by Fiona Valpy
Next, I stand stock still outside a pâtisserie, whose fuchsia-pink shopfront frames a feast of jewel-like confections, a neatly arranged, close-packed patchwork of gâteaux and tartelettes, glowing with golden pastry, ruby fruit and dark velvety chocolate, alongside a towering pyramid of pretty pastel-coloured macaroons.
I made a conical tower of macaroons like that for our wedding cake, colouring some palest gold to contrast with the pure white of the others. I decorated the cake stand with a swathe of star-flowered jasmine and tied a wide gold ribbon in a bow around the base.
I remember Will patiently helping break dozens of eggs and separating the whites into a mixing bowl for me, then conjuring up a big batch of home-made mayonnaise with the left-over yolks, trickling golden-green olive oil from a height like a magician as he whisked the emulsion with the other hand.
He could always make me smile, once upon a time.
And I’m smiling now, I realise, as I catch a glimpse of my face reflected in the window of the pâtisserie, happy in my memories of the way we used to express our love through creating and sharing good food together.
I tear myself away, turning back to the marketplace behind me. And now my sense of smell goes into overdrive: I pause here and there to inhale the delicious, faintly mould-tinged scent from the cheese stall, where soft white goats’ cheeses jostle for position between wheels of hard yellow brébis and a vast, generously gooey Brie de Meaux; the bitter-salt smell of olives in their brine; garlicky dried sausage and—most heavenly of all—sizzling chickens turning slowly on a rotisserie, dripping their golden juices onto a layer of diced potatoes below, portions of which will be scooped into waxed paper bags and taken home for Saturday lunch as the market draws to a close.
I breathe in the scent of hot fat, but hurry on past as a faint tinge of nausea makes my stomach growl. It’s been several days since I ate a proper meal, so I guess it might be best to ease myself back in gently. I head back to the fish stall and buy a sea-bass fillet, planning to sear it so that the skin turns a crisp silver-black on top of the firm white flesh. I’ll serve it with some creamed potatoes and steamed blette, with a little butter melting over the dark green leaves. Totally simple and totally delicious.
Next door there’s a whole stall dedicated to oysters; rows of baskets are filled to the brim with the slate-black shellfish, and there’s a quite bewildering range of choice, as each crate is individually labelled by size and origin. Would one choose the size 3 from the Ile d’Oléron or would the larger size 2 from the Bassin d’Arcachon be better? I’m not sure I feel like being that adventurous today, but perhaps I could plan to start off with half a dozen for my Christmas lunch. Not that I’m going to be celebrating Christmas, of course, but it could be a good excuse to devise a French-style menu for myself at a time when the very best produce is on offer. I decide I’ll make a few notes and maybe browse through Mamie Lucie’s notebook when I get home, seeking further inspiration.
I linger and loiter, enjoying standing in line as it gives me time to take in the bewildering range of produce and plan possible recipes. I haven’t felt inspired like this in the longest time. Mamie would be proud of me, asking about unfamiliar ingredients, my French beginning to come back to me with growing confidence. You only have to ask a French stallholder for advice about how to cook his wares and you’ll find yourself engaged in a lengthy and detailed explanation, with frequent interruptions, interjections and contradictions from everyone else in the line around you. Note that I say ‘around you’ rather than ‘behind you’. Because there’s nothing line-like about the way the French stand in line; it’s more of a loose cluster. But the stallholders seem to have a way of knowing exactly who got there first, and if they lose track then there’ll be a general debate to ascertain whose turn it is to be served next.
My purchases safely stowed into my basket, I meander slowly back through the crowded streets towards the river. I feel drained suddenly, my legs like lead weights. That’ll teach you to laze around doing nothing all day, I chide myself. It’s high time I started making more of an effort. Proper food and more exercise from here on in, I resolve.
As I pass the church that dominates one corner of the square, its steeple disappearing upwards into the fog, the door opens and a man hurries out leaving it ajar, allowing the sound of music to escape behind him. I climb the stone steps, thinking at first that I’ll just pull the door closed from a sense of civic duty, but as I reach it a woman appears and opens it a little wider, ushering me in. The air inside is still and dry in comparison with the swirling mist outside, and a faintly spicy scent of incense hangs there like an invisible veil. I sink down thankfully onto a wooden pew at the very back of the church and set down the heavy basket; I’ll just rest my tired legs for a few minutes and then I’ll slip away. The woman reappears at my side, smiles and silently hands me a printed service sheet. She gestures to show me that it’s translated into English on the other side, and I smile back a little ruefully: why is it that the French always know that you’re a foreigner, even without a word being said? Though I guess, in my case, the mane of unruly russet curls and the pale East Coast complexion give it away every time.
A young priest is conducting a choir of children at the front of the church, accompanied by an organist. I close my eyes for a moment, resting and letting the music wash over me. Then the priest gestures for the choir to sit, and he begins to speak.
I open my eyes when I hear the words ‘Saint Nicolas’... Of course! This must be a special service for the Saint’s feast day. I hope all of these children have woken this morning to find their shoes filled with cookies, candy and coins. I smile as I remember the basket of baking that awaits me back at the house. Rose said she’d called and spoken to Eliane, so I guess she must be the Secret Santa. Or, rather, Secret Saint Nicolas, which amounts to the same thing. I’ll go try her door again this afternoon to thank her.
