‘Salut Marisa! Are you doing anything zis afternoon?’ asked Thibault, the moment I opened the front door, before grabbing me for the customary double-cheek kiss.
‘I don’t think so Thibault. Did you have something particular in mind?’ I asked, eager to see what this flirtatious Frenchman had in store, as I led him into the dining room.
‘Ah! Salut Jean,’ he said, grabbing at Jean’s hand. ‘I was just about to tell Marisa, zere’s zis great place in a tiny village, about an hour’s drive from here. I waz planning on taking a ride up zere wiz a couple of friends and I’d really like you to come.’
‘What’s so special about this place?’ Jean asked.
‘Bien … well … it’s like travelling back in time. Zere’s a café zere owned by an incredibly eccentric man called Fernand. Believe me, it’s worth ze trip just to meet him. He’s a legend throughout the entire Limousin.’
‘If you say so, Thibault. We’d love to go, wouldn’t we Jean?’
‘Oui … yes, of course. Anything for a laugh and a bit of fresh air.’
‘Great! Zen we will meet chez “Lacoste” at two, and go from zere, okay?’
‘Okay! A deux heures.’
Thibault departed in his usual energetic fashion, leaving Jean and I slightly perplexed. How could a café in a tiny village, lost on the Plateau de Millevaches* (Plateau of One Thousand Springs), be of so much interest? We knew Thibault loved pulling stunts and feared this afternoon could well be one of his spectacular, practical jokes in the making.
‘Do you think Thibault was having us on?’
‘How should I know?’ replied Jean, shrugging his shoulders. ‘He always seems to be up to something, but look … we have nothing else planned this afternoon, so even if it’s a joke, we have nothing to lose but a few hours. A change of scenery will do us good and the MG could do with an airing. Let’s just go.’
‘Okay.’
An hour later, we made our way to Lacoste’s, the local riverside café, rugged up and ready for our mountain adventure.
‘Salut!’ cried Gilberto, a happy-go-lucky Nigerian boy who had been raised in the village at the Centre Claude Pompidou and was now one of Thibault’s regular playmates. He was as black as coal and his generous smile shone with a quasi-phosphorescent glow.
‘Salut Gilberto! Ca va?’ we replied in unison, leaning from the doors of our shiny, red MG.
‘Extra. (Fantastic)’ he replied, whilst shaking Jean’s hand and bending to kiss me on both cheeks. ‘Alors … we are off to see ze famous Fernand and you have let out your little, red beast for zis special occasion.’
‘We sure have,’ I replied, patting her gleaming paintwork affectionately… By the way Gilberto, have you ever met this famous Fernand?
‘Non … but I can’t wait. He iz a legend around here and Thibault has told me so many funny stories about him.’
‘Okay … are we all ready?’ called Thibault, leaning from the window of his sporty, black Renault as he pulled along side.
‘Allez … let’s go,’ shouted Gilberto, as he sprinted towards his vehicle. ‘See you zere Marisa.’
‘Bien,’ called Thibault. ‘Let’s get ze show on ze road, as you people say.’
As our modern day cavalcade departed, one shiny sports car after another, our friend Pierre Lacoste, stood twisting his luxurious moustache between his thick fingers, a knowing smirk hovering above his stubbly chin. Following Thibault through the mountain roads, proved more difficult than we had anticipated. He drove like a maniac. No, I’m serious this time … the French have a reputation for driving well beyond any allocated speed limit, but Thibault drove like he was playing Russian roulette … for keeps.
‘My God, Jean … we’ll never keep up at this rate. Is he insane?’
‘Non, Chérie … he is just so used to the roads. He’s been driving on them all his life. He’s a great driver actually.’
‘You would say that … you men are all the same … how could you possibly say he is safe, when is driving up the middle of the road like that? Now look … he’s waving to all the passing cars as if he knows them all.’
‘He probably does,’ Jean chuckled. ‘Remember this is Corrèze; the population here, isn’t that big.’
