“Is there a problem?” I ask, trying to resist the temptation to be flirtatious.
“Bonjour, nos meilleurs voeux.” Each shakes my hand before a tender-faced member of the team shoves a bunch of calenders at me and asks me which one I would like. I don’t particularly want any of them but guess that this must be a local tradition—donations for a local charity, perhaps?—so I choose one and all five nut-brown faces light up, waiting expectantly while I run back upstairs to find my purse. There is no set price, I am told, so I offer a sum that seems to satisfy because each man shakes my hand one more time. Again they wish me warm felicitations of the season. They depart and I return to my work. But not for long. Now it’s the turn of Monsieur le facteur who climbs the drive on his yellow scooter. He honks, waves and settles. I descend and am greeted by yet another array of calenders.
I decline, explaining “Merci, we have one,” genuinely assuming that they are all selling on behalf of the same local charity, but I quickly understand by the scowl that runkles his bearded face that this answer is simply pas acceptable. Images of a triumphant Henri confronting the mailman, on his knees, flash before my eyes. Best not make enemies, or he’ll have us all in the doghouse. Smiling stupidly, I dutifully choose another calender and race back upstairs to collect my purse. I proffer the last cash I possess, a one-hundred-franc note, which seems to satisfy him, and he now wishes me the best of the season, steadies his overloaded bike and pitches off, skating down the drive at a precarious angle.
The garbage collectors arrive next. We go through the same rigmarole. Unfortunately, I am out of cash, which does not please them at all so I am obliged to hurry to the salon upstairs, where I all but wreck our luggage in a harassed search for my French checkbook. I pick my calender, write the check and wave merrily, offering good wishes as they depart. Back upstairs, I toss three calenders, all offering identical aspects of our village, onto the makeshift kitchen table, pour a large drink and begin preparations for lunch.
Michel returns, honking and smiling, laden with salads of every shade of red and green and clementines from Corsica still bearing sprigs of sharply scented leaves. I press my nose into the orange and green nobbly skin and inhale the tangy perfume. “Christmas!” I whoop. I unpack several plastic containers of Provençal olives. Dark, fleshy drupes pickled in brine, others marinated in oil and garlic or pimientos, and then our oysters, still locked within their salty corrugated shells: a dozen chanteclairs from Brittany. We place them, with all the care given to newly laid eggs, in the darkest, coolest spot at the back of our little fridge to await our evening meal.
Christmas Eve is the slot traditionally set aside for the French family Christmas dinner; because the girls are spending their holidays with Maman in Paris, we are looking forward to ours, à deux, by candlelight. While we are busy unloading the shopping, I recount the story of our host of visitors. Michel, uncorking a fresh young Chablis, laughs heartily and asks, “So, the police didn’t come by yet?”
THESE WINTER EVENINGS are enticingly mild. A new moon, slender as a child’s pearly hairslide, appears in our cornflower heaven. I am spinning my thoughts for the television series with Michel as we huddle on the terrace, keeping at bay the chill that descends with the fading light by wrapping ourselves in each other and thick cable-stitched woolies. I am describing my main character as she takes shape in my imagination while enjoying an al fresco glass of wine before the silvery shimmer on the water disappears into jet-blue night. Nutty, ambrosial whiffs of woodsmoke waft our way on the still, late-evening air. A neighborly owl hoots a bonjour. Bats swoop low, whizzing directly in front of us before wheeling and soaring like excited birds. We catch the distant call of the muezzin. The Arabs are at prayer. I grow silent and listen.
Although our house and its modest olive farm are situated in an area designated as zone verte, at the far end of the valley, tucked beyond gangling and bushy pine trees, is a settlement. It has been constructed on land purchased from the proprietors of Appassionata thirty or more years ago. At that time our local council, managing to overlook the small detail of the land status, stamped a permit that assigned to a syndicate of developers operating out of Marseilles the rights to construct upon the green belt site.
