machine loads.
The mayor couldn’t tell us any more than we already knew about Auntie Lucie because he hadn’t known her very well, nor could he enlighten us about the riddle, so the conversation during the meal shifted to other, far less pressing subjects than the resolution of our affair.
We were having the dessert (supermarket-bought rice cakes that tasted like plaster of Paris) and Mr. Murou was complaining about modern-day farming. You should have heard his loud laments, “There’s nothing harder than being a farmer! No weekends, no holidays because of the animals, a pittance for a pension, low income, work that is totally undervalued socially and economically, and, above all, not a minute to rest. It’s slavery. That’s what it is!”
Even so, he had managed to spend the afternoon boozing with my father and my uncles, unless of course, he was sacrificing his precious working time to improve the image of farming in the eyes of city-dwellers. Why refuse when you can mix business with pleasure?
Obviously, Uncle Michel was in total agreement with this outlook, “What with new farming policies cooked up by technocrats, I reckon smallholders are doomed, believe you me!” he ranted, pointing a finger to the ceiling. His gesture was no doubt a warning to the high echelons of bureaucracy. “Smallholders are doomed! These days, big industrial farmers are taking everything; they are monopolizing most of our subsidies and that,” he burped, “we owe to the interventionist and expansionist policy of the United States!”
He was ripe for a deluxe relaxation session on his fleece. In the States, where a man is worth his bank balance, my uncle’s turnover from the breeding business would class him in the category of waifs, strays and down-and-outs.
“I agree,” Mr. Murou replied, “There’s only room for the big guys! My wife and I have tried everything: pigs, cows for milk and meat, calves, corn, wheat, barley. For years we were asked to increase yield and now we’re accused of producing too much. Damn it! We invested millions in production and then they simperingly tell us that, after all, the tool is too effective! Isn’t that how it goes, eh?”
“Personally, I don’t have an overproduction issue,” declared Uncle Michel, “quite the opposite really. My difficulty has been staying with one kind of production.”
I had a sudden empathy for the animals sent to the knackers thanks to Uncle’s ‘good care’.
“So we had to find other ideas for our livelihood.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Auntie Agnès continued, muscling in on the conversation, “if today’s farmers are to survive, they need courage and imagination. It may seem a little original, but we’ve converted to chinchilla breeding and…”
“Oh I know someone in the north who does that,” Mr. Murou cut in, “but it’s the same with everything: you have to be ready to take risks, especially these days; the fur market is fast declining because of all these nutty ecologists.”
Uncle Michel and his wife took the blow in mortified silence.
My father took the opportunity to enter the conversation, “How right you are!” he exclaimed. “These ecologists really get on my nerves! Always complaining about nuclear energy, science, the modern world, consumer society! They might as well go live with in Zululand without any water or electricity and see if they like it. There aren’t many of them who are really prepared to practice what they preach!”
“Ecology isn’t about refusing the modern world,” moderated Uncle Gus, “it’s above all about respecting the environment.”
“Yes? Well, in the meantime,” his brother roared, “I want them to respect MY environment!”
And he got up and started waving his hands about in front of him, “The wind and the air… that I breathe!”
Mr. Murou and Uncle Émile applauded and guffawed.
Uncle Michel, who had heroically managed to keep his calm, said laconically, “without wishing to oppose the very… unambiguous opinions of my brother, I must just specify that, to start with, we do not breed chinchillas for fur… it would be against our principles.”
“Oh, really?” the mayor said, surprised, “for meat then?”
I was jubilant as I observed Auntie Agnès boiling in her corner, ready to battle with these ‘obscure’ minds.
“Not for fur, not for meat either,” explained my uncle, trying hard to contain his anger, “but as pets. Chinchillas are becoming more and more popular as pets. In addition, our breeding business, unlike many others doing it, tries to reconcile animal welfare and human interest. You should see how happy children are when they hold these soft furry balls in their arms” (…And how angry the parents are when the ‘furry balls’ escape and chew up their carpets and electricity cables).
“That is true progress,” he snapped, looking to his wife for support.
“Absolutely,” she agreed. “Personally, I’m not against progress in itself, but I am against excessive progress! It’s important to have moderation in everything,” she added, with a prolonged glare at my dad.
This conversation was starting to stoke the Pater’s inner furnace, and, turning red from ear to ear, he thundered, “And what’s excessive progress in your opinion? The washing machine? Central heating? An abundance of food in the supermarkets or life expectancy that increases every year?”
The ecological cord in me that vibrated in unison with my uncle and my aunt was plucked, and I made the grave mistake of chipping in, “Excessive progress is using the spin dryer when you can hang your washing out in the sun. It’s buying a dishwasher for three people. It’s taking the car for driving half a mile… It’s….”
“Well, well,” bellowed my father breaking my flow, “seems like the little parrot has learnt his lesson well! It doesn’t earn a living, but it still has an opinion,” he chided. “I agree with you about one thing though: the overuse of dish washers.”
A smile of satisfaction appeared on my face until he added, “and so that you may put your convictions into practice, I suggest you clear the table and do the washing up with the most ecological instruments I know of… your hands!”
Everyone burst out laughing at my bemused face, even the ones I had stuck my neck out for before it was chopped off; Uncle Michel and Auntie Agnès - the traitors! The ‘little parrot’ had just learned a lesson he wasn’t about to forget. Oh yes!
“Bravo, bravo!” snorted the Brat. “Jojo’s washing up!”
“That’ll teach you to hold your tongue,” Uncle Émile chided.
I meditated on this sentence, sick at heart, as I started to pick up the dishes and cutlery within reach. Gibes came from all sides, branding my pride with a hot poker.
“This boy has got style,” taunted Auntie Cynthia. “If his father doesn’t recruit him at the garage, he could get a job as a waiter.”
“All he needs now is a pair of white gloves,” added my mother with a chuckle.
“He’s not a bad guy,” acknowledged my father as he passed me the knives and forks, just a bit pigheaded (taking after you know who). He doesn’t listen to any advice for his own good.”
“Come on,” Uncle Gus charitably intervened, “we’ve all got our weaknesses. And you know that boys will be boys….”
In this grotesque sea of faces all laughing at me, I thought, “Boys may be boys and, someday, old fogies will kick the bucket!”