by Sam Juneau
We ordered a car for ourselves, too. Three o’clock arrived and we all climbed in. Bud, Blue, Sam and a load of cats. Our perky convoy headed off like a detail for a very important diplomat or head of state: one black town car and three bright yellow minivans.
We arrived at the airport with plenty of time to spare and pulled up to the freight loading part of the airport. There were boxes and crates and animals and forklifts and containers of every size and shape imaginable. The check-in guy was expecting us. He processed our precious cargo without a hitch. Bud said a somewhat tearful goodbye to her ‘babies’. She felt as a mother might feel sending her sons off to some horrific and unjust war.
‘They’ll be fine,’ I suggested.
‘I know, it’s just hard. I worry about every one of them.’
All I could think was that the collective costs of the gang of 15, from adoption to the current day, could refurbish a large country chateau. I did not share this thought.
We boarded our plane without much ado. The flight was uneventful. Blue threw up twice and breastfed every three minutes for seven hours. I tried to watch the film but thoughts of the house, our new life, the finances, the baby, the cats and my job all flew around my head. Were we doing the right thing? Would it work? How would we afford this if I quit my job? Would we be able to start a business in a foreign country? Could we make ourselves understood in French? Would I be able to communicate with the workmen? These and a million other tiny doubts and concerns collided violently as I drifted in and out of sleep.
Bud asked, ‘How do you think Io is doing? You know, she’s always nervous anyway.’
‘She’s fine. Don’t worry. Io’s a big girl.’
Five minutes later. ‘What about Angus? I still think he’s too big for the carrier.’
‘Angus is fine.’
Seven minutes on. ‘Dana, you know, is basically wild. She might have a heart attack.’
‘Dana has survived this long – in Queens, no less. She will come through.’
So it went for portions of the long, uncomfortable flight. The purity of Bud’s focus was admirable.
The plane landed at about half past eight in the morning. We exited in a fog, cramming bits and pieces of our baby’s life into the back of a flimsy stroller. We passed through passport control and customs with no problems. Bud glanced at me anxiously as we started toward the car hire counter. I knew what was on her mind. I was worried too. What were the consequences of just one dead cat? I shuddered to think.
We asked the sweet lady at the counter about the whereabouts of the fret and the animalerie. She said, ‘It’s simple – just follow the signs for the “fret” once you leave the car park.’
We found our car, which was more like a truck really, with room for ten adult, human passengers. It was white and large and unwieldy but sufficient for our needs. Up to this point, all had gone smoothly. Normally, this is a bad sign but I remained optimistic. We were tired and a bit grouchy. I dreaded, quietly, the three-hour trip down to Bonchamps.
‘I can’t believe this has been so easy,’ I whispered.
We followed the signs for fret in and around and under a myriad of overpasses and roads and side roads and through terminals and out the other side. We arrived in about thirty minutes at a large structure. Painted on the side in officialese font was ‘FRET’. I parked in the vast car park.
‘You wait here. I’ll just go see if this is it.’
I jumped down and entered the building. I stammered in broken French that we had 15 cats en route. Was this the building?
The customs agent with an impossibly enormous moustache said, ‘Non, il faut aller à l’animalerie.’ You must go to the animalerie.
He led me over to a preposterously large map of the entirety of Charles de Gaulle and pointed to a small, unassuming building. ‘This is the animalerie, here.’
Not quite sure where it was in relation to where we were, I started off again in what I hoped was the general direction of our destination. More overpasses and underpasses and roads and terminals and endless lines of prefab buildings. After an hour and a half, I ended up in the same hangar with Monsieur la Moustache. He laughed, took my arm and led me over to the map again.
When I got back in the car Blue was screaming for no apparent reason. Bud was visibly shaken. We had now been off the plane for two and a half hours and still no cats. We were exhausted, dirty. The night’s fitful sleep, the long travel, the fear and preparation for this grand adventure all bore down, crushing my weakened spirit.
