(Not Quite) Mastering the Art of French Living

by Mark Greenside

  I meander my way slowly toward the bookcase, arcing this way and zigging that, stopping to look at things I couldn’t care less about: a chipped ceramic vase, cracked leather chair, monsieur-and-madame matching andirons. The closer I get, the better it looks. I walk past it, continuing to meander through other booths. Then I meander back, ready to begin the pas de deux with the seller, and see no one is there. It’s the last hours of the last day of the fair, and the salesperson is gone. There’s a note pinned to a tablecloth. Retour à 15h30, 3:30. It’s now 3:00. Anyone could walk away with anything, though I appear to be the only person thinking that. It’s the same when the fruit lady closes her shop for lunch. She locks the shop and leaves all the fruit outside. There’s a level of trust here that’s unnerving.

  I circle the bookcase looking for the price. Sometimes items are marked and sometimes not. I’m thinking five hundred to seven hundred dollars would be a bargain, when I see the sticker pasted on the side—250 euros—about three hundred and fifty dollars, a steal. It’s rare, and a find, and I want it. I’m burning to buy, but my composure is cooler than ice. I don’t want to appear too eager.

  I walk around looking at other booths to see if there’s anything else I like, or a better deal, and return at 3:45. “15h30” has been crossed out and “16h00” added. Once again, I marvel at how the French expand time the way Americans do space.

  The seller returns at 16:15. He’s a big, hefty, smiling guy with a beard and suspenders. He walks slowly toward me—and the dance begins.

  I turn away to look at a mahogany table and chairs I hate.

  He walks past me, to the front of his stall, and peers out as if he’s expecting Audrey Tatou or Jesus.

  I open the drawers of a bureau I couldn’t care less about, then go back to the bookcase and remove a tape measure from my pocket and measure: two meters high, one meter wide, 0.4 meters deep. It’s perfect. I shake my head “No,” and make a sound like disappointment amplified. I want him to know I’m interested, but it may not fit in my house, a conundrum—though I already know I’m buying, as per Rule Number One of shopping: if you see what you want, get it, don’t wait, it will be gone.

  He walks back toward me, visibly disappointed neither Audrey nor Jesus has appeared.

  Now that we’re both disappointed, it’s time to conclude and make us both happy.

  “Monsieur,” I ask, as if passing the time, “connez vous le an au cette pièce?” I’m asking the provenance, the year it was made, its history, if it has been involved in any murders or scandals, anything he can tell me about the bookcase. He’ll tell me what he knows, nothing more, nothing less; of this I’m certain. I have never been lied to or cheated by a salesperson.

  “Je ne sais pas,” he shrugs, and tells me he got the bookcase in the north, near Roscoff, which makes sense because there are lots of English people living there, and they, like me, like oak. He also tells me he’s had it a “longtemps,” letting me know he’s ready to move it.

  “Bon,” I say. “Merci. Je pense,” and I point to my head to let him know I’m thinking and don’t have a headache, or something worse, like Alzheimer’s. He walks away to let me ponder. We both know I’m buying, but it’s up to me to make the first move.

  Sellers are always willing to deal, but the best deals come when no one else is present, especially no other French people—like now. Transactions like this are private. I have one shot at drastically reducing the price. He has to believe I’m serious about my bottom line—and the bottom line has to be fair, not insulting. I’m going to offer him twenty percent less than the asking price. I circle the booth one more time and stop in front of the sales guy, who’s standing behind his desk, waiting for me, smiling.

  “Monsieur, acceptez-vous deux-cents?” I offer him two hundred euros—about $300—and point to the bookcase.

  “Oui.”

  “Bon—et le livraison?” The delivery?

  “Cinquante euros.” Fifty euros.

  I see where this is going. He’s determined to get his two hundred fifty euros, and I’m determined to get my twenty percent discount.

  “Monsieur, j’ai d’argent.” I have cash.

  “Ouiiiii.”

  The 20 percent sales tax is the fifty-euro difference between us. It’s the old under-the-table transaction, which works especially well if you buy the table too—which I do. I pay him 200 euros for the bookcase and 75 for the table, and he delivers them that night, as he said he would, as I fully expected.

