The Upside of Down

by Susan Biggar

  The meal progresses in a leisurely fashion, with plenty of conversation allowing time to digest and make space for the main course—blanquette de veau, a creamy veal stew. It’s cooked to perfection, reminding me of a French friend’s rule of entertaining: never serve a dish to guests until you have made it successfully eight times for your own family. I would never again entertain if forced to follow this guideline. I grew up in a family where the foreign culinary influences primarily came from south of the border rather than across the Atlantic. In our house, entertaining meant an oversized pot of steaming chilli on the stove with some hot corn bread on the side. It was a warm and comforting cuisine that definitely didn’t involve days of precise cooking, a full morning at the marché and an eight-week course in Art de table. Where besides France is table-setting an art? The end result can be a wonder to behold though not realistically achievable for someone like me who still can’t negotiate a tablecloth on an ironing board.

  It’s past midnight when we begin the cheese course. Naturally, we’re completely out of our cheese-league here. Even after several years in France, when asked by the fromager what we would like to buy, Darryl and I inevitably end up staring at him, expressionless, mumbling ‘Du fromage, s’il vous plait …’ Some cheese, please.

  But we know enough to realise that Jean-Pierre isn’t serving us wimpy, expatriate cheeses—the kind that can be purchased in our local grocery store. No, these are runny and gooey with rough and rugged rinds, all the hallmarks of major league cheese. We wade in slowly.

  It’s past two in the morning by the time we have finished dessert and coffee, begging off after-dinner drinks in an attempt to get home before our babysitter’s bill runs into four digits. We seem to spend twenty minutes on the kissing phase, doubling up on some people and missing others, restarting the process after each foray back into conversation. Mentally, we’re exhausted; an extended evening of speaking only French is still the intellectual equivalent of riding the Tour de France. But we leave knowing we have been spoiled. Jean-Pierre and Karine must have been working on this meal for days: every vegetable painstakingly chosen, each spoon polished and properly laid, wines carefully selected and the food flawless. For someone who tends to try to do everything in five minutes, I’m humbled by their preparation and attention to detail for us. They, our friends, have given us a generous gift, as only the French can do.

  9

  NORTH AND SOUTH

  It’s Christmas Eve 1998, our second one in Paris, and I’m at the GP’s office, worried about three-month-old Oliver’s lungs.

  ‘Il va bien, Madame. Partez en vacances.’ He’s fine, she reassures confidently. Of course, take your vacation.

  Others must experience this odd emotion at one time or another when shooed out of the doctor’s office with such assurances, half-relieved but half-wondering. I want to be calmed by her words, but something’s still scratching uncomfortably.

  He doesn’t seem fine to me.

  Two days later, we’re in front of a roaring fire in an ancient farmhouse we have rented in Normandy, several hours north of Paris. Our sweet sixteen-year-old babysitter and friend Talitha has come from New Zealand to spend several months with us in Paris. We are also joined by some friends from our London days and their young daughter. Retreating to northwest France in late December is not everyone’s idea of a holiday; the days are shockingly cold, often coming with a light drizzle, while the brief hours of light can suddenly vanish over the cheese course of an extended lunch. But we haven’t come for the weather.

  First we visit the Bayeux Tapestry. This seventy-metre-long piece of linen is like nothing we’ve ever seen before—ancient history on early butcher’s paper. It sets out in a continuous picture the story of Duke William’s invasion of England in 1066, followed by the defeat of the Anglo-Saxon Harold and the victory over England by Normandy. Though sewn more than 900 years ago, the tapestry’s colours remain amazingly vivid and the craftsmanship is remarkable.

  All of this is lost on our opinionated three-year-old who finds museums about as stimulating as I find folding the laundry. So, we make deals.

  ‘Okay, we get thirty more minutes at the museum, then we’ll have a play at the park’, where we will find an exact replica of the climbing structure from our park in Paris and the searing cold will drill through our thick gloves, but this is parenting compromise.

