NOW IT IS HIGH SUMMER. Due to French bureaucratic nightmares, our hope that the sale would be completed before the holidays is receding fast. And while complications of the contract—such as the division of the land—are being wrangled over and ironed out, the pound is falling. Our calculations are out the window. Due to the devaluing exchange rate, the property price has already risen by twenty percent. If matters get any worse, we will have to pull out. I am tearing my hair out. Michel keeps his cool. Bastille Day arrives. We motor down through a celebrating France to visit the abandoned property one more time, mainly to appease my stewing financial fears, before signing any commitment.
Our arrival is greeted by a magnificent tree alongside the top terrace which is in full and glorious bloom. Exhausted, after twelve hours’ solid driving, taking turns to catnap in the car because we have too little cash for hotelrooms, we cast ourselves like weary shipwreckers on the upstairs terrace, adjacent to this majestic tree. Its blossoms are the color of ivory, its petals thickly textured with a fragrance so redolent it envelops the whole hillside. Collapsed before the dawning day, my head on Michel’s chest, I know that this perfume is imprinting upon me. It will forever remind me of the south of France, and of being recklessly in love.
As the day unfolds, the perfumes, the views, the hot, clear weather seduce me once more and I am calmed by Michel and his quiet strength. I see my doubts for what they are; I am stepping off into the unknown, moving out of one life to inhabit another. Fears, real or illogical, excitements are part of that transition. Misgivings laid to rest, we make for the beach where we steep our weary limbs in the Med, doze the afternoon away and shower off salt and sand in fresh cold water before going in search of dinner and a bed at the little hilltop hotel-restaurant.
As evening falls and we dine by candlelight on the hotel’s terrace, a diorama of fireworks explodes across the Mediterranean sky, lighting up the entire bay. Their purpose is the honoring of the French declaration of independence—here, in France, Quatorze Juillet, the anniversary of the storming of the Bastille, is the greatest of all national holidays—but in my heart, soothed for the present, I pretend they are for us.
BRIGHT AND EARLY the next morning, Michel puts through a call to the vendors in Belgium. He confirms that we will pay the cash advance Madame has requested if, in return, she and her husband allow us to move into the the villa before the final contracts are signed. “Ah, you are eager to begin restoration works while the weather is hot and dry, n’est-ce pas?’”
Yes, well, that would be true if the cash advance wasn’t about to eat up almost every penny we can lay our hands on. The fact is, Michel has invited Vanessa and Clarisse, his thirteen-year-old twin daughters, to spend their summer with us. He wants them get to know me a little better and to share with us the thrill of installing ourselves at the property. They are dying to see the place, he tells me. Besides, we haven’t a bean left to take them elsewhere.
Madame B. agrees, en principe, but insists that we discuss all negotiations over lunch in Brussels. Before hanging up, she offers him the choice of either swift-transferring the money to an account in Switzerland in advance of our Brussels rendezvous or bringing the agreed sum in cash with us on the day.
I am ready to hit the ceiling. I will not hear of one sou from my one and only insurance policy, plus savings, disappearing into unknown blackmarket accounts in Switzerland before anything is signed and settled. Why can’t we take a check made out to their wretched Swiss account and hand it to them on the day?
“I suppose she fears it might not be honored.”
“Typical! At that level, no one trusts anybody!”
I rant and fume until I exhaust myself and Michel’s laughter and those gentle blue eyes temper my hysteria.
And so it is arranged.
Two weeks later, the beginning of the French mass exodus from north to south—for a nation of individualists, they certainly behave like lemmings when it comes to late July and the holiday season is upon them—we pack my little black VW convertible with old mattresses, bedding and a surplus of kitchenware from my flat in London and set off for Brussels.
Our plan is to introduce ourselves to the Belgian owners, create the “right impression” (i.e., that we are able to afford the place), sign the promesse de vente, hand over our hard-earned money secreted in brown envelopes in Michel’s briefcase (unless he can sweet-talk them into holding off this part of the arrangement until later) and, directly after “business,” drive to Paris, where les filles eagerly await us.
