Meanwhile, Stuart is working on the spare chambre. He is efficiently and steadily finishing the skirting boards and conduit. While enormously reluctant to do so, I have to concede defeat in my battle against les herbes. I mark the invincible ones with cairns of stones — never in short supply on our limestone-riddled land — in readiness for the greater force of Stuart. Like many others frequently say, is there nothing he can’t do? It would appear not.
The Viager System
Stuart is passionate about many things, and one of these is real estate. Wherever he is in the world, he avidly absorbs all the facts about the area. So it is that he is fascinated by the unique French way of buying and selling homes. It’s called viager, a system akin to a lottery or gambling. The difference is that the risk involved relates to how long a seller is likely to live. There can be great gains for the buyer — or an interminable waiting game. The practice allows the elderly to sell their homes but still live in it for the rest of their life. In essence, the longer they live, the more the buyer has to pay. Sometimes the gamble does not pay off, and the seller far outlives the buyer. In rare instances, when a Parisian sells their property en viager and dies within a short time, well, the buyer is in an enviable position. In short, they have won the real estate lottery. It is the potential of this Parisian real estate lottery that captivates Stuart and fires his imagination. I know that he can already see himself in a spacious apartment on the banks of the Seine.
Intrigued by this unique real estate game, I research and learn more. So entrenched is this system in the French psyche as an acceptable method of buying, that sellers at times resort to extraordinary lengths. There are tales of the elderly pretending to stoop over in pain, camouflaged with heavy make-up, so that they literally look at death’s door. Once the contract is signed, they improbably spring back to life. I am sure that the spring in their step is far livelier than it has been for decades once they have an assured healthy income for the rest of their days. Mind you, it involves being prepared to take risks, big risks, for the viager undertaking to pay dividends for the buyer. I start to feel very wary on a number of levels; one: Stuart’s propensity for real estate and risk-taking, and two: his penchant for Parisian apartments.
The whole process is apparently quite straightforward — or so it would ostensibly seem, notwithstanding the well-known machinations of French bureaucracy. It is agreed between two private parties and overseen by a notaire, who keeps an eye on the process by tracking it through its lifetime, so to speak. Sellers tend to be widows, or widowers, who want to cash in on the value of their property in order to get an enticing lump sum, the bouquet and a monthly payment from the buyer for the rest of their lives. The system was devised in the Middle Ages and has experienced resurgence in popularity. It would seem to be a win-win for all parties involved, except, of course, in the untimely demise of the buyer before the seller. It is no wonder that the practice is banned in some European countries.
I can already see it; when Stuart finally finishes rénovation, perhaps he will add ‘attending funerals’ to his ever-growing list of activities. Perhaps cultivating a friendship with an amie of the one recently departed? They are sure to be susceptible to his charm and willing to entertain the notion of an agreeable Australian entering into en viager arrangement for their luxurious apartment on the Champs-Élysées. Or perhaps, an even better idea, since bridge is usually the province of the elderly, an invitation to their maison and then an attractive proposal — of the viager kind, that is.
The very nature of en viager means that wild and extravagant stories abound, making it virtually impossible to discern what is fact and what is fiction. One such story involved an old woman who, despite being from a very well-off family, admitted that she’d squandered the considerable family fortune. So it was that despite her aristocratic family, she found herself penniless at the end of her life. Perhaps that should be euro-less? What better solution indeed than to embark on the financial rollercoaster, with its risks of highs and lows, than en viager? Enviably, her très chic apartment was in no less than the Marais district, one of Paris’ most stylish arrondisements.
Cuzance Days
No matter how early I rise, I always know that a day in Cuzance will be a huge one. I also know that invariably there’s an element of the unexpected. Who will visit? What tasks will be accomplished on today’s list? And, of course, what will we eat? Life is condensed to its basic elements in a Cuzance life: work, eat, relax, socialise and sleep. As always, in all we do, the weather plays a key role.
