My Grape Escape

by Laura Bradbury

  A few days after Gégé became part of our team the three of us finally scraped off the last bit of wallpaper. Franck frowned at the yellowish stained plaster underneath.

  “What can we do next without Paulo? We can’t afford to waste any time.”

  “I can help you dig out the wet plaster,” Gégé offered. “We should do that first before we re-plumb the bathroom and the kitchen.”

  They started in the living room and made huge cavernous holes in the plaster. I grew used to the ‘thunk’ of pick axes and the ‘shlunk’ of wet plaster falling to the ground. I poured over paint chips and plotted out the paint colors we would use once the now hideous walls were made pristine.

  I was contemplating a marvellous shade of poppy when the phone rang. I heard Franck pick it up and from his hesitation and then formal use of “vous”, I knew it wasn’t any of his family or friends. I hurried into the living room and tried not to notice the swiftly multiplying craters in the walls.

  “Is it le cadastre?” I mouthed to Franck, bouncing on my toes.

  Franck’s lips pressed into a thin line and he shook his head. “Tonight?” he said in the speaker. “Yes, that would be just fine. How about seven?” He nodded and then hung up the phone.

  “Alors? Who was it?”

  “It was for the furniture.” Franck tossed his pick-axe down with a clatter. “The seller’s children didn’t forget. They’ve just been busy. They’ll be coming by tonight to arrange the move.”

  I slumped down on a chair. “Zut.”

  Gégé had come back up from the cellar where he had dumped off another load of wet plaster. His brown eyes shifted from Franck to me and back again.

  “Does this mean you already know about the snakes?” he demanded.

  Snakes?” Franck and I both echoed.

  “In the cellar.” Gégé gingerly lifted up Franck’s pick-axe from the table and transferred it to the chimney ledge on the far side of the room. “A nest of them.”

  “What kind of snakes?” Franck asked, quietly and almost menacingly. I knew how he felt. Gégé was only the messenger, but I simply felt like I couldn’t take one more shred of bad news.

  “Les couleuvres,” Gégé said. “At least they’re not poisonous like vipers. But if you didn’t know about them, why do you both look like you’ve just smelled an Époisses cheese?”

  That got a smile out of me. Even Franck’s lips twitched. “That was one of the children of the previous owner on the phone. They’re coming tonight to arrange picking up all our furniture.”

  “Their furniture,” Gégé noted.

  Franck and I glowered at him. He laughed. “That is a problem, but not one you can do much about. You should have negotiated to buy all the furniture when you bought the house.”

  Gégé had a gift for giving sterling advice when it was far too late to act upon it.

  “Well, we didn’t,” Franck said. “Where exactly are the snakes anyway?”

  “I didn’t get close enough to count and just for the record I won’t be going down to the cellar unless you do something about them. I am terrified of snakes.” Rather than being embarrassed about what many people would consider a weakness, Gégé straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin in pride at this fact.

  “I’ll go down to the cellar.” Franck’s eyes were dancing now. “I imagine I can get rid of the nest too, although I’ve never actually done that before.”

  “Olivier got rid of one last year,” Gégé said. “We should go to him for advice.”

  I checked the time. It was five o’clock. “OK, but we have to be back here by seven.”

  “Perfect.” Gégé shrugged on his camouflage jacket. “We’ll just be in time for l’apéritif.”

  Olivier welcomed us warmly. Within five minutes of being ushered through his doorway I was happily ensconced in front of the fire sipping a kir, almost grateful to the snakes. I needed a bit of a respite before our furniture was whisked away from underneath us. I listened with only half an ear to the conversation between the three men.

  “They looked big,” Gégé was insisting with regard to the new denizens of our cellar.

  Olivier guffawed. “I’m sure they were only the babies. The parents like to hide their nests in the pipes.”

  Gégé blanched.

  “I’ll get them out for you if you find any when you’re doing the plumbing.”

  “Your hands are too big. Laura will have to do it.”

