C'est La Folie

by Michael Wright

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I manage to say, ‘but I think he is already dead.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ says Pascal, with such gentleness that I have to grit my teeth against the tears that I can feel stupidly welling up inside me. ‘Take him into the back, then. We will do the autopsy now.’

  So I stand in the doorway as Pascal cuts open my little Emil, who this morning was bouncing around his field. ‘It’s pleuropericardia,’ he says, showing me the colourless liquid trickling in the cavity around Emil’s gleaming heart. ‘There is really nothing you could have done. But you must now inject the other little ones against it.’

  And then I am back at La Folie, and sit gazing across the valley as the last rays of winter sun light up the little chapel on the hill. But what was once a peaceful scene is now a place of torture. For behind me, Doris is tearing around the sheep-field, yelling at me and at the sky, in anguish for her lost lamb. For Emil, who must be out there, somewhere, if only she will call him long and loud enough.

  33

  APRIL: THE LONE PINE

  The Luscombe’s oil pump is fixed, but the aircraft remains marooned at Rochester while I wait for a space to become available in the half-empty hangar at St Juste. Finally, I reach the top of the waiting list. And the aeroclub committee decides to change the rules.

  They tear up the waiting list.

  I don’t think this is because I am anglais. Peter Viola has a place in one of the hangars, after all. What matters is that I am grounded until further notice.

  Things are not looking too hot on the piano front, either, because I still don’t have a floor in the summer sitting-room. I can’t have a floor until the walls are finished, and Jou-Jou the stonemason says the walls are made of the wrong kind of stone. He cannot find a product that will stick to the particular ash-based breeze-blocks that Zumbach used when he began to renovate La Folie. At least, not one that he can guarantee for ten years, as dictated by the law and the prophets.

  Ridiculous as it seems, I am beginning to pine for that piano, as I might pine for a person. As I do pine for a person. The eminent psychiatrist was right: for someone to share my life here.

  Someone like Clara Delaville, but who is a grown-up, not a ghost-child.

  Someone like Zuleika, but who is not impossible.

  Someone like Amy, the girl in the powder-blue dress, but with whom my soul truly connects.

  I don’t know what I want, it occurs to me, as I sit on the terrace for my six o’clock stiff Pastis and a handful of pistaches, and have my nightly think.

  The trees on the other side of the valley have grown so thick and lush that the view has changed in three dimensions. I failed to notice the end of winter, and I appear to have missed the beginning of spring. I was expecting a crash of thunder; a swallow; a sign from the heavens. Once again, I remind myself that I promised to notice the changing of the seasons, here in France; to appreciate that metamorphosis which was invisible to me in London. But I find that the seasons move as imperceptibly as a glacier carving out a valley, or the hour-hand of a clock. Time’s passing passes me by.

  The landscape draws closer as nature advances upon La Folie, like Birnam Wood advancing upon Dunsinane. I cannot see far into the distance. Yet I sense that I am beginning to see what is close to me more clearly than ever.

  I contemplate the lone pine, which appears unchanging, and yet which I know is invisibly growing, too. I sip my Pastis, and wish I could play some Chopin, right now. The Fantasie-Impromptu, whose melody keeps leaping into my head. If I had my piano here, I might release some of the yearning I feel. Certain harmonic and melodic progressions have a way, like the best architecture, Persian rugs and ingredients in a perfect soup, of ordering the universe in a way that makes love, goodness and human sympathy seem not merely possible but inevitable.

  So here I am, in front of my piano. I can picture the keyboard’s white and black gleam; the burnished strings stretching away from me, reflected in the polished lacquer of the open lid.

  In my head, the first thing I play is a simple chord, with both hands. The weight of the notes is like the give of the sand beneath my feet as I walk along a beach with someone for whom I have always longed. We are in E-flat major; my favourite key, the key of all that’s good in the world. Every key evokes a different mood: A major for summer pleasures, G-flat major for heartfelt longing, C minor for sadness you can describe, C-sharp minor for sadness you can’t, G major for a trusted friend, B minor if they should ever let you down.