Michel feels that to turn up outside the vendors’ home in a car bursting at the seams with sticks of old furniture might appear a trifle presumptuous. It might prejudice negotiations. So when we arrive in the city, we deposit the laden vehicle in the underground garage at the Hilton and make our way on foot to the address we have been given by Madame’s secretary. I barely register the city streets and almost don’t notice our arrival at the wide leafy avenue that bears the name we are looking for. My head is whirring with what-ifs. What if these people fall upon us and rob us or they try by other less violent means to cheat us out of our money; how can we be sure they are not crooks? Even given we escape such fates, there are the documents we are about to sign…
ALMOST BEFORE I realize it, we have arrived and are standing, no, we are frozen, outside imposingly ornate iron gates which rise to the height of an average oak tree. “Thank heavens we didn’t bring the car,” I whisper, clutching Michel’s hand. For a good three minutes, we regard the exterior of what looks to us like a miniature Versailles.
“Here goes,” he replies, squeezing my hand tighter before ringing the bell.
The gates slide apart and we crunch across gravel and tiles, climb a marble stairway and approach baronial doors. These are opened by a butler in full uniform. Michel, appearing unflustered, gives our names.
Nodding a dehumanized greeting, the butler tells us in a thick Belgian accent, “Madame will be with you shortly.” I, with my already imperfect French, have difficulty understanding even that simple sentence. I sigh at the prospect of the impending negotiations. Then, with a polite but indifferent nod, he leads us across a fabulous black-and-white marble hallway ablaze with sprays of livid red gladioli and into a capacious salon which he describes as “Madame’s writing room.”
“I’m in the wrong film, wearing the wrong costume,” I mutter as we perch in two ornate gilt Louis-something chairs.
As soon as the door closes and we are alone, I rise and cross to the floor-to-ceiling windows which look out upon substantial, perfectly manicured gardens. I count half a dozen gardeners digging and planting a criss-cross arrangement of magnificent flowerbeds. An antique Italian marble fountain stands in the center of a crossroads of graveled walkways, a chef d’oeuvre of gushing crystal-clear water. I gaze contentedly upon this spectacle until the door opens behind me and a terrifying, tightly coiffured, tight-lipped woman wearing a thick coating of orange face powder enters: Madame B. She is accompanied by another, marginally younger woman, twitching like a nervous bird, whom she introduces as Yvette Pastor, her private secretary. Madame B. apologizes for the absence of her husband, who, she explains, is malade. She strides briskly into the hall, requesting us to follow. My heart sinks. I picture our carefree summer plans disappearing faster than Belgian chocolates.
We are seated around an oval walnut table large enough to seat twenty guests with ease. A magnum of Cristal champagne arrives on a silver platter. A message is sent from Madame via the butler to Monsieur, bidding him, in no uncertain terms, to get up and come downstairs instantly; there are papers to be signed. I resist my desire to protest.
Business commences. I barely comprehend a phrase and stare in blind panic as six pages filled with dense legal French are shoved across the table for my perusal—a copy of the binding documents I am about to put my name to.
A little while later, the door opens and a frail old man appears, trembling and pale. He is dressed in elegant sportswear and wears hea
vy, expensive jewelry on his, mottled hands and wrists which are delicate as parchment. He apologizes profusely for his malady. We shake our heads sympathetically, at a loss for words. He looks as though he might drop to the marble floor at any second. Madame commands the butler to pour Monsieur a glass of champagne. Monsieur declines. Madame insists. Le pauvre Monsieur assents and toasts our good health and the prosperity of our future lives at Appassionata. “You have much work to do in the garden,” he says.
“Foolish to discuss the growth of the land,” she reprimands. Monsieur demures, accepts Madame’s fountain pen and signs his shaky, illegible autograph.
Then it is my turn. I down the last mouthful from my crystal flute and, with sticky hands and beating heart, obediently scribble my initials or name wherever Madame points her manicured fingers. I glance at Michel and smile weakly. I am praying to God he knows what he is doing, because I don’t, and he is handing over our envelopes.
