by Jamie Ivey
'How many months?'
'One.'
'Do you want to wait for the scan?'
'I'll tell them now.'
We hugged again. Buoyed by the change in mood, Elodie started laughing and clapping. There was a bang from the cellar as Manu ripped the door from another old car. I leaned on the wall for support. I was going to be the father of two. What a responsibility, what a delight. I couldn't wait. Then came the realisation – getting the house built on time was suddenly more important than ever. We now only had seven and a half months.
Chapter 21
Throughout October and November I was a regular at the dog training classes. The lessons were undoubtedly good for Snuffle. He calmed down and learnt to tune himself in to the sound of my voice. On our morning walks he obediently returned when called, and gradually we began to develop a genuine bond. He shadowed me all day and I enjoyed his reassuring presence. For the first time in my life I began to appreciate why some people were so mad about their dogs. Snuffle, like a child, had his own personality – playful, affectionate, forgetful and slightly dotty.
Despite my new found enthusiasm for dogs I still felt an outsider at the training classes. My gender (95 per cent of the other attendees were women) and nationality obviously marked me out as different. I also felt conspicuous because I had such a small dog when compared with the majority of the women, who manhandled great beasts.
At times it looked an unequal battle, with the dogs the obvious winners. Lightweight, nail-varnished, made-up women with spangles on their tops would yank on the thick ropes they used for control. The dogs lazily obliged. The tempers of the women were remarkably short and at the slightest hint of disobedience they would be wrapping the rope around their hands and beating the dogs on their haunches, screaming 'Non!' at the tops of their voices. Since they'd all opted to buy male dogs, I couldn't help but think that some form of anger transference was going on. A particular dog's transgressions might only be small, but perhaps because the husband of the owner had just started an affair, the dog got a blast of concentrated, unforgiving female anger.
'Non!' The word was screamed, at times almost spat out. It wasn't much of a leap of the imagination to picture these women at home in the kitchen, rope in hand, beating their husbands in a similar fashion. Putting them all together in a field seemed to feed their righteous indignation at the male species. The more aggressively one of them corrected their dog, the more the others nodded in support. If their husbands were indeed having extra-marital dalliances, they were wrong to choose male dogs as pets. The average man might think about sex ten times a day, but the average male dog thinks about nothing else.
The other reason I felt excluded and different was my inability to perform the basic turns and manoeuvres that Gaspar demanded. I'd always had two left feet and felt inhibited whenever I stepped on a dance floor. Now I was being asked to twirl in time with ten to fifteen Frenchwomen. It would have been hard enough to do without a dog, but with Snuffle in tow it became a simple exercise in limiting the embarrassment. My particular bête noire was still the demi-tour à droite. When the women did the demi-tour, there was a blur of motion, a swivel of the hips, and a little jazzy kick as they set off in the opposite direction, dogs seamlessly following. There was one lady who did the whole class without a lead. When she moved, her dog followed, and her demi-tour was a thing of beauty, while mine was a confused mess of lead and dog that often ended in me stumbling forward onto the grass.
My presence at the dog training sessions ruined the marvellous synchronicity that these women had achieved. As one they anticipated Gaspar's commands, forming criss-crossing choreographed patterns in the arena. Occasionally, a spectator would occupy the row of orange bucket seats, and spontaneously burst into applause after a particular complicated set of moves had been flawlessly performed. Needless to say, whenever there was any clapping, I was taking a break.
This being France, the highlight of every class was food. The exercise was initially a simple one. Gaspar would take a handful of sliced-up saucisson and offer it to each of the dogs. Meanwhile, the owners would say a firm 'Non!' and the dogs would obediently turn away from the food. Needless to say, the women were excellent at this exercise; their 'Non!' could not have been more vehement had it been one of their husbands pawing at the cleavage of a lover. My initial efforts were rather timid, but I was soon mirroring the female owners with a loud firm 'Non!'.
One week Gaspar forgot the saucisson. Hercules' owner volunteered to contribute a chausson aux pommes she had in the car, however. Spiced with ginger and nutmeg, the sliced stewed apples had been encased in light pastry. It really was too good for the dogs, she said, but just this once she would make an exception. As owner after owner shouted a firm 'Non!', the group became distracted discussing the precise quantities of each ingredient needed.
The classes were never the same again. After that, everybody agreed that to train the dogs properly they had to be really tempted. Saucisson was fine, but a dog might behave completely differently if, for example, he encountered a juicy poulet roti (roast chicken). Thus began the tradition of each member of the class bringing in some home-cooking to tempt the dogs. In the space of a few weeks we had a roti de porc, a daube de boeuf, a blanc de veau and a fricassée de poulet. Each recipe was lovingly prepared and then described, and for a while it felt like I'd signed up for a cooking course. The tradition came to an abrupt end when Rocky got loose, leapt into a car boot and devoured an entire casserole. If dogs could talk, he would have said, 'Oh là là, c'est bon.'