Despite my unwavering love affair with Paris, I muse that in every possible way, the relentless pressure to achieve endless sartorial chic would be overwhelming. As it is, when Stuart chooses stylish cardigans in his favourite shop in Brive, and selects a scarf to complete his ensemble, he asks the shop assistant to demonstrate how French men tie it in their inimitable, nonchalant way. He tells me this is how he has seen men in Paris wear their scarves.
To say I am astonished by his observations is an understatement. What a long way he’s come in his sense of style since our wedding two decades ago in Istanbul. In those long-ago days, he borrowed his wedding suit from one of the hospitality students he tutored at the English House Language School and wore his long hair tied back in a pony tail. It was the first time he had ever worn a suit in his life. And now, he’s emulating the élan of Parisian men. His desire to do so is confirmed when he’s flicking through a copy of Le Figaro and triumphantly points to a men’s scarf tied just so, with ever-so-casually contrived style. Oh là là, I think to myself. Reading Le Figaro is one of his favourite pastimes, usually with a pastis in hand.
When we promenade through the village on our way to apéritifs with Gérard and Dominique, we greet all the villagers we have come to know. Marinette, the matriarch of Cuzance, Monsieur and Madame Dal and, of course, the inimitable Monsieur Arnal. Even though he has sold his restaurant, Hotel Arnal, Jean-Claude has told us that it was part of the negotiation to eat his dîner there every day. Is it now just the dîner hour that he is present? Non. He stills stands proprietarily in the doorway of Hotel Arnal all day long. Perhaps it is because the name is still to change that he feels such an enduring attachment to it. The furthest he ventures is to sit at his customary table outside in the courtyard, where he watches the petite world of Cuzance pass by each day. As was his manner in previous years, he inquisitively probes us each time we walk past. Where are we going? When will we open la piscine? Each year, he is always immensely curious to know when we will have the grand opening of the pool. The fact that we don’t open it immediately on arrival seems to be a perpetual source of consternation to him. Clearly showing upon his face each time he queries us is his bemusement about the puzzling ways of foreigners. We shake our heads and tell him that for now we are still embarking on the serious and pressing business of rénovation. I wonder more and more frequently whether that word will ever leave my French life.
Everyone we encounter on our strolls is in agreement about the burgeoning heat. ‘Il fait chaud’, ‘it’s hot’, is a phrase I quickly learnt. Just a few days previously, when the days in Cuzance were draped in dampness and clinging particles of moisture, we were all deploring the absence of solei. It is the country, after all; the weather is a perennial topic of conversation. At home in Australia, we had just left the perpetually rolling song of the sea, crisp-pomme mornings, the soft caressing sunshine and clear blue skies of autumn clarity. Now in Cuzance, the sun is a perpetual bright burning presence. Like farm-fresh eggs cracked into a blanc ceramic bowl, the days are the yellow of bright yolks.
If I was in Paris, my thoughts would turn to renting a deck-chair in the Luxembourg Gardens to dream away the drowsy summer hours and days. The furthest I would venture would be to the most famous ice-cream shop in Paris, Berthillon, located on an island in the Seine: Île de la Cité/Île Saint Louis. Such is its reputation that travellers have been known to make it their first stop in Paris. I have heard people say that the raspberry glacée is l
ike smelling a bunch of roses as you linger over its luscious taste. Imagine if the biggest decision of the day would be what delectable flavour to choose.
At the end of our first week, Stuart has returned to Brive yet again, and in a quick turn-around has made another troc visit. The trocs seems to be replacing the bricolage this year as his second home. He returns to tell me that delivery for our new bed and armoire will be très, très cher. Determined as ever to save euro wherever possible, he has a hasty déjeuner and heads back to Brive to pick up a hire truck that he has organised to do his own delivery with.
By late afternoon he is home again, this time with the furniture for our spare chambre. We try to unload quickly to return the truck, but I stumble under the weight of the armoire. Stuart has backed the truck up to the barn garage, and we leave the armoire tucked away until we can get some help from Gérard moving it into the house.
On his third trip for the day to Brive, I go with him, lured by the promise of a ‘real’ shopping trip and dîner there afterwards. It is, after all, the start of solde season, and in France no less.
