Pardon My French

by Allen Johnson

  The bank clerk just smiled at me. What was going on here? Bank clerks never smile—certainly not French bank clerks. And then he said, “Vous allez bien?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m doing just fine,” I said. “About the five hundred euros?”

  “Oui, but of course.”

  I few minutes later, five hundred euros richer, I headed back to the agent’s office.

  Nita was still there, waiting patiently, calmly. “Everything okay?” she asked.

  “Don’t ask.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I told you not to ask.”

  I turned to Annette. “I will not be able to have the entire sum until tomorrow,” I said. “But I do have the agent’s fee to reserve the apartment.”

  “There is no hurry,” Annette said.

  “Oh?”

  “I have spoken to the proprietor, and he may want to give the apartment to his daughter for ten days before she goes back to the university. He will let us know for certain tomorrow.”

  “Ce n’est pas possible,” I said. “It’s not possible. Tell me it’s not true.”

  “Si, c’est vrai,” she said as cool as French yogurt. “Yes, it is true. So, perhaps you can collect the rest of the money, and I will call you as soon as I have news from the proprietor.”

  “You will call us as soon as you have news,” I said in the form of a statement.

  “Oh, yes,” Annette said.

  “And that will be today sometime,” I said.

  “Certainly,” Annette assured me.

  “Okay,” I said getting up slowly. “I will talk to you later today.”

  “Yes, Monsieur Johnson. Later today.”

  “Okay, later today. I’m going now, but we’ll talk later today.”

  Nita put her arm around my shoulder and led me out the door, little spit bubbles forming at the corners of my mouth.

  “I don’t like this,” I said.

  “I know, honey, I know.”

  “But I really wanted to move in today.”

  “And we will move in,” Nita assured me. “Just not today.”

  The rest of the day, I sat by the phone and waited, but Annette did not call. I did not sleep very well that night. I kept dreaming about sleeping on the beach. French-speaking cooties worked their way under my blanket and gnawed on the back of my legs as if they were feasting on buttered corn on the cob.

  But, in typical southern-France fashion, the next morning was sunny, and I was hopeful again.

  I showered, had breakfast, and headed for the bank, delegating Nita to stand guard over the phone. I was able to exchange $1,500 in traveler’s checks without a hitch. Already I was feeling better.

  But when I returned from the bank, Annette had not yet called. In fact, two days passed without a word. Finally, I called Annette.

  “Bonjour Monsieur Johnson,” she said.

  “Bonjour Annette,” I said and then waited in silence for some news.

  “How can I help you?” she said.

  Huh? “The apartment,” I said. “You have news about the apartment.”

  “Ah, yes,” she said, “I have good news for you, Monsieur Johnson. The proprietor has decided to rent the apartment to you right away.”

  I turned to Nita, who was closely monitoring the conversation. She gave me one of her angelic looks: the isn’t-life-a-glorious-thing look. I adopted the same expression. It was a religious moment for me.

  “So, if you will come to the office in two days, we will have the paperwork ready,” Annette said.

  “Two days? What do you mean ‘two days’? I can’t wait two days.”

  “That is the best I can do,” Annette said.

  “But …”

  “Two days, Monsieur Johnson.”

  One day later, I called Annette to confirm our meeting on the following day.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “Everything is in order.”

  The following day, Nita and I had one item on our agenda: to see Annette. We arrived ten minutes early and waited fifteen minutes for Annette to greet us. But I was in control. I had adopted Nita’s isn’t-life-a-glorious-thing look, which is an expression I describe as half grinning, half stoned—a kind of creepy, peaceful look.

  “Bonjour madame, monsieur,” she said across the counter. Would you please sit down?”

  I did not like her tone—one that was laced with peril. “Everything is in order. However, there is one little difficulty,” Annette said. “You are a foreigner, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “And as such, you pose a risk. We have had problems with foreigners in the past.”

  The isn’t-life-a-glorious-thing look was quickly draining from my face. “Uh-huh.”

  “So,” Annette continued, “you have a choice. You can either have a French citizen sign a guarantee on your behalf, or you can pay the rent for the entire year in advance.”

