The mood over the first two weeks of July ebbed and flowed with the shifting tides of our hopes. To begin with, the multifarious cleaning and clearing activities occupied our minds and especially our bodies. My father had requisitioned the solid two-stroke, 7-horse power, autolube, rear differential axle, retractable blade shield brushcutter, after a lengthy explanation about its technical features. He daren’t leave such a powerful, sophisticated machine in the hands of the less experienced than he.
The noise-level and sheer amount of petrol it guzzled also turned out to be high-performance. The voracious mouth of this machine gobbled up the highest, most resilient grass, belching it out in a cloud of dust and foul-smelling smoke. You should have seen it, indomitable, as it slashed its way through the grassland like a combine-harvester chomping through a wheat field. It would have taken my dad just a few days to clear the whole area had the moody machine not been so deplorably unreliable. The spark plug flooded, then the carburetor went wrong, shaken out of kilter by the vibrations, then the ignition didn’t work. The lawnmower also required ceaseless maintenance and tuning, that’s if it deigned to start in the first place.
When we weren’t being deafened by a concerto of backfiring, we were deafened by a chorus of cussing and swearing by the self-appointed mechanic-foreman himself. My father snarled strings of bad language as he screwed the spark plug back on for the umpteenth time. I must say, it was always amusing for me (making sure I was standing at a safe distance, of course) to hear his ritual profanities, “You goddamn son-of-a-bitch!”, “you rotten dumb ass piece of shit!”
He was sometimes echoed by yet more cussing from the occasional assistant mechanic, Uncle Émile, “What a piece of crap!”
My uncle terrorized the flora and fauna with the chainsaw by way of assisting my father. The chainsaw didn’t look that difficult to use, but as soon as the engine spluttered to a start, the savage scream of the two-stroke betrayed its true power and formidable performance.
The first time Uncle Émile used it, he first had to clean out the air filter, change the spark plug, tighten and sharpen the chain before the terrifying machine would work properly. It felt like Mr. Murou had dumped his ironmongery on us for a general overhaul.
Uncle Michel found a worn-out pair of gloves in the kitchen sideboard, his only protection as he got stuck into pruning the larger bushes dotted around the property in clumps, like impenetrable islands, all potential hidey holes to explore.
“You have to go gently,” he’d stated, “you mustn’t traumatize the vegetation with savage hacking.”
To which my uncle retorted, “There are worse things in life! Just look at the state we’re in!”
“If you don’t respect nature… she’ll pay you back one day!”
Uncle Émile just shrugged his shoulders, threatening to apply his vision of ‘respecting nature’ with the help of his chainsaw.
Uncle Gus’ cogitations had so far been fruitless, so he was invited to take part in less theoretical activities. He’d had about ten days to crack the code. His admission of failure happened concomitantly with the start of major works on the land. I don’t really know whether he enjoyed his new tasks, but I was very happy when he joined me to pick up the branches Uncle Émile had chopped down, branches that were strewn all over the ground like sectioned members on a battle field. The battle, with its generals, uh, sorry, its general, its war machines, its troops and caterers, was now raging.
Uncle Gus threw himself, hell-for-leather, into physical pursuits, no doubt frustrated about not managing to decipher the riddle, and eager to forget his failure.
Practicing a scorched earth policy in reverse (burning everything in the wake of the destructive hoards instead of before them), we piled up branches, cut grass, leaves, miscellaneous debris and dried bushes in a corner of the property and then torched the lot under the worried, wary eye of the women, concerned that fire might spread.
The torrid heat did make it hard to work, but it offered the incontestable advantage of keeping the Brat away from our fires, and so kept her away from me. Happily, she often went to the lake with Auntie Agnès, Auntie Cynthia and Valérie (the latter dodging her share of the chores). I didn’t have the choice of course. My mother and Auntie Nathalie heroically kept house and supplied the men with fresh beer. To be honest with you, they didn’t have much choice since we couldn’t decently leave Auntie Agnès in charge of catering. Whenever there were chores to be done, Auntie Cynthia complained about period pains and disappeared into the caravan. Likely story! Her periods had been going on for over two weeks.
Uncle Émile commented, mockingly, “At this rate, we’ll have to take her to a blood transfusion center to make up for all the hemoglobin she’s lost!”
