Mémé made me press a vinegar compress against my foot for a good hour after getting back to chez Franck. The pain subsided gradually, leaving the more painful contemplation of what such an omen meant - and it would take more imagination than I possessed to believe it a good one.
Chapter 5
The wasp sting had not only made my foot swell up and itch like the diable, but it had split my brain in two. On one hand, I was desperate to cling to the belief that any problems with the Marey property would magically work themselves out with the assistance of Franck’s guardian angels and the Virgin Mary. Each throb of my foot, however, reminded me of all the things Franck had pointed out to the realtor – the warped roof, the grotty wallpaper, not to mention the need to rewire the entire house. The money we had to put as a deposit on the house was finite. Neither Franck nor I had a job or really any prospects of one.
Franck, on the other hand, had no problem believing in only the good omens and discarding the bad. He had already moved us to Marey in his mind.
“We could do a B&B, or a chambres-d’hôtes!” he said, handing me a freshly soaked vinegar cloth. “I’ll set up that little room for you in the grange and you can write fabulous articles and pourquoi pas a novel?”
I longed to be swept away with Franck and his plans but my burning foot tethered me to the ground.
“What if the property is so cheap because it’s defective?”
The idea had obviously not occurred to him. “Defective? How could that be?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never bought a house before. Terrible neighbours could be another possibility.”
“The neighbour is Victor’s brother. I grew up with him. He and his wife are charmants. They make honey for a living.”
I thought for a few seconds more. “What if there are Roman ruins under the ground?”
Franck went pale at this, as I suspected he would. When Franck was just a small boy his grandfather had found some Roman coins while tilling his vineyards. He gave them to Franck on the condition that Franck was sworn to secrecy. Finding Roman artefacts or ruins was a real problem in Burgundy. If word got out, the government and the archaeologists would get involved and the upshot would be the expropriation of land - a thing to be avoided at all costs.
“I know my dad always has properties inspected before offering to purchase anything,” I said to Franck who was still drawing his brows together over the Roman ruins scenario. “Do you think we could do that?”
“Maybe,” Franck conceded. “But I have no idea how to go about it.” His family didn’t know any more than we did. Franck’s parents had inherited their house from Michèle’s father, who had inherited it from his mother, who had inherited it from her family and so on and so forth back through the centuries. Like many villagers, they had never bought or sold a house in their lives.
We spent the next few hours searching for property inspection companies in the pages jaunes only to find that like so many surprising things (peanut butter and money orders and until recently, dental floss), they simply did not seem to exist in France.
“How can that be?” I limped around the garden, the pea gravel crunching under my flip flops. “There must be somebody that people can turn to here to check out a place – someone they can trust.”
Franck snapped his fingers. “Notaires!”
“What?”
“Of course there aren’t any property inspectors here. Everyone would just ask their notary to do it.”
I flopped down on the step beside Franck. “You’re right. That has to be it.”
Notaires were as essential to life in rural France as country doctors like Le Père Dupont. Families seemed to inherit one from their ancestors and the family notaire basically possessed a huge file (or files) of paperwork pertaining to their lives: birth certificates, marriage certificates, the buying and selling of vineyards and houses and more. The files of some Burgundian families spanned back to the 1600s.
My first and only exposure to Franck’s family notary – the incompetent Maître Lefebvre – was not felicitous. He was a notorious drinker who cared far more for a good Gevrey-Chambertin than doing legal work. The previous summer he had forgotten to get us to fill out several essential forms prior to our wedding. The secretary from Villers-la-Faye’s mayor’s office called us a week after the ceremony to inform us that, despite the copious amounts of wine and champagne that had been consumed as well as that epic croquembouche that had been gobbled up, as far as the French government was concerned we weren’t officially married yet.
“I’ll call Maître Lefebvre’s office.” Franck stood up.
I pulled him back down again. “Not so fast. Remember the shoddy job he did for our wedding?”
This checked him for a moment, but then he shrugged. “But who else could we go to?”
“There have to be other notaries around.”
“But none of them know me or my family. Maître Lefebvre may not be the best notary around, but he’s our notary.”
“He’s an alcoholic.” Franck shrugged as though this was hardly damning enough to justify going elsewhere. “You know, I wonder if Maître Lefebvre has a loose tongue when he drinks?” I continued. “Doesn’t he do work for almost everyone in these villages? Are you sure you could trust him not to blab all about the property, especially after a few bottles at lunchtime?”
Franck fiddled with a stray tendril from the wisteria, troubled now. “No,” he admitted.
“We need to find someone a bit more anonymous,” I pressed my point. “There must be several notaries in Beaune.” I hopped up to retrieve the page jaunes from the house before Franck could change his mind.
I was right – there were almost as many notaries in Beaune as there were winemakers.
We hopped into the Citroën and drove down through the vineyards to Beaune, finding a parking spot in the shadow of the Notre Dame church. We emerged from the car and began to wander towards the rue Paradis to head down to the Place du Marché, and before we could take four steps we spotted a shiny gold notary seal hanging outside a pair of sleek looking glass doors.
