I ask the girl to explain what I said and to tell the notaire the money will arrive in a few days and we can meet then to sign the papers.
He shakes my hand and says, “Demain à deux heures.”
We’re doing it anyhow! At 12:00. Midi. Lunch time. I don’t get it. I ask the girl.
“Two o’clock,” she says. “Deux heures, deux heures, not douze heures.”
I’m in trouble. I studied numbers so I wouldn’t get cheated, and I can’t tell the difference between twelve and two. And that’s not the worst of it. Tomorrow I’m buying a house with less than $10,000 in the bank.
I race back to Chez Sally to call Gary. The same person who always answers answers, “Foreign Exchange.” I ask for Gary, and he says, “He’s not at his desk. Shall I take your number and have him call you back?” He says it as if he’s never spoken to me before. I hang up.
The next day at two o’clock Mom and I and Monsieur and Madame Nedelec and her mom arrive at the notaire’s office. I know why my mom is here—she bought the house—but why is Madame? Dueling moms? My mom can beat up yours? I size up the two moms. They’re both about five feet tall. Mine’s dressed for the theater: pearl necklace and earrings, silk scarf, fur hat, tailored wool slacks, and a long, stylish, below-the-knees, chocolate-brown down coat, making her look like a bear. Hers is dressed for church: elegant black wool coat, black wool skirt, black shoes, gold hoop earrings, her dark hair pulled tight in a bun; she’s thin, angular, birdlike. Looking at the two moms and thinking about where I am and what I’m doing, the church and the theater are perfect—and I wonder how they knew. Her mom says something in French to my mom, who responds, and the two moms begin chatting away, illustrating once again the universality of momness.
The notaire arrives, shakes everyone’s hand, and ushers us into a tiny, cramped, nothing-fancy, a-little-on-the-shabby-side office that says either he’s so strong and successful and important he doesn’t need any stinking accoutrements, or he’s a failure. He sits behind his desk like he knows what he’s doing. We sit in chairs facing him. I figure this is the time to tell them I don’t have any money. “I wired it weeks ago, but it’s not here now.”
Madame translates what I said to the notaire, or at least I think she does. “Bon,” he says.
Monsieur and Madame say “Bon.”
Her mother says “Bon.”
My mother says “Bon.”
All of them look content.
I can’t believe we’re going through with this. We’re going to sign papers, transfer the property, and sell the house—after I told them I have no money. It’s a way of doing business I know nothing about. Monsieur le Président is willing to lend me thousands of dollars not knowing if I have a job, income, or am crazy. Monsieur and Madame Nedelec are selling me their house knowing I have no money in the bank, and the notaire, an official of the state whose job is to make sure everything is on the up-and-up, approves. No wonder the Coneheads say they’re from France. My own bank, where I’ve banked for twenty years and bounced only one check, wouldn’t even meet with me when I told them I wanted a loan appointment to buy a house in France. The cashier at Safeway asks for my ID every time I cash a check, even though I’ve been cashing checks at her counter for twenty years.
The notaire stands and shakes everyone’s hand again, then sits and explains the process. Madame Nedelec translates. The notaire talks for ten minutes. Madame translates it into two sentences. “He’s done a title search and listed it, and no one has made a claim….”
“What does that mean?
“It means the house is mine to sell, and no relative has made a claim to it. My mother is here to verify that.” When she finishes, the notaire removes a twelve-page document from his briefcase and begins to read. After each paragraph, Madame Nedelec translates and summarizes, then she as the current owner, her mom as the previous owner, and I as the new owner write Lu et approuvé, read and approved, and initial each paragraph, with two out of three of us knowing what we’re doing. My mom just shakes her head. I know exactly what she’s thinking. My dad was a lawyer—a Philadelphia lawyer—we were all taught never, ever, under any circumstances, with the possible exception of a birthday card, to sign anything without having it vetted by someone, preferably a lawyer, but at least a professional, definitely a Jew. And here I am surrounded by Christians—Catholics—initialing a document I can’t read and don’t understand, in a language I’ll never master, the whole thing being explained and translated by the person I’m buying the house from. The only saving grace in this whole process is I don’t have the money, so what’s to lose?