Soon after we’d arrived, we had a visit from Joyeux, the late Auntie Lucie’s cat. He used to hide in a branch of the vast linden tree next to the house, afraid of all these strangers. As the weeks went by, the linden tree became his observation post. After all, this had been the poor critter’s home. Shy by nature (which he’d already made perfectly clear in no uncertain terms), he never approached the house, and, whenever we called to him or tried to stroke him, he would recoil into the tree foliage. He stayed there for hours, spying on our each and every gesture like an invisible sentry.
After that hallowed day, the day when he scratched the Brat as she’d sneaked up on him and grabbed his tail while he was asleep on a low branch, I brought him a bowl of milk every morning. One good deed deserves another, don’t you think? At nightfall, this adorable animal (adorable henceforth in my eyes at least) left his observatory hiding in answer to the call of his bowl, fuller than the one I could offer him. In the evening, I watched as he crept down from his tree, a supple and solitary silhouette melting into the night with stealthy steps. The affection I felt for him amplified after he scratched the Brat a second time when she lurched at him when he was at his bowl of milk. What a delightful creature! (The cat, not my cousin you understand).
Caroline’s arm was bleeding. Her hysteria triggered a volcanic eruption as the whole family poured like lava from the house. The ensuing ‘goddamn animal’, ‘should be put down’, ‘filthy beast’ and other protestations were spat at the author of this unpardonable act, but Joyeux contemptuously slinked to the top of the tree and licked his paws.
I decided to bring him a second bowl of milk that evening, as discretely as I could. A good deed must always be rewarded.
We received regular visits from Mr. Murou and Maïté. The mayor was pleased to see how new his tools were looking and even suggested ordering and delivering spare parts. What a helpful man! As for Maïté, she dropped by every two to three days ‘to see how the new people were getting on’, as she put it. She always brought us a few pots of jam, eggs or cakes made especially for us. She was a better cake maker than housecleaner at least. Her visits were motivated by an innate kindness, but also by a legitimate curiosity and concern about Joyeux’s escapades. We realized this because she would repeatedly look up at the linden tree, well aware of the feline’s habits.
She always marveled at the work we’d accomplished, gratifying us with her invariable and annoying (annoying for those struggling under the sun) ways, ‘you must love gardening to be working in this heat, and that’s a fact. You have to be valiant, and that’s a fact!’
Her constant presence and running commentaries started to get on the ‘gardeners’ nerves. My mother and Aunt Nathalie had to make conversation over tea with the woman Uncle Émile had now nicknamed ‘the-buttache-and-that’s-a-fact!’
Maïté would go home at the end of the afternoons, delighted with her visits, leaving the ladies’ and gentlemen’s heads ringing with her boisterous words and laughter.
Once, when she was expected to drop by, my father said to my mother, “If we have to put up with her, why not see if the enigma rings any bells for her. Be smart,” he advised, “and just slip ‘I make four in the right order and a hundred in the wrong order’ into the conversation, and see how she reacts. You never know, after all, she lived here for years and maybe it’ll mean something specific to her.”
It did indeed mean ‘something specific’ to her, but certainly not what we were expecting. When my mother uttered the key-phrase, Maïté just shrugged her shoulders and remarked, “Bowel problems are very troublesome, and that’s a fact! You should see a doctor if you go to the lavatory too many times.”
Mademoiselle Passy-Coucet’s excessively personal interpretation of the enigma triggered a tremendous peal of laughter when recounted back to the family.
“Oh my god!” scoffed Uncle Émile. “That’s a good one!”
“Bowel problems! Four in the right order!” chortled Uncle Gus.
I’ll skip the family’s numerous scatological comments, and conclude the story with Auntie Cynthia’s favorite expression, “It’s all so philistine!”
17 July. After the enthusiasm and hope of the first days, a gloomy feeling of failure now set in. And yet we had spared no horses. The property had undergone a complete facelift. The land with its manicure-mown grass and severe pruning was transformed, looking twice the size. The largest bushes at the outer edge of the domain had fallen prey to the steel jaws of mechanical machinery, rendering several cubic meters of wood, now stacked against the back wall of the house. Uncle Michel, equipped with a double-harness, 3-tooth blade brushcutter, made the finishing touches. He trimmed borders, under trees and around every bush and hedge. In a nutshell, he trimmed every single spot the lawnmower couldn’t reach. This portable brushcutter was as noisy as its big brother on wheels, both alternately giving our ears a rest when they broke down.
