by Sophia Nash
“Indeed,” said the mayor, rocking back on the heels of his magenta rubber boots, which matched his suspenders.
No American male I knew would have had the nerve to try and pull off that ensemble.
“So, are you here to sell Madeleine Marie or will the house stay in the family?” He fiddled with the black beret in his hands.
“As I was saying, your house is uphill to Madeleine Marie, and I’ve never ever heard of any lost well. It sounds like what you need is a sump pump.”
“A what?” The neighbor stared at me and scratched the back of his head as he turned to the Napoleonic mayor. A brief conversation ensued, in Basque, and was therefore completely incomprehensible. Smiles broke over both men’s faces.
The mayor actually showed some of his tobacco stained teeth. “Madame, I see we are on the right course. We count on you to find this pump and have it installed in Pierrot’s basement. No later than tomorrow evening. Pierrot doesn’t want the water to stand too long.” He stuck out his hand. “In America you shake on agreement. Like zee cowboys.”
I looked at the outstretched hand and did not grasp it. “Messieurs, do I look like a cowboy? Do you think Americans are fools? You may pretend to misunderstand me all you like, but I’m not going to buy a sump pump, or accept any responsibility—”
A knock interrupted my soapbox speech. What kind of hell was this place that visitors had the nerve to come over any time they wished?
Before I could reach the door, Magdali appeared from the shadowed bend in the staircase and opened it. There stood, or hunched, Mlle Lefebvre in a getup that would make an Alaskan crab fisherman from the reality show The Deadliest Catch proud.
In a voice dripping with Alaskan frost, she began, “Jojo Boudin, qu’est-ce que tu fais là? Et Pierrot? Où est Mäite?”
What were they doing here? Where was Pierrot’s wife? All good questions. Anything to break up this happy gathering.
“Mlle Lefebvre,” Jojo the mayor said sadly, “we were just welcoming M. du Roque’s granddaughter.”
I weighed the pros and cons of the possible alliances I could make. Not really. There was no choice. “How kind of you to come by Mlle Lefebvre. M. le Maire and Pierrot just stopped in with a basket of blueberry muffins to welcome me to the neighborhood.” I might have used the French word for lingonberry instead of blueberry. But at least it got the desired response. Blank stares all around.
Mlle Lefebvre harrumphed. I didn’t know that people could actually harrumph, as I’ve only read about it in a two-hundred-year-old story, but this old woman had it down pat. The corners of her mouth hung lower than a pug’s.
“We’ve just finished the muffins,” I said, staring down Laurel and Hardy. “They were just leaving.”
“Oui,” said the mayor echoed by Pierrot.
“Tell Maïte I shall visit her tomorrow.” The older woman’s eyes looked like two black pebbles. “She can tell me all about these muffins I am sure.” She shook her head. “Beh, since we’re all here, Pierrot, have you arranged for a plumber yet? Lyonnaise des Eaux informed me they require you to divert your rainwater and sewer water properly, like the rest of us. Unless, of course, you want your house to fall off the cliff and collect the insurance.”
I squeezed my nails into the pads of my hands to keep from laughing. Life so rarely provided such instant karmic kickback, and all via the Lyonnaise water company.
Pierrot squinted. The mayor raised his eyebrows. There were more wrinkles revealed in those two faces than the day before a Botox convention. “Beh, Mlle Lefebvre, I am aggrieved you would ever suggest such a thing,” Jojo said in his heavy accent. “And Mme Hamilton and I were just coming to an agreement about—”
“The joys of fellowship in the Pays Basque,” I interrupted, “and his interest in the future of this villa.” I paused. “For some odd reason.”
“This villa is a national treasure, madame,” the mayor insisted. “Of course we are concerned with the future of the villa. And it is collapsing before our eyes. Something must be done.”
Mlle Lefebvre, a meager quarter inch taller than the mayor’s Napoleonic frame wagged a finger at him. “Not by you. You leave her alone. And you leave Jean du Roque alone too. I remember when you were a boy, bullying all the other children on the street. Your parents might be gone, but I know all your secrets—except why you’ve got your nose in the du Roques’ affairs. I’d wager you’re here to measure the house for curtains. But where you think you’ll get the euros to buy this villa you call a national treasure is beyond me.”