This year I discovered that the ‘Gaillarde’ in Brive-la-Gaillarde stands for ‘bravery’ or ‘strength’. It may mean that it is just one of many bastide towns in France that is surrounded by city walls to ward off invaders from days long gone. As I wander the pretty cobbled streets, I always make a point of pausing to remember that during World War II, Brive-la-Gaillarde was a rural capital for the Résistance. It was where a number of clandestine information networks were based. I always reflect, too, on how I found out last summer that Pied de la Croix hid members of the Résistance and the elation it gave me to know that our petite maison played a role in the fight for freedom.
Like many towns, Brive-la-Gaillarde has an attractive medieval centre that abounds with shops and cafés. While we don’t often have the chance — when will the rénovation years end? — it is always a pleasurable experience to wander around and gaze at the chocolateries and their glistening displays, subside into an enticing wicker chair, sip espresso and watch the French world wander past. Perhaps a life of rénovation means I am more appreciative of these moments than if I was a tourist passing through.
It has been a truly successful first week, for not only have there been numerous trips to Brive for Stuart, but we have also had déjeuner at La Rocaille with Gérard, Dominique and Jean-Claude at the outset. Country fare is quite different to Parisian cuisine. All the produce is locally grown and the menus always feature the bountiful fresh produce of our département.
After yet another cool, cloudy start to the day, we gather with our friends for the first lunch of summer, and the sun bursts through in a blaze. We sit outside on the terrace under a striped umbrella, soaking up the view of green rolling hills crowned by the château on the horizon at Turenne. Entrée is cèpe pâté — delicately flavoured mushrooms. This is followed by d’agneau; lamb is another speciality of our region. The meal is complete with a delicate dessert of panna cotta, its smooth texture enlivened by the citrus tang of marmalade. Though Italian in origin, this dessert makes a frequent appearance on menus in France; indeed, they have assimilated it as one of their own. I am sure that Michelin chefs would deny its origins as other than the most authentic French dish. No doubt their creative interpretation of it has made it sublimely French.
We are both astonished that in the now intense warmth, Jean-Claude and Gérard share a bottle of rouge vin. Red wine and midday sun are sure to induce summer afternoon slumber. A siesta was not on the agenda, for it was off to Brive for yet another of our many shopping trips together. A petite carafe of rosé is quite sufficient for the ensuing four hours that consist of traipsing around the shops, armed with a list of household necessities. This time it’s covers for the outside chaise lounges, food from Carrefour and, most exciting of all, an automatic pool winder for the cover. Stuart ordered the oddly named ‘Droopi 2’ some weeks ago. To our relief, the box is waiting at Piscine Ambiance with ‘Reserve Cutsfort’ in bold, capital letters. Ah, the power of the internet, I think yet again. This purchase is our summer indulgence. No more struggling with the heavy cover that has to be ever-so-carefully lifted and precisely folded each time we want to use la piscine.
The prosaic items at Carrefour are the basic necessities to stock our petite maison again, as well as Tour de France T-shirts to take home as gifts for our friends who are looking after our petite Henri. The supermarché outing is enlivened by our, as always, avid examination of the extensive aisles of vin. Stuart was excited to discover a guide to the best value champagne in France in Le Figaro. We eagerly scan the staggering array and carefully select a few bottles. Real champagne, at extraordinarily affordable prices. We have, however, run out of time today for one of our other favourite summer outings: a visit to the trocs in search of second-hand treasure.
Since the next day is cool and cloudy, it’s off to Brive yet again. Fortified by a morning at the markets in Martel and an outing with Dominique to a second-hand-shop in nearby Cressensac, après-midi proves to be the perfect time to shop, for it is always much quieter than the morning rush. This time we select brightly coloured impatiens to decorate each side of the huge wooden la grange doors. A delicate pink fuchsia is chosen to plant next to our très joli steps. Truly, Pied de la Croix has been transformed in just a few years from a rénovation site to a home. Even better, this year there was no dead pigeon on the doorstep to greet our weary arrival, no mouse in the house, no flapping tarpaulin on la grange roof and no ominous lapin activity in le cave.
