(Not Quite) Mastering the Art of French Living

by Mark Greenside

  The next thing I know I’m sitting in their living room, which is tiny and crammed with more furniture than a Public Storage warehouse, drinking a Kir Royal. Ten minutes ago Madame was incapacitated by fear, but now, assured I’m neither seriously dangerous nor crazy, she moves into action. She sets a bowl of chips and a platter of crudités in front of me and adds one more setting to the table. Jacques is nowhere in sight. She refills my Kir Royal, and he suddenly appears. She leads me to the table and she sits me at the head, the guest of honor, me, who two hours earlier almost killed her husband and wrecked their car. In the U.S., I’d insist on a food taster. Here, I just dig in.

  We start with a fresh, sweet, juicy melon, like a cantaloupe, but not like any cantaloupe I’ve ever eaten. The melon is followed by cabillaud—fresh cod—potatoes, green beans, red lettuce vinaigrette, and three kinds of cheese—Port Salut, a chèvre, and Camembert. Throughout, we’re drinking rosé. We finish with fresh fruit, cookies—galettes of pure butter—coffee and brandy. I’m beat.

  It’s 2:00. I’ve spent more than four hours with Jacques, two with his wife, whose name I still don’t know, and we haven’t even begun to fill out the insurance form, and I’m drunk. All I want to do is nap, and I vow then and there never to allow a French worker to work on me or my house or car or anything after lunch, though the truth is they seem perfectly fine.

  Jacques opens a huge bureau in the living room and rifles through papers. I stand and try to help Madame with the plates, silverware, and leftovers. They both sit me down with more force and direction than I’ve seen either of them exert so far. Jacques finally finds what he’s looking for—the accident form—and sets it on the table and studies it as Madame clears the table around him.

  I assume he knows what he’s doing, and we’ll be done in ten minutes and I’ll be out the door and on my way to bed. But no, neither Jacques nor Madame has ever filled out such a form before, and I see a reticence developing, a reticence I’ve seen in France before when it comes to putting things on paper and filling out forms. Jacques studies the paper. Madame stands over his shoulder and reads it out loud. They look at each other—nervous, scared, wanting more than anything to do the right thing and not sure how. They look at me, and I perceive the incredible: they want me to tell them what to do. Me, who can’t read or understand a thing. Clearly, they have to know this—in the two hours we’ve been together, I’ve said, “C’est joli,” “C’est beau,” “Bon,” “Bien mangé,” “Magnifique,” “Merci, merci beaucoup,” and “Je suis désolé,” ten to twenty times. How can they possibly expect me to know this? But they do. They sit there looking at me hopefully, as if I’m a doctor and they’re the patients, and soon I’ll make everything OK.

  I don’t want to disappoint them any more than I have, so I open my Renault booklet to look for the accident form, and miracle of miracles I find it, and beneath the French, in tiny letters, everything is explained in English. I thank God and Renault’s insurance company. “Ah, bon,” I say. “Oui.” Jacques and Madame look as if they’ve witnessed the resurrection: their faith has been tested, and they’ve been proven correct; this moron, this idiot, this child who can speak only a few words, mostly nonsense, has arrived to help them fill out this government form—thankfully forgetting or ignoring or forgiving the fact that they wouldn’t need to fill out the form if I hadn’t clobbered their car.

  I take the pen from Jacques and boldly print my surname and “Christian” name (I’m Jewish, but why get into that?), address, insurance policy number, and the date, then stop. I can read the form, but beyond what I’ve written I can’t write the answers in French. I turn the paper around and hand the pen to Jacques.

  “Votre nom.” I point.

  He fills his name in carefully and never stops writing. At the space for location of accident, lieu de l’accident, he and Madame disagree about whether to use the correct location or the one the police wrongly identified in their report. Jacques wants to use the correct location. Madame wants to use the wrong one from the police report. I understand the issue perfectly, clarity versus accuracy, maintaining the simple white lie or presenting the more complicated, confusing truth. I opt for simple and clear and point to the location identified on the police report. Madame smiles at me. Jacques scowls, but he’s outvoted, so he writes the name of the wrong location on the form. Beneath it, as required by the form, he draws a picture of the rond-point, its entrances and exits, and my car plowing into his. It’s true, of course, so I don’t object, though the American in me resists enough to move the point of impact a millimeter back to minimize whatever damage he might claim. Under the drawing Jacques writes several sentences, none of which I can read. I sit there smiling and nodding, certain when the insurance form is read my rates will double, and I’ll never be able to lease a car again. Last, is blessé—injury, bruise—and remembering his shock, the hospital, and ambulance, I expect the worst.