Although there were no immediate neighbors at that time, the local community was up in arms—as only the French can be when they feel their rights have been abused—and, we hear, lobbied furiously but lost. One can only speculate on how the permits ever negotiated the system in the first place, when to construct a garden shed or even a very humble lean-to in this zone requires a mountain of forms and months of badgering for planning permission. Such a blatant flaunting of the land codes would, of course, have contributed to the racist sentiments rife in southern France against all foreign workers, but aimed particularly against the Arabs. Southeast France is the heart of Le Pen country. No matter that the firm of developers and the managing agents, therefore the beneficiaries of all profits from the rudimentary housing, are French.
But we have no argument against the Arabs, and we love their tinny summons. It feeds my imagination, my attraction to diversity, and unlocks fantasies of caravans led by camels, treks across mystical Arabia on horseback, the new moon as our guide. Then, as the prayers grow silent, I settle back into life in the south of France and the prospect of our delicious oyster supper.
WE WAKE TO THE DISTANT bray of a donkey—another new sound on our horizon—and flocks of small chattering birds. These winter morns are glorious, gentle and pine-scented. The sun has a warm amber glow, rich as an autumn leaf; viewed from the upper terraces, it streaks across the sea in chilly silver strips. Winter is decked out as I have never known it, but our future home in another season also lays bear ill-considered responsibilities. During our months absent, without anyone to clean and care for it, the water in the swimming pool has turned a rich emerald green. Its floor is carpeted with decaying fig leaves. It cannot be neglected like this for months on end; it needs regular attention—skimmers emptied, pipes unclogged, filter system rinsed out, walls and base vacuumed—or the works we have invested in will have been a waste of precious funds. We add “maintenance of pool” to our growing list of chores.
I, who will swim in the most arctic of conditions and dankest of waters, decide to take a dip anyway. The water is so icy as I plunge into it that I hoot and holler. Blood courses fast through my veins. After, I run and leap about in the garden like a loony, gathering soil on my naked throbbing feet. Michel, passing by, shakes his head and disappears to collect wood and cones for the chimney. He builds monumental fires which thaw my chilled, goose-bumpy flesh and roar in the hearth like winds from Siberia. Their blaze envelops and heats me, roasts and reddens my flushed, damp cheeks.
Our winter existence revolves around the commodious sitting room. For this season, it has become the heart of the house. We sit for hours with our books and laptops, me at work on my prospective script, plumped on cushions at the hearthside. The light leaping from the flames makes shadowplay on our faces and shapes on the peeling walls.
Without resources for a kitchen, we are cooking our Christmas meals, as Michel had promised, on the open fire. When the piled embers have settled into hillocks of simmering scarlet red and blood orange like the sunsets, Michel sets the meat on the makeshift grill to sizzle and spit. Our fare is modest for this festive season: slender faux-filet steaks with crispy fresh salad from the fantastic food market in Cannes, accompanied by new potatoes, round and smooth as pebbles, boiled in a copper skillet I bought in Nice on Michel’s elementary gas ring, fueled by bottled gas. Instead of Christmas pudding, we have cheese, crumbly Parmesan and creamy St. Marcelin preserved in olive oil with herbs, washed down with glasses of deep red wine.
The heat of the fire, the Bordeaux and the food seduce and inebriate us. No meal has ever tasted this luxurious.
The room is perfumed with cloves I have scattered on the embers and the skins of the consumed Corsican clementines which sizzle and hiss, turn cri
sply brown and curl like potato chips. They give off a tangy sweet scent and recall memories of childhood Christmases and stuffed stockings ripped open at the foot of the tree. We crawl into bed early to treasure the last joys of the day on our lumpy mattress, which we have dragged from the room we had elected to be our bedroom to the warmth of the jumping flames. Cuddling up close, we count five geckos on the chimney breast.
“I wonder if they are aware of us here,” I say to Michel.
“Surely. They are guardians of the house. They are watching over us.”
