It was just as well that my dad and my two uncles had made the most of their evening; in short, it was their last opportunity to chill out. The next day, they had to face the wrath and remonstrance of their wives (not to mention headaches and hangovers — the holy beverage may nourish the soul, but it certainly doesn’t help the body!), and just a matter of days separated us from the fateful August the second. The last days passed with the implacable constancy of a Swiss-made watch. Time marched on, relentless, and the winds of fortune were blowing the wrong way.
As the deadline drew nearer, anxiety increased and the group’s efforts intensified. All day long, my father and Uncle Émile went like blazes with sledge hammers (obligingly loaned by Mr. Murou, now forgiven) at the plaster walls between the bedrooms and hall. After that, they started on the beds, which were taken to pieces, their parts scattered all over the house.
Fine plaster dust covered the bedroom floors like a white shroud, and the women resigned themselves to sleeping in the only remaining habitable room (the kitchen) in sleeping bags bought specially for the occasion. Uncle Michel and Uncle Gus offered their places in the tent and caravan in exchange for a place on the kitchen floor alongside their brothers.
My mother snapped up Uncle Gus’ caravan offer (Gus actually seemed relieved to escape the caravan since Auntie Cynthia still hadn’t forgiven his earlier hedonism). Auntie Nathalie on the other hand begrudgingly accepted Uncle Michel’s tent, still reeking despite the forced exile of the offending fleece. In desperation, she emptied a bottle of eau de Cologne onto her sleeping bag. Suffice it to say that the sickening stench of perfume with the lingering odor of the fleece made a revolting mix. On those nights, I went to sleep in the kitchen den with the four brothers, and I would have settled there permanently had it not been for Uncle Émile’s ‘dynamic’ snoring.
As you can imagine, the prevailing atmosphere was not exactly sweetness and light! Lack of sleep (due to general irritability), hard work, a whole month’s vacation wasted, constant disappointments not to mention fatigue and stress, meant that relationships were close to breaking point. War had been declared between the women. Nobody wanted to do the household chores. Uncle Émile and Uncle Michel fought over the tiniest thing. Auntie Cynthia cold-shouldered everyone (none of us were good enough for her), and she disdainfully scoffed at our pathetic, vain efforts. The Brat was as insolent and as whiny as ever, even creatively so!
Clocking up a remarkable point in his favor, my father tried to hold the tidal wave of resentments in check, a wave that would otherwise soon engulf the boat in a great tsunami of ire. And holding back the tidal wave was no mean feat. He managed to calm his brothers by raising his voice, but with Aunt Cynthia he used a different tone. If he or anyone else was foolish enough to address her, the bitch took out her rage and frustration on poor Uncle Gus. The more Aunt Cynthia treated him unfairly and hurtfully, the more her husband threw himself into the search. Assisted by Uncle Michel, he emptied the pond which Valérie and I had started half-heartedly probing. They waded in putrid mud for hours until the pond was just a hole with a bottom of muddy silt, sun-baked to a leprous crust. Then they cleaned out the thick layer of chicken shit that iced the bare ground in the chicken pen. In a frantic attempt to find the turquoise, they even sieved the dusty, fetid dejections. Their hopes may have been dashed, but blocked sinuses were guaranteed.
On July the twenty-sixth, we had eight days left before our boat would definitively sink. Eight days to hope. Eight days to pray. Eight days to slog. We had become slaves of hope. Sounds kind of elegant, doesn’t it? But the reality was grueling. Winds of rebellion were blowing up on deck. If only we could hoist the sails and leave these tormented waters.
When they’d finished bashing down the walls, my dad and Uncle Émile started on the floors and ceilings like mad things. They even crowbarred off the venerable but wonky old kitchen tiles. Anything that could have been a potential hidey hole was ransacked, ripped out, turned upside down, smashed, gutted. Nothing, but nothing escaped this madness of destruction at the hands of humans. Under attack from all sides by the iron jaws of these probing insects, the house groaned. Everyday, the house saw a part of its soul torn out. Poor house. It didn’t deserve such a sad destiny. Although, at the end of the day, the perpetrator was Aunt Lucie herself. She must have known that her (hypothetical) heirs would use all possible means to find the turquoise. Who knows? What if this Machiavellian woman had wanted her house to be buried with her?