  The next day I fill the bookcase with books and magazines and luxuriate in my additional space. It’s my personal version of western expansion and Manifest Destiny.

  Light Fixtures

  Thanks to native rural frugality, old houses with old wiring, and the high cost of electricity, people prefer 40- and 60-watt light bulbs to 75s and 100s, even with today’s modern lights. I once put a 150-watt bulb in the overhead kitchen light and Madame P went nuts. When I left at the end of the summer, she replaced it—out of deference to me—with a 60-watter, though I know she preferred the 40. When I returned the following year, I replaced her 60-watter—out of deference to her—with a 100, though I preferred the 150—and there we stand in quiet truce, she thinking I’m profligate; I thinking, to hell with the Green Party, she’s conserving too much.

  This year, I’ve decided to mount a pair of halogen lamps on the wall behind my bed, so when I read at night before going to sleep I won’t have to get out of bed and cross the room to turn off the light, as I’ve been doing for years. Leaving the warm cozy bed is a pain, banging my toe returning in the dark even more so. I’m finally ready to buy, which means returning to the lamp store—which means trouble with a capital T.

  I’ve been to this store many times and bought several lamps, including two very expensive ones, because I like lots of light, and when the sun’s not out, like in the evening or winter or one of the two hundred fifty days a year it rains, I need a little brightness. This store, unlike most—and I’ve been to many—is huge, has lots of choices, and does not favor those tiny, decorative, 25-watt lamps that wouldn’t light a fish tank, not to mention a room at night.

  Over the years, I’ve spent hundreds of dollars in this store, yet each time I enter and call out, “Bonjour,” whoever’s behind the counter—the propriétaire, his wife, daughter, or son, all of whom I’ve bought from—says, “Bonjour,” as if they’ve never seen me before. I’m used to it now, but for the first thousand dollars it was unsettling.

  “Bonjour,” I call out as I enter the store.

  “Bonjour,” comes back from the propriétaire, who doesn’t bother to look up.

  I don’t care. I want to be left alone to survey, see what’s new, what’s on sale, check the prices, and ponder my choices. I go straight to the area where halogens, wall lamps, art glass, and sconces were last time I was in the store and am surprised to see they’re still there.

  Unlike the French, I want something simple and plain. I resist the temptingly beautiful, ultra-modern, stunningly elegant, delicate, intricate, fragile lamps French people seem to prefer: lamps designed and accessorized in ways guaranteed to snap, crackle, and pop—like the one with the ornate snowflake-like filigree shade that won’t survive the first changing of the bulb, or the beauty with the impossibly thin two-inch-long tapering arm for adjusting the direction of light. No way. I learned my lesson from a thermos, teakettle, and vacuum cleaner: the better it looks, the worse it works.

  I bought a thermos to keep my coffee hot in the mornings. It’s gorgeous, iridescent blue, missile-shaped, curved, metallic, Brancusi-like-cool, but something about the shape of the plug makes it impossible to pour without spilling, and the seal doesn’t seal, so liquids don’t stay hot or cold. In twenty minutes, everything becomes lukewarm. I bought a beautiful, sleek, stainless steel teakettle with a catchy whistle that broke almost immediately and a handle guaranteed not to get hot that scalds. I thought they were flukes, mistakes, one-of-a-kind lemons. Then I bought my first vacuum cle
aner—a space-age, industrial, cyclotron-inspired model that looks like it could suck the gold out of fillings, only the thing wouldn’t even eat spider webs. I swear, spiders laughed when they saw it coming. So I now forego the sexy and buy the simple, sturdy, easy to install and maintain, which is usually German, English, or Dutch.

  I find what I want hidden behind the gleam and the junk. It’s brushed bronze, not glittering chrome or brass, with a simple 50- and 100-watt switch, a two-screw mount, and easy access to change the bulb. It doesn’t stand out, it fits in, which is why I didn’t see it right away—and it’s the most expensive lamp on the shelf: two hundred dollars for one, and I want two.