  Down the road, Caen, our closest town, is refreshingly untouched by the vast blanket of tourism normally covering France. This city lost its soul to bombing during World War II, leaving only the occasional remnant of its distant past; hence, the lack of visitors. Today, the old and new rub against one other, revealing a fairly true picture of modern France: crooked little streets lined with centuries-old buildings, back-to-back with McDonald’s (Mac-doh to the French) and multi-screen cinemas.

  Another day we head south to join the crowds at France’s third most popular attraction (after the Eiffel Tower and Versailles): Mont St Michel. This rocky island has a monastic presence dating to the eighth century. Besides the main church perched on the tidal outcrop, there are dozens of thousandyear-old buildings cluttering the few narrow streets, all of which are vastly outnumbered by tourists. Even in December.

  Back at our rickety house the heating hasn’t worked since our arrival, forcing us to rely on the huge open fire.

  ‘The weather here is even worse than Bristol,’ comments our British friend Julian, ‘and that’s really saying something.’

  Darryl enters the living room carrying hot cups of tea and pastries. ‘Yeah, I just heard the news and apparently tomorrow is meant to be freezing rain. Maybe we should book in an indoor day.’

  As he finishes speaking, our conversation is interrupted by what sounds like a teapot whistle from the next room. It’s Oliver. Despite our GP’s belief that all was fine, his cough has worsened and his breathing is increasingly laboured.

  ‘On second thought, maybe it should be a hospital day,’ he adds, knowing we have waited long enough.

  The next morning we leave Aidan in the capable hands of Talitha. We arrive at the local hospital in Caen just as the early shift is reporting for duty. After several return trips to the Emergency over the next two days—with the doctors reassuring us Oliver will soon improve—we decide to go home. He is admitted to our hospital in Paris that day with bronchiolitis: infection and inflammation of the smallest airways. It’s not an unusual illness for a baby, but treated seriously in a child with a lung condition.

  Life in a French hospital is a cross-cultural experience. Because Oliver is so young and we are adamant that one of us will stay with him, we’re given a room with a cot and a ‘mother’ bed. Only months later will we realise the favour extended to us. Parents are definitely not encouraged to stay here. The head nurse hands me a sheet of rules, peering over my shoulder and expanding on each as I read through them.

  Mothers will be up, dressed and have the bed made by eight o’clock each morning. No meals will be served to mothers. Mothers may make themselves a coffee in the kitchen but nursing staff will not make coffees. Mothers must bring their own towels and do their own laundry. Mothers may only have visitors between 3-8pm.

  I speak with Aidan on the phone several times a day. The conversations begin identically each time. ‘How’s Oliver doing, mum?’ Then before I can reply he adds, ‘I’m doing not too bad.’ At home Darryl, Aidan and Talitha organise a new routine, one without Oliver and me. Talitha is generous and creative, taking Aidan to the park, baking and helping to build sophisticated train lines on the living room floor. Jean-Pierre continues to do Aidan’s physio and offers any help he can. Darryl comes to the hospital during his lunch-hour and after work.

  The efficiency and hygiene at the hospital are astonishing. Nurses are highly skilled and meticulous, though not at all chummy. The physios barely acknowledge me yet perform very effective physiotherapy. Our doctor, the Professor, arrives only once in the week with a fifteen-strong flock of subordinates. He briefs them o
n the case, nods at me and is gone. My juvenile French is still too sluggish to get in any questions, especially with a full football team of junior doctors listening, before he disappears. Other white coats pass through fleetingly, again with little conversation.