  I snapped to attention. “Excuse me?”

  Olivier looked shocked, as though he had forgotten I was there, and leapt up to freshen my drink which to my surprise I had almost finished already. “Chances are you won’t find any in the pipes, Laura. Gégé surely scared them away with his little girl screams.”

  Gégé brushed a cobweb off his work jumper. “They took me by surprise.”

  I smiled. “Don’t forget to tell us when it’s six thirty,” I reminded Olivier, and took a few more sips of my kir. Fat flakes of snow had begun to drift past Olivier’s window. I shut my eyes for just a moment.

  I was woken by Franck shaking me.

  “We’re late!” he grasped me under the armpits and pulled me up. “Why weren’t you watching the time? You always watch the time.”

  “I asked Olivier…” I began, but then caught sight of several empty bottles on the table and the well-used tarot cards hastily laid down. Franck was swaying; he held me as though we were waltzing. Olivier blinked mistily at me.

  “You’re all drunk!”

  Gégé attempted to stand up, then collapsed on his chair again. “That may be why my legs won’t work.”

  “What time is it anyway?”

  Gégé peered down at his watch. “Twenty to eight.”

  Franck swore explosively and dragged me out of the house.

  I shivered in the cold. The snow was still coming down in fat clumps and it was impossible to make out where the road had been.

  “Our car can’t drive in this,” Franck stated the obvious.

  “As if you should be driving anyway!” I said. Just then Dominique’s car crept along the snow towards us and the window opened.

  Franck waved at her. “How are the roads?” he asked.

  “What roads?” she said. “You can’t see them anymore.”

  “Can we get a drive to Magny?” Franck asked. “We’re really late and - ”

  “Get in!” She waved towards the back seat. “It’s getting worse by the second.”

  “Maybe they’re late too,” I surmised, looking out at the white drifts outside the car window.

  “Come to think of it, I’m sure they didn’t even set out at all,” Franck hiccupped. “I mean, look at it out there!” He began to nuzzle my neck in the back seat while I prayed – to the Virgin Mary, Jesus, God, Franck’s guardian angels or anyone else who would listen - that the seller’s children had decided not to come.

  Dominique dropped us off in front of the church and I half dragged, half pushed my very merry husband under the stone archway of our house. A car with fogged up windows and several people inside was parked at the bottom of our steps. Judging from the thick layer of snow on the car roof they had been waiting for us for quite some time already. This time anyway, my prayers hadn’t been answered.

  Our arriving over an hour late was not a propitious start to the negotiations. I had been hoping to sweet talk them into selling us the pieces of furniture I loved - like the kitchen buffet, the pine table, the rosewood bedside table with the marble top - for a cheap price.

  “They’re going to be furious.” I peered through the driving snow as we trudged towards their car.

  “I forgot to tell you,” Franck said, his voice pregnant with humor. “We will probably need their attestation when we are finally able to meet with the surveyor.”

  “Attesting to what?”

  “That our neighbour doesn’t own half of our house.” I could make out some pinched faces inside the steamed-up car now.

  “I can’t believe
you drank so much,” I began. “I can’t believe you didn’t - ”

  “Let’s divide and conquer.” Franck shut me up with a kiss, dropped the clutch of keys in my hand and pushed me towards the stairs. “Remember what Réné said about not confusing what is urgent with what is truly important. Go and open the door and turn on the lights.”

  I took the snowy stairs two at a time, unlocked the doors in record time and turned on every light switch within reach. Before I knew it, Franck had ushered our visitors, three men and a tall, angular woman, out of their car and was jollying them up the stairs. In the front hall he divested them of their jackets and scarves before they could so much as utter a protest. He apologized charmingly for our retard and explained that we had been discussing with our plumber the best way to remove snakes from pipes over a few kir.

  The shortest man sniffed. “We were just about to leave.”

  Franck tutted at this and shepherded them into the living room. “That would have been a shame as I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of offering you a drink. Kir?” He found chairs for everyone and beckoned them to take a seat.