  Jacques looks at me and shrugs. “Vous?” he points.

  I say, “No.”

  “Vous?” I ask.

  He says, “Non.”

  “Bon,” Madame says, and we both sign it. That, I think, is that—but not quite. It’s four o’clock, goûter time, and Madame has coffee, cookies and Far Breton, a pudding cake that would be banned by the American Heart Association if it knew it existed. Finally, I say, “Merci. Au revoir. Je suis désolé,” and stand as best I can. Madame kisses me four times. Jacques shakes my hand, and I suddenly remember, thanks to me, he has no car. This sets me off on a string of “Je suis désolé,” but he and Madame wave it off.

  “Ce n’est pas grave, no problem. Ce n’est pas grave,” and Jacques tells me his car will be fixed in three days. “Trois jours.” He holds up three fingers, and to be sure I understand, shows me on the calendar that today is lundi, and he’ll have his car on jeudi. I look at him in disbelief. He’s French, for God’s sake, how could he possibly think this? Nothing happens quickly in France. Even in the U.S., land of efficiency and the clock, it would be two to three weeks before he saw his car again. Jacques is humoring me, I know, so I won’t feel bad about wrecking his car and his life. “Je suis dés—”

  “No problem, no problem,” Madame cuts me off and hands me a peach. And then the strangest of all the strange things that day happens: Jacques hands me an envelope and the accident form we just filled out—the only copy!—and asks me to mail it because he doesn’t have a car or a stamp. Madame kisses me on the cheek again, and Jacques shakes my hand, the way he did with the taxi driver, and walks me out to my car, probably to make sure I really leave, wishing me “Bonne journée,” and “Bonnes vacances,” as if he means it and wouldn’t mind spending another lovely afternoon with me sometime soon.

  I drive home, astonished. Jacques and Madame don’t know me from Cain. They don’t know my last name, where I live, or how to reach me. The official police report is inaccurate, and I have the only copy of the insurance report that blames me for causing the accident. In the U.S., I’d think about dumping it in the trash and blaming the post office. All the way to Plobien, I’m thinking about this and wondering why in the world they trust me?

  I learn later it wasn’t trust. French people are as suspicious and doubting and provincial about human behavior as Americans, maybe even more, given their Catholic belief in fate and fatalism. It was simply expected of me, the way in the U.S. we don’t trust other drivers, but we expect them to stay on their side of the road. Without that expectation, we could not/would not drive. The same is true in France, but over a much wider range of behavior. It’s expected of me, because it’s what you do when you have an accident. C’est normal. It’s another of those rules by which rational, reasonable, no-fault, nonlitigious people live. I stop at the post office, buy a stamp, make a copy of the form for me, because I don’t trust the mail, the police, or the insurance company, mail it, and go home to take a nap.

  The next day, using my dictionary, I write a postcard—more for my sake than for theirs—to Jacques and Mad
ame telling them I mailed the insurance form. I thank them again for lunch and goûter and apologize again for wrecking their car. Then I mail the card and drive to the local Renault dealer. When I leased the car at the airport the lady told me the insurance was “complete,” implying the fees included everything, with no additional costs to me. I wouldn’t have believed it in the U.S. I believe it even less in France, and now, less than one month later, I’m going to find out. I’m about to enter my worst nightmare: the French bureaucracy. Kafka and the Gulag couldn’t scare me more.

  I drive into the Renault garage as slowly as I can, making certain I don’t hit anything else. I have my confident American look—I know what I’m doing, don’t even think of taking advantage of me—but I’m scared, wondering how much this is going to cost me, and feeling sheepish, like I’ve let these people down. They gave me a new car, trusted me with it, and look what I did. I park far away from everyone else, get out of my car, and stand by the passenger’s side, the good side, waiting.