  Although too intimidated to speak up, the lack of discussion and involvement in decisions leaves both Darryl and me questioning the care. We may have relatively little medical knowledge but more ‘Oliver knowledge’ than anyone else. Is that not relevant? Isn’t there a role for us to play in helping him improve? I am physically present with Oliver, but otherwise feel invisible. The role allocated to parents is minuscule with ‘someone else’ deciding everything about his treatments, meals, baths and even visitors. I am routinely put out of the room for dressing changes and procedures, despite Oliver’s wild protests. For the first time since we started on this journey with illness I begin to feel like a victim, a powerless player caught up in a life that is moving in ways I can’t control. This is intensely frightening. Yet right now there’s nothing to be done but get through the crisis.

  Within a week he’s well again and we’re released.

  ***

  After eighteen months in Paris my French has improved markedly, helping my confidence in every area of life. However, I’m still occasionally snowballed by the cultural differences. There seems to be a clear code to living in France which regulates many aspects of French life but can only be decoded painstakingly slowly by those not raised in it. It’s like playing chess with new rules except the changes aren’t explained to outsiders. Maybe the pawns are all-powerful and the queen is toothless. In France some qualities, like beauty and restraint, have an exalted status while others, such as warmth and friendliness, are at the bottom of the heap. There seem to be rules which are routinely broken while others are sacred—and outsiders drown while trying to distinguish between them.

  I’m surprised to discover that some monotony has already developed in a city so extraordinary that I probably believed life here would never feel ordinary. Yet life anywhere is made of routine. And with half of our family unit unable to cook meals, make beds, do laundry or entertain themselves safely for more than about forty-five seconds, much of our time revolves around the everyday drudgery of domestic affairs. And much of the responsibility for that drudgery is mine.

  This should have come as no surprise to me since before we even left New Zealand I knew that the French government would not grant me a work visa. Oddly, the whole stay-athome mum thing seemed like such a minor detail when we were deciding to move to France, like whether to take the family guinea pig or leave it with the cousins. Serious work was something I thought I could easily delay for a few more years, particularly since I wanted time to learn French, to rethink my career (or, more accurately, find one) and to be available for our kids. The overwhelming majority of French women place their babies in childcare and return to work two months after the birth. But Darryl and I knew that exposing the boys to a roomful of germs at a young age wouldn’t be the best plan for them.

  We are only a year and a half into this great plan for the children and I can already see that I have underestimated the personal and emotional challenge of being available full-time and of parenting first one and now two small children in these one hundred square metres of apartment. Some women thrive on this.

  I’m clearly not one of them.

  I love these two little boys: Aidan, with his alternating innocence and mischievousness, curiosity and creativity; Oliver’s sweet contentedness and warmth; the innate connection I feel to both of them. This mothering life has an intensity I have never before experienced. But I’m periodically tempted to rip my eyeballs out with the tedium. The second hour of pushing them on the swing at the park is the worst.

  Conversations with Aidan, though entertaining, challenge my patience.

  ‘What’s this, Mum?’

  ‘It’s an apple.’

  ‘Why is it an apple?’

  ‘It just is, Aidan … that’s what it is. It’s an apple.’

  After a moment, ‘Why isn’t it a pear?’

  And then there’s poor Oliver. At just six months old Aidan views him as the perfect playmate: unable to disagree or leave the game if he’s unhappy. One day I step out of the shower to discover that Aidan has tied a rope to the back of his little wooden scooter—which, inexplicably, he has named Celeste—while attaching the other end to Oliver’s car seat. Oliver appears to be a happy passenger as Aidan tows him around the apartment, accompanied by enthusiastic NASCAR sounds.

  Darryl’s daily routine is vastly different to mine. After sharing the early morning nappy-changing and hot chocolates, he rides his bike fifteen minutes across the Bois de Boulogne to the offices of the OECD, located in the highbrow sixteenth arrondissement. His work focuses on how best to promote competition and control the prices in industries known as ‘public utilities’ such as telecommunications, electricity, water, post, rail and ports. He’s considered a low-level diplomat complete with tax-free salary and diplomatic number plates. Darryl’s pretty relaxed about all of that. I guess it’s difficult to get a big head with baby vomit on your tie.