The shorn grass was scorched in several places, and the parched areas spread as days went by.
As we were observing this sad spectacle, Uncle Michel, connoisseur of ecological issues, expressed what I was mulling over to myself, “In summer, you shouldn’t cut grass too short because it weakens it. People think it makes it stronger, but it’s quite the opposite because the vitality of the roots is proportional to the height of the stem. Without strong roots, grass can’t survive drought.”
Uncle Michel was an expert in ecology, in the theoretical domain at least.
Despite our efforts, we discovered no clues as to where the turquoise may be hidden. We unearthed all sorts of empty bottles, rusty tins and ripped containers, previously concealed in the long grass. Our hearts leapt whenever one of these potential hidey holes was found. In our disappointment, we would still make a point of thoroughly emptying them of their contents for fear of missing the turquoise. The sheer quantity of these decoys made us wonder whether Auntie Lucie hadn’t scattered them in the grass on purpose to spite us. The overall result was worse than negative. What with the stress and fatigue, the constant machine repairs and maintenance, with a few injuries to boot, the price was already high.
A wood chip, expelled by Uncle Émile’s chainsaw, had almost taken out Uncle Gus’ right eye. Luckily though, the chip had landed just below the eyebrow, causing only slight bleeding. Uncle Gus vehemently protested about the carelessness of the users of the motorized machines (the blade speed of the brushcutter was so fast that stones were often violently projected seventy feet away, so it was wiser not to stay in the vicinity).
His bad temper got the better of him, “Can’t you be more careful at your age?” “He always has to attract attention to himself!” “Don’t complain. You’ve still got your left eye!”
Uncle Gus preferred not to let things escalate and renounced responding to his brother’s lack of sympathy and negligence, adopting the prudent tactic of a snail retreating into its shell. Talking of shells, he frequently had to replace the breeze blocks used to prop up his caravan because they were weather-damaged and soon crumbled under the weight. I often helped him replace the damaged blocks. He would hoist one side of the caravan with a hydraulic jack while I replaced the most damaged blocks with the ones I’d carefully chosen from the pile under the linden tree. We picked out the ones that seemed the strongest.
“Damn shame to let all this building material go to waste,” sighed Uncle Gus, surveying the moss and dead leaves covering the pile. “What a waste of money when they could have just put a tarpaulin over it. Such a pity!”
He clenched his fist in the air parodying Uncle Michel, “Down with consumer society!”
And I responded, playfully, “Down with this bum society!”
We found this little game quite amusing, and chanted embellished versions on the same theme, such as “corrupt society”, “polluting society, and “bastard society!”
We took turns to see who would be the most inventive and the most convincing in expressing anger and indignation. We tested our improvisations on Uncle Michel, getting him stirred up on this sensitive issue. What a pleasure it was to see him (with such verve and conviction too!) obliviously taken in by our improvisations, adding more besides!
I used to get up at dawn to avoid Caroline’s barbaric wake up calls and have my breakfast in peace. Superbly ignoring the adage that the shortest jokes are the best, she’d dragged me out of the arms of Morpheus with glasses of cold water a few too many times.
So I left my sleeping bag and saw that Uncle Michel had also left his. Auntie Agnès was still sleeping and so was Caroline, deep in innocent sleep (well, innocent until proven guilty, which didn’t take long, given the little Brat’s loathsome morals). I dressed swiftly, taking care not to wake the dragoness who poisoned my existence.
The previous day had marked the closure of the first round of searching around the house. We dined in silence. Depression and disillusionment (mortification even) could be read on all faces. In desperation, Uncle Michel had spread his fleece in a corner of the kitchen and took refuge in his meditations. A funeral wake couldn’t have been more morose. A bout of mourning hit the family a second time round.
As I left the tent, I saw the infamous fleeces lying on the grass. It had been a tough fight to get the ‘extremist ecologists’ to leave them outside the tent at night. The fact that they warded off mosquitoes didn’t make up for the dreadful stink. So, one fine day (oh so fine!), Mr. Murou, who was passing in front of the tent, mentioned that there must be some dead carcass inside, heralding the end of the dreaded fleeces.
By the noise coming from the house, I guessed the second phase of the search had begun. The sun fiery rim was just peeking over the horizon when I discovered the kitchen furniture scattered pell-mell in the entrance: the large table surrounded by its chairs (some upturned), the sideboard containing the crockery, cutlery and other household utensils minus a foot, broken off in the fray. The colony of industrious, rapacious bees had started their day’s work.
