Last Tango in Toulouse

by Mary Moody

  Foreigners who live in France either stick together socially or desperately try to avoid each other, preferring to mix with the local French population. A great deal depends on language skills. There are plenty of people who have lived in France for two decades or more and still have only rudimentary French, while others will make a heroic effort to gain fluency in order to establish and maintain relationships. At parties where English and French are mingling, inevitably the two groups drift apart as the evening wears on. Even the language-literate English who start out making an effort to converse all night in French become tired and lazy after a few glasses of wine and gravitate towards their English-speaking fellow party-goers. Things can get awkward when there is only one French person in the group – he or she is usually included in conversation in the early stages of the evening but left behind as the pendulum swings back to English.

  In between dinner parties and lunches I spend a lot of time at my computer, sitting at the kitchen table looking out into the street. It’s rather like being in a goldfish bowl, because everyone who passes by can see clearly into the room, but that doesn’t worry me at all. At night, when the lamps are lit and I am sitting at the table sipping wine while the dinner cooks, it looks a charming scene from the street. Anne Rotherham says glancing in through the arched windows as you walk by is like looking into a scene from the film Chocolat. I wander across to the square and look for myself. Sure enough, the simplicity of the house is very appealing. I just love being in it, being part of the scene, with time to observe the comings and goings of my neighbours. Mme Thomas is interesting to observe. In her early seventies, I assume, she wears the typical blue floral cotton coverall that is the signature dress of every village woman of a certain age. She wears it with slippers as she neatly sweeps the front steps every morning and waters the pots of flowers, and wanders back and forth to the shops. She makes at least three or four trips past my front windows every day. First, she goes to the boulangerie to get her bread for lunch. She wanders past and waves, giving me a friendly smile. Twenty minutes later and she’s off again, this time to the alimentation. She buys a few bits and pieces, probably cheese and cream or milk, but not vegetables or fruit because she and her husband grow their own. She probably also buys the local newspaper, then saunters back up the hill to her house. An hour later and she’s on the road yet again, this time to the Post Office. More waves, more smiles. Her last trip is to the charcuterie to get something to cook for her husband’s lunch. I have been into her kitchen in the late morning and the room was filled with the fragrance of a rich stew she had obviously been slow-cooking from the day before. All this coming and going obviously helps to fill up her morning and must also keep her quite fit. She’s slim enough and looks as healthy as can be. She disappears in the afternoons – having a nap after a glass of wine, I suppose – then spends the late afternoon pottering in her garden. Not a bad life, not a bad life at all.

  While David is staying in Frayssinet, I manage to also catch up with the friends I made during my first long stay in France. Lucienne continues to play hostess at various dinner parties, and her cooking skills never fail to impress me. There are never fewer than five courses and the meals are always well balanced – with a mixture of light and heavy courses that are much easier to cope with than the usual course after course of rich and heavy ingredients. Lucienne also knows her wines very well, and we can be assured of tasting some really good vintages whenever we are at her table.

  I also catch up with Pam, a retired English actress who has been very kind to David during the two periods he has been in France without me. I guess it’s their mutual interest in show business and music that draws them together and I am relieved that there is one strong connection he has made without me being around. David has also established a great rapport with Margaret Barwick, whose weighty reference book on tropical trees is very close to being published. It’s funny for me to meet another gardening writer living and working on the other side of the world, and especially amusing because our areas of knowledge and expertise are so different. Here I am coming from Australia, where there are vast areas of tropical flora, and I’m totally fascinated by alpine plants from the northern hemisphere. And here is Margaret, living and writing in cold old southwest France with an abiding love of all plants tropical. She did spend decades living in the tropics, but the irony of our different interests is certainly not lost on me.