  Some days at lunchtime he meets us in a nearby park for peanut butter sandwiches while other days he dines with civil servants from a dozen other countries, feasting on lamb, ultra-creamy potato puree, dainty carrots accompanied by an oaky Cabernet.

  ‘Of course I like having lunch with you guys,’ he reassures me, climbing out of the sandpit and dusting crumbs and sand off his suit. Somewhat surprisingly, I believe him. First, he has never been able to lie—ever. Even a tiny, false make-my-wifefeel-better compliment is completely beyond his ability. And second, he has never enjoyed schmoozing with the big shots.

  And I must admit that our routine, even our dry domestic life, does have unique elements which didn’t exist in New Zealand. There’s that distant view of the Eiffel Tower from our kitchen window, the morning stroll with the kids up the hill to the boulangerie for a baguette and three pains aux raisins, and our constant collisions with the French language. Just when I am beginning to think ‘Okay, I can speak French now’, I inevitably ask the nice man at the dry cleaners if he can get the stain out of my husband’s necklace (collier). He stares at me with a concerned look, like he’s steadying himself in case I take off my clothes and begin doing the Cha Cha in the middle of his shop. Then I know, once again, that we’re miles from the familiar.

  ***

  ‘Tonight is my least favourite night of the year,’ the young mother confides in me.

  ‘Oh, really? Why’s that?’ I ask, not sure I need to know all of the details from this overly chatty new American acquaintance.

  We’re at the birthday party of a little four-year-old Kiwi girl, a friend of Aidan’s. The children are playing Pass the Parcel while the parents, mostly mums, sit around chatting about nothing in particular. Oliver is cuddling happily in my lap, mouthing a toy. I’m not terribly accomplished at this kind of small-talk social event. And this one is about to get much worse.

  ‘Once a year we have to go to this fundraiser—it’s a dinner, and the food is actually pretty good, I must admit. Sometimes it’s traditional French cuisine although one year they served an elegant risotto. So anyway, it’s to support medical research into—that’s enough cake for you, Emma!’

  After just five minutes of conversation I’m finding it hard work to listen to this woman’s monologue dotted with self-interruptions.

  ‘Anyway, the night just feels like it goes on forever—really depressing—with photos of sick kids in hospital and sad stories from parents and it’s all just so inevitable because they all just get sicker and sicker.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘These kids who have this disease—it’s, oh, I don’t know what it’s called in English because the whole night is in French—which I speak fluently, of course, since my husband is French. Are you married to a Frenchman?’

  ‘No, he’s a New Zealander.’ I begin to look around t
he room, searching for an excuse to divorce myself from this discussion.

  ‘Anyway, I would never go to this dinner. I just would refuse because it’s so depressing, but my husband’s niece has it so we really have to go. She’s a nice girl, but she’s really thin and has to have some kind of physiotherapy every day and she always has a cough—you’d think she had smoked all of her life! I don’t think she has, of course …’

  Her last few sentences have caught my attention. ‘What did you say the condition is called in French?’

  ‘Mucovisious … or something like that. I can’t recall it exactly but it has something to do with mucus, I’m sure.’

  ‘Could it be mucovisidose?’

  ‘Yes! That’s it. You have heard of it, have you? I’m surprised because I don’t think it’s all that common. Do you know someone who has it?’

  I hesitate. Can I let this pass? I’m tempted to lie, but it feels like an act of treason, unfaithfulness to Aidan and Oliver. Finally, I answer.

  ‘Yes, both of my children were born with mucovisidose. It’s called cystic fibrosis in English. You have probably heard of that.’

  I don’t think she hears my translation. Blood is flooding to her face. She flutters a hand in front of her eyes as though to snap herself out of some nightmare. She glances at Oliver and then looks back at me, relief running across her face. ‘Oh no, it isn’t the same disease. You see, the kids with this thing are really, really sick. Like, they die of it,’ she says with emphasis on the dying bit. ‘Your son looks fine.’