Ma Folie Française (My French Folly)

by Marisa Raoul

  I’m glad Jean gets a kick out of my heavier than average bust, because at this very moment, I was wishing them to the plastic surgeon’s scalpel.

  ‘How are they?’ she called from behind the curtain. My moment of shameful truth had arrived.

  ‘They don’t quite fit, I’m afraid,’ I admitted self-consciously.

  ‘Très bien. Perhaps you need the size down from zat?’ she inquired, grinning hopefully.

  ‘No Madame. I’m afraid I require the size above. You don’t have an E cup, I suppose?’

  ‘Mon Dieu! Oh… pardon Madame,’ she apologised, ‘I can hardly believe you need an E cup. Surely not?’

  ‘Oui Madame,’ I replied, now a little annoyed. It wasn’t my fault if the French bras were skimpier than the ones back home. I’d never needed an E cup before and my breasts hadn’t grown due to the pure, French country air.

  ‘I’ll see what I can find,’ she said, rushing off into the depths of the storeroom where outlandish sizes for hefty busted foreigners were concealed from general viewing.

  ‘What’s happening?’ whispered Liz from behind the curtain.

  ‘I need an E here. Can you believe that?’ I laughed from behind the relative safety of the satin drop.

  ‘Goodness’ she exclaimed. ‘I bet they don’t stock many of those!’ she laughed in return.

  ‘I think I’ve sent Madame into a spin. It’s obviously a first,’ I whispered, realising that the grey-haired gentleman in the velvet armchair, seemed desperate to eavesdrop on our conversation.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Liz said quietly, stepping back into the store as Madame returned to the scene.

  ‘I have found two E size garments for you Madame. I hope they fit,’ she exclaimed in desperation.

  ‘Me too!’

  When I eventually exited the fitting room, bras in hand, a tangible air of expectancy hovered throughout the entire boutique. Madame, who was busily processing the French lady’s purchases, dropped her workload immediately, checking my facial expression. The nosey, grey haired husband and his elegant, petit wife both glanced my way.

  I smiled reassuringly as I approached the sales desk, though my stomach churned with discomfort. I stood to one side, waiting my turn, whilst chatting quietly with Liz. It was then, that I noticed something hilariously funny take place.

  I jiggled my elbow gently at Liz’s ribs to gain her attention. The gentleman, who now stood beside his wife at the counter, was busy eyeing her purchases of sexy, triple A brassieres, whilst fingering their silky texture. I could only imagine the vision he had conjured in his mind’s eye, the dirty old man. Suddenly he noticed the two bras I had placed, on the far end of the glass counter. His eyes shot to and fro, from the miniature morsels of fabric before him, to the giant, melon-catapulting weapons at my end. His hands jittered as they mentally sized up the triple A cups, and then simultaneously compared their size, to my generous purchases. After several stolen glances, he gazed at me, his eyes twinkling then smiled widely. Admiration? Wonderment? Dare I say … titillation? I could hardly control my amusement and as soon as the couple were out of sight, Liz and I doubled over in hilarious abandon.

  ‘Iz everything all right, Madame?’ the sales lady asked quite bewildered.

  ‘Absolutely perfect,’ I giggled, handing over my credit card for the final shock.

  ‘Bien. Merci beaucoup Madame. I’m glad you eventually found what you needed. That comes to a total of 800 Francs,’ she smiled.

  Holy cow! I’m really paying for every last centimetre of fabric, aren’t I? I swore under my breath.

  Madame, still flustered by my dubious demeanour remained silent.

  ‘Merci beaucoup!’ I replied, taking my receipt and card. ‘Au revoir,’ I called, as I stepped into the fresh air of the city streets, Liz hot on my heels.

  ‘Can you believe that? That cheeky sod was comparing hand fulls. From triple A pinches to E size arm-fulls.’

  We laughed so loudly that several passing shoppers stopped to see what all the fuss was about. I dragged Liz by the sleeve giggling, as we stumbled up the cobbled passage towards Place de L’Eglise.

  ‘Poor sod really,’ I declared sarcastically, ‘probably never imagined you could get so much more for your money. I mean her tiny little bits of lace were probably twice the price of mine and he gets a lot less to play with.’

  ‘Stop it or I’ll wet myself,’ Liz giggled. ‘I haven’t had this much fun in ages.’

