by Julia Stuart
‘There we are then.’
There was a pause.
‘So, can I sign up?’ the baker asked.
Guillaume Ladoucette studied the Dronne as he considered the ethics of introducing two Unrivalled Gold Service clients to the same woman. It certainly didn’t feel right, he thought. Just as he was about to turn his friend down, his eyes fell on the baker’s ridiculously small floury shoes sitting on the bank next to them, and the baguette he had broken in two in search of the soft white innards for his bait. The matchmaker then thought of the pitiful lunch the baker had brought, and his worrying descent into the dubious world of Swiss cheese.
‘Stop by tomorrow: there are procedures to go through,’ said the matchmaker eventually, helping himself to another oyster. ‘And expect a haircut.’
10
‘DID YOU OR DID YOU NOT SUGGEST GOING HALVIES-HALVES?’ ASKED Guillaume Ladoucette, studying the dentist closely from behind the desk with the ink stain.
Yves Lévèque moved uncomfortably on the cushion with the hand-embroidered radish, but remained silent.
‘Well?’ demanded the matchmaker, folding his arms across his chest as he waited for an explanation.
‘There might have…’ muttered the dentist looking at the red tiled floor.
‘Might have been what?’
‘There might have been a mutual agreement that the bill was split,’ he said, sighing.
‘A mutual agreement? Yves, I have three eyewitness accounts stating that you very much put it to Sandrine Fournier that she paid half. What do you say to that?’
Yves Lévèque kept his silence.
‘Well?’
The dentist shrugged. ‘I just didn’t like her.’
‘But you came here seeking professional advice, I gave it to you and one of the last things I said was not to ask her to split the bill. No wonder it didn’t go well.’
‘She’s not the sort of woman I’m looking for.’
‘Not everyone falls instantly head over heels,’ said the matchmaker. ‘Love is like a good cassoulet, it needs time and determination. Some bits are delicious, while others might be a bit rancid and make you wince. You may even come across the odd surprise like a little green button, but you have to consider the whole dish.’
‘I don’t even like cassoulet.’
‘How can you not like cassoulet? You’ve obviously never had a good one. Have you ever tried mine?’
‘No, but Patrice Baudin did and look what happened to him.’
‘Patrice Baudin’s unfortunate conversion to vegetarianism was a result of dark forces at play, which cannot be explained. Anyway, that’s beside the point. I think you should give it another go with Sandrine Fournier.’
‘Can’t I just have my money back?’ asked the dentist.
‘I’m sorry, it’s not possible.’
Suddenly the dentist felt the sharp edges of loneliness shift around in his stomach and Guillaume Ladoucette thought he could smell copper.
‘You must have other people on your books,’ insisted Yves Lévèque.
The matchmaker tugged at the brass handle of the top left-hand drawer, pulled out a file that struck Yves Lévèque as rather slim, waggled it in front of the dentist and put it back inside again. ‘Of course I have other clients, but I don’t think you’ve made enough of an effort with Sandrine Fournier,’ he argued.
‘But I told you, there’s just something about her I don’t like. She gives me the creeps. What has she said about it?’
‘Much the same as you. But don’t worry, I’ll talk to her. As I explained earlier, time and determination: that’s what you need. Whenever you feel hopeless, just think of a Toulouse sausage and some haricot beans.’
As the dentist got up to leave he asked: ‘What were you saying about a green button?’
‘Never mind.’
Just before he opened the door for his customer, the matchmaker put his hand on his shoulder and added: ‘Remember: A man is only as good as his last meal.’
Once Yves Lévèque had left, Guillaume Ladoucette made his way back to his desk. Just before he sat down, he noticed a flaked almond on the floor and his thoughts turned to his first customer that morning. He had only just kicked off his supermarket leather sandals when the door opened. As his hairy toes started hunting around the floor underneath his desk to find them again, he looked up to see that it was Stéphane Jollis. For once, the baker had arrived with a little something: a brown paper bag containing two almond croissants fresh from the oven, which, in view of the landslide on the brow of his white T-shirt, would not be his first that morning.