  I look everywhere and don’t see another—not a good sign. Inventory must be a dirty word in France, because if it’s not on the shelf or counter or rack, it usually doesn’t exist. This is where the trouble begins—when I need help.

  In the U.S., I indicate my need by standing in front of the desired or contemplated object and stare at it, or touch it, or pick it up and put it down several times, at which point someone usually says, “May I help you?” If no one does, I pace back and forth in front of the object, widening my route until I’m standing in front of the cash register. By then, unless it’s service I want, or I’m in a store where only fifteen-year-olds are working, someone will usually help me. If everything fails, I ask, “Hey, can I have some help here?” which is what I’m about to do now.

  I’ve been in the store twenty minutes, found the lamp I want, stared at it, walked in front of it, picked it up and put it down several times, paced the aisle, then the area, and have been standing in front of the cash register for a full two minutes. Finally, I ask. “L’assistance, s’il vous plaît.”

  “Un moment,” Monsieur answers without raising his eyes and continues adding receipts. If this were the U.S., I’d leave. But this is France, Brittany, Finistère—“the end of the world”—and I’ve seen the lamp I want, and I know no one else within fifty miles, if that, will have it. And I know from experience to buy what I want when I see it, because odds are I’ll never see it again. So when Monsieur says, “Un moment,” I wait.

  He finishes adding his receipts, which as far as I can figure are fewer than twelve, though he’s spent at least ten minutes doing it, looks up, and says, “Oui,” as if he didn’t know I was there and had never seen me before.

  “S’il vous plaît,” I say, and lead him to the display. I’m the only customer in the store, but he follows me reluctantly, as if there are a zillion other places he’d rather be. I understand—but he’s here and so am I, and I need his help. I point to the lamp I’m interested in and say, “Une.”

  “Oui,” he says, clearly not impressed with my math or vision.

  “Je voudrais achete deux.” I hold up two fingers.

  “Oui.”

  “Avez vous deux?”

  “Non.”

  “C’est possible?”

  He shrugs.

  “Quand possible?”

  “Peut-être le fin de semaine.” Maybe by the end of the week.

  It’s déjà vu all over again, only now I’m in a quandary. Do I buy the one I really like and want, understanding I’ll never see the other and won’t have a matched set—which suddenly seems to matter more than anything—or do I wait till the end of the week, which could easily be the end of the month or eternity, and have the other one arrive and this one sold? Shit. Once again, the shopper’s dilemma in France: buy now and don’t get what I want, or buy later and don’t get what I want. How soon do I want to be disappointed? How long do I want to live with false hope?

  I opt for the latter and tell Monsieur I’ll return “fin de semaine.” It’s a forty-five-minute, fifty-kilometer journey. They have a phone and an answering machine, but I have to return to find out if the lamp’s sister has arrived because they rarely answer the phone and never return messages. On the rare occasion when someone does answer the phone, they are always too busy to look for anything or answer any questions even if they understand what I am asking. It’s no use asking them to call me when the lamp arrives. They’ll agree and never do it. No, if I want that lamp—really want it, and the harder it is to get, the more I do want it—the burden is mine. “À bientôt,” I say and leave, hoping it sounds like a threat.

  At the end of the week, I return to the store, say, “Bonjour,” and go straight to the display. The good news is the one lamp is still there. I’m hoping there’s even better news and number two has arrived and they’re holding it for me. I walk up to the counter and wait. Madame is arranging light bulbs—by size, wattage, price, shape, color, screw-in or bayonet—who can tell? All I know is, it’s more important than talking to me, the only customer in the shop. Finally, I say, “Madame.” She lifts her head and looks at me as if she’s never seen me before, though she said “bonjour” to me less than ten minutes ago and sold me a four-hundred-dollar lamp last year, acting as if I were a relative. Now I see how relative I am.

  “S’il vous plaît,” I say, and lead her to the display and pick up the lamp I want. “Vous avez une.”

  “Oui.”

  “Je voudrais deux.”

  “Oui.”

  “Avez-vous une autre?”

  “Non.”

  “Quand arrive?”