At the end of each lesson Snuffle and I spent a little time with Gaspar honing our truffle-hunting technique. We used an artificial substance bought on the Internet called Canitruffe, to simulate the smell of the truffles. With more and more success Snuffle located the Canitruffe and Gaspar was convinced that he was following the truffle smell, not my smell. He had one caveat, though. Before I could be sure that Snuffle would turn into an effective truffle dog, Snuffle had to accept the couche command. For a dog, complying with a 'lie down' command is the ultimate act of submission. So far Snuffle had resisted, growling in anger when I'd tried to encourage him into a prostrate position. Towards the end of October, Gaspar decided that it was time to force the issue.
When I arrived, for once people were not discussing their dogs. The previous day France had gone to the polls in the local elections and the right-wing President Nicolas Sarkozy had received a terrible beating. Everybody was delighted and there was an impromptu sing-song.
'Au revoir, Monsieur Le Président,' the women joined hands and chorused.
Such a response was surprising. Despite the humble surroundings, the 'club canine' was like a golf club, a haven of middle-class respectability. The annual fees were high and the members treated the weekly lessons as social occasions. It wasn't unusual for people to invite the family to watch and bring along a picnic. These were people who should support the government. Anyone might own a dog, but only the rich could afford to teach it how to dance.
'Au revoir, Monsieur Le Président,' they chanted.
The problems for Sarkozy had started on the night of his election when he chose to host a dinner at one of Paris's most expensive restaurants, drinking champagne, eating foie gras and hobnobbing with wealthy industrialists. Making matters worse, he then headed off on holiday on a friend's yacht, demeaned the post of president by ambling up the steps of the Élysée Palace in his jogging kit and, horror of horrors, ditched his wife and married an Italian model. Was it any wonder that these women now had a new hero, or heroine, Marine Le Pen, daughter of Jean-Marie Le Pen, who had succeeded her father as leader of the French National Front? Orange had been one of Le Front National's traditional strongholds and there was no need for me to ask for whom the members of the club had voted.
'Allez, on va commencer,' said Gaspar, putting an end to the politics.
We paraded around the arena. As usual, we started with au pied and Snuffle trotted obediently to heel. We exec
uted an early demi-tour à droite which, apart from the fact that we dropped two dogs in the line, was nearly perfect. We criss-crossed the field, weaving in and out of the other dogs, and Snuffle showed not the least bit of interest in playing with them, focusing on keeping step with my stride. The saucisson came out and I didn't even feel a tug on my lead as we paraded serenely over the temptation. It was hard to avoid the conclusion that Snuffle was now a very well-trained dog.
'On va essayer le couche,' said Gaspar.
Taking Snuffle's paws he gently moved him forward from the sitting position, saying 'Couche!' in a loud, strict voice. All the women watched. This moment was the most pivotal in the training of a dog, similar to the day a horse is finally broken. Gaspar, as head of the pack, had the most chance of success. Snuffle had watched all the other dogs submit to him, and would probably feel inclined to do the same.
'Couche!' Gaspar repeated.
Snuffle's body tensed, but slowly, ever so gradually, he edged forward onto his paws. He was lying down on command.
'Pas bouger,' instructed Gaspar.
How long would Snuffle hold this position of subservience? I counted slowly to twenty. A grin spread across Gaspar's face and he congratulated Snuffle with some saucisson. Snuffle returned to the sitting position.
'Now you try.'
'Couche!' I moved my hand forward slowly towards the earth, in the same manner as Gaspar. Snuffle appeared distracted.
'Couche!' I repeated. Snuffle looked at me, he looked at Gaspar and then miraculously he obliged, lying down on request. My dog had formally recognised my leadership.
As well as Snuffle's acceptance of his position in the family pack, another important development in our lives was slowly becoming part of the community of parents at Elodie's crèche. It was hard to imagine a more idyllic location for a child to begin her education. The classrooms formed a quadrangle around a shaded courtyard in the centre of which was an olive tree. There were slides, swings, toy cars, pretty much anything a toddler could desire.
Although heavily subsidised by the state, the crèche was run as a cooperative of parents, and people were expected to volunteer for small DIY jobs – fixing stair gates, putting up fences and matting, and generally ensuring the environment remained safe. I spent a couple of Saturday mornings working with some of the other dads. Most were farm labourers or artisan craftsmen and the quality of their bricolage was far superior to mine.
Thankfully, there was a young electrician called Franck who looked after me. I followed him around fetching hammers and nails when necessary and handing over supportive coffees. The arrangement seemed to suit both of us. Although he looked like a typical Provençal – short, dark eyes, dark hair – his working catchphrase 'c'est vite fait' would have been anathema to most of his countrymen.
'Did you see OM last night?' Franck asked.
Like everybody else in the region he was a fanatical fan. To live in Provence and not be aware of the fortunes of Olympique de Marseille was almost impossible. The day after a match conversations in bars, tabacs, post offices and newsagents always revolved around the football team's results.
'It was great.' OM had beaten Paris Saint-Germain 3–2 with a goal in the last minute. The rivalry between the two teams was one of the fiercest in France, and the Provençaux would now be happy for weeks.
'Come over and watch the next game.'