At second glance, I witnessed a scene of devastation in the kitchen; it had been literally ransacked; the TV, fridge and cooker dumped in the centre of the room where the table had been.
Uncle Gus was sweeping the newly revealed areas of floor while Uncle Michel, kneeling by his side, was scrupulously examining all the debris and dust balls he was collecting in his dustpan. After completing his inspection, he emptied the dirt into a garbage bag. He was as sober, systematic and conscientious as a gold digger sifting through auriferous sand.
To my right, I saw my father and Uncle Émile busy around the fireplace. The heavy refractory plate was now flat on the floor. Tiles, broken in several places, were evidence of violent handling. I suddenly felt sorry for this gallant fireplace, an innocent victim at the hands of men’s passions, now poorly rewarded after all the generous warmth it had given folk over the decades. It was now just a dark, decapitated silhouette awaiting the final blow by its executioners.
The ‘executioners’ were checking to see if there was some hidey hole under the wood pile next to the fireplace. They picked up the logs one by one and threw them willy-nilly into a corner of the kitchen, cracking more and more tiles as they went. Efficiency and alacrity was a team that worked wonders.
Eager – just for once – to take part in the general effort, I joyously piped up, “Morning! If you need a hand...”
“Just don’t get under our feet!” barked the Pater. “There are enough of us already in here. If we need you, we’ll let you know!”
This charming greeting was an instant dampener. Before I offered my services again, Uncle Michel would have all the time in the world to convert to unfettered liberalism!
“Sorry,” continued Uncle Émile, “but too many cooks spoil the broth. This task requires care and judgment. It takes dexterity….”
Just to prove it, he lobbed a log over his shoulder which hit the floor, breaking another tile.
“Shit! Can’t you take care?” thundered my father. “How do you want us to sell this place if you break it to pieces?’
“Sell this place?” drawled his brother, wiping his hands on his work jeans, “you first need an heir!”
My father had let us down, and he was starting to take the flack. Nevertheless, knowing my dad, he would go to any lengths to regain his influence and authority in the family. Yes! He would make darned sure he reclaimed his place at the top of the family hierarchy; as Thor (hero in an eponymous Marvel comic) once stated with such poise when caught in some perilous fix, ‘The hyena laughs when the lion is weak... but the lion remains a lion!’ That was giving it to them baby! Needless to say, this was one of my favorite episodes.
Besides, wasn’t my father as proud as a lion? Did he not have the ferocity and roar of a lion, its prestige and charisma (somewhat waning right now)? What about the bravery of a lion? Well, maybe that’s going too far: it was more like the voracity of a pig.
I was about to abscond, leaving the (real) men to continue their labor, when Uncle Gus handed me a garbage bag ‘as full as a drunken oyster’ (another of Uncle Émile’s expressions) and said, “Hey Jo, if you really want to make yourself useful, get rid of this bag for us. We’ll take it to the municipal skip later.”
As I hurried to obey (it was so nice not being treated like a total waste of space), he added, “And if you can, try to find a few decent blocks for the caravan. They just keep crumbling.”
“No problem!” I responded, grateful. “Consider it done!”
I sped out of the kitchen, got rid of the bag and headed for my uncle’s caravan. I now had a mission. It was up to me to make myself worthy of it. I glanced at the stabilizers and noticed that two of the breeze blocks had exploded under the weight of the caravan, making it slightly wonky. I didn’t want to wake up Valérie and her mother who were still sleeping, so I decided not to remove the jack.
Even if I managed to do it alone, it still wouldn’t appease their bad mood if I woke them up, so I started to pick out a few of the more solid looking blocks. Remembering Uncle Gus’ instructions, I removed the ones from the top of the pile. We’d thrown most of the damaged ones, eroded by the weather, on the ground where they still lay. I chose one that seemed intact, pulling it from the pile, but it crumbled in my hands.
“Shit!” I exclaimed, “They’re all rotten!”
Peevish, I observed the pile of breeze blocks. I’d have to get to the ones underneath because they would have been protected from the rain, but I couldn’t see myself taking them all off. I wanted to be helpful, but not do myself an injury either. I examined a few of these emblems of our modern, industrialized, concrete world, still mumbling to myself, when suddenly…
Revelation of revelations. Illumination. Lightning strike. Fulguration. Joy of joys. I got it by George!
