“A deal is a deal,” I tell him. “I told the man ‘Yes,’ in English.” I explain how everyone in France, Brittany, Finistère, Plobien has been straight with me, fair and honest, and I intend to be that way in return. Madame listens as Philippe translates what I said and goes nuts again. She starts to mock me, a side of her I haven’t seen before. She rubs her index finger and thumb together in the universal gesture of money and calls me a fool—“fou, riche Américain, méchant,” crazy, mad. My decision clearly offends her. It isn’t until much later that I realize she feels responsible for me and that this decision and the way I’m responding tell her I need more help than even she suspected. I’m almost fifty years old and haven’t taken a berating like this in forty years. I return home exhausted.
The following day, at noon, midi, when no self-respecting French person does anything except eat, there’s a knock on my door. I open it, thinking it’s Madame still on the war-path. Facing me is a short, bulky fellow in grease-stained blue worker’s overalls, sweating profusely and wiping his nose. I don’t know who he is, but I find his appearance assuring and unsettling: assuring because he looks like a real worker, unsettling because I’ve never seen a worker like him in France. All the French workers I’ve seen, no matter what their job, look like surgeons. He shakes my hand and immediately begins talking.
The only words I understand are “Madame P.” I have no idea what she’s done or said, but this guy is clearly here for something. I wait for him to finish and stand there frozen, mute. I haven’t a clue. Then, like everyone else, he takes my hand and leads me out the door, around the house, behind the shed, to the oil tank. Ah, he’s Madame’s friend, l’artisan, who will do the work better and for less. I’m furious. She’s cunning, sending him here at midi, when she knows I’ll be home and don’t have the vocabulary to send him away.
He removes a tape measure from his pocket and measures the door of the shed. He goes into the shed and measures some more. He comes out and measures the doorway again, as if while he was inside it magically changed its height or width. He measures everywhere and writes nothing down, so he has to measure it again. I watch him, amazed. He reminds me of one of the seven dwarfs, and I hope it isn’t Dopey. I’m sure this is going to be a disaster.
He finally leaves, and as if on cue, Madame P arrives, all smiley and happy with her good deed, which lasts as long as it takes me to explain again that I’ve already agreed to let the other guy do it. And now, after having met Monsieur l’Artisan, I’m even more convinced my decision is right. But she isn’t. She calls me “un riche Américain, un fou, méchant,” and makes the crazy sign with her finger again, only this time spinning with both hands. Now what? If I don’t choose her guy, she’s going to be disappointed and hound me to death, maybe even leave me to fend for myself. If I do choose her guy, I’m going to break my word to the other guy, as well as the pledge I made to myself, and hire a guy who could be Dopey, and wind up having to pay the first guy to do all the work Dopey didn’t do right.
Madame leaves, and Monsieur l’Artisan returns. Clearly, my life is a farce. He walks to the shed, measures everything again to be sure nothing’s changed, and hands me a sheet of paper. I look at it. It’s a devis, a binding estimate, an assumption I’m considering him for the work. I’m about to hand it back to him when I see the price, 3,000 francs, $500, which confirms (1) he’s a crank and (2) his work is worthless—or (3) Madame is right. I now have a dilemma, which is becoming my common experience in France, pitting core belief against core belief. On one side, there’s a deal, and I’m always searching for a deal, even though I’m always convinced whatever I pay, I paid too much. On the other side, you get what you pay for, and $500 is 12 percent of $4,000, which is about the result I expect. I don’t know what to do, but he is Madame’s friend, and it is a deal, so I halfheartedly, doubtfully, pursue it.
I lead him behind the stone shed where the old, rusty tank is and knock on it—it’s metal, hard, durable—and point to the devis. “Le même?”
“Non.”
Ha. I knew it.
“Supérieur.” He takes me by the hand and leads me back inside the shed. “Ici.” He points to a space next to the fire engine–red heater. “Plus facile.”
I see. It’s next to the heater, which makes it easier to connect, less copper tubing, fewer connections, easier, faster, cheaper. “Bon.”