‘I don’t wish to be rude, Stéphane, but would you mind giving yourself a bit of a shake before you come in?’ the matchmaker called.
‘I see what you mean,’ said the baker, looking down at himself. He took a step back and gave a cursory sway of the hips.
‘Think dog, rather than the hula-hula,’ suggested the matchmaker.
After the baker had shed his gastronomic fallout, Guillaume Ladoucette gestured to the chair with the peeling marquetry. Once the baker was comfortably installed, the pair immediately got down to business. From his bottom drawer, the matchmaker took out two plates and two paper serviettes. They then helped themselves to a plump almond croissant each, which they savoured with a cup of freshly brewed coffee from the percolator on the small table with the antique lace cloth at the back of the shop. After they had finished, they dusted their mouths, during which Guillaume Ladoucette made the fortuitous discovery of a sizeable crumb on his chin, which he popped into his mouth. The matchmaker returned the plates to the bottom drawer, and they both sat as still as basking lizards in the warmth of their contentment. Eventually, Stéphane Jollis remembered what he had come in for. After checking that his client hadn’t changed his name or address overnight, the matchmaker filled in his particulars and then disappeared down into the basement. He re-emerged with a grey nylon gown in which he swiftly captured the baker.
‘But I don’t want my hair cut!’ protested Stéphane Jollis.
‘I’m not introducing any client of mine who has signed up for the Unrivalled Gold Service looking as though a beaver has constructed a dam on his head. Really, Stéphane.’
Within seconds, Guillaume Ladoucette’s fingers were fluttering and long black tendrils coated in flour were dropping to the floor.
‘Right,’ said the matchmaker after sweeping them up and walking his friend to the door, ‘I’ll make the necessary arrangements and keep you posted. Now, what aren’t you to forget?’
‘To make sure that I always shake before I come in?’
‘Yes, there’s that, but it wasn’t what I was meaning.’
‘That a gentleman never needs a haircut?’
‘Yes, there’s that too, but I was thinking of something else.’
‘Not to pick my teeth with my fork?’
‘Yes, yes, that too. Sorry I had to bring it up, but it’s all part of the service. I was actually referring to your agreement not to bring up your research.’
‘Research?’
‘All that stuff about the French never eating frogs’ legs and that it was all a joke started by a French merchant in eighteen sixty-two while he was in England.’
‘It was eighteen thirty-two, actually.’
‘Whatever. My advice is to leave all matters amphibious well alone.’
Insisting that he wouldn’t forget, the baker left, enjoying the sensation of the perpetual breeze on his newly shorn head as he walked down the road, and bracing himself for the outrage from the inevitable queue of customers waiting outside his shop door.
Guillaume Ladoucette dropped the flaked almond he had just spotted into the bin, sat down on the swivel chair and stared blankly in front of him. Putting his elbows on the desk, he rested his chin on the palms of his hands and wondered what on earth would become of him. Heart’s Desire had been open for several weeks now and what did he have to show for it? A parsimonious dentist (who smelt of copper, with
a haircut that would put off the least discerning of women) and an assistant ambulant fishmonger (with an allergy to shellfish) who couldn’t stand the sight of each other. Then there was the business with Lisette Robert. While the midwife deserved a chance at love just like everyone else, was it really fair to encourage two Unrivalled Gold Service customers to take up arms in the battle for her affections, considering the long roll call of casualties each year and their ghastly injuries? Even if it were, had he done a dishonourable thing by having two such suitors on his books at the same time? And did either of them stand a chance anyway?
The matchmaker then thought of the handful of clients who had come in the previous week, and the one who concerned him the most: Gilbert Dubuisson. The postman had needed little persuasion to forget about the Unrivalled Bronze Service and proceed immediately to the considerably more expensive Unrivalled Silver Service. But what woman would ever want such a loquacious man with despicable urinary habits? And while the postman undoubtedly had his talents–as everyone did–the matchmaker was in no doubt that a woman needed far more from a husband than an ability to grow asparagus, important though it was. The man had been driving him into an almost daily state of irritation by his frequent visits from his house opposite ‘to see how things are going’. Like a cicada, the postman’s presence could instantly be detected without him being visible because of the noise he produced, most of which was not worth listening to, particularly when he was talking with vigour about his window boxes. At times, he even had the cheek to arrive with a packet of Petit Beurre Lu biscuits and settle himself on the bench for the afternoon. If that wasn’t bad enough, the matchmaker was certain that his presence was putting off potential customers, to say nothing of the crumbs he shed with the trajectory of a sneeze.