‘True. Though I can hardly believe he knows everyone. Look at him waving like a raving lunatic,’ I smiled, shaking my head.
We passed through hamlets and lieu dit of such miniscule proportions, you could barely imagine the presence of modern day man surviving in such places. The odd waft of smoke rising from a crumpled granite chimneystack seemed to be the only visible sign of human existence.
‘Can you believe people still live out here? This is what I call the quiet life.’
‘You can say that again … and they are probably living in exactly the same way that their ancestors did. I bet some of these houses don’t even have electricity. You know, I’ve heard stories of people living out here who don’t even realise that World War 2 is over or that we won.’
‘Unbelievable. In such a technologically advanced country, you’d never suspect it.’
As Thibault continued on his merry, albeit homicidal way, Jean and I did all we could to keep up, while still enjoying the magical scenery. We had never travelled on such remote roads in France and the journey was proving visually unforgettable. These were ‘wild boar’-filled hills, rugged untouched slopes where ancient, pristine forest engulfed remote outposts of humanity.
After we had passed an innocuous sign for Faux la Montagne our vehicular parade came to a grinding halt. This town wasn’t sleeping: it was comatose.
We slipped from our vehicles, keen to rendezvous with Thibault for an update on our expedition.
‘Is this it?’ I queried, seriously doubting the existence of a functioning café in such a dull and dingy village.
‘Zis iz it!’ he exclaimed joyously. ‘Izn’t it wonderful?’
‘It’s probably the most morose place I’ve ever been to,’ I answered, sending Thibault and the others into fits of laughter. ‘I was right. This is a joke!’
‘A joke? Not at all Marisa. Zis is a great place. Almost heritage listed. Just wait and see.’
‘You’re having us on, Thibault … for once I agree with Marisa,’ added Jean.
‘Have faith, mes amis (my friends). I promise you, this will be a day to remember.’
We all looked at each other in disbelief. Thibault, however, smiled broadly, melting the pessimist within me and sending me into a fit of giggles.
‘You’re a conundrum, Thibault! Okay, bring on the famous Fernand … that was the purpose of our journey, wasn’t it?’
‘Bien sûr. (Of course) Look … ze café is just over zere,’ he said, pointing towards the dirty, derelict façade of a 19th century dwelling. If he hadn’t pointed it out as our final destination, I would have rightfully mistaken it as a condemned building. Its woeful remains sung of prior beauty but its current state reeked of abandon and neglect.
‘That’s it? That’s what we’ve come all this way to see?’
‘Eh…Oui! C’est super, nest-ce pas? (Oh…yes! It’s great isn’t it?)’
‘Super! You are pulling my leg?’ I cried.
‘Marisa … I never touched you. I did not pull your leg,’ Thibault replied aghast.
‘Sorry Thibault … it’s just a term of speech … I meant that you were really and truly joking this time.’
‘Mais non … I don’t joke!’, he replied miffed.
‘Okay… so this is it,’ Jean replied, ‘so what’s next?’
‘Ah ha! That’s the good part … follow me,’ he replied grinning, as he strode towards the filthy front entrance of the now, obviously condemnable building.
It was difficult to see through the tea coloured windowpanes, as they were taped up with mould-eaten newspapers. Thibault struggled to open the entrance door with its rusty, antique handle. It eventually gave way with an atrocious creak and grind. The stained, linoleum floors were sticky underfoot, covered with a thick blanket of food crumbs and age-old grime. There was that putrid stench of imbedded tobacco fumes mixed with the smell of stale beer and acrid, spilt wine.
‘C’est dégueulasse. (This place is disgusting),’ I whispered, unsure of whom might be lurking in the corners. ‘The health inspector hasn’t been in here for a while.’
‘It’s original … to say the least,’ replied Jean, holding me firmly by the hand.
‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone in … perhaps we should leave,’ I suggested, turning to Thibault.
‘Oh, don’t worry … he won’t be far. He’s probably asleep or in ze bathroom.’