I knock on the heater and try my luck with “me-tal,” which may or may not be a French word and may or may not mean metal.
“Non.” He shakes his head. “Plastique.” I knew it. Junk. Garbage. “C’est meilleur. Supérieur. C’est très bien pour l’intérieur. Pas de soleil, pas de rouille.”
“Rouille?”
He takes me by the hand and leads me back outside to the tank. He bends down, swipes the bottom of the tank, and shows me a handful of rust. “Rouille.”
I get it. Plastic won’t rust. The problem with plastic is heat, the sun, and inside the shed it’s protected, superior, meilleur. “C’est guarantee?”
“Oui. Bien sûr. Dix ans,” and he shows me where it’s written on the devis.
It sounds so good I’m convinced I’m going to get swindled. It’s another of those conflicting beliefs: if it’s too good to believe, it probably is—unless this is the time it isn’t. I’m trying to figure how he’s going to nail me. I knock on the tank again and point over the horizon, far, far away to another galaxy or my neighbor’s yard, and say, “Au revoir, au revoir,” while knocking on the tank and waving.
“Oui, oui,” he says, not even blanching. “Au revoir.”
“Combien plus?” It’s the best French I have. “How much more?”
“Deux cents francs.” Two hundred francs, about $35.
That’s when I remember the oil, the dirty, rusty oil in the bottom of the tank that the first oil guy said was the real problem. Getting it out without cracking the tank and carrying it away without spilling. “Very difficult,” he said, “lots of work,” which in every language means more money.
I knock on the tank again and indicate its interior and say, “Huile,” which is the word for cooking oil, not heating oil. “Ce n’est pas nettoyer.” It’s not clean, a phrase I learned from Kathryn at Chez Sally. “C’est difficile et cher—au revoir.” It’s hard and expensive to go bye-bye.
“No problème. J’ai une machine.”
“Combien plus?”
“Deux cents francs.” It seemed to be the answer for everything.
I now have a choice and a dilemma: $600 or $4,000; Madame’s friend, Monsieur l’Artisan, or a guy who speaks English; to break my word and my pledge, or not.
The next two days Madame hounds me. Don’t be a fool. Don’t spend the money. She makes rich American money signs with her left hand and crazy signs with her right. Still, I don’t relent. I gave my word and made the deal. That’s that. She gets Philippe to call me and explain how I’m being taken, paying too much, how the artisan is a good man who does good work. I tell him, “I know, I know, but I gave my word. It’s a contract.”
“Ah,” he says. “It’s a matter of principle.”
“Oui.”
“I see. Yes. I will tell my mother.” He hangs up.
Once again, I see there’s a code. Had I said, “C’est le principe,” all would have been accepted. Bon. Another lesson learned. The phone rings. It’s Philippe. “Did you sign a paper?”
“No.”
“Ah bon. In France, if you don’t sign a paper you have seven days to change your mind.”
I don’t know if he’s fooling me or not, if he made it up or his mother is making him say it. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“C’est normal? Not a special gimmick for Americans?”
“Oui. Bien sûr.”
I ask everyone I know, even people I don’t know well, and they all say, yes, it is true, I have seven days to change my mind. So now I have another dilemma. I can change my mind, save $3,500, and not break my word or my pledge—but if
I do, I have to work with Monsieur l’Artisan, about whom I still have my doubts.
On the sixth day, I decide to do it. I tell Madame, who looks as happy as Patton in Rome. She then offers to call the fellow and explain it to him in French, but this is my doing and I don’t want her to do something I know French people are not comfortable doing, disappointing others, telling them no. So I call and explain how a friend of mine has a friend who has a tank and can install it this weekend, and I thank him for his help. He’s fine with it—“No problem”—and offers his assistance, sounding as if he knows I’ll need it.