Maybe my Brilliant Idea wasn’t so brilliant after all and I’ve made an awful mistake, thought Guillaume Ladoucette. What happens if I don’t find my customers anyone to love? They’ll all hate me. I’ll be driven out of the village. Who will look after my potager?
He continued to stare ahead of him, seeing nothing. Who am I to give advice on matters of the heart, anyway? he wondered, remembering the letter he had dug up the day before to which he had never replied. Guillaume Ladoucette sighed and was just about to get up to make himself another cup of coffee when something on his left supermarket leather sandal caught his eye. He picked it up and held it under his nose. Just as he was inspecting with increasing fury what was undeniably a constellation of peck marks, the door opened. It was Émilie Fraisse.
Guillaume Ladoucette looked at her for what seemed several minutes, his open wound of mortification preventing him from moving. Eventually, he bent down, dropped his supermarket leather sandal on the floor, crawled his toes back inside and stood up. He must have made his way to the door, but when he tried to replay the moment in bed that night he couldn’t remember how. Was it too fast like an eager fool or too slow like a decrepit old man? The next thing he remembered was holding the door handle in silence. He must have just stood there because Émilie Fraisse eventually asked him: ‘May I come in?’
‘Yes, yes, of course, come in, come in,’ he replied and watched as she walked past him, stood in the middle of Heart’s Desire and turned to face him. Suddenly remembering his manners, the matchmaker approached her and kissed her on both cheeks. As he did so, he breathed in the scent of her skin which, after twenty-six years, was instantly familiar. But when he tried to recall it in bed that night, he was unable to.
After showing the châtelaine to the chair with the peeling marquetry, and offering her coffee, he went to the small table at the back of the shop to make it. But as he stood in front of the percolator with his back to her, he found that he had forgotten what to do. And when he finally remembered, and had been standing waiting for the water to pass through the filter for several minutes, he suddenly realized that he had unplugged the machine at the wall, a habit learnt from his mother in case of an electrical storm. As he waited again, he imagined Émilie Fraisse sitting on the cushion with the hand-embroidered radish hating the pink walls and he wished that he had chosen a different colour.
Finally he brought the cups over and put them down on the desk with the ink stain, which he quickly covered with the telephone. He then sat down on his swivel chair and looked again at Émilie Fraisse, who looked back at him with eyes the colour of fresh sage, and smiled.
‘It’s lovely to see you,’ he said, smiling back.
‘It’s lovely to see you too, Guillaume,’ she replied.
‘You’re just as I remembered.’
‘I’ve gone grey,’ she said, embarrassed, her hand instinctively reaching for the back of her head.
‘It suits you very well.’
‘Thanks.’
The pair silently held each other’s gaze.
‘Lisette Robert said you’ve stopped barbering and set yourself up as a matchmaker.’
‘That’s right. And you’ve bought the château, I hear.’
‘Yes, yes, I have.’
‘How’s that going?’
‘I adore it.’
Silence bloomed again.
‘Actually, I was wondering whether you might be able to help me,’ Émilie Fraisse said.
‘Of course. I’m sure you need all the help you can get sorting that place out. What is it you’d like me to do?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing to do with the château.’
‘No?’ asked Guillaume Ladoucette, surprised.
‘I was wondering whether you could possibly help me to find love.’
Half an hour later, in an antique saffron dress that appeared to have been shorn off at the knees, and with a white dahlia tucked in the back of her hair which was pinned up with something that sparkled, Émilie Fraisse left Heart’s Desire having signed up for the Unrivalled Silver Service.