Bedroom floors and ceilings escaped the iron mandibles, but were thoroughly searched all the same. Meanwhile, Uncle Michel and Uncle Gus obeyed my father’s orders, clearing away every possible thing, systematically inspecting the debris from their excavations. I wasn’t forgotten in the fray. In fact, I had the delightful job of sweeping up their mess. I’ll certainly remember these vacations!
When these avid workers of chaos had finished with the ground floor, which took them until the twenty-eighth of July, the attic was their only remaining hope, and the only possible place left where the stone could be. Hope was our savior. Where would we be without it?
The ladder to the attic was rickety, so Uncle Michel decided to consolidate it — he even changed some of the rungs.
“What do we do now?” asked Uncle Émile, once Uncle Michel had gone to get his tools.
“I’m at the end of my pip!” sighed my father, slumping into a chair. “We’ve done a good morning’s work. I reckon we deserve a break.”
Everyone agreed. We could hear the women busying themselves in Uncle Gus’ caravan. It was getting on for eleven o’clock and they would soon be throwing lunch together. Given the cooks’ disinclination (one cook in particular), meals were now ready-mades, tins or pasta. How low we had sunk since early July’s delicious barbecues!
“This place is unsellable now that we’ve trashed it,” muttered Uncle Émile, breaking the silence as we sat around my father.
“I couldn’t care less about the house!” growled dad. “What’s important is the turquoise. If it’s not in the attic, then we’ll just bulldoze the lot until we find it… to the bitter end.”
To the bitter end they would go, they vowed, trying to hide their discouragement.
“It would be surprising if the stone were in the house,” commented Uncle Gus. “It’s just a hunch” he explained, “but it would be surprising. It’s a question of balance.”
“That doesn’t prove anything,” grumbled my father, shrugging his shoulders.
“Of course it doesn’t prove anything,” admitted Uncle Gus, “but there is an inherent logic in the construction of enigmas, and I see no sense in the solution to the first being inside the house, the second outside the house and the third inside the house again. No, no. It lacks coherence. We may be dealing with a Machiavellian treasure hunt I grant you, but it’s also quite an ingenious and even a poetic one.”
“I know where your poetry will take us,” snapped Uncle Émile, “back to Paris, that’s where! With holes in our pockets, bags under our eyes, feeling sorry for ourselves! The old bitch has ruined our vacation. We’ve been at it like slaves the whole month of July!” he blazed, “And we’ve bankrupted ourselves on gas, highways and food, without mentioning moral damage!”
Another silence fell as we considered the ‘moral damage’, which must have been significant because the silence lasted for quite a while.
“No point in obsessing about it,” remarked my father, getting up. “Let’s see if the women need some shopping. A drive would do us the world of good, don’t you think?”
“Okay,” approved Uncle Émile warmly, making a move. “We could pop in and see Mr. Murou on the way back.”
“Great idea!” exclaimed my father, delighted. “A polite visit will no doubt cheer him up. He’s done so many favors for us.”
This proposal was also welcomed by the women, delighted that the men were now helping them at last. Never mind that their husbands had carefully omitted the ‘polite visit’ they would pay to the mayor of Moncaubet. Sleeping dogs are best let lie.
“We’ll buy cakes,” Uncle Émile suggested, “so if we’re a bit late, they’ll forgive us more easily.”
Judicious suggestion, especially if their courtesy visit took them on a detour to Mr. Murou’s cellar. What with the man’s hospitality and all.
After they left, I stood around a while with Uncle Michel who’d stayed behind to finish his job. Then I decided to go on a heroic bike ride (heroic because it was past eleven a.m. and the sun was at full pelt over the countryside). My heroism was driven by the hope that Valérie might condescend to come with me. She refused my invitation, however, arguing that her mother had taken one of her favorite bikes, the one with the comfortable saddle, and anyway she wanted to top up her tan with Auntie Agnès.