  I’m hoping for someone who speaks English, or at least will be helpful, or kind. I wait about fifteen minutes, and when no one speaks with me I walk into the shop. With each step, I’m more and more surprised. In the U.S., every garage I’ve been in is filled with greasy men with bloody knuckles and torn fingers and banging, whirring, and slamming things. The worst calendars are on the walls and talk radio stations are blaring; parts are on the floor, hanging from the walls and ceiling, with barely an unoccupied space; the smell of oil and gas and antifreeze is pervasive—and in summer, as now, the added smell of sweat. But not here. Here, the garage is like a research lab: wide-open, clean aisles; workers dressed like hospital lab technicians, in white, not a grease or blood stain on them. There’s no banging, sawing, cutting, whirring—no loud noises at all. The radio plays Daphnis and Chloë. If cars weren’t in the air, I wouldn’t know I was in a garage.

  A fellow in a pristine white lab coat walks over to me and shakes my hand. His hands are an ad for hand cream. They’re baby-skin soft, moist, almost feminine, except he’s six feet tall, two hundred pounds—a giant in Brittany—and has a voice like Pavarotti. “What can I do for you?” he asks. At least I think that’s what he asks, because it’s the question I answer.

  I walk him around the car to the driver’s side and point at my bent, mangled, deformed little Twingo. The fender, hood, lights, and bumper are all smashed, making the car look less like a toy and more like advanced arthritis.

  He puffs up his cheeks, expels air like a five-year-old, and begins talking and asking me questions. I know he’s asking me questions, because every few minutes he stops. He continues doing this, speaking and stopping, until he realizes my shrugs and multiple “Bons,” and “Ah, ouis,” don’t mean a thing. He walks away and returns with a tablet and begins to write. He walks all around the car, touching it, rubbing it, probing, putting his face and nose to the metal, periodically sucking in a mouthful of air and expelling it, making a noise that sounds to me like expensive. He spends twenty minutes doing this and hands me the papers to sign. I give him my insurance papers, which, as I feared and expected, he waves away. Now what? He gives me his papers and a pen. I hold the pen and look at the paper. Who knows what I’m signing? Maybe I’m agreeing to pay the first ten thousand dollars. Maybe I’m buying the Eiffel Tower. In the U.S., I’d never sign. I look at the guy. He looks like a nice man, so I write my name.

  “Combien jours?” I ask him. How many days? I walk to the car and point at the fender, then myself, the ground, and turn my hands as if turning a steering wheel.

  “Ah,” he says, and holds up three fingers.

  Three weeks. “Trois semaines!” Holy cow.

  He laughs.

  “Trois mois!” I won’t even be here.

  “Vendredi,” he says. “Vendredi matin.” Friday morning.

  Three days! That’s what Jacques told me when I “désoléed” him a zillion times. “Pas grave,” not serious, “no problem.” He’d have his car back in three days.

  Wow. I start to walk away.

  “Monsieur.”

  “Oui.”

  He gives me another sheaf of papers to sign. Now what? Probably a promise to never lease a Renault again. I sign, hand it back, and thank him again, saying, “Merci, merci beaucoup. Vendredi matin,” and start to back out the door.

  “Monsieur.” He takes me by the hand like a three-year-old, the same way my dad did when he was taking me to my room to be spanked. We walk through the garage, out the back door, and stop in front of a new, cherry-red Twingo. I think he’s going to lecture me, tell me, “See, this is how you’re supposed to treat a car.” He hands me the keys.

  “Pour moi?”

  “Oui.”

  I love this country. I wreck a new car because I’m foolishly driving without knowing the rules, and instead of punishing or inconveniencing me—or at least ridiculing me—they’re handing me the keys to another new car. All I can think is God, I hope I can afford all this. The man shakes my hand as if I’m a relative, and says, “Vendredi, vendredi matin,” the one thing we seem to understand and agree on. Then he does something I know he doesn’t do for anyone else. He steps into the road—into traffic, on a highway!—and stops five cars and a huge truck carrying pigs to slaughter, halting them so I can back out and get away and do whatever it is I’m going to do to this new car far away and out of his sight. And the most remarkable thing: no one screams, beeps, flashes lights, or gives me or the garage man the finger. I drive home more carefully than I’ve ever driven anywhere in my life.