After crunching her way back over the crisp pigeon droppings covering the drawbridge, the châtelaine pushed open the vast wooden front door bleached fossil grey by the sun, which she kept unlocked in the hope that someone would steal the collection of hideous old dolls in discoloured lace. She kicked off her ridiculous seventeenth-century shoes and padded past the llama skeleton along a corridor with a patch of florid yellow mould thought by scientists to be long extinct. In the cool of the vaulted kitchen, she surveyed the splendid collection of copper pots, pans and utensils now sitting on, or hanging from, freshly painted pale-blue shelves on three sides of the room. Looking forward to an agreeable afternoon polishing the few pieces still left to be done, Émilie Fraisse took down the largest brioche mould and settled herself on the seat with wild boars carved on its feet. In and out of the curves she rubbed until she could see her head distorted to hideous proportions. Returning the mould to its place on the shelf, she then took down the diamond-shaped turbot pan. Just as she was about to start on the flat lid, the bell rang. Resting the lid on the table, she padded back down the corridor in her bare feet past the llama skeleton and opened the door. There, squinting in the sun, was a man with a clipboard in one hand and a soft leather briefcase in the other, which he was clutching to his stomach. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the light, but when they did, she noticed what appeared to be a splash of vomit on his right shoe.
‘Forgive me for disturbing you, madame. My name is Jean-François Lafforest and I work for the council,’ he said.
‘How lovely to see you,’ said Émilie Fraisse. ‘You’re after a tour, I presume.’
‘I’m afraid I’m here in an official capacity, madame.’
‘Oh, I see. Well, let’s get you out of the heat, otherwise you’ll end up looking like that old door of mine. Come in, come in. Don’t worry, the llama doesn’t bite. Excuse the state of my hands, I’ve been cleaning the copper. Follow me to the kitchen so I can wash them and I’ll be all yours.’
The châtelaine led Jean-François Lafforest along the corridor with its patches of rare yellow mould to the vaulted kitchen, where he stood in his unfortunate trousers that
didn’t fit, his hands on his hips as he marvelled at the pots and pans glowing like hot coals.
‘I must congratulate you on your efforts, madame, it really is a beautiful collection. I visited the château many years ago and one wouldn’t even have known they were made of copper.’
‘Please, sit down,’ she said, offering him the ancient wooden seat which slid open to hide the salt from the tax collector. When he showed reluctance, she reassured him that she would rather it be used than looked at. While she was washing her hands, the man from the council apologized again for disturbing her.
‘On the contrary,’ said Émilie Fraisse. ‘It’s nice to have some company. Not many people stop by as they’re too horrified by the scandalous ramparts. Now, you must be thirsty. What can I get you to drink? A glass of rosé, perhaps?’
‘Water would be fine,’ replied Jean-François Lafforest.
After handing him a glass, Émilie Fraisse sat down and asked: ‘How can I help you?’
The man from the council looked at the floor and then at the châtelaine. ‘As you will know, madame, we have been obliged to install a municipal shower in the place du Marché because there is hardly any water in the reservoir and it hasn’t rained for so long. It has been brought to my attention that, according to the ledger outside the cubicle that residents are obliged to fill in, so far you have failed to use it. And if those who have approached me are to be believed, nor does it seem to be simply an oversight because neither have you been seen using it. Now, it is not for me to pry into people’s washing habits, but, as you will be aware from the letter sent to all the inhabitants of Amour-sur-Belle, the taking of baths is strictly forbidden.’ He paused before adding: ‘It embarrasses me to say this, madame, but I will have to inspect your bath.’
For several seconds Émilie Fraisse considered the request and then said: ‘Of course you do. Of course you do. Oh dear me, come this way, you might not like what you see.’
Jean-François Lafforest followed the châtelaine up the stone spiral staircase, her bare feet silent on the steps with the lamentable repairs. They passed along a corridor hung with faded tapestries until they reached a door with an enormous iron handle, which she turned and stood to one side to allow the man from the council to enter. He walked up to the bath, peered inside and started with such violence that he dropped his soft leather briefcase.