When we finish, the notaire gives each of us copies of the papers. I sign a bunch more papers I don’t understand, don’t give them any money, and they give me the deed and the keys to the house, and somehow I feel taken. Monsieur Nedelec hands me another set of keys and says, “For the car.”
“What car?”
“Our car. We’re going to buy a new one. You can have our old one.” I’m dumbfounded. I thought I’d seen and heard everything, but I hadn’t. “Now we can tell you the story….”
Oh shit…I’m screwed.
“You know Kostez Gwer?”
“Yeah…. It’s the name of the area the house is in.”
“Do you know what it means?”
“No-o.”
“It’s Breton. Gwer means green. Kostez means side. You’re facing the green side of the hill, Monsieur Greenside.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
“We didn’t want to tell you before today because we didn’t want to influence your decision, but as soon as we heard your name we knew it was meant to be.” He and his wife are smiling. I don’t get it. I have their house and the keys to their car and they have nothing—and they’re as happy as anyone could be. I’m happy too, and that worries me more than anything.
Mom and I drive to the house, Kostez Gwer, Chez Greenside, and unlock the door. I am highly expectant. This is my first house, and the people I bought it from just gave me a car, yet part of me—which part? American, Jewish, male, son of a lawyer, New Yorker, I don’t know—still expects to be cheated, robbed, misused. I open the door with great trepidation, expecting the worst—to fail in front of Mom—and am greeted by shiny, spotless, gleaming floors. The tile is almost one hundred years old and looks like new. We walk through the house, Mom and I together, oohing and aahing: the wooden floors, including the stairs and the attic, have all been cleaned, waxed, and oiled. Later, when I do it myself, I realize what it means: sweeping, dusting, vacuuming, then getting on your knees with a pile of rags and a can of oil and rubbing every plank, every corner, foot, and square centimeter of a three-story house. Your back aches, knees, arms, chest. It’s painful, and the only way to do it. I didn’t know that then, when I first walked in, only that they took good care, were proud of their work and their house and everything was beautiful—and now and as long as I own the house, it is my job to do the same. Later, when I thank them for the care they took, their thoughtfulness, the car, everything, Monsieur shrugs, and says, “C’est normal.” Madame says, “C’est propre.”
I marvel. In spite of myself, they are going to bring out the best in me.
They leave a stove and refrigerator—both working, which I find out later is not common. Houses are usually bought and sold without appliances—only a sink and toilet. They also leave a polished oak parquet table with two leaves and four chairs, a set of dishes for eight—none chipped or cracked—silverware, pots, and a frying pan. A full, operating kitchen. They leave a double bed, mattress and box spring, and a walnut armoire in the bedroom. The attic is spotless. Even the stone shed is clean and organized, and the fuel tank has oil. I’m amazed. I walk through the house again and see all the overhead wiring has been completed and connected to overhead lights. I go outside to check, though I already know—the drainpipe, which had been separated from the spout, is back in place.
Clearly Monsieur and Madame love th
eir house and take their duty and responsibility as homeowners and Bretons seriously. What passes between us is a trust, personal and cultural, which I try to acknowledge, honor, and hope I do not betray.
Everyone I know in the U.S. owns a house, but not one of them, from my parents’ generation to my nephews and nieces, has any kind of relationship, except maybe for a while litigation, with the previous owners. Except me. Monsieur and Madame Nedelec have become some of my closest friends in Brittany. Indeed, in my life.
Three days later my money arrives. I know this because Madame P tells me. She knows because the boy at the bank calls her, giving her the job of explaining it to me. So much for confidentiality. That afternoon I go to the bank.
“Bonjour,” I say, putting out my hand to shake, showing I’m a local who knows the rules.