‘I cannot believe we cannot find the damned cats. I cannot believe we cannot find the damned cats.’ I repeated this possibly thirty times as I banged my head against the steering wheel. Bud began to cry. Blue cried more and loudly.
Now the recriminations began. Why did we have to bring the cats? Why couldn’t you find homes for these cats? I was certainly not at my best. All of the misgivings and anxieties about our ‘dream’ lay in our laps as we sat paralysed and mad. I could smell the stink off myself as my head rested on my chest.
I spotted a gendarme walking in front of our forlorn truck. I darted out of the driver’s seat and nearly tackled the uncomprehending Frenchman. He was startled but soon saw that I was mentally deficient or at least foreign.
‘Please, do you know where the animalerie is located?’ I asked desperately in a madman’s melange of franglais.
‘Yes, it is just over there. Do you see the roof, just behind that crane?’ And there it was, a corrugated roof in the distance; like so many things longed-for, so close and yet…
I got in the truck without saying a word. We were there in about five minutes. We pulled up and jumped out of the truck, all hope and nervousness. It was about five minutes after noon. The animalerie was closed. I grabbed a workman wandering by with a half-eaten baguette and asked him, where is everybody?
‘At lunch. Until two p.m.,’ he responded, casually, suspiciously.
Of course. France is monolithic when it comes to lunch. All businesses, offices and stores are closed from 12 to 2 p.m. All restaurants are open at the same time. There are and will be no exceptions, ever.
We peered into the small brick building hoping to grab a glimpse of the feline gang. No sign. We stepped back into the truck and chatted idly. Blue was quiet now and we napped briefly.
An official looking man in a white coat and blue work trousers came back at around 2.15 p.m. We greeted him and enquired about the cats. He knew them well by this point. He told us everything was fine. Tout va bien.
‘All the cats are OK. But you must find an “expéditeur” to register these cats,’ the vet said.
‘What do you mean? An expéditeur?’
‘He is a man who verifies all imports into the country.’
‘Where is this man located?’ I asked, about to cry.
‘Do you see that building over there?’
Of course. It was the same building we had now visited a number of times. We made our way, this time more confidently, to our old hang-out, the hangar. I parked the van, hopped out, sensing the closing of a very big deal. And more paperwork.
I found Monsieur la Moustache sitting at his desk chomping a baguette with what appeared to be tuna and brie. I realised how hungry I was.
‘Bonjour, we are back. It seems we must find an expéditeur to register the cats.’ More accurately, ‘Bonjour, back are we. It seems to him they must find an experience to rule the cats.’
‘Eh? Oh, that is me.’ Indeed.
La Moustache searched the intricacies of his maze-like desk. He pulled out a thick dossier. ‘The most important thing is the value. What is the value of the cats?’
‘What do you mean? They are pets. There is no value,’ I argued.
‘Oh, they must have a value. Everything has a value.’
‘I’m telling you, there is no value. They are stray cats found on the streets. They are pets. In fact, they are invaluable.’
‘We cannot process this unless you place a value. Are t
hey special cats? Will you breed these cats?’ He smirked.
‘No. They are all castrated. Castrés. Hold on a minute. I’ll come back.’
I exited the large metal doors and found Bud sitting patiently in the van.
‘Bud, we need to put a value on the cats.’
‘A value? There is no value. They are pets.’ ‘I know, I know. But the guy with the big moustache insists.’
‘Well, make up a number. How’s one thousand francs?’ ‘OK, I will try.’
I re-entered the building filled with dread.
‘How’s one thousand francs?’
‘This is OK. I will do the paperwork. Do you have les dossiers and the letter to the Minister of Agriculture?’
‘Yes, yes.’ I was truly joyful.
La Moustache filled out the paperwork, asked the occasional question and offered me a cup of very good coffee. In the middle of calls, a chat with a co-worker and verification with the Ministry of Agriculture, the EU and the United Nations, our man handed me the dossier for signature.
‘This will be two thousand francs.’ Roughly £200.
‘Why? That is greater than the value of the cats.’