The mayor, for once, was speechless.
MAX MULRONEY’S THERAPY session and those of my other clients went just as scheduled and as expected that night. Max was in fight mode, duking it out to produce his massively budgeted film. It was wreaking havoc on his nerves. And mine as well.
“Hey, did’ja buy some of that Limerack stock, like I told you?”
“No, Max. You forget I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere and stock trading is the last thing on my mind. Now, let’s talk about Heather, your yoga instructor,” I replied. “How do you feel about—”
“I knew you wouldn’t. We’ve got some kind of messed up relationship, Katie-girl,” he said. “I do some of the things you suggest and yet you do nothing I suggest.”
“That’s because you’re paying me for my expertise. I’m not paying you for anything, Max.”
“But I’m giving you these tips for free and you’re not even giving me a price cut,” he whined.
“Okay, look, I-I’ll . . .” What did Max love best? Max, of course. “I’ll follow your financial advice when I return to the East Coast and adjust my fees if it is profitable.”
“And when is that?” He leaned forward in his chair.
The Malibu beach backdrop behind him was everything gold and blue as the sunlight sparkled on the small murky waves. Why everyone thought California was the surfing Mecca was beyond me. “I’m not sure, Max. Maybe next month. Or possibly another six weeks.”
“Maybe? I thought you were coming back sooner. Sounds like you’re enjoying yourself.” He winked.
“No.” But I was. Sort of.
“Running away, then? Hey, know why divorces cost so damn much?”
I shook my head. He was impossible in a ridiculous, obnoxious, and funny way.
“Because they are worth it,” he said. “Every damn penny. So live a little.”
“Max.” I sighed. “While I appreciate your concern, we both agreed you would stop changing the topic. Now, what—” Heather, the yoga teacher, walked in and Max cut short the session when she wrapped her arms around him and whispered something into his ear.
I could not stop myself from thinking about his statement as I got into bed. Seeing my clients brought all the ugliness back. Maybe Mad Max was right. Maybe I was running away from my life, just as my daughter had done not so long ago. It was clear I was not going to wrap up my grandfather’s affairs in the six-week time frame I’d planned. And nothing in my world happened without a plan and a goal.
I awoke with none of the expected exhaustion. Missing two nights of sleep a week was becoming the new normal. In fact, it seemed to recalibrate a better sleep the next few days. It was either that or the heretofore undiscovered elixir of salt air, cursing at ropes, church bells, grueling hikes, and hot chocolate.
That morning I followed Magdali and the Sotheby’s agent I’d asked for an appraisal, a Mr. Matthieu Smith, as he poked his head into every damp, mildewed corner of Madeleine Marie. We worked our way from the fourth-floor bedrooms, which had once housed hordes of du Roque children and an assortment of ancestors, all the way down to the lowest cave, where rows and rows of wine racks stood empty.
Cracks resembling dark bolts of lightning battled with watermarks for supremacy on the whitewashed stucco walls of every bedroom upstairs. The du Roque family members who had reigned supreme each generation had occupied the wallpapered third-floor bedrooms, in one of which my grandfather now snored. The bathrooms
had fixtures that probably looked like those of the Titanic in its current resting place. Leaky, cold pipes overlaid white and gray tiles. About the only positive thing was that the bathrooms were palatial and the bathtubs deep. There were no showers. They were apparently too shockingly modern.
Mr. Smith poked and prodded the ceilings, floors, and pipes much like a doctor examining a geriatric patient. He shook his head. “This project is not for the fainthearted.”
“Or for those with limited cash.” What more could I say?
But the best was in the basement. Pale lichen had bloomed all over the former servants’ quarters, appearing very like antique lace yellowed over the centuries. A few stray mushrooms had dared to invade the mildewed environs. Now vacant and cavernous, it was where I’d spent hours playing with Magdali, and where she and her mother had once lived.
“When did you move upstairs?” I whispered to her.