A quarter of an hour later, I rushed like a madman into the kitchen, brandishing in one hand the object that would make me glorious. Uncle Gus and Uncle Michel were putting the fridge and cooker back into their places while my dad and Uncle Émile were stacking the logs. Their gloomy faces showed they had found nothing. And for good reason!
Before their mystified eyes, I raised my prodigious discovery high. I had in my hand a jewelry box, differing from the one we had discovered in the fireplace only in its metallic structure.
“I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” I shouted, laughing. “I’ve got the box with the turquoise!”
Oh my friends! What a hullabaloo! What turmoil! What a revolution! The resurrected Christ couldn’t have caused as much sensation among his disciples. Everyone dashed to the new Messiah.
“What did you say?” yelled Uncle Émile, hungrily eyeing the exhibit. “What’s the boy saying?” he continued, with a nervous laugh.
“Oh my God. Oh my God!” chanted Uncle Michel wringing is hands. “I can’t believe it! Oh my God!”
Naturally, I gave the box to the Pater. He flashed me a half smile, still incredulous and, with shaky hands, he examined the box.
“Where on earth did you find this, you great saint of a boy?” he exclaimed in a strangled voice.
“A stroke of luck you had there,” declared Uncle Émile.
“It wasn’t luck!” I protested. “I actually solved the riddle all by myself!”
They looked at me for a moment, stupefied. My father questioned me, disbelieving, “You solved the enigma? Why don’t you just tell us you found it by accident?”
“No. It wasn’t by accident!” I protested, getting more and more irritated at their doubt about my intellectual abilities. “I found the meaning of the message all by myself!”
“Tell us then for heaven’s sake!” implored Uncle Gus.
A feeling of intense pleasure coursed through me as I saw them all hanging onto my every word.
Once my ego had been sufficiently nourished after a brief suspense, I decided to enlighten their miserable minds, “Well. First of all, the riddle said I make four in the right order and a hundred in the wrong order. We often walked past the object corresponding to this definition without knowing it: the pile of cement blocks out there under the tree!”
As I waited for a round of applause in praise of my perspicacity, their faces were still plunged in the shadow of doubt and confusion. They’re a bit slow on the uptake this morning, I thought, or else Auntie Agnès made them breakfast before going back to bed.
“Oh dear!” I sighed. “I make four in the right order and a hundred in the wrong order, it’s not that difficult to get! Once assembled in the right order, the blocks make the four walls of a house but, as they are now, in a pile in the wrong order therefore, they make more or less a hundred elements. I didn’t stop to count them all.”
“Of course!” cried Uncle Gus, suddenly getting it. “The four walls of a house! Why didn’t I think of that? To think that I went to that pile for bricks so many times to prop up the caravan and I never thought of it! How stupid of me!”
“That’s my boy! That’s my boy!” my father roared, grasping me by the shoulders and shaking me like a plum-tree. “He may not be very tall, but he’s got a lot in there!” said he, patting me over the head with his hand with such zest, he almost knocked me out.
“As I’ve always said,” added Uncle Gus cheerfully, “one’s value has nothing to do with size! Isn’t that right, Jo?”
I cheerfully agreed (slightly begrudging the reminder about my compact stature). I was the smallest in my class, but it wasn’t my fault that the French kept getting taller with each new generation! I read somewhere that this phenomenon was possibly caused by the magnetic fields of electrical appliances, especially the TV – magnetic fields somehow influencing the pineal gland. Yeah, well, anyway, I’d stayed God knows how many hours in front of my TV screen and my growth was still retarded. Maybe I didn’t watch the right programs or maybe my pineal gland was frigid. Who knows?
“So when are we going to open this goddamn box?” urged Uncle Émile, chomping at the bit.
“Right now!” answered my dad with similar impatience.
He grabbed the lid with one hand and tried to lift it, but it refused to budge, rusted shut with humidity. “Uh oh!” chanted my father, trying to force it open by wedging it against his stomach, taking a deep breath, giving a violent twist to the lid with a lot of puffing, swearing and reddening gills. After a few minutes of fierce effort, the lid still held fast.
“Bloody thing!” he growled, observing his hands congested with pain. “I can’t get a proper grip on it!”