‘There is a base fee and then a percentage of the value.’
By this point, I would have paid almost anything. I signed, paid and sped off to the animalerie.
Bud rushed in and darted from carrier to carrier. Angus had torn his nail and was bleeding a little. Everyone else, a bit shaken but in good health. No casualties. Except possibly for our marriage.
The dutiful vet scanned each cat and looked casually at our brilliantly prepared dossiers. These invaluable documents took a lot of care and attention to prepare. I could have completed a PhD thesis on cat care in the same period of time. He glanced, counted and handed them back.
The vet helped us load the cats into the truck, sniggering, I was sure. The costly pets were stacked somewhat haphazardly one upon the other filling the entire volume of the truck meant for ten adults.
Bud was delighted and our chatting was easy and comfortable. All the pressure and fear of the past 24 hours subsided, replaced by a new giddiness about the final leg of the trip. I pulled out a map and we made our way to the Loire Valley.
It was sunny and mild with a light breeze by the time we reached our destination. The house was illuminated by a brilliant light reflecting off the tuffeau stone. The grandeur of the place stopped us for a moment as we got out of the truck. It was absolutely stunning. Its rows of windows, its height and breadth and width, captivating. The pond was full and fish burst out of the water to send ripples from bank to bank. The ancient trees stood guard in silence surrounding the vastness of this 300-year-old structure.
We sat on enormous, uneven granite steps leading to a glass and oak double door, and bit hungrily into our recent purchases of French bread and pastries.
We looked at each other. We knew now that all the impatience and aggravation and bitterness of the past day was gone. We held unspoken the belief that we have made and would make each other better than we could have been alone. We had, finally, arrived. And so had the cats. Now Dana, Freya, Remus, Po, Honey, Io, Snow, Angus, Cali, Loki, Boru, Tyr, Baldur, Sif and Grainne would settle into full lives befitting the cats of Bud. Vive les chats.
CHAPTER SIX
Unsettled
In our mad rush to get the cats to France, we forgot one very important requirement: a bed. Thirty-five rooms, ten or fifteen bedrooms, but no useable beds. And just two bathrooms. Well, not really bathrooms. Actually, there was one room with a toilet and sink. There was another room with a long row of cheap porcelain shower basins fitted brutally into the floor with no shower curtains or dividers. And one unusual tub, small, quarter-sized, with a steep shelf so that the less mobile can sit somewhat upright and receive a bath.
In 1969, the current owner’s father purchased the house to provide housing for his sister and others like her who were born with what the French call ‘trisomie’, or Down’s syndrome. This grew into a home for some thirty patients funded by the state and administered by a dozen or so workers. It closed in 1997 after something mysterious happened.
We have only heard rumours and whisperings of what occurred. From what we could gather there was a lot of consternation around the closing involving complaints from concerned loved ones and some sort of action taken by the French government. At the same time, funds dwindled and a sale became inevitable. There was more but the details remain murky.
Scattered throughout the chateau were the vestiges of this once charitable but sadly deteriorated venture. Industrialsized kitchen implements, enormous pots and pans, cheap single beds with worn mattresses, the remains of a shower room worthy of a concentration camp, moth-eaten wool blankets and naked bulbs hung from denuded ceilings. The house was empty for four years before our arrival. Plaster bits had fallen here and there revealing old wood laths, or strips, that once secured the plaster. In most rooms large black stains of the dreaded mould shouldered through the offensive wallpaper.
Before we could face the increasingly daunting task of renovating, we had to find a bed. We searched high and low throughout the house for the best mattresses. It was almost impossible to find one without a few springs or lumps of ancient horsehair making its way to the light of day. Finally, we cobbled together three single horsehair mattresses and laid them on the floor in a sunny room in the north wing, next to the communal shower. We were happy to try this for a while. Luckily, we had brought sheets with us.