  I have also been planning an overnight trip to Lourdes with my English friend Anthony, who is still beavering away renovating his old farmhouse in a nearby commune. I have always wanted to see Lourdes, more from amused curiosity than a desire to be cured by the magical waters, and Anthony is happy to do the driving because he is also a little intrigued by the lure of this highly commercialised holy site. Anthony seems to be taking forever to restore his old stone house and he spends his life cramped into one of the small barns with his collection of high-tech computers and electronic gizmos. This season he has made one giant leap forward, installing a large swimming pool on the edge of his land, overlooking a lush and tranquil valley. But while the swimming pool is quite opulent his own living quarters are terribly small – he has to climb over boxes of crockery and glasses to get to the fridge if he is fetching us a beer. His only seating inside is a floral plastic garden swing with a canopy, which looks hilarious juxtaposed with his whizzbang computer collection. The large farmhouse has been completely gutted and everything internal has been replaced: walls, floors and beams. It’s a massive undertaking and progress seems slow from an outsider’s perspective. We are all anxious for him to get in a kitchen and a bathroom and some central heating so he can get out of the pokey barn and be comfortable. But I think he secretly enjoys his monk-like existence.

  Our planned Lourdes trip does not eventuate because Anthony injures his back lifting heavy beams and doesn’t feel up to the long, possibly bumpy drive. We agree that it will definitely be on our agenda next visit.

  My other English friend, Danny, whose partner Sue died tragically two years ago from a sudden cerebral haemorrhage, is looking a lot better this year and has found some happiness with a new woman in his life. Although she lives and works full-time in Britain, Christine is able to come over to visit Danny a couple of times a year and has endeared herself to all of the people in our circle of friends.

  Roger the artist, who first introduced me to the delights of mushroom hunting in the woods, is just as reclusive as ever. It’s difficult to lure Roger out for social events, although he did come to our curry birthday party. Roger has excellent dinner parties – he’s an accomplished cook – and prefers to meet with people on his own territory rather than around restaurant tables or in the bar. He’s probably a lot wiser than the rest of us.

  Miles and Anne, who grappled with the pine marten problem in the spring, have arrived down from London in a shiny Porsche which has caused quite a titter of amusement in the community. Flash cars aren’t the norm here in rural France, but Miles sees himself dashing around the country lanes at high speed. His wife and daughter see the Porsche as a form of mid-life crisis. Indeed, his daughter tried to discourage him from buying it in the first place, telling him he’d just look just like a silly old git with grey hair driving a sportscar.

  Which he does, of course. But he is not discouraged and roars through the village, causing the locals to lift their heads out of their pastis, momentarily, and stare.

  Miles and Anne have a beautiful wild sort of French rural garden and they also grow vegetables – potatoes and asparagus in particular – which they harvest during their annual long holiday in Frayssinet. This year they also decide to try bee-keeping – or at least Miles decides after talking at length to Philippe, who also keeps bees, over a very long and wine-soaked lunch one summer afternoon. Within a day a hive has been installed in their garden and Philippe has even tracked down a swarm of bees and introduced them to their new home. It all seems rather crazy, keeping bees when you live in another country, but part of the ap
peal of holidaying in France is getting into some of the local culture. Sadly the bees died during the following winter and the whole project had to be restarted. Practicality obviously isn’t always a priority.

  Although my book Au Revoir has only been out for five months it has already created a few waves in the villages around Frayssinet. The locals who speak only French haven’t read it, of course, but they are aware of its existence and highly amused that their little corner of the world is being read about in faraway Australia. At Mme Murat’s rustic restaurant, several couples have come in clutching a copy of the book and asking if this is indeed the restaurant that I have described in such detail. Jeanne Murat, who still runs the restaurant like a tight ship, and her beautiful daughter Sylvie, who is the glue that holds it all together, are thrilled when these curious Australians arrive, and serve them their five-course lunch with extra care. Sometimes, they are even asked to sign the book, which pleases them. When I come in for lunch the first time on this visit, Sylvie and Jeanne give me big hugs and plenty of kisses, plus a complimentary glass of sparkling wine. It makes me feel very special and appreciated.