His sermon over, the priest gestures for the children to stand again and the first notes of the final song ring out on the organ. It’s a beautiful, plaintive melody and I turn over the service sheet so that I can follow the words.
‘Ils étaient trois petits enfants…’ the children sing. ‘There were three little children...’ It’s the story of the Bad Butcher! I follow the verses, flipping the page over for the translation every now and then. And then it comes to the final verse, when the Saint brings the three children back to life.
And my eyes suddenly fill with tears.
‘Saint Nicolas placed three fingers on the rim of the brine tub.
The first child said, “I slept so well!”
The second said, “And so did I!”
The littlest one added, “I thought I was in paradise!”’
The children’s pure voices cease and the organ sighs its last notes into the incense-scented air of the church.
I sit there, as the congregation files out into the bustle of the market square, going home to their Saturday lunches of roast chicken and Saint Nicolas Day brioche, and I bend my head and cry and cry. At long last, after so many months of dry-eyed silence, the floodgates open, here in this little church so far from anything and anyone I know, unlocked by the Saint Nicolas Day song and the memories of my Mamie Lucie’s love that suddenly seem clearer than they ever have before.
After a while, the church falls silent, the final footfalls dying away.
I raise my head, and realise that I’m not alone in the last pew at the very back. A small figure in a black cassock has slipped in at the other end and sits quietly, his hands clasped on the back of the pew in front of us as if in prayer. My breathing begins to even out again, the storm of my emotions blowing over, and I gather my coat around me, preparing to leave. The young priest turns and smiles at me, then slides along the pew, closer to where I’m sitting.
‘Madame, please, you don’t have to hurry away. You are welcome to sit a while longer if you’d like. Get your strength back a little before you return to the world outside.’ He fishes und
er his robes and pulls out a clean handkerchief which he passes to me. And then we sit together, in silence, he with his hands loosely clasped before him once again.
‘I lost my baby,’ I tell him when I can speak again, finally, and it’s such a relief to be able to talk at last, to find the words to say the things I haven’t been able to express until now. Perhaps it’s because he’s a stranger, instead of someone I love and therefore need to protect from my grief.
He nods, watching me as I wipe my eyes.
‘Her heart just stopped beating one day. I should have known; I should have noticed. She’d stopped moving, but by the time I realised, it was too late. I had to go into the hospital, go through labour, knowing that she was dead. A stillbirth they call it. Which sounds so peaceful, you know? But it’s not peaceful at all. Until afterwards, when there should be a cry and new life. But there’s nothing; only silence. A terrible, empty silence... And then I finally held her in my arms, no breath, not moving, but so perfect...’ I pause, overwhelmed by another gust of grief. ‘And just now, the song... the littlest child, dreaming it was in paradise. I hope that’s where she is. But I don’t really believe in that stuff, you know.’ I hiccup with another sob. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t be saying all this to you.’
I have no idea whether the priest understands what I’m telling him, but he sits there quietly, listening. And maybe even if he doesn’t understand all the words, he sees my sorrow and my pain. Maybe he understands that it’s hard for me to say all of this, but that I need to say it to someone, finally, so he sits on and lets me talk.
When I finish, he’s quiet for a moment. Then asks, ‘What was her name?’
I look at him blankly.
‘Your baby daughter, what did you call her?’
People don’t usually ask that question. Perhaps they assume we never named her. Or maybe it’s just easier not to know, not to think of her as a real person.
I look down at the crumpled handkerchief, which I’ve twisted into a ball. And I whisper, ‘Lucie. We called her Lucie.’
My voice cracks as I say the name. A name I haven’t said aloud for so long. And it feels just a tiny bit better, as if some of the pressure in my heart has eased a little, with being able to say these things out loud at long last.
I turn and smile at him through my tears. ‘Spelt the French way, after my Mamie Lucie.’
He nods. And sits a while longer.
Then he says, ‘It means “light” you know. From the Latin. If you wanted, you could light a candle to Saint Nicolas today. I know you don’t believe in these things,’ and he smiles serenely as I demur, embarrassed, realising that he has clearly understood everything I’ve said, ‘but sometimes a simple, practical gesture of remembrance can be a balm for the soul when we are grieving. Lucie. Let her light shine in the darkness. I always think that that is the essence of the Christmas season: making the light shine out through the darkest time of the year, n’est-ce pas?’
After he’s gone, I stay a while longer. I feel utterly drained—all that crying, I suppose—and yet I feel a sense of relief too. As if I’ve set down a heavy load that I’ve been carrying all alone, for so very long.
The wooden pew is polished and worn with use and I think of the many people who have sat here before me, full of hope and fear, joy and grief, for christenings and weddings and funerals. And suddenly I feel the cocoon of loneliness that has been my straitjacket for the past year fall away. How strange it is to feel so comforted here, amongst strangers in a foreign land. But I realise that I needed to come away from all that was familiar to be able to regain my perspective. To begin the painful process of letting go of the dead and to start to rebuild my life again.