  Franck’s Burgundian charm, even turned up to full wattage, slid off our guests like eggs on Teflon. They sat silently and surveyed the room with pained expressions. I followed their eyes. Ah yes, the holes in the wall. Preoccupied with the snakes in our cellar, I had momentarily forgotten about those.

  The tallest man nodded curtly. “Kir would be fine but we will not be staying long.”

  “The weather is dreadful,” Franck agreed, but the man stared at him as if to drive home the point that the weather was not the reason for their speedy departure.

  Franck waved me to the table. “Laura, you sit down with our guests. I’ll get the glasses.”

  I cursed Franck under my breath but took my seat. The silence around the table was full of reproach. I meticulously arranged my jacket across the back of my chair.

  “I’m so sorry for the wait,” I said, finally. “We have at last found someone to help us with the renovations and so we have to go where he wants us to go. There is just so much to do here.”

  The shortest man, who also sported an impressively florid nose, sniffed around the room. “What needs renovating? This house is” - his lips curled back as he surveyed the pock-marked walls - “or rather, was in pristine condition.”

  I followed his affronted gaze around the peeling flower-explosion wallpaper and the cracked plaster of the ceiling.

  “I guess renovations isn’t the right word.” I made an apologetic gesture with my hand. “My French, you know…”

  Franck swept into the room carrying a tray laden with bottles and six glasses. I was impressed despite myself that he could do it so steadily with all that cassis and white wine flowing through his veins. “A bit of freshening up, c’est tout!” he finished for me.

  The woman, a sinewy, nervous sort, began to blink furiously. Her eyes became shiny and worked their way over every inch of the room. “I so loved coming here. We’d wake up in the morning to the sound of the bells and then have our bowls of chicory in the kitchen. The house still has the same smell.”

  Mothballs and burning rubber? I wanted to ask.

  “I love the bells too,” I said, instead. “Whenever I wake up in the middle of the night or in the early morning I can tell what time it is without ever having to look at the clock. They don’t have church bells like that in Canada.”

  They all turned to me, interested despite themselves. “Vraiment? No bells? What is on the churches then?”

  “It’s true.” Franck picked up the gauntlet and in an amazing feat of multi-tasking, proceeded to pour them drinks and pass them out while regaling them with the confounding state of religion in Canada, where even “cults” – as the French considered Jehovah’s Witnesses and Scientologists – could have their church anywhere they pleased – even beside a real (meaning Catholic) church. There was much marveling over this, and several times I was called upon to confirm that Franck wasn’t merely pulling their leg.

  “If you have never been to North America, especially the West Coast, I think it is difficult for you to understand how very new everything is,” I said. “That’s why I love your mother’s house so much.”

  The shortest man looked like he was near tears now. “My mother lived here during the war, you know. My father was a prisoner in Germany for two years. There are probably letters from him up in the attic. A German soldier had to be billeted here with us. Of course, he took the best bedroom, the one that looks out onto the church. She put up with him though. She put up with so much, and now to think…”

  Two large, round tears rolled down his cheeks. His sister reached across the table and grabbed his hand. “We didn’t have any choice,” she said in a faint voice.

  “She never wanted to leave this house! She always said so!”

  “She couldn’t take care of herself anymore,” the sister’s husband intervened, sounding exasperated. “It was becoming dangerous. She was going to burn the whole village down with those damn cigarillos of hers.”

  “It must have been a very difficult decision for you to make,” I said.

  “It’s not like they threw her out in the street!” The husband rolled his eyes. “She’s in a lovely retirement home in the South. I can only dream that my children will pay for me to go and live in Uzès! I would eat olives and drink Pastis all day long. Trust me – your mother is surely doing exactly the same and not weeping and wailing over her sort. She’s far from stupid, although she is gifted at riddling her children with guilt.”

  The taller brother waved away the brewing argument. “We need to figure out who wants what. I want these chairs.” He pointed at the coloured cane chairs that he was perched upon and then looked around the room. “Not much else.”