  Hortense, who runs the alimentation across the road from our house, is also accosted by Australians who ask, ‘Which is Mary’s place?’. When it’s pointed out, they take photos. This sends a slight shudder down my spine, reminding me of my reasons for fleeing Leura, but at least it happens only once or twice. St Caprais, where Jock lives, also has a few visitations. Jock’s house is signposted with a wooden shingle saying ‘Jock’s Trap’ so he’s easy to find even among the labyrinth of old stone dwellings. One couple actually knock on the door and introduce themselves to Jock; they turn out to be interesting people who part-own a French house nearby. Jock asks them in for a drink, naturally, and we all end up going out to lunch together. It’s a rather riotous afternoon and I am sure we will see them again if we happen to be in France at the same time.

  Jock also gets a phone call from a young woman on a semi-working overseas holiday. She has read my book and tracked him down through a mutual contact, a journalist who once worked with Jock. She would love to meet us both, so when she turns up we all get together for a drink and lunch at Mme Murat’s. Her name is Vivienne and she is a photographer. She brings her camera to the restaurant, where we meet up with Harriet, Danny, Christine and Anthony. Jeanne Murat’s father, known as Pépé (Grandad) still lives in a room over the restaurant and is well into his nineties. We decide to get some photographs with him – he’s such an old character with his black beret and toothless grin – and Vivienne and Danny take charge of the cameras. While I am posing with my arm around Pépé’s shoulder he starts squeezing my bum, then patting it. Some Frenchmen never give up the game, it seems.

  In late June David and I both have our birthdays and we decide to throw a party in the house to repay some of the hospitality extended to us by our local friends. I decide to cook up a variety of curries, but finding the spices and condiments in France isn’t always easy. The markets do have a beautifully presented herb and spice stall with baskets brimming with the most richly coloured array of powdered and ground ingredients from all around the world. But the way that they are displayed – out in the open day after day – means that in many instances they have lost the intensity of their flavours. Our neighbour Claude comes to the rescue. Every time he travels to Britain, which is at least twice a year, he buys small packets of herbs and spices from Asian stores in London and brings them back to Frayssinet, where he stores them in sealed containers in the dark, the only way to retain their flavours. I dig into his reserves of turmeric and garam marsala and cumin and fenugreek and put together a range of curries that have real depth of flavour. It’s quite tricky cooking up a feast for thirty people in our inadequate kitchen. The stove is okay, but I don’t have many large dishes or enough pots and pans for such a feast, so again I raid Claude’s wonderfully equipped kitchen and come away with copper pots and serving platters and wooden plates that are ideal for serving curry. It’s a hot day; both parties I have given in France have been on blazing hot days, and our house is small and overcrowded. But we have a courtyard and I set up tables and chairs outside and we have an enjoyable afternoon together. My main worry is the floor in the back half of the downstairs room, which is of crumbling chipboard tacked over dodgy beams. It creaks and sags every time it’s walked on and I hope it will stand up to the weight of thirty enthusiastic curry eaters. It does, but we realise that this will have to be our first major expense: ripping up the floor covering and putting down new boards.

  We get a call from John in Australia to say that all is fine at the farm, although there have been a few minor hiccups. It’s been cold, very cold indeed, with overnight temperatures of minus six and minus eight, and most of his time and energy have gone into keeping the two main fires going all day and night. Our massive woodpile, which we hoped would last for several winter seasons, is gradually disappearing – he hopes there will be some left by the time we come home. Disposing of the ashes has been a bit of a problem for him. I normally chuck them in the compost or around various parts of the garden but John has been wrapping them up and putting them in the huge hessian wool bale where we put our rubbish for collection by a local contractor once a month. One morning he comes out to find that the entire wool bale has vanished overnight, complete with rubbish, with only a few burnt-out catfood cans left as evidence of the overnight conflagration. It’s fortunate that the entire shed hasn’t burnt to the ground, because it contains three cars, several large drums of oil and fuel and all the remaining wood supply.