Business completed, Michel rises. He leans to offer a bisou to Madame B., who proffers her cheek, clearly enchanted by his charm and thrilled by his astute business acumen. Watching the pair of them negotiate has been rather like watching two fencing champions in combat. Monsieur and I did not utter a word. In fact, at the very first opportunity, he offered his apologies and retired back upstairs to his room.
“Mais, non, you cannot leave now! We must lunch!” Madame says to us.
We have already consumed almost a magnum of champagne among the five of us—Yvette, always present, seated in a chair to the rear of Madame, has tippled immoderately on our future happiness—and we have a three-hour drive ahead of us, but without a word between us, we sense that to refuse would be judged a rebuff and might cloud future business relations.
We nod, attempting enthusiasm. “Pourquoi pas?”
“Très bien. I suggest zee ’ilton.” She excuses herself and orders us to wait out front.
“Well?” I ask Michel in a fraught whisper when Madame has left the room.
“Well, what?”
“Did we get the permission or not?”
“Chérie, did you not understand what was being said?”
“Not every word,” I reply weakly.
Michel grins. “We have signed and sealed permission to occupy the villa for the summer, in fact from this moment on until it is officially ours.”
“Really!”
“Yes, well, at a price.”
“What price?”
“Sssh. Chérie, don’t yell. If we fail to complete, no matter for whatever reason, they keep everything.”
“What! Every penny we have given them today—?”
“And anything, everything, we spend on the place. We can’t claim a franc back.”
“Oh my God! Whatever made you agree to that?”
“Chérie, the deadline for completion is next April. So there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Next April. That’s almost a year. Yes, we’ll have bought the place long before then.” I sigh, relieved.
Outside in the gardens, Madame inquires after our car. For a second we are both flummoxed, recalling guiltily my little Golf packed to the rafters with furniture for “our” house, awaiting us in the underground garage of “zee ’ilton.” Michel, sanguine as always in such moments, comes to the rescue. “We parked a little distance from here, chère Madame, for fear of losing our way in the city.”
Madame nods comprehendingly and then examines me from head to foot as though she is measuring me, which is precisely what she is doing. “C’est bon,” she decides, commanding a passing gardener to fetch her car from its garage. “It is a sports car, but you can squeeze in the back. It’s not far; you are slim.” Moments later, to our speechless amazement, as the garage doors unfold, a gleaming lipstick-red 500SL Mercedes creeps toward us. I had been expecting something a trifle more sedate.
“My weakness,” she confesses like a child. “You see, I was born very poor.”
We pile into the car, which, with Madame at the wheel, shoots off like a rocket.
During lunch at the Hilton, we learn that she is the richest woman in Belgium. “Poor Pierre,” she tells us, “does not care for money or material possessions. All he wants is to potter about in the garden. He adores flowers and plants. It is very difficult for me. I do not know what to do with him. We have known each other since we were twelve. We began a business and have worked very hard, and now we are rich, but he prefers to stay in bed. He cannot handle all the responsibilities our money has brought us. I travel everywhere with Yvette, my secretary. Pierre does not want to go anywhere other than our summer house. It is très tragique.” As I watch her, Madame B. begins to resemble a bloodhound. Her expression is drooping, her eyes look lost and uncomprehending. The terrifying woman we first encountered has disappeared. But the mood does not last long. Soon she is beckoning for the bill, which she insists on paying—thank heavens!—and then offers to walk us to our car.
Michel and I exchange complicitous glances.
At this late stage, we cannot possibly own up to the fact that our little buggy packed with two moth-eaten mattresses is parked not a hundred meters from her Mercedes in the garage right beneath our feet. Instead, we roam around a few back streets feeling stupid and dishonest and seeing our ridiculous charade for the time waster that it is, but insisting that we just cannot recall where we parked.
Eventually, Madame B. gives up, hails a cab to deliver her the three streets back to the Hilton and wishes us bonne chance! Our parting is good-natured, almost affectionate. “See you at the notaire’s office. I will fax you the address,” she says. “I look forward to it.” And she flutters her eyes at Michel like Betty Boop.