  Three days later, vendredi matin, I return to the garage. I’ve managed not to dent, scratch, or in any way mangle the new Twingo, mostly by not driving it. In the three days I have it, I drive to the supermarché twice, a trip of about three kilometers each way. I feel proud, pleased I’ve upheld my part of the deal—bringing the car back safe and sound—and righteous, because I know they’ll fail in theirs. There’s no way the car will be ready.

  I drive into the garage and stop. There, inside, waiting for me—I can tell by the red license plates—is my car. I park next to it, get out, walk around it, and marvel. It’s finished and looks great, cleaner and shinier than when I got it at the airport. I walk into the garage looking for Monsieur, again feeling like I’m in a research lab or a hospital waiting room: white coats, quiet, no dirt or grease, Ravel on the radio, and not a single customer arguing about service, price, their bill, or the work.

  I walk into the office and a girl no more than eighteen shyly smiles at me and sings, “Bon-jour.”

  “Bonjour,” I say, and hand her the keys to my second Twingo, adding, “Bon. C’est joli. Merci.” Good. It’s pretty. Thanks.

  The girl smiles wider. She’s thinking about saying something to me, thinks better of it, and hands me a pile of papers to sign along with the keys to my first Twingo. I sign the papers and stand there, waiting. She looks at me, like, “Oh merde, now what?” I look at her the same way. I’m waiting for the bill, the deductible, the cost of the loaner, the gas. They never even asked for my credit card. “C’est tout?” I ask. That’s all?

  “Oui. C’est tout.”

  I see the fellow who helped me when I brought the car to the garage. “Au revoir,” I say to the girl, “à bientôt, à tout à l’heure,” goodbye, see you soon, in a moment, and run over to thank the man.

  “Merci beaucoup, Monsieur, merci, merci beaucoup,” as if he’d just delivered my firstborn or removed a brain tumor and a bit too much brain along the way. He looks at me like I’m un peu spécial and shakes my hand again like I’m family. Then he walks out to the highway and stops the traffic again so I can get away safely and quickly, and he can resume his work.

  My First Ticket

  The wonderful thing about French parking meters is they do not operate from twelve o’clock noon to two, during midi. Lunchtime parking is free! Even better, if you park at a meter at 11:45 and pay for two hours, the meter credits you the time after 2:00. Your two hours
start at 11:45, stop at 12:00, begin again at 2:00 and go to 3:45. Still, I manage to overstay and get ticketed.

  I have no idea what to do. I ask my guardian angel, Madame P, who tells me I have to buy a stamp. “Achetez un timbre.”

  “Une timbre?”

  “Oui.”

  And mail it to the address on the ticket.

  Madame explains all of this to me by taking an envelope from her kitchen cabinet drawer and becoming Marcel Marceau. She mimes putting something in it, sealing it, stamping it, dropping it into the mailbox, and waving bye-bye.

  The next day I go to the Poste and demande—this is a question in French, not a demand—“une timbre pour la parking.” A stamp for the parking.

  I get that all too familiar blank look.

  “Une timbre pour le parking.” I take the ticket out of my pocket and show it to the lady behind the counter. “Le timbre pour la parking.”

  “Ah, un timbre pour la parking . . . Au bar-tabac.”

  “Le bar-tabac?”

  “Oui, bien sûr. Le bar-tabac.”

  This makes no sense to me. I get a ticket for a driving or parking violation, and the government sends me to a bar to pay the fine.

  I walk along the quai to the bar-tabac farthest from the center of town, knowing, once again, I’m about to make a fool of myself. I walk in, thankful it isn’t crowded.

  “Bonjour, Madame.” The woman I’m calling Madame looks to be about sixteen years old.

  “Bonjour.”

  I don’t even bother trying to explain about the ticket, the stamp, the lady at the Poste, who I know doesn’t like me anyhow. I just hand her the ticket saying, “Ici,” trying to make it sound like a question, “Here?”—as opposed to a gift, “Here.”

  She takes it, looks, and tells me to come back tomorrow. “Demain.”

  I don’t know why. Maybe it’s against the law to sell stamps on Tuesday afternoons at 3:00, 15 hundred hours.