  I stared numbly at Annette. If looks could kill, Annette would have been a lifeless meat loaf sandwich.

  But I remembered the mantra that I had repeated to myself again and again when I was preparing for the French adventure back home: You are going for a cultural experience. Bureaucracy is part of the cultural experience. Embrace it as best you can. Still, the American in me could not help asking one question. “We have been waiting two days for this meeting. Why didn’t you call me about this problem earlier?”

  “Oh, you understand, Monsieur Johnson, we are very busy.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  There are times when it is a sweet luxury to turn your back on poor service, to walk out the door, and with that defiant and noble gesture pronounce that you are “mad as hell and not going to take it anymore.” Oh, that is a splendid sensation, a moment to relish like the taste of a luscious dark chocolate truffle melting slowly in your mouth. It is a moment when your soul cries out in ecstasy, “Oh, oh, oh.” This, however, was not one of those moments. This was a moment for eating humble pie.

  I suddenly remembered something Monique had told us. She had to sign a guarantee for her daughter, who, ironically, was a doctor in residence and earned three times her mother’s salary. “I might have to sign for you,” Monique had cautioned. At the time I brushed off the idea as ridiculous. It was not ridiculous any longer.

  “I will have a friend sign for us,” I said flatly. “What is required?”

  “We must recreate your dossier,” Annette said, uncovering a stack of documents from her top desk drawer. “Perhaps, it is best to start with this.”

  Annette placed a single sheet of paper in front of me and then patted the paper. “In addition to the documents you have already provided,” she said, “the guarantor must supply these.” Annette patted the paper again.

  • Application form

  • Bank statement

  • Two separate identification cards, with photos

  • Vehicle registration

  • Pay stubs for the last three months

  • Tax statement

  • Attestation of employment, signed by the employer

  • The last three monthly mortgage receipts

  • The last three monthly utilities receipts

  • Statement guaranteeing payment of security deposit and monthly rent

  I gaped at the application. It included a two-hundred-word statement of legalese that the guarantor was required to copy by hand and subsequently sign, “read and approved.”

  “And if we are able to collect all this by tomorrow, will you give us the keys to the apartment?” I asked, my face as expressionless as a death mask.

  “In principle.”

  En principe are French wiggle words. I repeated more slowly. “If we are able to gather all documents, and if they are in order, will you give us the keys to the apartment?”

  Annette stared at me for a moment. “Excuse me,” she said, getting up from her chair. She escaped to the back of the office, knocked lightly on the door of La Directrice Paininzeebutt and, after a pause, stepped in.

&
nbsp; While she was gone, Nita said, “Honey …”

  Whatever it was—an appeal for self-control, caution, courtesy, or cultural diplomacy—I did not want to hear it. Without looking at her, I simply raised my right hand as a call for silence.

  Annette returned. “Oui,” she said. “If all the documents are in order, you may have the apartment.”

  “That is all I needed,” I said. “We will see you tomorrow.”

  “I am very busy tomorrow,” Annette said.

  I gave her a frostbite stare.

  “Will ten-thirty in the morning be all right?” she asked.

  “I will see you then.”

  That night I sat at the dinner table with Monique, and we gathered all the necessary documents. I was astounded by Monique’s composure—completely unruffled, an undaunted veteran of French bureaucracy. Two hours later, all forms were completed, all documents photocopied. To this day, I am humbled by Monique’s unconditional gesture of friendship.

  At 10:30 a.m. sharp, I entered the agent’s office. “May I speak to Annette,” I said to the receptionist.

  “She has stepped out,” she said. “She will be with you in two seconds.”

  I sat down and waited. At 11:00 a.m. Annette walked through the door. She offered no apology for her tardiness—just the usual “Bonjour, Monsieur Johnson.”

  I offered her the stack of documents.

  “Yes, yes, everything seems to be in order—bien en règle. Now, we will go to the apartment,” Annette said. Strangely, she informed me that we would be driving in separate cars.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to go in the same car?” I asked.

  “Non. Cela ne se fait pas.”

  “That is not done?”