I set off like a beaten dog, tail between its legs (which, for a man, wasn’t anything unusual). Gloomily, I straddled the remaining bike (Auntie Cynthia had taken the most comfortable one, of course) and headed for the hiking trail I knew so well for having ridden it so many times this summer.
My frustration and anger finally lifted. Each turn of the pedal chased away my dismal thoughts, allowing my mind to wander freely amid the soothing scenery of trees and hedgerows.
Faithful to habit, I always avoided the sun, choosing only the shady side. I was cycling aimlessly, mulling over all the events of this incredible month of July, when I suddenly spotted a bike propped up against an oak tree, just next to a track leading into a grove. As I came nearer, I recognized the bike with the comfortable saddle; it was the one I’d been using, the one Aunt Cynthia had taken that morning. When I saw the gear lever, slightly twisted after my fall during the first and exquisite ride with Valérie, I was sure this was the same bike.
I stopped, looking around expecting to see Aunt Cynthia suddenly erupting out of the bushes shouting, “What the hell are you doing here? Can’t anyone have a pee in peace?”
Auntie wasn’t in the best of moods these days, and not just with her husband. I was about to set off again, already regretting having stopped when a sound caught my attention, a sort of whimper. I listened, alert. A few moments later, I heard another distinct cry.
There was no doubt about it. It was Auntie Cynthia. She must be in trouble.
A hundred thoughts crossed my mind; I couldn’t help thinking aloud, “Either she’s sprained her ankle on her way to finding a place to pee, or she’s been bitten by a snake, in which case, I’d better not approach; or maybe she’s been mugged.”
I looked around. No hope of any help.
“I’ll just go and get help straight away. She should be alright till I get back. Anyway, I’ve got razorblade love for that woman!”
Pleased with this idea, which seemed excellent, I was about to get on my bike, but my ‘razorblades’ were obviously not as sharp as all that; I found that I just couldn’t abandon her in her moment of need.
I put my bike down and, with cautious footing, crept stealthily towards the place Aunt Cynthia’s cries seemed to be coming from.
Silently, I slid through the branches of the young bushes and reached the edge of a clearing carpeted in a sea of high ferns. I shuddered at the thought of all the ticks teeming in this vegetation, greedily eyeing up my tender teenage skin for lunch. Yuk!
Another cry, louder this time, boosted my courage. I advanced more swiftly though the ferns, carefully pushing aside their long, supple stems to keep their abominable hosts away from me. I heard another shrill cry. My aunt was in agony. As I hunkered down, I perceived a confused shape through the shimmering curtain of ferns, which I carefully parted.
I approached some more, heart beating furiously, crouching tiger-low to keep out of sight. Then I realized the shape was in fact two people. Shock! Horror! Auntie Cynthia’s aggressor was still there finishing off his victim judging by her stifled cries. I was between the rock and the hard place. There was no time to lose. I had to save her. I had to do something, even risk my own life. I prayed that my sudden appearance would scare the mugger off. On the other hand, I could make a run for it now and go look for help. With a bit of luck they’d need more time to finish off my aunt before running after me. At least I would have done my duty. They couldn’t reproach me afterwards.
I parted another clump of ferns, ready to pounce on the aggressor, but the scene before me instantly and definitively dissuaded me from my heroic deed.
Well my friends, the scene before me was not a picture of innocence! Oh no! Imagine the shock I felt when I saw my aunt, naked on all fours, chaperoned by our notary, Maître Gérard Lafarge, mentioning no names, dressed in his birthday suit, stuck up against my aunt’s butt-cheeks in an explicit position. They were cheerfully ‘at it’ (shagging, if you prefer) in the midst of clothes flung hither and thither in the excitement of ardent passion.
Of course, I’d seen porn films on TV, but I must admit that seeing it enacted live, even as a spectator, was a lot more exciting. I was so ignorant then — I hadn’t even identified her cries as the sounds of coitus in progress — coitus masterfully carried out by the ‘Master’ himself, who was moving with limberness and drive behind his partner.