‘Bathroom? Yuk! … I hate to think what might be lurking in there. Remind me not to go,’ I giggled, winking at Jean.
‘Regardez,’ pointed Thibault, ‘take a good look around you.’
Realising we were quite alone and free to wander at no risk, we began to take in our lugubrious surroundings with a burgeoning interest. In every fathomable spare inch of floor space, were pile upon pile of yellowed, rotting newspapers.
‘I bet you’ll find some interesting reading in zose,’ Gilberto laughed. ‘Look zis one dates to 1954.’
Everything was soiled. No cloth or detergent of any description had touched these surfaces in decades. It was, in effect, a time capsule of sorts, though not a very alluring one.
‘Take a look at zis,’ called Thibault from the adjoining room.
‘What? Why does he have two televisions, one on top of the other?’
‘Zat’s a good question Marisa, but the answer is simple. Many years ago, his first television lost its sound, so eventually he had to buy a second one. Zat one eventually burnt its tube, so it lost its picture. Consequently, by putting one on top of ze other, he has both picture and sound. Perfect, non?’
‘My God…that’s incredible.’
‘I told you he was a character.’
‘Alors les jeunes … vous allez bien?’ (So young ones … how’s it going?)’ came a husky, sallow voice from behind the bar.
‘Mon dieu! (My God!) You nearly scared us half to death. Salut ‘Fernand. Ca va?’ replied a startled but jubilant Thibault.
We all turned to gaze upon the legendary Fernand of Faux La Montagne. Unfortunately, I have to report that he was almost as soiled as his café and he reeked of alcohol and Gitanes. Apart from that, he was remarkably bright eyed and surprisingly articulate. I began to understand what Thibault was taking about. This man was a story, waiting to be told.
‘Vous voulez boire quelques chose? (Would you like something to drink?)’ he asked, nodding his head in our general direction.
‘D’accord … okay … Une bierre pour moi (A beer for me) … Marisa what would you like to drink? I would suggest something simple, if you know what I mean?’ Thibault said.
‘Bien sûr, un vin rouge, s’il vous plait. (A red wine, please)’
‘Moi pareil. (The same for me)’ added Jean.
‘Bierre, pour moi… et moi aussi,’ the others chimed.
Having all ordered wine or beer, as that seemed the easiest thing to do; we awaited Gilberto, who hadn’t quite decided, considering he didn’t usually drink alcohol.
‘Gilberto, what are you going to drink?’ I asked.
‘Un Orangina* Merci.’
‘Orangina … orangina? Ah Oui, I zink I remember what zat is. I’ll have to look in ze cellar.’ And with that, Fernand disappeared into the musty depths of his underground cellar.
‘You should have asked for somezing else, Gilberto … Putaing de Merde … he’ll never find an orangina down zere,’ said Thibault, stifling a laugh, ‘and if he does, it won’t be fit for human consumption.’
‘Merde! I never thought of zat. What will I do?’ cried Gilberto.
‘Just wait and see.’
Fernand was gone at least ten minutes and having decided that he had probably passed out, we were about to venture into the depths of the ‘cave’ ourselves, when we heard his raspy breath rise from the wooden steps.
‘O, putaing!’ he laughed, gasping for breath. ‘J’ai trouvé, mon dieu! I found one! (Oh, ****, I found one, good God!)’
We gasped in horror at the cloudy, yellow substance that filled the dusty, bulbous bottle, he held proudly before us. A thick, pulp-like substance sat at the bottle’s base, whilst the rest of the bottle was filled with some insipid, milky liquid.
‘I knew I had one somewhere,’ he announced triumphant.
‘It’s a strange colour, don’t you think?’ I questioned.
‘Non … non … il faut secouer. You must shake it,’ he insisted, handing the bottle to a horrified Gilberto.
‘It’s funny. I thought zey stopped making zem in zat shape bottle years ago,’ added Thibault.
‘Don’t drink it,’ I whispered in Gilberto’s ear, ‘it’s likely to poison you.’