  ‘You need to come out with me more often,’ I replied grinning.

  ‘I need a strong coffee,’ she said. ‘My shout.’

  ‘You’re on,’ I replied. ‘I couldn’t afford one anyway, after those bras.’

  We enjoyed recounting our delirious shopping adventure to Jean and Albert that evening, who both found the entire incident extremely amusing. We all laughed so hard, I thought my sides would split, but I couldn’t afford to let that happen while I was wearing such expensive lingerie, now could I?

  CHAPTER 9

  Tales from the Hills

  ‘Salut Marisa! Are you doing anything zis afternoon?’ asked Thibault, the moment I opened the front door, before grabbing me for the customary double-cheek kiss.

  ‘I don’t think so Thibault. Did you have something particular in mind?’ I asked, eager to see what this flirtatious Frenchman had in store, as I led him into the dining room.

  ‘Ah! Salut Jean,’ he said, grabbing at Jean’s hand. ‘I was just about to tell Marisa, zere’s zis great place in a tiny village, about an hour’s drive from here. I waz planning on taking a ride up zere wiz a couple of friends and I’d really like you to come.’

  ‘What’s so special about this place?’ Jean asked.

  ‘Bien … well … it’s like travelling back in time. Zere’s a café zere owned by an incredibly eccentric man called Fernand. Believe me, it’s worth ze trip just to meet him. He’s a legend throughout the entire Limousin.’

  ‘If you say so, Thibault. We’d love to go, wouldn’t we Jean?’

  ‘Oui … yes, of course. Anything for a laugh and a bit of fresh air.’

  ‘Great! Zen we will meet chez “Lacoste” at two, and go from zere, okay?’

  ‘Okay! A deux heures.’

  Thibault departed in his usual energetic fashion, leaving Jean and I slightly perplexed. How could a café in a tiny village, lost on the Plateau de Millevaches* (Plateau of One Thousand Springs), be of so much interest? We knew Thibault loved pulling stunts and feared this afternoon could well be one of his spectacular, practical jokes in the making.

  ‘Do you think Thibault was having us on?’

  ‘How should I know?’ replied Jean, shrugging his shoulders. ‘He always seems to be up to something, but look … we have nothing else planned this afternoon, so even if it’s a joke, we have nothing to lose but a few hours. A change of scenery will do us good and the MG could do with an airing. Let’s just go.’

  ‘Okay.’

  An hour later, we made our way to Lacoste’s, the local riverside café, rugged up and ready for our mountain adventure.

  ‘Salut!’ cried Gilberto, a happy-go-lucky Nigerian boy who had been raised in the village at the Centre Claude Pompidou and was now one of Thibault’s regular playmates. He was as black as coal and his generous smile shone with a quasi-phosphorescent glow.

  ‘Salut Gilberto! Ca va?’ we replied in unison, leaning from the doors of our shiny, red MG.

  ‘Extra. (Fantastic)’ he replied, whilst shaking Jean’s hand and bending to kiss me on both cheeks. ‘Alors … we are off to see ze famous Fernand and you have let out your little, red beast for zis special occasion.’

  ‘We sure have,’ I replied, patting her gleaming paintwork affectionately… By the way Gilberto, have you ever met this famous Fernand?

  ‘Non … but I can’t wait. He iz a legend around here and Thibault has told me so many funny stories about him.’

  ‘Okay … are we all ready?’ called Thibault, leaning from the window of his s
porty, black Renault as he pulled along side.

  ‘Allez … let’s go,’ shouted Gilberto, as he sprinted towards his vehicle. ‘See you zere Marisa.’

  ‘Bien,’ called Thibault. ‘Let’s get ze show on ze road, as you people say.’

  As our modern day cavalcade departed, one shiny sports car after another, our friend Pierre Lacoste, stood twisting his luxurious moustache between his thick fingers, a knowing smirk hovering above his stubbly chin. Following Thibault through the mountain roads, proved more difficult than we had anticipated. He drove like a maniac. No, I’m serious this time … the French have a reputation for driving well beyond any allocated speed limit, but Thibault drove like he was playing Russian roulette … for keeps.

  ‘My God, Jean … we’ll never keep up at this rate. Is he insane?’

  ‘Non, Chérie … he is just so used to the roads. He’s been driving on them all his life. He’s a great driver actually.’