Magdali touched the edge of the only remaining piece of furniture in the main communal living space, a large wooden table scarred by years of hard use. “About fifteen years ago, when my mother died and your grandfather dismissed everyone but me.”
I nodded and turned to the real estate agent. “Alors? So? What do you think?”
“Madame, it is a beautiful villa. Seventeenth century, I think?”
“I believe so.”
“Plumbing and electrical installed likely in the late thirties but never updated. Both should be addressed. The iron on the outside of the house, shutter latches for example, and all grillwork is badly rusted and should be replaced with inox. You say, stainless steel, non? All rooms and exterior window frames and shutters should be repainted. Wallpaper should be replaced. And most importantly . . .”
“Yes?”
“The roof. I could see from the top-floor balcony that the orange roof tiles are cracked and failing. Plants are sprouting in the shaded, porous spots.”
“I know.”
It seemed that the banker and the agent and everyone else in the godforsaken place knew about the conditions of the villa. “How much?” Time to cut to the chase.
He raised his eyebrows and rubbed the tips of his fingers together. “Bien, madame. I cannot begin to imagine. I can only tell you what I think the house will bring. If you refurbish all as described, I feel confident that five million euros is a reasonable price.”
That was more than I thought. Far more.
Magdali whispered, “Five million?”
“And if we sell ‘as is’?”
“Ah, madame. That is considerably more difficult to say.”
“Take a stab at it,” I requested.
“Without reinforcing the cliff and the extensive roof damage, it is a gamble few would take.”
“Why?”
“Life has changed and families with it, malheureusement.” Unfortunately indeed. “There was a time when families were larger—extended family and grandparents and cousins all visited or lived in a villa such as this. But in today’s world, most want a three- or four-bedroom house with modern kitchens and bathrooms. The clientele of Sotheby’s International of course are more privileged”—read multimillionaire rich—“and so, of course, they want larger accommodations, vast gardens, and beautiful vistas, and are very willing to pay for it. But this? While it is magnificent, it is also a magnificent mal à la tête. Headache.”
“You haven’t told me what you think we could get if we sold it as is.”
He wrinkled his nose. “One million? One million and a half? The price of the land. Maybe a bit more? If half of it doesn’t fall off the cliff. Personally, I would act quickly. Very quickly.” He paused. “Madame, I understand you are here for a very short time. I think you should sell it as is. I have several people who might be interested.”
I looked him in the eye. That prickly feeling crawled up my spine and came to a stop at my hairline. “Is one of them the mayor?”
He took too long to answer. “Bien, madame, I am not one to say.” He hurried on. “There is a surfing company executive who might have interest. He has been looking for a house overlooking Parlementia, which so many consider the finest surf spot on the entire Côte des Basques.”
“How would you propose to drum up interest? Start a bidding war, for example?” I couldn’t stop myself. “What marketing do you do? Signage? Why are there no for sale signs in France?”
“Ah, madame, it is a bit . . . how do you say? Gauche?”
“It’s gauche to show too much of a desire to sell a house for the best price?”
“Madame, selling a house is a bit like flirting with a woman. One mustn’t be too eager.”
“I see.” I didn’t see at all. Had he never heard of MLS, the Multiple Listing Service? “Magdali?”
“Yes?”
“What do you think?”
She shrugged. “My mother always said that to run is not necessarily to arrive.”
I looked first at Magdali and then to the man from Sotheby’s and back again. I was clearly a different species. Then again, I’d always been a different species no matter where I’d lived.
Magdali and I hurried the agent out before it was the hour Jean would emerge from his bedroom. We crossed paths at the door with the newest person on the du Roque mythical payroll, a man who would be my grandfather’s dartboard for insults.
“Désolé to be en retard. Late,” said a giant of a man. “I am Youssef Tousette. Mr. Soames sent me.”
I shook his baseball-mitt-sized hand. “Very nice to meet you, Youssef. Please do not take anything my grandfather says personally.”
His laugh was as wide and deep as his happy expression. Youssef certainly appeared physically capable for the job, and I could only hope that the huge white smile that lit up his dark face would still be there after meeting his recalcitrant charge.