  E-flat major is the sound of my mum’s lasagne, the sound of the twilight on a clear summer’s day, the sound of the Espace when it starts and I’m not expecting it to, because I’m late for playing the organ for Mass. It is the key of Chopin’s most beautiful nocturnes and waltzes, three-quarters of Mozart’s horn concertos, of ‘Spread A Little Happiness’ and ‘Someone To Watch Over Me’.

  An octave in the left hand. The right hand, playing the first inversion in that tenor range where the piano sings most plangently.

  Play both hands together, and we are at home, there are lights in all the windows, two dogs sleeping in front of the fire, and I have somehow invented myself a gorgeous wife who is, even as the notes die, mixing me the perfect gin-and-tonic.

  That’s how it feels to play an E-flat-major chord, when you don’t have a piano.

  I have begun to scan the piano advertisements in the local free-sheets. Perhaps I could buy a cheap second-hand upright, and tuck it into the corner of the winter sitting-room as a stop-gap.

  Clutching at other straws, I recently spotted an advertisement in the local paper for an orchestra that is seeking a pianist, and rang to offer my services. Never mind that I wouldn’t be able to practise. The Club Philharmonique de Limoges sounded like a first-rate ensemble brimming with young players – demure harpists, sultry oboists, sexy cellists and so on – just waiting to make sweet music with a pianist from the land of Elgar and the Wurzels.

  A second after I had expressed my keenness to join, I asked the conductor how many players were in his symphony orchestra.

  ‘Nous avons un bugle et un accordéon,’ said Monsieur André, sounding a bit like a doctor listing symptoms. ‘Une flûte, une clarinette et quatre violons.’ If this was symphonic, then so was my chicken house. And what Monsieur André failed to mention was that the average age of his players was seventy-seven.

  This is, nevertheless, all part of the adventure. And afternoon rehearsals are lightened by our cheery English bassist, Jack – a retired engineer from the RAF – who likes to yell ‘Cuppa tea’d be nice!’ after each piece we murder, be it ‘Le Petit Village’ or the Hallelujah Chorus. The incongruity of this, in a room where nobody else speaks a word of English, makes me laugh every time. And then, at the next rehearsal, a lady with a tea-urn appears – paid for out of Monsieur André’s own pocket – and both members of the English rhythm section fall silent.

  The Club Philharmonique makes a unique sound, to judge from the stricken faces of those who hear us. Actually, that’s an exaggeration. There is so little music-making in the Limousin that several people are weirdly appreciative of our aural devastation.

  This week, at my first concert with the group in Limoges, I am aghast to spy poor Henri and Françoise, the cherubim and seraphim, amid the collateral damage that we call an audience. Especially since it emerges after the concert that one of the wind players had his music in the wrong order, and played exactly one piece behind everyone else throughout the performance. It says a lot for our abilities that no one noticed.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I ask Henri and Françoise, as we leave the hall. The blessed couple do look slightly pale.

  ‘Mais oui! We didn’t run away,’ chortles Françoise, her peach-skin face wrinkling into a happy smile. ‘You’d have to play much worse for us to do that.’

  34

  MAY: THE GOLDEN FLEECE

  Gilles is waiting for me when I return to La Folie after the concert, leaning against his van in the evening sunshine.r />
  ‘Ça va, Michael?’ he asks, wrinkling his nose in classic Gilles fashion.

  ‘Oui.’ I nod, surprised. ‘Is everything all right? Josette still on the mend?’

  ‘Oh, she’s all right,’ he says. ‘She complains a bit, but what can I expect?’

  I usher him inside for a drink.

  Gilles is shearing two hundred of his sheep next week, and asks if I’d be willing to help. My heart leaps. Sheep-shearing. Yes, this is the kind of rugged peasant activity for which I came to France, and I’m thrilled also to have an opportunity to make my contribution to rural French life in general, and Gilles in particular. The man does such a lot for me, and it’s so hard to think what I can do for him. Giving is always more comfortable than receiving. I once saw sheep-shearing on Blue Peter, and it looked rather complicated. But I’ve studied the pictures in my sheep-husbandry book, and there can’t be all that much to it.

  ‘À la tienne, Gilles,’ I say happily, as he clinks his glass of bitter Salers Gentiane against my Pastis.