  ‘You would say that … you men are all the same … how could you possibly say he is safe, when is driving up the middle of the road like that? Now look … he’s waving to all the passing cars as if he knows them all.’

  ‘He probably does,’ Jean chuckled. ‘Remember this is Corrèze; the population here, isn’t that big.’

  ‘True. Though I can hardly believe he knows everyone. Look at him waving like a raving lunatic,’ I smiled, shaking my head.

  We passed through hamlets and lieu dit of such miniscule proportions, you could barely imagine the presence of modern day man surviving in such places. The odd waft of smoke rising from a crumpled granite chimneystack seemed to be the only visible sign of human existence.

  ‘Can you believe people still live out here? This is what I call the quiet life.’

  ‘You can say that again … and they are probably living in exactly the same way that their ancestors did. I bet some of these houses don’t even have electricity. You know, I’ve heard stories of people living out here who don’t even realise that World War 2 is over or that we won.’

  ‘Unbelievable. In such a technologically advanced country, you’d never suspect it.’

  As Thibault continued on his merry, albeit homicidal way, Jean and I did all we could to keep up, while still enjoying the magical scenery. We had never travelled on such remote roads in France and the journey was proving visually unforgettable. These were ‘wild boar’-filled hills, rugged untouched slopes where ancient, pristine forest engulfed remote outposts of humanity.

  After we had passed an innocuous sign for Faux la Montagne our vehicular parade came to a grinding halt. This town wasn’t sleeping: it was comatose.

  We slipped from our vehicles, keen to rendezvous with Thibault for an update on our expedition.

  ‘Is this it?’ I queried, seriously doubting the existence of a functioning café in such a dull and dingy village.

  ‘Zis iz it!’ he exclaimed joyously. ‘Izn’t it wonderful?’

  ‘It’s probably the most morose place I’ve ever been to,’ I answered, sending Thibault and the others into fits of laughter. ‘I was right. This is a joke!’

  ‘A joke? Not at all Marisa. Zis is a great place. Almost heritage listed. Just wait and see.’

  ‘You’re having us on, Thibault … for once I agree with Marisa,’ added Jean.

  ‘Have faith, mes amis (my friends). I promise you, this will be a day to remember.’

  We all looked at each other in disbelief. Thibault, however, smiled broadly, melting the pessimist within me and sending me into a fit of giggles.

  ‘You’re a conundrum, Thibault! Okay, bring on the famous Fernand … that was the purpose of our journey, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Bien sûr. (Of course) Look … ze café is just over zere,’ he said, pointing towards the dirty, derelict façade of a 19th century dwelling. If he hadn’t pointed it out as our final destination, I would have rightfully mistaken it as a condemned building. Its woeful remains sung of prior beauty but its current state reeked of abandon and neglect.

  ‘That’s it? That’s what we’ve come all this way to see?’

  ‘Eh…Oui! C’est super, nest-ce pas? (Oh…yes! It’s great isn’t it?)’

  ‘Super! You are pulling my leg?’ I cried.

  ‘Marisa … I never touched you. I did not pull your leg,’ Thibault replied aghast.

  ‘Sorry Thibault … it’s just a term of speech … I meant that you were really and truly joking this time.’

  ‘Mais non … I don’t joke!’, he replied miffed.

  ‘Okay… so this is it,’ Jean replied, ‘so what’s next?’

  ‘Ah ha! That’s the good part … follow me,’ he replied grinning, as he strode towards the filthy front entrance of the now, obviously condemnable building.

  It was difficult to see through the tea coloured windowpanes, as they were taped up with mould-eaten newspapers. Thibault struggled to open the entrance door with its rusty, antique handle. It eventually gave way with an atrocious creak and grind. The stained, linoleum floors were sticky underfoot, covered with a thick blanket of food crumbs and age-old grime. There was that putrid stench of imbedded tobacco fumes mixed with the smell of stale beer and acrid, spilt wine.

  ‘C’est dégueulasse. (This place is disgusting),’ I whispered, unsure of whom might be lurking in the corners. ‘The health inspector hasn’t been in here for a while.’

  ‘It’s original … to say the least,’ replied Jean, holding me firmly by the hand.

  ‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone in … perhaps we should leave,’ I suggested, turning to Thibault.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry … he won’t be far. He’s probably asleep or in ze bathroom.’