“Bonjour,” the girl says, and gives me a piece of paper to sign, which I do, as usual, not knowing what I’m doing. Then she gives me a new checkbook. I stand there, dumbfounded. I’m supposed to pay the notaire to close the deal, but I don’t know how to write the check, what goes where, where to sign it, date it, write the sum, not that I could write it anyhow. I turn the checkbook around and ask her to write it for me. I feel like a grammar-school kid opening my first bank account. She fills it out and tells me where to sign. I thank her and walk across the street and hand the check to the notaire—and that’s that. I own a house and car in France.
II
The Oil Guys
Mom returns to New York soon after the closing, and I stay at Chez Sally to work on the house—moving the furniture Monsieur and Madame Nedelec left, then putting it back where they had it; painting walls that are so damp I have to repaint them in the summer. I leave at the end of February, exhausted, happy, and fulfilled, and return in June ready to begin my life as a propriétaire on my own little pied-à-terre. I feel baronial on the flight to Paris and the trains to Brest and Loscoat, and it lasts all the way to the house, when I open the door and realize there’s no one here but me, and I have to do everything, and there’s nothing I know how to do, starting with the purchase of heating oil.
The water for the house—nine radiators, three sinks, bathtub, and shower—is heated by a huge red rectangular box that looks like a fire engine standing upright. Turning the thing on scares the hell out of me. It sounds like a jet being ignited for take-off. Each time, I expect the worst, just as I do every time I fly: I know there will be a disaster, and each time it doesn’t happen doesn’t make me safer but brings me closer to the time it will. Each time I go into the stone shed, hold my breath, and push the start button I think: This time. The heater runs on oil that is housed in a 1,000-liter tank behind the shed. This is what’s on my mind because Monsieur and Madame made it very clear I should never, ever allow the fuel to fall below a certain level (Or what? What!), and it was just above that level when I left in February. I find the fuel guy’s business card among the cards Monsieur and Madame left for me. He’s the same person they used. He knows the house, the heater, the tank, the whole routine—what’s to worry? With confidence and two months of the Alliance Française, I pick up the phone and dial. “Bon-jour,” I sing.
He answers, “Allo.”
“Je suis l’American”—I’m the only one in the village—“le nouveau propriétaire chez Kostez Gwer.”
“Oui.”
That’s it? Oui. Shit. He’s waiting for me to say more. He’s the fuel guy. Why else would I be calling? How am I supposed to know his office is in his home, as is nearly everyone else’s, and no one pays for two phone lines, one for the business, one for home, so anyone could be calling for anything—and no one but a very good friend or an idiot would call during lunch? I finally manage to convey that I’m calling for fuel by repeatedly yelling, “Fuel, fuel, fuel,” into the phone. It’s my first business encounter on the phone, and I’m proud of myself. His English is good enough to say “Tomorrow.” My French is good enough to understand “matin,” morning. And sure enough, always a miracle to me and a crapshoot, he arrives the next morning in a huge tanker truck. I watch from the second-floor study window as a burly, balding, middle-aged man in spotless, pressed-with-a-crease, royal blue overalls slowly uncoils the hose and drags it, resisting as if it’s alive and knows better, to the shed. Five minutes later he’s knocking on my door.
That’s fast, I think, but this is France, and what do I know? I open the door and he shakes my hand and immediately starts talking. He’s calm, but I can see he’s concerned. He doesn’t begin with “Bonjour,” so I know he’s serious. What I don’t know is what he is serious about. I nod, shrug, intermittently say, “Bon…Bon…Oui…Ah oui…” I know what he’s telling me is important and I need to understand him, but I also know only a moron would be standing in his own doorway, in his house in France, discussing his heater with a French man, in French, and not speak the language. This is my first summer on my own, when I still think the worst thing I can be is a fool. I haven’t yet realized that, given the circumstances, it’s all I can be. But empirical knowledge is hard to deny, and day after year has confirmed it, so today I accept my basic fool-ness: Hi. I’m Mark, and I’m a fool. Je suis un fou—a truly humbling and humanizing experience for a middle-aged, moderately successful take-charge kind of guy. Type double-A American.