“Give it here!” suggested Uncle Émile, seizing the recalcitrant object. “There’s a knack to it. You have to screw it this way first and then unscrew it. Nobody knows this trick, but it’s so simple.”
“I know it!” protested Uncle Michel. “It’s a simple application of the yin-yang theory. These are the forces which govern the universe, and they are not, as we may think, antagonistic, but complementary. You just have to go with the flow to stay in harmony with them.”
I don’t know whether Uncle Émile had understood all the subtleties of this theory, but he began trying to screw and unscrew the lid. Despite his desperate struggle, the result was not conclusive, the box refused to yield to either yin or yang.
“Shit!” complained my uncle giving it back to my father. “We’ll just have to smash the son of a bitch with a hammer!”
“And destroy the stone!” objected my father. “Not on your nelly! It would be the last straw if we damaged the turquoise and the bailiff from Pau couldn’t recognize it. I think it would be best to cut the box with a metal saw and play safe.”
“Great idea!” agreed Uncle Émile. “I should’ve thought of that!”
“Thinking, always thinking,” Uncle Michel said, shaking his head.
“I’ve got a saw in my tool box. It’s in the caravan. I’ll go get it!” said Uncle Gus.
He returned in a matter of seconds while Uncle Michel took his turn to try and unscrew the lid under the mocking scrutiny of his brothers.
My father snatched the box from him, seized the saw with authority and commanded imperiously, “Follow me!”
He left the kitchen, and we followed him silently outside to the oak table. He placed the box on the table, studied it from all angles to see which would be the best place to cut, positioned the blade and started gently sawing the metal under the keen gaze of his entourage.
We all pulled up a chair because the operation would take time, patience and skill. We sat there in silence around the project supervisor. He was holding the box in one hand and in the other the saw, which he moved to and fro, lithe and precise, like a violinist’s bow. This instrument made discordant sounds, but to us they were like the sweet sounds of a symphony orchestra. This symphony of screech major and squeal minor, as discordant as it was, announced the end of our torment. At least, that’s what we hoped for with all our heart.
After each back and forth of his instrument, the musician examined the groove appearing under the blade bite. He would then focus, checking the position before repeating the movement, stopping at the least resistance so as not to run the risk of damaging the stone.
“Can’t you go a bit faster?” Uncle Gus dared, “Because at this rate...”
“Yeah,” scolded my father, “and bust the stone!”
“There’s no hurry,” remarked Uncle Michel.
He made a gentle movement, “Gently, gently. Imagine this object is a woman’s heart you are conquering. Success depends on adroitness, finesse, and strategy.”
“I didn’t know you were such a cunning tactician in matters of the heart,” commented Uncle Gus, smiling.
“It’s not because we live in the country that we are ignoramuses about love,” replied his brother. “Actually, we probably know more about life than you townies with your dating clubs, night clubs and sex-shops.”
“He’s had plenty of time to practice,” guffawed Uncle Émile in a ribald voice, “with his sheep!”
Outrageous as it was, this joke triggered a peal of laughter, not, of course, including Uncle Michel.
“My poor Émile,” he sighed with a sorry air, “you’ll never change. I sometimes enjoy your uncouthness, but certainly never your vulgarity.”
He pointed to me, fuming, “And to stoop so low in front of a child!”
I had to hide my urge to laugh. Uncle Gus, whom I thought blasé about this kind of humor, was almost in tears, and, as for my dad, he was laughing so much, he had to stop what he was doing. Undoubtedly, the nervous tension of the last few hours was taking its toll.
“You can laugh. Yes you can laugh,” Uncle Michel spat at my dad, “because, if I wanted to, there’s a lot I could say about your antics! And there are quite a few!”
Everyone, except my father of course, begged him to tell.
“Go ahead,’ protested the pater, “I’ve got nothing to hide, so by all means tell your stories or make them up if you fancy.”
“Oh, you’ve got nothing to hide, hey?” chided Uncle Michel. “And what if you told us about those depravities of your childhood!”
“Depravities of my childhood?” his brother said, astonished. “What depravities?”
“Of your childhood, yes. Your childhood!” Uncle Michel thundered with what seemed like a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “What about poor old Mister Dufour found upstairs in his loft, hey?”
A brittle smile settled on my dad’s face. For the first time ever in my life, I felt he was embarrassed.
“Don’t see what was shocking about that,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.