  “Mais non, monsieur.”

  A few moments later, we were in the apartment. For the next hour and a half, Annette generated a list of all the damages to the apartment: a crack in the tile, a small depression in the wall, a section of scuffed-up wallpaper. Meanwhile, I generated my own list, scrutinizing every corner of the apartment. Finally, we consolidated our lists, and I signed yet another document, an attestation of the apartment’s condition.

  Then Annette gave me an inventory of all items in the apartment—I mean everything: one bed, four pillows, six spoons, one refrigerator, two ceiling light shades, and, not to be forgotten, a key ring with a flat rubber caricature of a dog—112 items in all. I was tasked with confirming the accuracy of the inventory.

  “There is no hurry,” Annette said. “You can bring your rectified list to the office anytime within the next week.”

  All I can say is that it was a good thing we double-checked the inventory because we were missing one dinner plate, one soup bowl, two steak knives, and a fork. The way I was feeling about Annette and Seaside Rentals, I was ready to take that fork and … ohmmmmm. Breathe in, breathe out.

  The deal was finally sealed with the signing of a six-page contract—three copies—initialed on every page and signed “lu et approuvé, bon pour accord” (read and approved, good for agreement). The contract was official on September 9, one month and five days after our arrival in France. It was a long time in coming, but we were finally in our own apartment.

  * * *

  IT IS NOT UNCOMMON FOR THE FRENCH to admit that they cheat on taxes. Their reasoning is that they are so heavily taxed that it is only fair to recoup what they can on the sly. I have suggested earlier that the French like to keep their shutters closed to protect their privacy. Another reason may be to hide their assets from the taxman.

  We occasionally saw evidence of this phenomenon during our year in France. For example, one fifty-five-year-old Frenchman admitted to me that although he had been working for a year, he was still collecting unemployment benefits.

  “How have you managed that?” I asked.

  “It’s simple,” he said. “My current employer pays me in cash.”

  “Ah, so your employer pays you no benefits, dodges any tax liabilities, and you walk away with a salary that is tax free.”

  “Voilà.”

  “And to make the deal even sweeter, you continue to collect unemployment.”

  “Oui.”

  “And you are all right with that?”

  “Of course,” my friend said, pursing his lips. “Everyone does it.”

  Here’s another example. One fall day, when I was on an all-day hike, Nita decided to clean the sliding glass door that opened onto our apartment balcony. She stepped onto the balcony and closed the sliding door behind her. The door was heavy and cumbersome to close, requiring a firm tug. The impact of the door colliding into the doorjamb jostled the locking mechanism. In an instant, Nita was locked out of the apartment.

  When a next-door neighbor stepped out on her balcony, Nita explained her dilemma and asked if she might use her phone to call Seaside Rentals. Of course, she could. The neighbor looked up the number and passed her mobile phone to Nita.

  Nita dialed the number and asked for Annette.

  “This is Annette.”

  “I have locked myself out of the apartment,” Nita explained. “Do you have an extra key?”

  “No, I’m sorry, we don’t. But we will send a locksmith.” (Given my experience with Annette, I suspect that she did have a key but preferred not to be inconvenienced. I have no proof, but that’s my best bet.)

  Thirty minutes later, a locksmith arrived, entered through the neighbor’s apartment and stepped over the half-wall barrier that separated the two apartment balconies. With the help of two hefty suction cups, he was able to lift the door just enough to detach the lock. Nita was in the apartment in less than thirty seconds.

  “That will be fifty euros,” the locksmith said.

  The price, about sixty-five dollars, seemed a little steep, but Nita was in no mood to quibble. “Okay, I’ll write you a check.”

  “I don’t take checks,” the locksmith said.

  “It’s from a local bank,” Nita said.

  “I don’t take checks,” the locksmith repeated coldly.

  “Well, I’m sorry; I’m afraid you’ll have to take a check. I don’t have enough cash with me.”

  “I will drive you to the bank,” the locksmith said.

  Now Nita is an agreeable, even-tempered woman, but this proposal seemed strange even to her. Still, she agreed to ride with the locksmith to the bank where she withdrew enough cash to pay her debt.