“Look at that!” I said to Franck, who looked as thunderstruck as I felt. A notary’s office – and a lovely looking one – right here beside where we had just happened to park our car? I had walked around Notre-Dame hundreds of times and I had never noticed it before. It was as though this notary had materialized out of the ether just for us.
Franck and I hurried over to read the fine print under the golden plaque. Notaires Associés – Maître Ange et Maître Perrot.
“Maître Ange? Maître Angel? You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered to the sky after a few moments of stunned silence. Franck took a step towards the door. It slid open silently to allow us to enter.
The inner sanctum was just as perfect as the outside. At the reception desk sat an impeccably turned out secretary with a gravity-defying chignon. Franck, who had a God-given talent for charming secretaries, went up to her and explained our dilemma with regard to the property. We knew we loved it and we wanted to put an offer on it, but we really felt we needed someone like a notary to assure us we weren’t making a gigantic mistake.
“Bien sûr,” she nodded. “That is most prudent. I’m sure Maître Ange will be available to assist you in a few moments.”
Franck and I exchanged glances. The waiting room - this was surely the place where the fairytale ended. At Maître Lefebvre’s, every visit necessitated a tortuous wait in the purgatory of his airless waiting room filled with sticky, ripped plastic chairs and dog-eared issues of Paris Match from the 1980s. The waits seemed to be meticulously timed to test human endurance. Maître Lefebvre’s clients were always called in to his office just seconds before they were about to give up and leave.
We edged our way toward the modern chairs and glossy magazines that sat opposite the reception, girding ourselves for a long wait, but before we could even sit down a door to the left of the secretary opened. A man with a head of silver hair and a s
harply cut suit ushered us in, shaking our hands warmly and introducing himself as the Maître Ange.
“Pleased to meet you,” Franck and I mumbled, both a bit dazed. To be able to see a notary without waiting…this was a completely novel experience. Franck quickly gathered his wits about him and after we had sat down outlined the problem admirably to Maître Ange.
“And what, may I ask, is the selling price?” Le Maître asked after Franck had given a full description of the property.
Franck and I exchanged a worried glance. Was this the moment of truth when Le Maître would snort and say we had just escaped being horrifically ripped off, or that we were idiots not to have bought it for that price already?
“Two hundred and fifty thousand francs,” Franck answered. I watched Le Maître, but his composed face revealed nothing. He merely rolled his Mont Blanc between his thumb and his forefinger.
“It does seem perhaps a tad on the high side,” he said, non-committal. “Then again, after a long period of stagnation there is renewed interest in these villages and there are a limited number of properties for sale. I believe I must see it before I am able to give you my professional opinion.”
Franck winked at me. This is exactly what we had wanted to happen, but we hadn’t wanted to come right out and say it.
“How would you like to be… ah… remunerated for your time?” Franck asked delicately.
Le Maître clicked the top of his Mont Blanc pen and bestowed a warm smile on us. “Don’t worry about that. We can figure that out later, depending on whether I am able to assist you or not. Now, when shall we arrange for a viewing? I have some availability tomorrow.”
Fifteen minutes later the viewing had been set up and we floated out of the notary’s office, feeling divinely protected now that we had the Angel Maître on our team.
If only life unfolded like this all the time, faith would be a snap.
Chapter 6
The next day, Franck and I found ourselves scuttling back to our hiding spot under the washhouse in Marey. We peered through the round window for a glimpse of either Maître Ange or the realtor.
This time I didn’t roll my eyes or complain. I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone interfering with us buying the property. In bed that morning Franck and I had already decided that if we saw signs that our Maître Ange approved of the place we would make an offer on the spot to the realtor. I pressed my hot forehead against the cool stone. It was all happening so fast.
Maître Ange arrived perfectly on time in a majestic silver Mercedes that somehow seemed to repel the dust that billowed up from the vineyard roads. Franck and I covertly slid out from the washhouse and crossed the road to greet him. His blue eyes scanned the property.
“Alors, this is the place?” he asked.
“Oui,” Franck said. “The two houses you see here and the two granges further down the hill, as well as all the land. It goes all the way down to the vineyards.
Le Maître merely raised his eyebrows and began to walk towards the gate. He unwound the knot of chain and sauntered in as though he owned the place.
“The agent hasn’t arrived yet,” Franck clarified. “Perhaps we should - ”
“I seem to remember you mentioning that the owners had already moved out.” Le Maître smiled at us winningly.
“They have,” Franck said. “But still…I’m not sure if we have the right - ”
“They wouldn’t mind prospective buyers such as us looking around, now would they?”
Franck’s eyes questioned me and I shrugged. I had argued pretty much the same thing when we first visited the property. Still, it felt more like trespassing when it wasn’t my idea.
Le Maître Ange didn’t wait around for us to agree or disagree. He strode on, his shining head of silver hair tilted up so he could take in the vast expanse of stone and roof. Franck and I both waited for a sign from him. Nothing seemed to escape his scrutiny. He remained, however, inscrutable.