Uncle Michel continued greedily, “Nothing shocking. Nothing at all, except that old Mister Dufour had been dead for twenty four hours and should have been resting in peace, as dead as a dormouse, on his deathbed! As was customary in those days, this was forty or so years ago, the neighbors took turns to watch over the body during the night. But in the morning, the body was gone. Vanished into thin air!”
“Vanished?” I exclaimed in astonishment.
“Vanished!” confirmed Uncle Michel. “You can imagine the bewilderment, the wailing and the tears. The police were informed immediately, but the forces of order couldn’t find the body. So, the divine forces were called in (the village priest as it happens) to exorcise the house.”
“When the rational leaves, the irrational steps in,” added Uncle Gus, with a hint of malice.
“Some people thought it was a stupid prank,” continued Uncle Michel, “others the hand of the devil. In fact, it was the work of two little devils, namely Bernard and Émile.”
Offended, the first ‘little devil’ lifted his forefinger high, and contested, “Nobody ever proved it was us!”
“Nobody!” stormed Émile, trying to look affronted.
“You were even seen lurking in the old man’s house the whole evening,” objected Uncle Michel, “laughing your faces off like two hunchbacks while the neighbors were looking for the body.”
My father crossed his heart and said to us, “Just look at me. You don’t believe that Mimile and I would have done such a thing? We are church-goers!”
“Sensitive church goers!” added ‘Mimile’.
Everyone burst out laughing, shattering to smithereens the terrible twins’ claim to sensitivity.
The conversation went from digs to joking until my father called for silence, “Almost done! Just a teensy bit more and we’re there!”
We came closer, watching the saw as it made its final cut through the jewelry box.
“A tough baby this one,” grimaced the jeweler, removing the blade which had snagged in the metallic mass. The blade tore off the last particles of metal and the box was ready to deliver its treasure.
Dad was right, the vacations were about to begin for real! Vacations, for me, crowned in glory, I was sure, with the latest model of a magnificent Peugeot scooter, the one with the double seat. Unless of course the dreaded Aunt Lucie had done it again…
“That’s it!” boomed my dad, interrupting my thoughts.
He placed the saw on the table, and picked up the box, now cut around its entire circumference.
He presented it to us like a magician ready to perform a magic trick and said in a theatrical voice, “Are we ready?”
We all replied in chorus, “Yes!”
In one swift gesture, he tugged off the remaining bond that kept the lid attached to its base. It separated into two parts and my father presented us both parts like an offering.
A beautiful offering it turned out to be: one half was empty, and the other contained a rolled up piece of paper. Our aces were trumped – again. We were in for another round!
Father took the piece of paper with a trembling hand and unrolled it in deathly silence. We all knew what this meant. It was a catastrophe. He could hardly read it; either the writing had been rubbed out by dampness, or else it got stuck in his throat (I went for the second hypothesis). I must say, I was so distressed that I didn’t tune in the first time he read it, but I heard it the second time,
Whatever happens,
My protector will lose his hair.
I’ll skip the profanities that gratified our aunt’s latest farce; profanities expressed with such verve that the women arrived straight from their beds wearing nothing but their nighties, convinced we’d at last found the turquoise. I can assure you, the bitterness they felt was equal to their dashed hopes, and the concerto of protestations worsened.
Even my mother and Auntie Nathalie, usually stoic in the face of adversity, vented furious invectives, “The absolute swine! The old viper!” blasted one; “The old witch!” blasted another. The men, virility oblige, expressed themselves in cruder terms, but, since it won’t enrich the debate, I will refrain from listing those terms here.
Once everyone had vented their bile, we had to accept the obvious: Auntie Lucie had foiled us again. I found her much less pleasant than I had at the start of this affair. I bid farewell to my dreams of a motorbike with its double seat and all the trimmings.
Leaving their husbands to calm down, the women went off to get dressed before preparing breakfast, all except Auntie Cynthia who went back to bed. Her daughter hadn’t even got up, increasingly indifferent to the whole affair. She was more interested in topping up her tan, much to my chagrin, at the lac de Cadillon with her mother and Auntie Agnès.
While we are on the subject, my mother and Auntie Nathalie were getting progressively more fed up with their sun-baked sisters-in-law living it up at the lake, while they were tied to the stove and the washing up. Rebellion was in the air and we were perfidiously betting on the age at which these tanned beach babes would develop skin cancer. You have to get your kicks somehow.