It was May and sunny. The house was still locked up tight from four long winters. Our second task was to open all of the shutters and let light find its way into dark, damp rooms. There were 156 windows, each with two shutters. Jehan-Claude, had sealed all the shutters in what we learned was his trademark fastidious fashion. I found an old iron wire cutter in the outbuildings and set about opening the house.
As I hurried from room to room, light flooded the once dark, moribund interior. The sun’s rays were brilliant and served to highlight all the good qualities of the house. Bud helped me as we discovered things we had not seen or appreciated before – the craftsmanship of a sculpted fireplace, the beautiful swirl of a plaster rosette, the intricate inlay of oak parquet floors. The house, like our hopes, glowed brightly as we steadily banished the darkness. With each opening, the rooms seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, gasping for fresh air and light. The chateau, like a creature waking from hibernation, suddenly came to life.
Just down the road, a young group of workers, the children of friends of ours from Liverpool, Angus, Kate and her boyfriend Leo waited in a 1960s Logis de France by the river. They had travelled from the UK to help with renovations. The trio had kindly offered their services and skills, such as they were. Leo had done some work on building sites while Kate and Angus were relative newcomers to the renovation game. They would live and work in the house, and we would pay them a modest salary and cover their food costs. We promised to pay them a larger, unnamed sum when the work was done.
The three were all in their twenties, eager for a new adventure, but most importantly for us they agreed to work cheaply. It was evident we were amateurs. There is an old adage that instructs the weaker-willed to forego lending money or employing family or friends. Lend money to an enemy and he will become a friend. Lend money to a friend and he will become an enemy. Employ friends and you will have no friends.
But then, we were all optimistic.
We received a call from the hotel and Bud headed out to pick up our renovation crew. We had arranged with the owner to buy a red 1981 Ford van for the equivalent of about $100, or £55. The paint was a thoroughly faded red, the shock absorbers non-existent, the seats little more than benches. It was an automatic transmission with four slow speeds. Part of the ceiling was falling in and the tyres were bald. Driving the van felt like an open-carriage ride in the countryside. It sounded like an ailing tractor as it ploughed through country roads. This would be our mode of transport for the next two ye
ars. Bud returned in ten minutes with a somewhat motley, though well-meaning, gang of three.
‘Good to see you all,’ I enthused as they piled out of the truck.
‘It’s good to be here,’ Kate said.
‘I can’t believe this place,’ Angus observed. Leo, Kate’s boyfriend, was quiet but appeared to be amused.
‘It was a long, uncomfortable trip down, other than that, it was fun!’ Angus laughed.
‘Well, come in and we’ll show you around,’ Bud said. Blue clung to my shirt in her little carrier.
We walked the vast halls of the chateau remarking on things to do and hoped-for projects for the future. Bud showed Kate and Leo their room. Angus roamed the corridors looking for a suitably private place to call home. Our three workers moved quietly from room to room, jaws dropped, eyes wide open, gazing uncomprehendingly – at what, I wasn’t sure. They were either overly impressed or completely crushed by the task that lay before them.
‘Bud, let’s relax and have some lunch,’ Kate said.
‘I could eat a horse,’ Angus smirked.
This conversation seemed to animate Leo. He didn’t say much, but the idea of a big meal caught his attention.
The new additions were optimistic and brimming with energy. Kate was pretty and had an athletic build, long, curly blonde hair and wide smile. Angus was large and rangy with broad, thick shoulders. In fine Scottish tradition, he was an avid storyteller.
We sat outside at the back of the house, pulled open a few drinks, and laid out a baguette, cheese and fruit.
‘So what do you think of the house?’ Bud began. ‘It’s bigger than I thought. But amazing. A lot of work,’ Angus remarked.
‘I can’t believe how large it is. Definitely a lot of work,’ Leo finally piped up.
Kate noted earnestly, ‘As long as we have enough to eat, it should be fine.’
‘I hope you guys do more than just hang out while you’re here,’ Bud said, a bit too harshly.
‘Come on Bud, relax. We’ll get the job done. We have a whole year, we’ve got to have a little fun,’ Angus teased.