‘Zey usually sell zem in cans zese days,’ Thibault added.
‘You’re right Thibault,’ replied a worried Gilberto, ‘I haven’t seen a glass bottle like zis in ages.’
‘How long has it been down zere Fernand?’
‘Bof. (Um … ) Let me zink … I remember ordering a case in about … let’s see… 19 … er … 68,’ he replied, letting out a gut-wrenching chuckle.
We all fell into hysterical fits of laughter. Gilberto breathed a heavy sigh of relief, realising he would live to see another day. Fernand’s broad hand slapped him with such force, that the slightly built Gilberto almost flew across the room.
‘You didn’t zink I would let you drink zat old Merde, did you?’
‘Well … I wasn’t sure …,’ mumbled a shell-shocked Gilberto.
‘Zat stuff will kill you for sure. Get some red wine into you, young man … it’s zee nectar of zee Gods.’
‘Cheers’ we all shouted, clinking our chipped and cracked glasses together. ‘A la votre! (To your health!)’
‘So, young Thibault, what brings you to zese parts?’ questioned Fernand.
‘I brought my new Australian friends here to meet you. Aren’t you impressed?’
‘Mon Dieu! L’Australie! Zat’s a long way to come, just to meet me!’
‘Non, Fernand … zey live in Treignac now … zey have ze Chambres D’Hôtes in Treignac, on the Place du Marché, opposite the church.’
‘Ah ha … c’est très bien. (That’s very good.) Cheers,’ he shouted again, and once more we clinked and swigged from our questionably clean glasses.
‘Anyway Fernand, where were you when we arrived? We didn’t see you as we came in.’
‘Behind ze bar,’ he replied nonplussed.
‘Behind ze bar? But I didn’t see you zere.’
‘Non…zat’s because I was asleep on ze floor.’
‘How come?’
‘Well … you see … Jean-Paul, Michel and I, had a razer heavy session last night …zey left early zis morning. I had to kick zem out in fact. I woke up at one stage during ze night and we were all huddled together in ze middle of ze room. Putaing! Zey’re a smelly lot,’ he laughed. ‘I couldn’t believe zat Michel was cuddling me like a baby, so I belted him, and set him scurrying. Zat’s ze last thing I remember, until you walked in. I heard voices, so I got up.’
We all stared at each other in bemused surprise.
‘C ‘est le Rhum, mon ami! C’est terrible! (It’s the rum, my friend. It’s terrible!)’
‘Eh, Oui … Rum can be fatal,’ laughed Thibault.
‘Bon… Je vous laisse … I’ll be off…to bed. Leave whenever you’re ready, just close ze door behind you.’
‘But Fernand, we haven’t paid yet.’
‘Pas de problème. No worries. Put whatever you zink on ze bar when you leave … I trust you … A la prochaine! Until next time!’
With his final goodbye, Fernand drifted into the back room behind a moth eaten, moss green curtain, leaving us to our own devices.
‘Didn’t I tell you, it would be worth ze trip?’ asked Thibault.
‘I’ll never doubt you again, I promise … cross my heart,’ I giggled.
Thibault threw a 100 Franc note on the crusty, linoleum bar as we left, ample payment for our beverages and the valued added entertainment that accompanied them.
We drifted aimlessly down the sinuous mountain roads towards Treignac, our contagious laughter clearly audible above the rumbling engine of our little red car. Thibault continued to salute happily at every passing vehicle, as we swerved our way through hairpin bends and over steep valley passes.
‘A day to remember?’ laughed Jean, winking at me.
‘Without a doubt,’ I replied, as the wind caught my scarf, sending it and my unbridled laughter, flapping wildly in the breeze.
Footnotes
* Millevaches – A word in the ancient Occitan language once spoken in the region. Vaches – the Occitan word for underground spring.
* Orangina – The trademark name of an orange based fizzy drink. It was based on a pure orange pulp and was sold in an orange-shaped glass bottle. The trick was to shake the bottle well, lifting the pulp from the bottom.