“M. du Roque does not like excessive laughter,” Magdali said. Her usual shy smile now hidden behind an arch professional demeanor, she escorted the suddenly quiet giant to his quarters, a font of directives flowing behind her tall, slender frame.
I decamped to the kitchen to steep a cup of tea and headed to the front salon on the premier étage, or second floor in Americanese. The old French doors opened to the stone balcony where my ancestors had watched three hundred years of events unfold. I imagined rudimentary muddy roads with horse-drawn carriages, stable hands, servants scurrying about with foods, goods, even chamber pots. As the sun emerged from behind the fast-moving clouds, I imagined the first electrical lights illuminating the houses far beyond in Spain, and the first cars driven by stable masters now clad in white, with my ancestors bedecked with furs and diamonds behind. The Great War and all its mustard gas prefaced the gleeful roar of the twenties before the thirties brought back rational thought followed by irrational Nazis.
I rubbed my hand over a chink in this front balcony’s railing, and wondered if my relatives had stood here during the last invasion to watch the warplanes and the havoc and detritus of war. Trucks and cranes likely arrived post war to rebuild the coast, along with the first wave of surfers and their wooden boards. It was chilly under the cool glare of the sun and I retreated to the sagging sofa inside.
The faded blue satin cushions had lost their density too many decades ago to count. A flood of unbidden thoughts unleashed themselves.
How many ancestors had been born, married, and died here? The eldest du Roques males had gone through the full cycle of life here, while females had been forced to leave the nest to marry and finish out their lives under other roofs. Unless they became spinsters like the villa’s namesakes, Madeleine and Marie, whose father had taken care to make them feel loved and noteworthy by naming the house, a gift to their eldest brother, after the two tiny, unattractive sisters, as legend had it. Legend also had it that they’d given up their dowries to enable their father to build the house since they’d been deemed too ugly to attract husbands. And their brother had reacted with suitable grace by hounding them to death, literally, to give his favorite younger
son a larger villa to lord over his elder brother. And so it goes.
I put down my teacup and stretched out, the sofa creaking under duress. My father had taken great delight one summer afternoon, after a round of golf, to tell me about my own history. I’d been ten, sitting on the couch with my legs dangling as I read one of the few English-language stories on the bookshelves. Idly, I’d retrieved the thin gold wedding band he’d left on the silver tray before he’d gone to hit the links.
“Katie, don’t you get too comfortable on that old sofa, it’s got stories to tell.” He was drinking something tall and cold, when I saw his eyes zero in on the wedding band now on my thumb.
“I like stories, Daddy.”
He laughed, and the gold crown in the back of his mouth glinted for a brief moment in the sunlight from the window. “This is one of my favorites. Do you know why?”
“Why, Daddy?” It was the rare moment he gave me his full attention.
“You were conceived on that sofa,” he said and laughed again.
Bile rose in my throat, and I quickly sat up to swallow it back as I became light-headed. I tried to close the door on the memories but they all came flooding out.
“Oh,” I said.
“You know what conception is, right?”
“Of course.” Embarrassment rose like a hot air balloon in the pit of my stomach.
“Check out the date,” he whispered. “On the inside of the band.” A moment later: “It’s better I tell you than someone else.” The tiny initials and dates inside were already fading. The date inscribed was a mathematical improbability, unless I’d been premature, which instinctively I’d known I wasn’t. No one as tall, gangly, and healthy as I was had ever seen the interior of a preemie ward.
He’d laughed again and tousled my brown hair. I never liked when he did that. I might have looked like a girl, but inside I was an adult going on a hundred and three.
“Katie, all the best love affairs are brief and intense,” he’d mused with a dazed look. “Your mother was a siren. And I couldn’t resist.” He winked. “The rest? Well, a gentleman picks up the pieces after their follies. Or at least the important ones.” A half dozen deep wrinkles framed his eyes when he smiled. “Especially if their feet are held to the fire. You don’t look like her, but then again I also sometimes wonder if there’s any of my Hamilton blood in you at all.” He’d caught my nose between two knuckles and pretended to steal it. “But don’t worry, Antoinette will teach you her tricks. And I don’t know any man who can resist her.”