Irrationally, it has a ring of truth. Every cupboard unlocked or door opened reveals a gecko scuttling from the glare of the light and discovery to anonymity and darkness, but here, within our simple festive sitting room, with flames leaping, they have taken up residence on the warm chimney breast to share Christmas with us.
“I doubt we could ever be this happy again,” I whisper as we close our eyes and listen to the crackle of olive branches burning. It is a passing comment spoken in a moment of blissful contentment, but better that it should never have been voiced, for it has risen up from a dark, unconscious prescience.
The following morning, Michel finally manages to get hold of Madame Blancot, the assistant at the notary’s office. Unfortunately, the paperwork has not arrived from the tax office in central France, and in any case, Monsieur and Madame B. have informed her that they are not available to travel during this period. When Michel replaces the phone, he smiles encouragingly, and I attempt cheeriness. This will be resolved, we reassure each other. But we are growing concerned.
CAUGHT UP IN THE biomass of weeds and herbs, cobwebby trailers and tangled climbers are the fruiting olive trees. Their abundant offerings are dropping from the unpruned trees and disappearing into the soil. Hidden in the overgrowth, they rot secretively. These fruits are returning unused to the earth, leaving only their stone hearts as witnesses. How it pains me to see the source of such a potent elixir go to waste.
It is essential, I suggest to Michel, that as soon as the sale has been concluded, we hire a professional to cut back the entire acreage of land. Amar would be our man, if we can agree on a price. Amar is a Tunisian who has been living in the south of France since he was a teenager. Unlike many of the foreign workers who spend certain periods of the year in France and then return to their families in one of the various North African countries for the remaining months, Amar is married and is raising his family as young French citizens. He is a rogue, but a kindly one who wishes no harm to anyone. He has a full-moon face rather like a newborn baby’s. Add to that the darker African tones of his skin, and he puts one in mind of a polished chestnut, but set within that shiny innocence are shrewd, calibrating eyes.
A call from Michel, and Amar pays us a visit that same afternoon. A fact we have yet to learn is that all foreigners buying properties in this part of France are automatically judged très riche and therefore easy pickings for the huge labor force—cowboys as well as true artisans—living off the villa trade close to the coast. Amar studies the width and breadth of the terrain, silently calculating the value of the property and then the road-weary, battered vehicle parked in the drive, which does not suggest wealth. To this he weighs how far he dares go and then names his price with due care, testing the water. The figure is astronomical. He reads our shock and instantly retracts. “But that is the market price, cher monsieur. Obviously, for you, I would consider a discount.”
Michel frowns, studies the ground, shifting dust with his shoe. He appears to be considering the proposition and, after due thought, counters it with a ninety-percent discount. Amar grins like a playful child, appreciating the daring of the counterplay. The ritual has begun. The bartering goes back and forth until a price is warmly agreed: one fifth of the sum originally requested. Everyone shakes hands. Amar accepts a soft drink—as a practicing Muslim, he never touches alcohol—and prepares to wend his way, but just as we reach the parking, he turns, smiling broadly.
“Ah, Monsieur…”
“Yes?”
“We have forgotten the Christmas tree.” We genuinely have. We apologize profusely.
“Yes, indeed. How much do we owe you?” Michel is digging about in his jeans pockets for cash, for these matters are always dealt with in cash.
Amar, with a smile as broad as a Cheshire cat’s, demands “deux mille francs,” approximately two hundred and thirty-five pounds!
NOW WE ARE AT THE beginning of March. At long last a date has been suggested for us to gather at the notaire’s panoramic office up in the hills behind the perfume town of Grasse to sign the papers for the purchase of the house. Unfortunately, I am rehearsing a new play which is due to open out of town, run for three weeks and then go straight to London’s West End for a three-month minimum season. The date fixed by Madame B. is a Monday toward the end of March, the only date that she has available in the forseeable century. It is the week after the play has opened in the market town where I am currently rehearsing.