In any other country, this would have been a perfectly normal thing to say. In France, it was socially daring on an almost unprecedented level. Traditionally, only relatives and long-standing friends were ever invited into the home, and yet here was Franck casually asking me over.
I nodded, delighted, and we moved onto the next job: repairing all my work from the previous week.
Chapter 22
The morning after the OM game I awoke with a heavy head. The evening had started with pastis and concluded with a lot of La Cagole beer. Outside my bedroom window the sound of the mistral added to the pain of my hangover. The shutters were closed but it was easy to imagine the destruction outside. Pine trees bent into boomerangs, branches sliced from oaks, and saplings uprooted. Pots, tables, chairs, the paraphernalia of human life, tossed into the air and carted to the corner of a distant field.
I listened to the unique howl of this fiercest of winds, the shrill warlike scream, as an angry fist of energy thumped into the walls of the farmhouse. In the Alps, cold tentacles of air would be winding themselves tighter and tighter around the peaks, before they plunged down snow-filled crevices, uniting into a gale as they hit the funnel of the Rhône valley. Unhindered the wind would gather pace, the rippling river belying the strength of the air thundering onwards, learning to speak, and then to howl, before hitting the Camargue delta and spreading like a virus across the south of France.
Experience had taught me to wait for the lull, the unnatural peace, the humanising pause for breath, the seconds – even minutes – of hope before the next onslaught. Casting open and quickly pinning back the window, I was greeted by a resplendent blue sky. A gentle breeze stirred the gravel drive. Brilliant sunlight warmed the terrace. Only an upturned chair blown from the garden of some neighbouring house hinted at the abnormal force of the wind. Yesterday's puddles had already been sucked from the ground, devoured by the dry air. A whirling devil of dust chased up the driveway and moments later a sledgehammer gust nearly forced the window from my hands. Leaning back, I set my weight against all those kilometres of bitter cold anger that stretched back along the Rhône to the Alpine peaks. I yanked the latch shut.
Pulling on my jeans and jumper I entered Elodie's room. She stood, hands resting on the top bars of the cot, having a conversation with the wind, interjecting a noisy babble in-between the howls. I noticed that a small pool of water had formed on her window sill and that condensation ran up the inside of the glass. The cause must have been the central heating which I'd turned on for the first time the previous evening. We'd had no trouble before and I ran my finger along the frame to see whether the hot summer had warped the wood.
Picking up Elodie I made my way along the dark corridor – an electrical fault meant light bulbs were continually blowing – to the colder air of the sitting room. I turned on the television and selected the children's programmes. Then, cautiously I opened all the shutters, on each occasion waiting for the wind, like a searchlight, to sweep momentarily onwards. Two more panes of glass were covered in water and pools collected on the floor underneath. Dark stains ran down the paintwork and a draught of air from the ill-fitting front door carried a spectral chill.
I went to fill the kettle. There was a hiss and a cough. Fat globules of warm water spat from the end of the tap. Another hiss and a cough, and then nothing. During Manu's renovation project such interruptions of essential services had been all too common. Today, though, there appeared to be no explanation. The wind had yet to knock the electricity out, which meant the pump from the well should still be running. Manu's building work was complete and so it was unlikely that a plumber was fiddling with the pipes. I called for Tanya, put on my coat, and headed out into the mistral to find our landlord.
At first it was fun. A little like an attraction at an amusement park. I'd throw myself recklessly forward, only to be blown upright by savage gusts. Turning around, I allowed myself to be taken in the direction of the wind. My legs tumbled over each other, propelling me at sprinting speed down the drive. Thrill seekers paid for this type of ride. In fact, the last time the mistral had blown, the world speed record for windsurfing had been broken on a canal in the Camargue. Unfortunately, though, this mythical wind of winds never visited only momentarily. Local folklore had it that it either blew for three, seven or fifteen continuous days. Imagine being on a fairground ride for that long.
As expected, Manu was out and about. A huddle of men were standing next to some sort of digger. The wind seemed to have shrunk them. Their backs were bent, their heads swallowed by their jackets and their knees straining against an invisible force. The
slow ponderous movements of their limbs reminded me of the polar expeditions I'd seen on TV. Puffs of diesel plumed into the sky like a distress signal. I shouted a greeting, but the words were snatched from my mouth. Bending my neck and head down, I clawed my way across the field.
'Bonjour.'
The men grunted.
'Salut.' Manu removed a pair of industrial ear mufflers and managed a smile of greeting.
'We've no water.'
'I know, should be back on by the end of the day. We're drilling another well.'
Ever since we'd lived with Manu he'd been obsessed with the possibility of running out of water. His precious fields of olive trees consumed vast quantities and then there was the new apartment to supply. I'd observed him meandering across his land with divining sticks, hands twitching in search of an elusive aquifer. He'd met my sceptical teasing with a believer's stoicism and a top-up of moonshine. Magnetic fields would guide him to the water. It appeared that today was the day of truth.
'Our windows are leaking.'
'What?' The drill started hammering into the ground.
'Condensation.'
'That's normal, it's hot in the summer, it's cold in the winter. The windows are wooden, they expand and contract. It'll settle down. You'll see.'