  At the aeroclub, there has been much whispering in dark corners. Peter Viola keeps me posted about developments regarding the possibility of finding a space for the Luscombe in the half-empty hangar. But things are not looking good.

  There is no room at the inn. My aeroplane is going to languish for ever at Rochester, costing me three-hundred quid a month for the privilege of never flying it and merely having the occasional love-in with Nigel.

  ‘You shouldn’t have taken a place for granted,’ snaps Michel, the new club president, as we stand on the apron watching a Robin DR400 do endless circuits, the squeak of its tyres on the runway reaching us a split second after the little puff of smoke as the wheels make contact.

  ‘I suppose it just looks to me as if there’s plenty of room in there,’ I reply, gesturing into the half-empty hangar, newly built.

  ‘There are rules. And the rules must be obeyed,’ says Michel sternly.

  The countryside looks less lovely than usual as I drive back to Jolibois. Grey sky, grey cows, grey grass. In time, I will learn that Michel’s attitude reflects a fundamental difference between French and English ways of thinking. In England, we don’t have very many rules, and bend them to make exceptions or special cases. In France, there are thousands of rules, and exceptions are not permitted. This is why there are so many committee meetings: to change the rules in order to admit the exceptions without breaking the rules.

  I cannot fault the kindness of the people I have met. But every so often, I do find their willingness to hide behind statutes and sub-clauses and réglementations in triplicate ever so slightly frustrating. I am beginning to think that I may be forced to sell my aircraft, as I sold Charlie and the boys.

  Three days later, I am summoned to Michel’s office at the aeroclub, and learn that the committee has changed the rules. A place in the spanking new hangar is finally mine.

  Buoyed up with my good news, tail wagging, ready for action, I don my grubby blue workman’s overalls, and head off in the Espace for Gilles’s shearing barn. I wish Serge were here, because I’d like to be able casually to mention to him that I’m just off to shear some sheep, as we manly peasant farmers are wont to do when the mood takes us. But the workmen have downed tools for the time being, as the question of what render will stick to Zumbach’s ash-block walls continues to stymie progress.

  The shearing barn lies in a different hamlet to Gilles’s farmhouse, and today is one of those glittering spring mornings when the fields just seem to be smiling back at me as I drive past them, the dew beginning to steam in the sun, the sheep munching on their lush new grass with the urgency of children attacking a box of chocolates. I have no radio in the Espace, so I sing to myself instead.

  At the barn, I’m surprised to find that there are already five men pacing around inside. Gilles introduces me.

  ‘Salut, Michael,’ he says. And then I hear him explaining to the men that although I’m anglais, I’m OK.

  ‘Bonjour, Messieurs,’ I chirrup, my nostrils smarting at the ammoniac fug that comes of keeping a hundred sheep penned in a small barn overnight. There are some gruff replies, and I shake hands with each man in turn.

  I wonder what all these chaps are going to do with themselves while Gilles and I shear sheep. But after a few seconds of muttering and nodding, our jobs are allocated and a very French pecking-order of machismo is established.

  At the top are the shearers themselves: an ultra-cool Paul Newman type, and a fleshy, red-faced ox who’s already sweating heavily in the heat of the sheep-filled barn. Both wear tight jeans, with low-slung shearing belts strapped around their hips, like weight-lifters. Then there’s Robert, an old shepherd with a mighty crook and a face as craggy as the Pyrenees, whose job it is to hook each sheep by the hind leg and drag it on to the shearing mat. Next, Gilles and another man – who looks more of an outsider in his gold-rimmed bifocals and scarlet jumper – take turns to wrestle the animal over on to its bottom, ready for its cut, set and blow-dry. And then there’s me. My job is … well, my job is to collect the wool.

  The shearers pull the starter-cords of their well-oiled Lister machines, and the angry buzzing begins. I experiment with various techniques for collecting wool in a manly fashion. I even attempt to channel my inner Frenchman, who would surely find a way to do it with élan, panache, savoir-faire and all those other French concepts for which there is no English word. But everything happens so fast, and it’s not easy to look dignified when you’re scrabbling around on your knees, desperately trying to scrape up all the greasy fragments of poo-matted fleece from under the feet of two sweaty sheep-shearers, before the mouton-wrestlers manhandle their next victim into the barber’s chair.