I’m feeling pretty good, confident even, until the next day when Monsieur l’Artisan arrives pulling an open trailer carrying a 1,000-liter tank that has as much chance of fitting through the doorway of the shed as the proverbial camel through the eye of a needle. His son, a younger, not much smaller version of himself, hops out of the truck, and together they remove the tank and carry it to the shed. It’s like watching a World Wide Wrestling father-and-son tag team in slow motion. The son scratches his head. Monsieur l’Artisan scratches his and shrugs. They talk back and forth for a few minutes, using lots of “ouis” and “nons.” Then they go to work. Monsieur lifts the shed door from its hinges and lays it on the grass. His son removes the hinges from the door frame, while Monsieur unscrews all the attachments on the tank. All the while they’re working, they’re smoking. They’re also sweating, because it’s one of those magnificent hot—mid-eighties—navy blue cloudless days in Finistère.
I go into the house and return with two tall glasses of cold water. They each take one, thank me profusely, and put it down without taking a sip. I don’t get it. Don’t they trust me? Are they waiting for it to warm up? Do they want gin? Monsieur l’Artisan says something to his son, who says something back. Then, in unison, they stand the tank on its end and turn it, twist it actually, and thread it and screw it through the doorway, setting it in the place Monsieur had measured fifteen times to make sure it would fit. It was magic, sleight of hand at its best. When it’s in place next to the red heater, they drink the water as if it’s a prize or reward, thank me again, and return to work. I watch as they measure everything again, bang and cut and bend copper pipe, connecting the heater to the tank.
I go back to the house and wait, wondering how long it will take them. After two hours, I see them carrying their tools to the truck. I watch, suspicious, sure I’m about to be ripped off, even though they’re doing all the work and I haven’t yet paid them a sou. Still, when Monsieur l’Artisan gets behind the wheel and his son hops in the cab, I can’t contain my American self. I run down the stairs calling, “Monsieur, Monsieur,” to stop them.
Monsieur opens the window and looks at me. “Oui.”
“Le tank.” I point. “Le ancien tank,” hoping tank means tank and not a fighting machine with tread.
“Oui, oui,” he says. “Demain.”
Tomorrow, right! I knew this would happen, that something would go wrong, and I’d have to pay the first guy to do the hardest, most expensive part of the job. I want to call Madame P, but I don’t. I feel bad. There’s no reason to make her feel worse. In the U.S. I would, but not here. She tried to help me and it didn’t work out. Live with it. Lesson learned, though I’m not sure what it is.
Late the next day, when I’ve given up all hope, I hear a rattling commotion, jiggling, banging, a backfire, and look out the window. There, in my driveway—how it got in I’ll never know—is a vehicle that looks part Oscar Meyer wienermobile, part Rube Goldberg, with more hoses and nozzles on it than a fire truck. Holy Christ, what is this?
I run out of the house to get it out of my yard when I see Monsieur l’Artisan emerge alone from the vehicle. He’s beaming, proud as a first-time papa, petting his machine, stroking it like a lover. The thing’s making noises like it could explode. He takes out a cigarette and lights it. I look around, getting ready to duck and cover. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” I finally manage to sputter.
He hands me a brochure. It’s in French. I try to read it—but he only has one life and can’t wait for me to finish—so he proceeds to tell me and show me in great detail what this machine does. He pulls a hose from the wiener part of the vehicle, drags it across the lawn to the ancien rusty tank behind the shed, and connects it. He then explains through hand motions and disgusting slurping sounds how the machine will suck all the old, bad, dirty oil out of the tank so he can safely move it. Pretty good, I think, an oil vacuum. “Bon.”
He takes me by the hand and leads me back to the vehicle and begins making washing motions and rolling his hands over each other like turning drums. I don’t get it. He takes me to the rear of the thing, leading me along the hose, and starts making that disgusting sucking sound, like the oil being sucked away, then makes the rolling motion with his hands, and leads me to another nozzle and another hose, which he pulls out and connects to the new tank.
“Non?” I say.
“Oui,” he says.
“Vous êtes faîtes?”
“Oui.”
It’s incredible. It really is. This guy living in rural Brittany, selling heating oil, invented a machine that not only removes old, rusty, filthy oil from broken tanks, thereby avoiding spill-age, destruction, and waste, but it cleans and recycles the oil so it doesn’t have to be dumped and can be used again, saving time, money, and nonrenewable energy. He’s a genius. Who’s Dopey now?