I decided to sit back in the protective thicket to observe the scene. I knew it was wrong of me, but the fright they’d given me with their noisy sexual pursuits called for recompense. I’ll never forget my aunt’s body; it was a perfect symphony of sensual and voluptuous curves. Not a bone protruding anywhere to break the harmony of her shapeliness. A sight for sore eyes!
You will understand that this sweet vision permanently influenced my taste in women thereafter. Don’t talk to me about those five foot nine models weighing a hundred and ten pounds; catwalk coat-hangers with their luxury textiles have always annoyed me to the highest degree. How dare they erect those diaphanous stick-insects as canons of beauty? Real women, stand up for yourselves! Flaunt your curves and show off your cellulite! But I digress.
As you can see, I was feasting my eyes on Aunt Cynthia as I contemplated her lovemaking. Her mouth open and eyes closed, she started to growl words I could never have imagined coming from her mouth, “Yes! Take me! Give it to me! Do it to me! Make me your thing!”
A vast program which ended with a strange, “Oh yes! Make me drool like a snail!”
The prissy bourgeoise was rolling in the dust and the dirt. Unbelievable. It was like seeing a cultural, political or a media celebrity, a glitzy Miss World beauty having a bout of bad constipation, straining on the john. Difficult to imagine, you would agree.
I felt a sudden surge of cold rage towards my aunt. Not only did she treat Uncle Gus like a dog, now she’d made him cuckold! When I thought about my uncle, I felt really bad about staying to watch his wife’s erotic high jinks, and decided to leave forthwith. I shook the branches as I left, hoping to disturb their shameful fornication. Not a bit! My aunt’s cries doubled in intensity.
“I can’t believe it”, I mumbled to myself as I picked up my bike. “She must be sexually frustrated to be making such a racket!”
Physically speaking, Uncle Gus was a very honest average. Or did he have erection problems? He wasn’t exactly a stud, but to think he may be impotent! The saying is true though, and all to the honor of my dear uncle: A beaten dog doesn’t wag its tail. What with the tyrannical character of his spouse…
I headed back to the house, a solitary, dumb witness (having decided to keep it to myself — there was enough tension in the family already) of ‘the birds and the bees’.
Lunch that day was one of the nicest we’d had these last few days because everyone was in a good mood. The women were happy because the men had done the shopping and returned with delicious strawberry tarts for dessert, and the men were happy because they had been to Pau to hire a metal detector from a specialist trader. They (predictably) arrived late for lunch waving the machine in front of the astonished noses of the women as a reason for their lateness. Of course, it wasn’t the real reason, which was the visit to Mr. Murou. This time, however, they were careful not to ‘outstay’ his hospitality.
The chief engineer (my father), explained how to use the detector and showed us what it could do. From a distance it looked like another brushcutter. This electronic box with two buttons and a sound signal would find any metal buried up to a maximum depth of twelve inches.
It was possible to select its ‘discrimination’ feature, thus bypassing uninteresting metals like iron or aluminum, detecting only noble metals like silver and gold. The box where the sound signal came from when it detected an object was attached to a long stem topped by a detection head which looked remarkably like a satellite dish. My father had explained that this head was waterproof and could even be used under water. That’s what I call progress.
The engineer finished his technical presentation and suggested that the women hide a coin somewhere around the doorway. Caroline obviously wanted to be the one to hide the franc taken from Uncle Michel’s pocket. Swinging the device from left to right (another reminder of the earlier brushcutting days), it took less than two minutes for my father to find it under the admiring gaze of the family. Technology had come to our aid and revived our hope.
Smug, Uncle Émile said, handling the detector, “If we don’t find anything with this baby, then we’ll never find anything!”
“Well said,” agreed my dad as he sat down to lunch, all appetites now fueled. “We can spend the afternoon reading the instruction manual and testing it out. Volunteers can hide different metal objects in the garden, and we’ll practice finding them, then…”
Auntie Cynthia’s arrival in the kitchen interrupted his flow, “Sorry I’m so late, but I wanted to take a shower before eating,” she said as she joined us. “There’s nothing like physical exercise for feeling good.”