“I can’t be there,” I say via phone to Michel, who is in Paris. “I will have to assign you power of attorney.”
“Would you prefer if we wait until the play has opened in London?”
“No. If we do that, it could be another year before we own the house.”
“That’s probably true,” he agrees. “We’ll organize the power of attorney. It will involve your going to the French Embassy in Kensington. Will you be able to arrange that with your rehearsal schedule?” Alongside requesting permission to fly to France, an hour in Kensington does not seem such an unrealistic demand, and I reassure Michel that a brief trip to London is entirely feasible.
Two hours later, the notaire’s assistant, Madame Blancot, telephones Michel to inform him that le maître will not agree to this arrangement.
“Whyever not?” I moan when he calls to pass on the news.
“Because we are not married yet, and here in France, with the Napoleonic laws in force, the girls have certain inheritance rights. Le maître is insistent that the signing take place when, and only when, you can be here. Madame Blancot assures me that it is your interests he wants to protect.”
“I see.” I am deliberating long-distance. “Do you think you could charm Madame B. into bringing the date forward? Why not suggest the week before I go into production?”
“I’ll try, but chérie, there’s one other small point the maître pointed out which we have overlooked…”
“What’s that?”
“Our promesse de vente runs out at the beginning of April.”
The impact of this hits me instantly. The contract we signed in Brussels bound us to purchasing the property before the fourth of April. If the purchase does not go through by that date, we will forfeit our hefty cash deposit as well as all monies dispensed on improvements to the property. Worse, we lose all preferential rights to the purchase of the property. It will go back on the market. It does not bear thinking about.
“But these delays have not been of our making! French bureaucracy is enough to send anyone to the madhouse.”
The fact is, Michel reminds me, that Madame B. had offered us one date in mid-February, which we were obliged to refuse because both he and I were back in Australia for a month of postproduction on the series I shot before Christmas, so any grounds we feel we have for complaint will be judged inacceptable. The long and short of it is, we both stand to lose everything.
I am sitting silently at the back of a smoky rehearsal room—in reality, a church hall—weighing up my options over a Styrofoam cup of coffee so disgusting it might have been brewed with water from our bracken pond at Appassionata. If the notary does not accept Michel acting for both of us, then the bottom line is I am forced to find a way to slip off to France. But how?
Where I am, things are not going great. The director is on his fifty-ninth cigarette of the morning. I fear that the leading actor, who is playing a psychopath—the play is a thriller—may be close to crossing the boundaries between acting and life. Whi
le the other actor—the cast is a mere trio—is an affable, easygoing fellow, he looks ready to lose his cool with his colleague’s uncontrolled outbursts. We are only eight days into rehearsal. Already there are daily confrontations between these two, and the situation shows signs of growing uglier. I am depressed and wish that I had not accepted the job, now, in light of my own predicament, more than ever.
The fact is that, although the date on offer is the Monday after we open, because the play is new, the chances are we will be called to rehearsals every day until after the first night in London, when the critics will have reviewed the piece and all damage to our sensibilities and the box office, if any, will have been achieved. Until then, there will be cuts, rewrites, new plot twists, different stagings, a host of directorial and managerial responses to the reactions of both out-of-town audiences and newspapers. This is all perfectly normal, but it does not help my present dilemma, and there are no scenes without me. The only reason I am not up on the rehearsal stage at this very moment is because the two men are debating the finer details of gun-toting. The tone of the conversation taking place at this very moment goes something like “Don’t keep sticking that f——thing in my eye!”
Timing is of the essence, in real life as in theater. I am going to have to wait my moment and then speak to the producer, who is a charming and reasonable individual. I decide to put the problem out of mind for the moment, wait till matters look a little more sanguine and return to work.
During my lunch break, from a phone booth a discreet distance from the theater, I telephone Michel in Paris. “Confirm the date,” I tell him, “and I’ll settle it with the management this week.”
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