After him—Monsieur l’Artisan l’Inventeur—I never doubt Madame P again. I still have that plastic tank—guaranteed for ten years—and his son regularly fills it. When he sees it I’m sure he thinks nothing of it, just another job finished and done. But each time I go into the shed I remember that day and their work and Monsieur l’Artisan standing in my driveway patting his machine, proud as he could be, showing l’Américain his invention.
When his son comes to fill the tank or clean the heater or chimneys I always offer him a drink of juice, water, coffee, or tea, which he always refuses, telling me “later”—“après, après.” When he’s finished working he knocks on the door. I invite him in and we sit at the kitchen table and drink, him chatting away like his father, looking more and more like him, me understanding a third of what he says, both of us, at least for the moment, fulfilled and content.
This is what I love about France, the small things are large, a bonjour, ça va, a flower, a glass of water. It’s a good way to live, and daunting—even more so I imagine for the French, who know the rules and what’s expected of them and who are more worried about failing than I am. So we carry on, me and the oil guy and his son and everyone else I know by doing our best not to faux pas…. It is a good way to live.
The Floor Guy
One day I decide I need to have the wood floors in the house professionally cleaned, waxed, and protected. In the U.S. I would never think of such a thing, perhaps because I’m a renter, and this is what owning property does, but I think it has more to do with France herself.
In the U.S., I never notice dirt or dust or decay, only disorder. In the U.S., I organize. In France, I clean. I mop the floors. I get on my knees and wax the tile. I vacuum. In the U.S., I don’t even own a vacuum cleaner. I bought a mop once, though I never remember where it is. I have a broom because it came with the apartment. Once a month a cleaning person comes and brings everything she needs, and that’s that. In France, I’m the cleaning person. I’ve bought three vacuums, each stronger, more durable, with greater suck than the last, and now own a top-of-the-line Miele and am proud of it! And the pity of it is, it matters. I think it has to do with the French emphasis on cleanliness and appearance and my not wanting to be a blight on the country, taken for a Brit, or to offend or disappoint those who have done so much for me. I acknowledge them by cleaning, so that if at any time someone from the village or the water company or a neighbor stops by, Madame P and Monsieur and Madame Nedelec will not be shunned or accused of bringing a derelict or neo-Brit into town. It’s France: I clean, therefore I am. I even do
windows.
And like everyone else, I have a special product for everything. I have a sponge mop, a cloth mop, and a rag mop; a mop for dusting wood, washing tile, clearing spiderwebs; brooms for indoors, outdoors, wood, tile, walls; and cleaning supplies for anything: kitchen sink, bathroom sink, tub, shower, windows, wood, tile, plaster, stove, fabric, stone, toilets, toilet smells, burners, microwave, dishwasher, kitchen smells, and the all-purpose mystery cleaner, Javel, which if used unmasked in a closed room for more than thirty seconds will kill you. Masked, with all the windows open, I’m good for five minutes. After that I’m woozy.
One afternoon while drinking coffee with Sharon, I ask her, more out of curiosity than interest, “What are those tiny piles of sawdust on the floor?” She looks and says “Woodworm,” something I never even knew existed. The piles are so small and infrequent and without any pattern or apparent threat and the floors are so thick I decide, Who cares.
So it is a great surprise to me when I wake up a few days later thinking about the floors and the woodworms. My first reaction is to ignore the thought and go to the beach, which I do. But every day after that the floors never look the same. After a week of this, I decide to do something if it’s not too expensive. I do what I always do when I decide to do something in France: I call Madame P and ask if she knows a floor guy. “Connait vous un person nettoye plancher?” Know you a person clean floor? It’s the kind of question that makes her day. First, it confirms my basic humanity and intelligence, and the fact that I’m not English, and second, it sets her into action.
As with all things like this, once I set the ball rolling I never know what will happen next, or when. If it’s an emergency, like a doctor or food, the response is immediate. If it’s like this—floors—it could take weeks, during which time I usually give up or forget I even asked. This is one of those times that takes weeks.
I'll Never Be French (no matter what I do) Page 12