What a cheek! I noticed her short, flimsy dress, its thin straps and generously plunging neckline enhancing her not less generous breasts (which I been able to verify earlier). My aunt’s skirts had gotten shorter and shorter over the weeks. Of course, the kind of sport she practiced didn’t require much clothing. Every sport has its specific demands.
“I saw you doing something in the garden,” she went on. “Are you making any headway?”
“I don’t know if we’re making headway or not, but now that we’ve got this metal detector, things are looking up. Ain’t that true, guys?” he asked his brothers.
The ‘guys’ jointly approved, except for Uncle Michel who was being a party-pooper, “I’m just wondering if we’re not getting slightly dispersed. We’d do better to finish working on the house. And I don’t think this device, as efficient as it may be, will be able to detect a jewel of that size. I’m wary of technology.”
“You always have to criticize progress!” grumbled Uncle Émile. “The turquoise is set in metal; you saw it on the photo, didn’t you? Whatever type of metal it is, it only takes a few grams of it for the detector to find it!”
“Yeah. Maybe,” mumbled Uncle Michel. “In the meantime, it upsets our plans, and what about the ladder I repaired for nothing?”
“You two should stop getting at each other,” intervened Uncle Gus the diplomat. “Anyway, we’ve only got one detector, and we can’t all use it so I don’t mind exploring the attic with your ladder,” he added, addressing Uncle Michel. “With anyone else who cares to help me.”
“I’m game!” I piped up enthusiastically.
So it was settled. We gobbled up our lunch and got to work. As we were leaving the table, my father, catering to everyone’s susceptibilities, suggested that Uncle Émile operate the metal detector while Uncle Michel guide him. My father would do the menial work, digging the earth with a pick-axe as soon as an object was detected by the beep. His proposal won everyone’s favor. Surprising as it may seem, the men volunteered to do the washing up to give their wives time, and above all Caroline who was kicking around impatiently, to bury two dozen coins around the property. Our mission confined us to the house, so Uncle Gus and I were exempt from this task.
I congratulated myself for the initiative I’d just taken. While my uncle got the ladder, wedging it against the wall near the trap door to the attic, I gathered a few scraps to leave by the linden tree as an offering to Joyeux. I couldn’t see him hidden in the trees. Since his misadventure with the Toad, he’d become more difficult to approach, but I knew he’d be watching me and that he’d help himself as soon as I left. I gave him a friendly greeting before going back to join Uncle Gus.
Uncle Gus had just finished placing the ladder in such a way that we could lift the trap while leaning against the wall.
“Right,” he puffed, seeing me arrive. “I think it’s good. Michel did a fine job. Seems stable enough.”
He looked up at the trap and frowned, “I hope it isn’t stuck. Let’s see.”
He carefully climbed the ladder and inspected the wooden panel that barred the passage. Surprisingly, with no effort at all, he was able to open it and place it to one side.
“No problem,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll go first and then you come up and join me.”
He climbed a few more rungs, slid his arms and torso through the opening, and vigorously hoisted himself up into the attic. His legs disappeared, swallowed up by the dark mouth that opened above me. I heard him taking a few steps on the floor which creaked, then he came back to the opening and I saw his head like a ghostly apparition outlined in the darkness.
“OK. You can come up now!” he said. “Apart from dust, spider’s webs and a big trunk, there’s nothing interesting. Come up anyway. We might find something here.”
“Do we need torches?” I asked (concerned about the spiders).
“No need,” he replied. “The dormer windows give enough light. You’re not afraid, are you?”
I heartily reassured him. Uncle Gus did ask the silliest questions!
And indeed, the only thing in the attic was a wooden chest, presiding in the middle. All around the chest floated the dusty lace of spider’s webs sheltering their owners in their intimate folds, immobile in a deceptive sleep. We approached the trunk, taking care not to get caught in the silky nets suspended by these devious, hairy guardians, and then we knelt down to inspect the lock.
“Perfect,” declared Uncle Gus, after a moment’s silence, “there’s no key.”