A honk came from behind us and Franck and I whipped around. Le Maître turned slowly, with one eyebrow cocked to detect the identity of the culprit who dared interrupt his inspection. The agent lurched out of his dusty car, shedding stray pieces of paper and spouting excuses all the way across the lawn to where we stood.
Franck made the introductions. The real estate agent, taking in the gleaming personage of our notary, was struck speechless. Le Maître rubbed his fingers distastefully after shaking hands with the realtor; the realtor blushed, apologetic rather than offended.
“I take it you don’t sell a lot of properties around here?” Maître Ange demanded.
“Non. This is quite out of my secteur. Quite an unusual set of circumstances, actually - ”
“Très bien,” Le Maître said, neatly nipping what was surely going to be a tedious story in the bud. “I would like to be shown around the property, s’il vous plait.”
Trembling, the realtor led us over to the low house first. Even though I was keeping my eye trained on Maître Ange, I couldn’t help noticing things that I hadn’t noticed before: the huge keyhole in the thick wooden door that led into the kitchen, the marvellous, heavy key to unlock it hanging on the wall by the cooking stove, the smoothness of the wooden banister in the tall house that ran under my palm like silk, not to mention the wild purple clematis growing up towards my little garret up in the far outbuilding. Each new and perfect detail drove home an undeniable fact - my future happiness depended on owning this place.
Maître Ange remained silent during the entire tour, much to our frustration as well as that of the realtor who became more obsequious with every minute that passed. Surely Maître Ange didn’t disapprove, I told myself. How could he possibly object to such a marvellous property at such a bargain price?
“Do you mind if we confer in private for a moment with our notary?” Franck asked the realtor finally, who remembered a pressing need to fetch something from his car.
“Alors?” Franck asked Le Maître as soon as the realtor was out of earshot. “Do you see any problems?”
“Not problems exactement,” Maître Ange smoothed his hair. “The renovation costs will be extensive. I know for a fact that buyers, particularly first time buyers, tend to grossly underestimate them.”
This was surely the truth, especially in our case, but it didn’t change the fact that it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. An old, almost forgotten, tenacity stirred behind my breastbone.
“I understand your concern about the high renovation costs,” I said. “But look at all that property down the hill. If we needed extra money we could subdivide and sell off one or two parcels of land.”
Le Maître’s eyes turned on me with such a patent look of dislike that I took a step backwards. French professionals such as notaries and doctors were not fans of having their revered judgment questioned. Still, I knew what I had just said wasn’t ridiculous. We were beginners, to be sure, but we weren’t idiots. I watched, my stomach sinking, as Le Maître struggled to replace his expression of disgust with one of mere exasperation.
There was someone completely different behind that shiny façade, I realized with shock and that someone wasn’t inspecting the property for us out of the goodness of his heart.
“I’ll have to speak to the agent about that,” he said. “You know, find out about the zoning in this village and so forth.” He made his way quickly over to the agent, who was still rummaging around the bowels of his car. Le Maître slung his arm around him and pivoted the agent so they were moving away from us, towards the washing house.
“What’s he doing?” I hissed to Franck.
“I don’t know, but I don’t like it.”
Our angel now felt more like Lucifer in disguise. We had to act fast. We had to get this house. I grabbed Franck’s arm. “Let’s go ahead and make our offer.”
Franck narrowed his eyes at the scheming going on a few feet away. “Oui.”
“For the asking price?” I said. It wasn’t really a question. Franck nodded. Le Maître lean
ed down and began to whisper into the agent’s ear while moving him even farther away from us.
“Tout de suite,” Franck added. We moved quickly to break up the worrisome tête à tête.
As we neared them, snippets of the promises Le Maître was pouring into our realtor’s ear floated over to us. “Already have clients lined up. Switzerland. More than the asking price…just what they are looking for…cut for you…”
My fingers balled into fists.
Franck cleared his throat. The agent jumped.
“We are ready to make an offer,” Franck informed him. The agent’s face was bright red and, in stark contrast to Le Maître’s belligerent countenance, sporting a sheepish expression.
“Quoi?” he spluttered.
“We want to make an offer. Now.” Franck fixed the pair of them with his famed oeil noir, or “black look”. “Our offer will match the asking price.”
“It will have a time limit of twenty-four hours,” I added with an arch look at Le Maître. I wasn’t sure why that stipulation had popped into my head, but there was no time to ponder that now.
Le Maître tried to stare me down. “As your advisor, I really do not believe - ”
I turned my back to him and smiled at the real estate agent. “Can you please write the offer up?”
Beads of sweat dripped off his earlobes. “Ici? Right now?”
I gave an imperious nod.
Le Maître brushed past me and stalked to his Mercedes. Before he got there, however, he turned and shot our realtor a meaningful look. “Call me.” He sped off in a cloud of dust. The realtor let out a sound of disbelief at the perfidy of his accomplice.
My Grape Escape Page 4