  ‘Bathroom? Yuk! … I hate to think what might be lurking in there. Remind me not to go,’ I giggled, winking at Jean.

  ‘Regardez,’ pointed Thibault, ‘take a good look around you.’

  Realising we were quite alone and free to wander at no risk, we began to take in our lugubrious surroundings with a burgeoning interest. In every fathomable spare inch of floor space, were pile upon pile of yellowed, rotting newspapers.

  ‘I bet you’ll find some interesting reading in zose,’ Gilberto laughed. ‘Look zis one dates to 1954.’

  Everything was soiled. No cloth or detergent of any description had touched these surfaces in decades. It was, in effect, a time capsule of sorts, though not a very alluring one.

  ‘Take a look at zis,’ called Thibault from the adjoining room.

  ‘What? Why does he have two televisions, one on top of the other?’

  ‘Zat’s a good question Marisa, but the answer is simple. Many years ago, his first television lost its sound, so eventually he had to buy a second one. Zat one eventually burnt its tube, so it lost its picture. Consequently, by putting one on top of ze other, he has both picture and sound. Perfect, non?’

  ‘My God…that’s incredible.’

  ‘I told you he was a character.’

  ‘Alors les jeunes … vous allez bien?’ (So young ones … how’s it going?)’ came a husky, sallow voice from behind the bar.

  ‘Mon dieu! (My God!) You nearly scared us half to death. Salut ‘Fernand. Ca va?’ replied a startled but jubilant Thibault.

  We all turned to gaze upon the legendary Fernand of Faux La Montagne. Unfortunately, I have to report that he was almost as soiled as his café and he reeked of alcohol and Gitanes. Apart from that, he was remarkably bright eyed and surprisingly articulate. I began to understand what Thibault was taking about. This man was a story, waiting to be told.

  ‘Vous voulez boire quelques chose? (Would you like something to drink?)’ he asked, nodding his head in our general direction.

  ‘D’accord … okay … Une bierre pour moi (A beer for me) … Marisa what would you like to drink? I would suggest something simple, if you know what I mean?’ Thibault said.

  ‘Bien sûr, un vin rouge, s’il vous plait. (A red wine, please)’

  ‘Moi pareil. (The same for me)’ added Jean.

&nb
sp; ‘Bierre, pour moi… et moi aussi,’ the others chimed.

  Having all ordered wine or beer, as that seemed the easiest thing to do; we awaited Gilberto, who hadn’t quite decided, considering he didn’t usually drink alcohol.

  ‘Gilberto, what are you going to drink?’ I asked.

  ‘Un Orangina* Merci.’

  ‘Orangina … orangina? Ah Oui, I zink I remember what zat is. I’ll have to look in ze cellar.’ And with that, Fernand disappeared into the musty depths of his underground cellar.

  ‘You should have asked for somezing else, Gilberto … Putaing de Merde … he’ll never find an orangina down zere,’ said Thibault, stifling a laugh, ‘and if he does, it won’t be fit for human consumption.’

  ‘Merde! I never thought of zat. What will I do?’ cried Gilberto.

  ‘Just wait and see.’

  Fernand was gone at least ten minutes and having decided that he had probably passed out, we were about to venture into the depths of the ‘cave’ ourselves, when we heard his raspy breath rise from the wooden steps.

  ‘O, putaing!’ he laughed, gasping for breath. ‘J’ai trouvé, mon dieu! I found one! (Oh, ****, I found one, good God!)’

  We gasped in horror at the cloudy, yellow substance that filled the dusty, bulbous bottle, he held proudly before us. A thick, pulp-like substance sat at the bottle’s base, whilst the rest of the bottle was filled with some insipid, milky liquid.

  ‘I knew I had one somewhere,’ he announced triumphant.

  ‘It’s a strange colour, don’t you think?’ I questioned.

  ‘Non … non … il faut secouer. You must shake it,’ he insisted, handing the bottle to a horrified Gilberto.

  ‘It’s funny. I thought zey stopped making zem in zat shape bottle years ago,’ added Thibault.

  ‘Don’t drink it,’ I whispered in Gilberto’s ear, ‘it’s likely to poison you.’

  ‘Zey usually sell zem in cans zese days,’ Thibault added.