“Great!” I exclaimed, “I don’t know why, but something tells me that we have a chance of finding the stone in there! This lonesome trunk, sitting right in the middle of the attic seems encouraging, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t want to disappoint you,” replied my uncle, “but it’s been years since someone touched this trunk. Look!”
He passed his fingers along the surface of the trunk and held them up, dust-tipped.
“I suppose you’re right,” I sighed. “But we might as well have a look now that we’re here.”
My uncle took the lid and tried to open it. It didn’t budge an inch. Then he tried with both hands and pulled with all his might until the lid suddenly opened with a sound of rusty hinges. My father or Uncle Émile would have opened the trunk by snapping their fingers. Still, the result was the same.
Uncle Gus blew on his painful palms, “Ouch, almost took my skin off!”
“Well done, Uncle! You’re the strongest!” I exclaimed.
I didn’t actually think so, but his effort deserved a reward. A dusty old blanket lay on top. My uncle carefully removed it to avoid spreading dust or disturbing any rats, mice or various other insects and undesirables. He placed the blanket on the floor, and inside we discovered a pile of jumbled miscellany of magazines, newspapers, yellowed photos, a lot of sensational issues of a detective periodical (maybe they were Aunt Lucie’s inspiration for revenge), and yet more people magazines showing the world’s aristocracy.
This aristocratic gratin always likes to parade itself like crowned head reality shows for plebeians — a population avid to read about the fashionable world and its marriages, engagements, separations (divorce being a rare event among those upper classes), newborns’ nappy rash, the ailing elderly (ailing but always dignified in their trials) and deaths (so much awaited by their impatient readership).
I began emptying the trunk, making piles of newspapers and magazines on the floor while Uncle Gus gathered up the loose photos. I saw pictures of the house taken during its golden days (golden days is maybe going a bit too far); anyway, the photos were taken when the house was still looking respectable. Maïté was in quite few of them, standing near the front door, in the kitchen preparing food, standing in the middle of poultry near the pen, sitting with Joyeux on her lap (obviously before making him a castrato) and, in one photo, you can even see her with the Toad himself having a drink at the kitchen table. Underneath a newspaper, we found a series of photos of Joyeux identical to the framed photos that stood on the sideboard in the kitchen, the ones we threw into the garbage the day we arrived; we even found the camera that had taken the same pictures. It was an old 126 format instamatic Kodak, the kind with the cartridge you had to advance manually. By comparison the compact 24x36 purchased for less than three hundred francs for Caroline’s birthday was a technological monster (like my cousin).
Apart from one or two snaps of Gégène, the only other people in the photos were Maïté and the cat. Strangely enough, I didn’t see any photos of our aunt herself. Either she didn’t like her own image or she didn’t let Maïté use the camera (understandable knowing how meticulous Mademoiselle Passy-Coucet could be). Suddenly though, Uncle Gus was surprised to find a larger, tattered black and white photo.
“Oh my God, look!” gasped my uncle, handing it to me.
It was a picture of Uncle Michel’s house in Prats-de-Mollo in the Pyrénées Orientales. I recognized my father and his three brothers, having already seen them in family albums. The picture showed them in their early teens, posing in front of the terrace next to a beautiful young woman with a stern face. Tall, brown-haired and very slim, she was standing in front of the boys with her arms crossed, looking earnestly at the photographer. She seemed like a woman who could look you straight in the eye.
“That was Auntie Lucie,” said Uncle Gus.
“She was so beautiful!” I exclaimed, astounded.
I really was astounded because, how otherwise could I have recognized in this svelte, wild-eyed woman, the granny with the chubby, good-natured cheeks I’d seen at the notary’s? This young person was more like the Auntie Lucie I’d imagined.
“Oh yes. She was beautiful,” my uncle agreed, nodding. “I’d forgotten just how beautiful she was. She was proud and inflexible. It feels I’m seeing her all over again. I’d forgotten about the time this photo was taken; it must have been just before she left the house. She must have been getting on for thirty. My brothers and I saw her as an adult, or worse, as an old spinster. When I see her now, she looks so young and fresh.”