  Every so often, my job also involves climbing a ladder up to the mountainous wool-sack, hopping in, and then jumping up and down on the shorn fleeces. I try to imagine how a cowboy would behave on a trampoline, and end up feeling more like a clown on a bouncy castle. I remind myself that I am here to make a contribution, come what may.

  Once the ewes are shorn, it’s time for the rams. Each one of these mighty brutes is the size of five of my Rastafarians, and the first one struggles like a tackled rugby-leaguer when Robert hooks its leg. The man in the scarlet jumper backs away nervously, and – spying my chance – I make a heroically rash bid to establish my credentials. I grab the flailing beast with both hands; attempt to drag it forward on to the shearing-mat. But it won’t budge. I might as well be trying to move an oak tree. Except that this particular oak tree has decided to go into reverse.

  I glance up to see that the other men have stopped to watch, grinning like a bunch of rugby forwards interrupting a scrum to gaze at a streaker. Cool Hand Luke has even lit a cigarette. Oh Lord. I dig my heels in, take a tighter grip on the ram, and shove with all my might. This is for England. Thankfully, the animal picks up my desperation and begins to stagger forward, more out of politeness than anything else.

  Chuckling, Gilles takes over from me. ‘Bien fait, Michael,’ he says kindly. And I resume my wool-gathering duties with new ardour as the last few rams line up for their crew-cuts.

  ‘How many sheep do you have?’ I ask the man in the scarlet jumper, as – happy and weary – we wander back through the sunlit fields to Gilles’s house for lunch.

  ‘Only three,’ he says sheepishly. So I have found a fellow townie-in-mufti. ‘Et toi?’

  ‘Eight,’ I reply, trying to sound nonchalant about my vast flock. We stop to admire Gilles’s newly shorn rams, munching contentedly in the sunshine beside us. ‘C’est bien d’avoir des moutons, non?’

  He nods and smiles, the sunlight glinting off his glasses as he squints at me. We lean on the fence and breathe in the warm, fragrant air. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell chimes. And for this moment, for one Frenchman and one Englishman somewhere in the middle of France, all is right with the world.

  35

  PEGASUS

  Dinner with Ralph the artist and Olga the spy, at the
ir plush old townhouse in the heart of Jolibois, is a cheery affair. After the leaks and creaks of La Folie, I feel like some shivering, threadbare nephew invited to dine at the home of an indulgent uncle, where every room is warm, and the doors fit properly, and the windows keep out the cold.

  ‘Here’s a knocking indeed,’ bellows Ralph, his vast frame filling the doorway as he welcomes me into a brightly lit hall, which appears to double as a studio. ‘Come in, my boy. How wonderful to see you.’

  The walls are covered with effusively colourful paintings of people eating and talking, which comes as no surprise in the light of Ralph’s own expansive girth and talent for surreal anecdotage.

  ‘Oh, don’t look at them, don’t look at them,’ he wails, covering his eyes with his hands.

  ‘But why not?’ I ask, admiring a painting of three chefs working in a gleamingly detailed restaurant kitchen.

  ‘Because they’re all awful. Don’t be polite, my boy; I can take it.’ His booming voice echoes upwards through the house. ‘I know they’re terrible.’

  ‘On the contrary, I think they’re jolly good.’ I’m worried he’s about to burst into tears. ‘Why are you so hard on yourself, Ralph?’

  ‘Because of Rembrandt. Ah, my poor, dear Rembrandt.’ He places his hand on his heart and points to a corner of the room that is piled with a riot of paints and brushes. Sellotaped to the wall are a number of faded postcards of Rembrandt self-portraits, their corners curling with age. ‘I keep them there, to remind me of what I shall never be able to do,’ he intones.

  ‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’ I ask. ‘To judge yourself against Rembrandt?’

  ‘I can’t help it,’ he groans, gazing at the postcards as if in a trance, and then shaking himself back into the present. ‘But enough of my shortcomings. How are the sheep? And the chickens? Have you started writing that book yet? You must come upstairs and meet everyone. You’ll be all right, because your French is so good, you beastly swot.’