  “Je ne sais pas. Peut-être deux semaines.” Now it’s a two-week wait.

  Again, my quandary: buy now and be disappointed or buy later and be disappointed. Again, I opt for the latter. Living here has made me Edwardian: I require symmetry and a matched set, two one-of-a-kinds will not do. It’s mid-June, I’m leaving in eight weeks, and would like to complete this transaction by then—but just in case, I have a plan.

  I write down the name and number of the lamp model and the name of the manufacturer. I go to lamp stores in Brest, Quimper, Morlaix, Rennes, and Vannes. No one has it. No one has seen it. No one can order it. Plus, the shop owners act as if I’ve asked them to buy AK-47s or Mirage Jets and launder money—and perhaps I have. For all I know, the lamps are made in Pakistan or North Korea and the money is going to some Iran-Contra-type intelligence scam for lamps. I don’t care. I want that lamp. I look for other matched pairs while I’m in these stores, but nothing is as nice as the one I’ve been looking at, which makes me want the second one more. Besides, if I bought one of those, I’d be back to the sine qua non of French shopping: disappointment. You’d think since I’ll be disappointed buying one, disappointed buying two that don’t match, and disappointed buying a matched set I like, but not as much as this one, I’d settle for the least disappointment and move on. No way.

  I return to the store in two weeks, say, “Bonjour,” though I don’t really mean it, and have the same conversation with the daughter, which ends the same way: “Peut-être la semaine prochaine.”

  On my way out, as a throwaway, just to get the last word, I ask, “Madame, avez-vous un autre magasin en autre ville?’”

  “Oui.”

  Holy shit! I’m speechless. They have another store in another village and they’ve never called to see if they have the lamp. It truly is unbelievable. Still, I try to contain my joy, though I feel like I’ve hit the mother lode. As nonchalantly and as servile as I can, I say, “Pardon moi, Madame, s’il vous plaît, c’est possible vous telephone le autre magasin et demande si avez le même lamp?” Can you call the other shop and ask if they have the lamp?

  “Non.”

  “No?”

  “Non. Ce n’est pas possible.”

  That’s it. Over and out. She lifts the lamp from the display and walks toward the register as if I’ve agreed to buy this one.

  “Madame, je voudrais deux!”

  She waves the lamp in front of me and says, “C’est tout,” and brings me back to my quandary and my quest, which is now becoming my own little “Impossible Dream.”

  “Quand arrive le autre?” I ask, trying not to sound desperate.

  “Ça dépend.”

  “C’est depende a qua!”

&
nbsp; “Je ne sais pas . . . Peut-être . . . ”

  I give up on the daughter—the whole damned family. This is war, and I intend to win.

  I begin showing up at the store at different times over the next few weeks, each time checking to make sure the one lamp is still there, then demanding of the father, mother, son, daughter, nephew, niece, whoever is behind the counter, would they please call the other store? The answer is always the same: “Non.”

  I’d call the other store myself, but French telephone books and information directories are arranged by village. If you don’t know the village, you can’t find the number, and I don’t know the village—there are thousands of them—and these people aren’t telling. Besides, even if I had the number, they wouldn’t answer the phone, return my message, or help me if I reached them. The only comforting thing is they treat French people the same way they treat me. They must be independently wealthy, or the store is a front. Nowhere else in the world could they survive. The thought is comforting, but of little solace, since this is where I am and I need them.

  This continues for seven weeks. I go to the store, affirm the one lamp is still there, and inquire about purchasing a second. Each time, though, I’m a little less resolute. It’s in that mood that I return to the store one last time before returning to the U.S.

  “Bonjour,” I say to Monsieur and go to the display and see the one lamp I’ve been eyeing all summer. It looks more and more perfect the farther away it gets. I pick it up, resigned now to have only one—or worse, a nonmatching set. I carry it to the counter and put it down, a gesture of surrender—Lee at Appomattox, Cornwallis at Yorktown—and take out my checkbook. Monsieur picks up the lamp, enters the model number and price into the computer and bags it. While I’m writing the check, he says to me, “Voudriez-vous que je téléphone au magasin de St. Brieuc?”