By the time we arrive in Paris, it is late. Michel’s daughters are disgruntled. They have been awaiting the arrival of Papa all afternoon. The girls and I have met only a few times, and I am probably more affected by their mood than Michel, who, oblivious to any whining, runs to and from the car cramming bags into any space he can lodge them, telling everyone to get a move on or we won’t reach the south before the holidays are over. “What about Pamela?” asks Clarisse.
I turn my head in surprise. Who is Pamela?
Clarisse points to the gate, and there, panting and waddling toward us, is a startlingly obese German shepherd. The addition of Pamela unbalances the carefully considered equilibrium of my already dangerously overloaded Golf, and worse, elle fait les petits pets all the way from Paris to Cannes. And they are lethal! Embracing a new family is one thing, but by the time we reach Aix-en-Provence, I am seriously asking myself, can I love this smelly dog?
CHAPTER TWO
WATER MUSIC
The heat is brutal. The search for water and its source occupies Michel’s first few days here.
Vanessa and I have set about cutting back the ivy in the swimming pool. We have one pair of garden shears between us. This means one of us clips until aching arms defeat her, while the other tugs, untangles and gathers up the dead foliage. Then we swap. We seem to have a good rhythm going. She is a hardworking, bright girl and I thoroughly enjoy her company. Neither of the girls speaks English, which forces me to use my rather rusty French. Our conversations don’t amount to much: the odd polite exchange or earnest requests on my part to know the French word for this or that. From time to time, particularly given the temperature, the arid conditions and strenuous activity, it proves difficult, and we end up working in companionable silence.
Meanwhile, Michel is scouring the hill, up and down, back and forth like a two-legged goat over our ten acres of Provençal jungle for waterpipes or signs of a well. His legs are latticed with grazes from the brambles and from tripping over hidden rocks, but he remains determined. Madame B. mentioned to him that somewhere on the property there is a natural spring, but for the moment, its whereabouts eludes him.
“We may have to cut back the entire acreage before we find it!” he announces on one of his stopovers at the villa, in search of refreshment.
“Where’s Clar
isse?”
Vanessa and I shake our heads and wipe our sticky brows. “Don’t know, haven’t seen her for hours. You need Wellingtons and a hip flask, Michel,” I say.
He shrugs and disappears in his shorts and supermarket espadrilles—fraying already—ascending yet another barely visible track. I read his concern. The installation of an entire water system at this stage would mean we would be obliged to close up the property and abandon it for the foreseeable future. Neither of us have voiced this sorry prospect as yet.
Each evening, one or both of us drives to the village to fill several twenty-liter plastic containers with water for the day ahead. I learn that in France every village and town has its public supply of eau potable. It is considered a basic right in this country that, no matter how poor a person may be, he has access to free drinking water wherever in the land. Vive la France! I laugh when Michel explains this national kindness. I am very grateful to the Republic of France for such forethought, because our funds are diminishing rapidly.
Still, funds or no funds, due to the lack of facilities at the villa, we are obliged to install the girls in a hotel. Naturally, we choose the hilltop hotel, where the patron offers Michel a generous deal. Each morning, we drive to Mougins to collect them; they order le petit déjeuner, which is the usual: rolls, croissants, confiture and café au lait (chocolat for Vanessa, who cannot abide tea or coffee yet frets constantly about her pretty, svelte figure). The girls’ breakfasts are included in the price of the room (any rolls not eaten we stuff into my bag and take with us for our lunch), and Michel and I order a pot of coffee for two. This we consume as a family on the patron’s terrace and, while he and his wife are occupied with the bills of departing guests, one at a time, Michel and I tiptoe up the twisting, narrow stairway to the girls’ room and take an illicit hot-water shower. Hot water never felt this delicious or wicked! By day three, Monsieur’s flamboyant bonhomie is beginning to diminish, and he is eyeing us with suspicion. I dread to think how he will greet us toward the end of the month!
Olive Farm Page 3