  “They go nicely with the buffet.” I gestured up to the object of my nightmares.

  “Oui, I suppose they do.” My heart rose with hope. “Maman always loved that buffet. She would spend hours polishing it. My ceilings, hélas, are just too low. It is very valuable, I’m sure, but someone else will have to take it.” He rubbed his chin as his eyes travelled up the expanse of dark wood. “It goes perfectly in this room. It would be a shame to move it anywhere else.”

  “I agree,” the woman said. “It would never fit in my little house. Besides, Patrice has a bad back.” Her husband made a show of reaching back and rubbing his spine with a grimace. I didn’t miss, however, the relief in his eyes.

  The shortest brother stood up and ran a delicate finger down the fat barleycorn corkscrews of wood. “Do you remember mother polishing this? She always said it was the kind of furniture that was made for aristocrats. She said it made her feel like a duchesse.”

  “You want it?” his older brother asked.

  “Of course…”

  “Franck could help you move it,” I jumped in, avoiding Franck’s eyes. “His back is exceptionally strong.”

  “Of course I would take it if I could,” the short brother continued, “but it might frighten my cat. Robert is right. It goes so well in this room. It belongs here.”

  The four of them smiled benevolently at Franck and me. A hook of guilt caught inside my chest. I cleared my throat and tried to ignore the weight of Franck’s foot coming down on mine. What I was about to say went against all of Franck’s deeply held Burgundian precepts of gratitude and hospitality, but I had to say it nonetheless.

  “I don’t like the buffet.” Four sets of eyes widened in amazement. Franck’s were telegraphing me desperately to backtrack while I still could. “I don’t think I would keep it, even if you left it here. I would probably sell it to a brocante.”

  “Mais…pourquoi?” The woman demanded, getting teary again. “It is so very élégante.”

  They waited for my answer. Franck took advantage to do the only thing that was left for him to do now that I had desecrated the ambiance. He poured everyone another kir.

  I shrugged. “I suppose one can’t explai
n tastes.”

  “Non,” agreed the eldest brother, eyeing me with patent dislike.

  “I really think one of you should take it,” I insisted.

  This was followed by a babble of protests. As much as they all professed their undying love for the buffet, none of them seemed to carry that love so far as to welcome the monstrosity into their own abode.

  Franck cast me a dirty look as he finished pouring the kir. “I won’t lie to you,” he said, to them. “We do need some furniture to get started. We don’t really have anything of our own, not even a bed.”

  “Not even a bed!” the woman exclaimed to Franck, ignoring me. “Mais alors! We cannot take your bed!”

  With this the eldest brother hauled himself up to his feet. “I suppose we should look around at what’s here. Where should we start?”

  Franck led all of us into the far bedroom – the one with the window that looked onto the church and the neighbors’ boisterous roosters and ever-pecking chickens – the bedroom that the German soldier had picked out for himself.

  The beds in here had been removed. All that remained was the prim little wooden bedside table with a marble top. “One bedside table.” The eldest brother scribbled down on a pad of paper he had extracted from somewhere.

  The inner bedroom was next, the one that led out onto the veranda. There was an old bed frame here, with a rose carved in the wood but no mattress on the bed.

  “My mother insisted on taking that mattress to Uzès with her,” the younger brother explained, apologetic. “It must have dated back to the war, perhaps even the first one. I know for a fact it was stuffed with dusty old horsehairs. She insisted she could sleep on nothing else.”

  Then we continued into the kitchen, which was furnished with a rudimentary oven and fridge, as well as the battered kitchen table that I quite adored, and the charming kitchen buffet. It had been varnished with some horrendous faux-wood sticky stuff but I was sure clear pine was underneath. Contrary to the beast in the living room, I had loved the kitchen buffet from the moment I set eyes on it. I held my breath. It was a far easier piece of furniture to move than the living room buffet. Which one of them would claim it?