Foreign Exhibits and High Drama
I know that our unexpected strange foreign appearance in our petite rural village is fully accepted when the older inhabitants of Cuzance start to return my waves of greeting. It is not the French way at all, to lift your arm in a gesture of hello. And yet they start to. I have been determined from the outset to be as accepted as fully as possible. Indeed, I have heard of foreigners who have struggled for ten years to fit into life in their village and be acknowledged and accepted, to the point that they have moved to a different village altogether. Passing farmers, Madame Dal seated on her bench amidst her vivid pots of geraniums, Marinette in her jardin and, most significantly of all, the old-school Monsieur Chanteur seated in his wicker chair, reading le journal in the post-dîner hour. It has become more than just our cultural assimilation; it has become a cultural exchange.
However, this is not always the case for those passing through Cuzance. A lumbering, thundering truck passes perilously close to our petite maison. The passenger gazes at me incredulously. I am sweeping our très joli steps and he appears to be utterly mystified by the presence of an odd foreign woman outside an old French farmhouse. It is how I often feel when the vacances cavalcade starts and I am working in the front jardin. The curious glances indicate that I must seem like an exotic exhibit in a zoo. I do know that Dominique gardens in a pretty robe. Even after hours of hard work she looks immaculate. I would never, ever garden in a frock. I know that I always look the complete opposite of chic when I garden. The words ‘dragged through a hedge backwards’ spring more than readily to mind. I remind myself that I am not simply planting out pretty fleurs. Non, non. Once again, I continue to engage in a mutinous game of tug-of-war in the ongoing battle of les herbes. I tug and wrestle and haul and heave. It is not a time to attempt to emulate French elegance.
Once we return home, we are frequently left pondering how it is possible that so much high drama and intrigue can possibly take place in such a petite village. I muse on the fact that despite there only being about 450 inhabitants, Cuzance does indeed reflect the world at large. On a small scale, the theft of pots of geraniums by the obligatory eccentric old woman, to an event that, according to Jean-Claude, is unparalleled in the history of the village.
We find out from his emails that the stakes are high in the bid to be Maire. We discover that a member of the Cuzance ‘governing’ committee has defected and is running as a rival in the elections. Clearl
y, this is a source of consternation for the villagers. Which way will their loyalties lie? This may well cause a divisive split in the village. Perhaps it will be re-named Upper Cuzance and Lower Cuzance? The outcome of the election results will be very telling indeed.
So it transpires that J-Luc Laborie, the current mayor, has a rival, Monsieur Pipereau, the owner of Cuzance’s gîte. One of his own councillors, Chantal Arnal, has defected to the opposition. As Jean-Claude says, ‘Imagine such a small village with two electoral lists — a historical feat!’ He also tells me something else that I have long been curious about; that the name Cuzance comes from Latin: ‘There was probably a Roman (Cusius) whose “villa” was there.’ He continues to inform us that:
As a first move in his campaign, it is easy for Pierre Pipereau to explain the fundamentals of his creed. ‘I simply want to change the village’s governance. I shall be a full-time mayor, accessible to other people, and shunning any kind of patron system.’ Pierre Pipereau is a man of character, available, always ready to help people and give them a helping hand for their projects. After jobs in many parts of France and the world, I have ended my active life as manager of the AFPA in Brive.
His electoral platform goes on to claim,
I have not totally given up active life. I am still responsible for missions of local development in the Préfets’ entourage; I have been responsible for the Lot network to help young people to find jobs in the building industry for 10 years and I am responsible for inquests in villages for the PLU’ — the Plan Local d’Urbanisme, that is, where you may build houses or factories.
Pierre Pipereau,
… claims to be the president and founder of Cuzance Patrimoine which is divided into five sections, such as country lanes, restoring small monuments and exhibitions. ‘I want to be a mayor that listens to his voters, to be active in the development of my village by taking advantage of its strong points, and put an end to its financial debts which are quite heavy.’
Our House is Definitely Not in Paris Page 5