Meanwhile, I’m “bon, bonne-ing,” and “ah oui-ing,” trying to bluff my way through, preferring to have the house blow up than be a jerk. Finally, out of frustration or hopelessness or the desire to return to his life or his next appointment or lunch, he takes my hand and leads me like a three-year-old out the door, around the house, behind the shed. In the U.S., if this big, strong, bald man-of-a-man grabbed my hand, I would have hit him or run away. In France, I follow. He points at the tank, and says, “Voilà!”
“Oui,” I say, like yes, that’s the tank, or yes, that’s where the oil goes, or yes sir, fill ’er up. He keeps chatting, louder and faster, and pointing. I keep nodding and saying, “Oui.” He looks at me incredulously—in a way no one in the politically correct Bay Area would dare to—then leads me to the tank, kneels down, rubs his hand underneath it, and shows me the rust. Then he runs his finger across his neck and says, “Kaput,” either figuring he’d have better luck with German or confirming German as the universal language for death. Either way, my tank is dead.
Through elaborate hand motions, along with spreading his arms, making bursting, exploding gestures and sounds, then stooping down and running all over the grass, he explains the tank will burst if he fills it, and a thousand liters of oil will cover everything. I get it: the tank has to be replaced. I point to him, full of hope and ask, “Vous?”
“Non.”
“Qui?”
He shrugs, then takes me by the hand and leads me inside the shed. There, on the fire engine–red heater, is a sticker with the name of a business in a neighboring town.
“Oui?” I say.
He shrugs, shakes my hand, and leaves. “Bonne chance,” he calls as he drives away, a free and happy man.
In the U.S., my next call would be to a lawyer. The people I bought the house from had lied. They knew about it and misled me. But even to me, the son of a lawyer, it’s obvious that’s not the case. Monsieur and Madame did everything, went above and beyond, waxed the floors and stairs, installed overhead lighting because I mentioned I preferred it, gave me a car, left me dishes, silverware, a bed, armoire, tables, chairs, cleaned the septic tank, none of which was called for or required, so why would they cheat me over an oil tank? Not only do I not call a lawyer—I don’t call them. To this day, they do not know about the tank, because I know if they knew they’d feel bad, and I don’t want them to feel that way at all. I don’t want these people, my new friends, to think I’m a burden and they need to take care of me, watch over me, light candles, and make offerings to Saint Rita. So, with less confidence than before, I call the number on the sticker on the heater and open with the one sentence in French I think I say perfectly, “Parlez vous d’angla
is?”
“Oui.”
“Really?”
“Yes. A little.”
Merde. I know what that means. I probably just heard ninety percent of his vocabulary. Still, there’s nothing else for me to do but talk on. I explain about the oil guy, the tank, the kind of tank—metal—the size, location, and ask him if he does such work.
“Yes. Of course.” Then he explains the work. First, it is necessary to drain the old tank and make sure it is clean and empty. Otherwise, when it is removed it will leak and create a mess. That’s the hardest part. Very difficult. When it’s done, a new tank must replace it.
“The price?”
“Twenty-five thousand francs.” About $4,000.
“How long will it take?”
“One day.”
“When can you do it?”
“Next week. Friday.”
“Bon,” I say, though $4,000 is a lot for me.
“Bon,” he says, “Vendredi matin. Friday morning.”
“Oui.” Aside from being out $4,000 I hadn’t expected to spend, I’m pretty happy. I did the whole deal by myself.
In the afternoon, I tell Madame P, and she goes nuts. She points her index finger to her temple and makes a rapid circular motion. “Pourquoi, pourquoi?” Why didn’t I call her, she demands, and she tells me she knows a man—un spécialiste, un artisan—who would do the work better and for less, “moins cher, moins cher.” She says the word “artisan” as if it is mythical and the phrase “moins cher” like a mantra, which I’ve come to learn it is, like solde, sale. I say I’m sorry—“Je suis désolé, je suis désolé,” and I am, but it’s over, done, “C’est fini.” And to make sure she gets it, I explain it to her son Philippe, who’s visiting from Cherbourg and fluent in English.
I'll Never Be French (no matter what I do) Page 11