  When Nita recounted her story to four French guests at the dinner table that night, they all nodded and said, almost simultaneously, “Il voulait éviter les impôts.” That was my assessment too: He wanted to avoid paying taxes.

  Of course, the French have been devising ways to avoid paying taxes for as long as taxes have been levied. For example, if you visit the seventeenth-century private homes in the beautiful medieval village of Pézanas, you will discover that many windows have been bricked up for over two hundred years. Why? Napoleon Bonaparte discovered that conquering Europe was an expensive proposition. To pay for his war machine, he levied taxes based on the number of windowpanes owned by the individual taxpayer. The French response to this onerous new law? Convert windows to brick walls.

  Cheating the tax collector is not an unknown practice in the United States. No argument there. But I can’t say that I have ever dealt with a locksmith, or any service provider for that matter, who has gone to such extents to hide sixty-five bucks from the taxman.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Curious Kingdom of Car and Driver

  IF YOU GO TO SOUTHERN FRANCE IN AUGUST, you must be prepared to face bumper-to-bumper traffic—a Gallic caldron of speedway drivers. Everyone is on vacation in August, and it would seem all of them cluster on the French Mediterranean beaches. Oh, there must be a few people in Paris, but they are just the last holdouts who are packing their bags for next week’s trip to le Midi.

  One August weekend, Nita and I drove west from Montpellier, through Carcassonne, and on to the Pyrenees. We left on a Thursday, so the going was not too bad, bu
t we came home on a Sunday, and that was another story.

  At first we tried the narrow winding back roads. If time is not an issue, that is the best way to see the French countryside. But if you are on a schedule, it can nettle your backside. Most of the side roads cut directly through the villages that pepper the hills and valleys, many of which have one or two stoplights. The traffic was perpetually backed up beyond the city limits. Slowly, we would edge forward until we finally arrived at the town center, stalling at the stoplights. We were averaging twenty-five miles an hour—tops.

  So we decided to try the national autoroute. On the downside, you pay a toll and lose the benefit of breathing in the authentic old world of France. On the upside, the travel is generally faster and more direct. But on that Sunday evening, even the autoroute was clogged. At that point, there was nothing to do but turn on the radio and sing along.

  To make matters worse, with the adoption of the thirty-five hour workweek, many French employees manage their work schedule to accommodate three-day weekends. That means that traffic becomes noticeably heavier on Thursday night and through the weekend.

  You cannot talk about the roads of France without mentioning the French fashion of driving. On second thought, I can’t really define what the French do behind the wheel as driving. It is more like … well, scurrying—high-speed, frenetic scurrying. Think of mice on tiny roller-skates, darting helter-skelter in and out of harm’s way with all the sensibilities of high school dropouts on three cups of French coffee. That’s a Frenchman in the driver’s seat.

  I met a British gentleman in a supermarket checkout line my first week in France. He was carrying an armful of groceries while shuffling two liters of punch on the floor with his feet. I offered a portion of my cart to make the wait a little more bearable. He hesitated and then accepted.

  As we waited in line, we started chatting, and the conversation eventually turned to French motoring skills. My new English friend politely assessed the phenomenon.

  “To put it diplomatically,” he said, “they have a rather carefree attitude about driving, wouldn’t you say?”

  Diplomatic is right. I tend to be less generous.

  The French term for tailgating is “coller au pare-chocs,” meaning “to stick or glue to the bumpers.” That’s an appropriate expression because French drivers do, indeed, stick to you like glue. I was constantly exceeding the speed limit in France, not because I preferred speeding, but because I preferred staying alive. If I rolled at the designated speed limit, I backed up traffic in a Paris minute. When I looked in the rearview mirror and saw a caravan of cars strung out behind me, it was truly frightening—the driver directly behind clinging so closely to my rear bumper that I could actually make out the stubble on his chin. And when I came to a screaming halt at the first wide spot in the road to let the automobile equivalent of a bicycle peloton whiz by, I was usually compensated for my kindness with a look of disdain—or worse, the dreaded hand-flung-over-the-shoulder gesture.