Taking the priest’s advice, I drop a coin in the box and take a candle. I hold the wick to the flame of another of the slender wax tapers—someone else’s bright-burning gesture of sadness or gladness—and then set it into the holder. For Lucie. The flame burns steadily, unwavering, like my love for her. ‘Look after her for me, Saint Nicolas,’ I whisper.
Emerging into the marketplace again, I stand and blink. The fog has burned away completely and the church steeple now soars into a dizzying blue sky overhead. Bright winter sunlight dazzles my eyes and I set down my shopping basket for a moment to delve in my purse for my sunglasses.
The world looks newly made.
I take a deep breath.
And then step out into it.
Les Anges dans nos campagnes
Angels in the countryside...
I drive home through a landscape that looks completely altered in the winter sunshine. Instead of sombre tones of brown and black, muffled by the pale mist, the countryside is suddenly a technicolour palette of lush green and rich russet, studded here and there with garnet-red berries. And instead of a dull, gunmetal grey, the sky is a broad sheet of blue. I feel quite light-headed as I drive up the hill and turn in at the little white sign to Les Pélérins.
I stow away my purchases in the refrigerator and then sit down to a plate of bread and cheese for lunch. I don’t seem to have the appetite for anything more substantial, despite my earlier resolution to cook a proper meal. I promise myself I’ll do better this evening.
At first, I put the fact that my head aches and my legs feel heavy and stiff down to all that emotion in the church. No wonder I feel light-headed; it was the first moment of real peace I’ve felt in a year. Leaving my plate of food half-eaten, I rest my throbbing forehead on my hands. And suddenly realise that I’m really not very well at all. My fingers are cold against the burning skin of my face and the stiffness in my legs seems to have spread into my back and neck. And—oh no!—I feel sick to my stomach...
I drag myself through to the sitting room, collapse onto the sofa and begin to shiver with fever. I should light the fire, but I’m too tired to bring in a basket of logs from the wood store. I’ve run out of kindling too, and the thought of going out to chop some more, or to gather some dry sticks from beneath the oaks, is too much to contemplate. I curl into a ball, pull a woollen throw over myself and lie there, alternately freezing and burning. Feeling, I now realise, really, really sick. And utterly wretched. I think, no one knows. I can’t call anyone. What if I seriously need help?
And then I close my eyes, which feel oh so heavy, and drift into oblivion...
I don’t know how long I’ve slept, but the soft violet glow of dusk hangs over the hillside and the first lights are coming on in the valley below when a pounding in my head awakens me.
I lie there, my limbs so heavy that I can’t even lift my hand to check the time on my watch. And then I hear it again, a persistent knocking sound, which seems to be coming from somewhere outside my head now, but I can’t quite make out where. My lips are dry and there’s an unpleasant metallic taste on my tongue. My skin is burning up and yet I feel frozen to my very core with a chill that makes my bones ache.
The knocking falls silent for a few moments and then resumes again, a bit louder this time. Front door, I think. It takes every ounce of willpower I have to heave my legs over the edge of the sofa and pull myself upright. As I do so, my head spins and my stomach churns. Squinting through the blinding agony of a headache that makes my vision blur and weave, I creep to the hallway, holding on to the walls to steady myself.
I open the door. And blink.
Because there in the dusk, just turning to leave, is Bradley Cooper himself.
Confused, and hazy with fever, I stand and stare, realising that I’ve truly gone and done it now; I really shouldn’t have watched The Playbook so often and I really shouldn’t have let myself retreat into my parallel life so much. It’s official: I’ve totally flipped.
And I’m even more certain that I’m hallucinating when he smiles his utterly gorgeous smile and says, in a low voice with a fabulously sexy French accent, ‘Bonsoir. I am so sorry to disturb you, Madame. But I wonder if you perhaps ’ave a grater I could borrow? You see, I ’ave a truffle and I wish to make a delicious omelette. But, alas, I
’ave no grater...’
Oh, my God, this has to be the best hallucination ever!
It’s a pity I feel so terrible because otherwise I would definitely try to keep it going longer. But—maybe it’s the mention of the truffle omelette—my fever-wracked body rebels suddenly.
I lean forward and throw up, all over Bradley Cooper’s shoes.
They’re black leather brogues, I notice in a detached kind of a way, the sort that have a pattern of little holes punched into them. They’re going to be hell to clean.
The smile on Bradley’s face fades to an expression of concern. He takes hold of my arm, with a grip that’s surprisingly strong for a hallucination, and touches the fingertips of his other hand to my forehead.
‘Oh!’ I say, because it feels so nice to have a cool, capable hand press against my fevered brow (especially Bradley’s hand)! And because I don’t seem to be capable of saying anything else.
‘Madame, you are unwell. We must get you into bed.’
I groan. Not just because I feel so bad, but also because this is such a horrible waste. Bradley Cooper is proposing to get me into bed and I’m too sick to do anything about it. He props me against the doorframe and then, gingerly, slips off his be-spattered shoes, stepping into the hallway in his stocking feet.
‘Where is the bedroom?’