  John has also been having an ongoing battle with Laurie, who tries to corner him every time he goes into the pen to gather eggs and replenish the grain supply. John won’t venture near Laurie unless he’s carrying a large stick to fend Laurie off. The most dramatic incident that has occurred, however, involved old Floyd, who is half-blind. It seems that one afternoon a very attractive Husky bitch called Gemma, who was in season, sidled up the long drive and had her way with Floyd despite his age and arthritic joints. The problem was that they became enjoined, or ‘stuck’, as breeders sometimes call it, and John simply didn’t know what to do. In his panic he eventually hosed them down, despite the freezing conditions, and finally they managed to separate. It turned out the Husky was owned by some new neighbours, a young couple who have built a cottage across the road, and they weren’t aware that she had escaped. We wonder if anything will come of the union. If it does, I guess they will be Huskadors.

  In the meantime I am busy firming up all the last-minute preparations for the September walking tour. Jan and I visit all the hotels and confirm the bookings and have lengthy discussions with the bus company, finalising the logistics of the itinerary, hoping that our French bus driver will be a little more refined and professional than Roy. Soon it is early July, and David leaves for Australia.

  28

  I finally pluck up the courage to take the train to Toulouse. We have agreed by phone to meet on a street corner and, because our meeting time is mid-morning, we will go directly to a hotel room rather than out to a restaurant for lunch. In a way both of us need to confront this thing once and for all, without hours of seductive foreplay, sipping wine and talking. It has reached a stage where it needs to be dealt with in the stone-cold sober light of day.

  Entering into a sexual relationship with a new person after so many years is a little daunting. I have often wondered how widows and divorcees handle going out ‘on a date’ with someone for the first time after a long-term marriage has ended. For many it must be such a terrifying prospect that they simply don’t bother, and who could blame them? It’s like starting all over again, but without the benefit of youth, innocence and firm flesh.

  For me, the major surprise is that making love to another man seems the most natural and easy thing in the world. I feel comfortable and at ease with myself, as if the whole encounter is somehow right. I had never even kissed another man on the lips during all those decades,
but when I kiss my lover for the first time I am not even vaguely unnerved. It feels perfect.

  During the seven months preceding this relationship I have been unsettled by the thought of allowing another person to see me naked, especially as my body at fifty-two bears little resemblance to my body at twenty-one, when I first began my relationship with David. Yet, surprisingly, even that moment is easy. I am not even vaguely self-conscious or awkward. I am, instead, enraptured by the entire experience.

  The only explanation I can give for the ease with which I cross this threshold is that I already feel very close to and familiar with the man from Toulouse by the time we finally embark on the physical part of our relationship. I am sure that if he had made a clumsy pass at me when we last saw each other, I would have rebuffed him on the spot. Yet because the closeness has developed gradually over the telephone and via email, the actual moment of our getting together has been so well anticipated that there is no risk of either of us being startled or taking flight. I have read a lot about Internet romances yet this is quite a bit different. I have already met this man and our mutual attraction has been established. It’s just that our relationship has evolved, and here I am in a French city with my lover, having planned and plotted our affair from opposite sides of the planet.

  Our love affair is brief and intense. Our meetings have to fit around his work and home life and my busy lifestyle. I am trying to avoid making David suspicious so I need to limit my trips to Toulouse and to be back in Frayssinet at times when he will be phoning from Australia to see how I am. It becomes an elaborate web of deception, but for me the stolen moments make it all worthwhile.

  After I get off the train we meet in a bar and have a quiet drink, then he takes me to a restaurant of his choosing. He knows Toulouse intimately and I sense that he is making an effort to create a heightened romantic atmosphere around our meetings. He doesn’t try to impress me by choosing particularly expensive or upmarket restaurants. Instead, he takes me to places that I would never discover myself as a foreign tourist, out-of-the-way places known only to a few locals. He invariably takes charge, ordering both our meals from the menu, because he knows the speciality of each establishment.