“An old spinster?” I cried. “You can’t be serious! You just said she wasn’t even thirty!”
“I know,” he sighed, “but in those days, not many young women of thirty weren’t yet married. She was the ‘old girl’ of the house.”
“Strange that she never married,” I said, carefully observing the photo of Aunt Lucie. “She must have had quite a few admirers.”
“She was also quite a character!” replied my uncle, smiling. “You’ve kind of seen for yourself, haven’t you? Her frankness and independence made her suitors flee. I must say she was quite stubborn by nature (a family trait no doubt, I thought). Woe betided anyone who contradicted her.”
I was eager to know more about this strong woman, still the talk of the town after her death, “How did she treat you? Was she nice? Bossy? Did you like her? Go on, tell me more about her,” I pleaded, impatient. “How come she was living with her brother then, your father?”
“Like I said, she wasn’t married so, naturally, she lived in the family house. At that time, it wasn’t yet her brother’s house; it still belonged to her parents. It was when our father inherited all the land through birthright that our aunt, who didn’t accept the arrangement, left the property and never came back. In over forty years she never accepted it. You saw the letter she left with the notary. You can see her point.”
“But to answer your first question, I can assure you that she was adorable with us, much more obliging than with the rest of her family. Of course, it was best not to push her buttons because otherwise we’d see the back of her hand pretty quickly. The first memory I have of her,” he added, now smiling, “is the delicious, melt-in-the-mouth pancakes she made every Sunday. We devoured them after Sunday mass. Of course, (he laughed) she refused point blank ‘to go and stick out her tongue out to the priest!’ causing quite a scandal at that time in the country! A woman who refused to go to mass and who mocked the religious institutions openly like that! It was one of the conflicts between her and our father who was strict about a lot of things. For him, a woman had to stay in her place and hold her tongue and that was that. So you see? With Aunt Lucie, things were pretty tense. Poor Auntie. I don’t think anyone ever really understood her. We were all too young and too removed to understand her concerns and her misery.”
We suddenly heard cries of joy from my own personal ‘misery’. She must have been applauding the men’s exploits, now masters in the art of metal detection.
“OK. We’ll finish up here,” said my uncle pointing to the remaining newspapers in the trunk, “and then let’s put everything back and go join the others.”
He carefully set aside the photo of Auntie Lucie on the floor.
“Are you going to keep it?” I asked.
“Yes. It’ll be a souvenir and something to bring back home,” he replied forcing a smile. “Nostalgia, what would we do without you? I tell you Jo, nostalgia is one of the subtlest emotions; it vacillates between laughter and tears, between hot and cold.”
He fell silent, his eyes distant, his thoughts suspended.
“Oh Uncle,” I said with admiration, “if only you knew how much I enjoy listening to you. You’re a genuine philosopher!”
“Thanks, Jo,” he replied with a laugh, “but the words that come out of my mouth are only as beautiful as the ears that hear them.”
We chatted away and joked as we continued emptying the trunk.
“You know, Jo,” declared my uncle, “there’s nothing like a few photos to make you realize the long and tragic cancer of old age. Chateaubriand said, ‘Old age is a shipwreck’. I totally agree, but I would add that some passengers have a lifebuoy. It doesn’t stop them from drowning, because it always gets deflated in the end, but at least it softens the blow when you’re in the water.”
“A lifebuoy? What lifebuoy?” I asked.
“Love, money, good health. What’s for sure is that nobody asked to get into the boat or to take the cruise in the first place. Sometimes we travel in first class, but more often we travel in third. We experience storms or we sail on a calm sea. And then one day, we’re thrown overboard, and realize we missed the journey, the purpose and the destination. And there’s no way of getting it back. The great Shipbuilder, whatever his real name is, doesn’t provide after sales service.”
“What do you think, Jo?” he asked, considering me now, gravely.
“Oh, there are always complications with after sales!” I replied, lacking imagination.
Anyway, no-one came up to par with my uncle in dialectics. Uncle Gus really blew me away!