by Peter Mayle
Madame was duly ravished to see me again, and, after a few moments of halfhearted scolding, dinner was served. Very good, it was, too, with the bonus of some chicken sauteed in Marsala (which I’m very partial to) as an aid to recovery at the end of a trying day. And that, you might think, should have been followed by a dive into the basket and lights out.
But it wasn’t, and here I return to earlier remarks about drink needing an excuse, however flimsy. My safe return from nameless horrors was treated as cause for celebration, and damned if the valiant wine tasters didn’t make for the bottles again, little Gaston leading the way with rampant corkscrew, and the rest of them crowding around like camels after a month in the Sahara. The last thing I remember hearing before nodding off under the table was that rosé doesn’t travel, but I wouldn’t take that too much to heart. The good ones do.
Ordeal by Chicken
There are magical mornings in life when the sun catches the treetops, there’s a nip in the air and dew underfoot, every prospect pleases, and one enjoys a special sense of well-being. Frisky, if you know what I mean, and ready to pounce. On mornings such as these, with the blood coursing through the veins, I like to take a turn through the vineyard in the hope of finding something small and unimportant to terrify. I’m told that this takes place frequently in the corridors of large business corporations when the chairman of the board makes his rounds, beating the bushes for vice presidents and junior executives and generally making himself giddy with power. It’s the same principle, you see, except that in my case, I’m on the lookout for fur and feather instead of dark suits.
The vineyard was cool and damp, the head-high green tunnels stretching away over the hill, and, for once, not a hunter in sight. I’ve never had much time for hunters, as you know, mainly because their lack of stealth spoils everything for the rest of us. A single prowling hunter makes enough noise as he tiptoes through the fields to scare off every living thing between here and the other side of the mountain. Heaven knows how those who spend the winter asleep get a moment’s peace with all the stamping and cursing that goes on. Perhaps our hibernating friends are becoming progressively deaf. It’s wonderful how nature adapts to changed circumstances.
As this profound thought came to me, I saw a clutch of chickens at the end of the vines and paused for a moment to muse further on the evolutionary process. Here we have a bird with wings who is incapable of sustained flight and whose sole accomplishments are the cackle and the indiscriminate laying of eggs. Odd, when you think about it. And on that puzzling note, I put reflection aside and became the beast of prey, moving like a ghost toward my intended victims.
There must have been four or five of them, and they were scratching at the earth and jerking their heads up and down—not unlike humans overtaken by the urge to dance, in fact—when I sprang from cover and made for what looked like the slowest old boiler of the group.
Away she went with the others, showing a surprising swiftness out of the starting gate, screeching and carrying on as if I already had my teeth clamped around her vitals, and we cleared the vines in racing style. I suppose if the question before you is to run faster or have your head bitten off, it tends to give you that added impetus. All I can say is that those chickens were covering the ground like thoroughbreds, and I was still a few yards behind them when they shot under a stone arch and into the courtyard of a ramshackle farm. Now I had them, I thought to myself. A chicken in a confined space is a chicken in trouble. And so, speed no longer being of the essence, I sauntered in after them to make my selection for the day.
Never count your chickens, as I believe Voltaire used to say, and how right he was. They were there, sure enough, but so was an unpleasant-looking old fellow standing next to a pile of logs, chain saw in his hand, mad glint in his eye, complexion like a beetroot, cloth cap and boots. I recognized the type from my youth, a living warning of the dangers of interbreeding and too much cheap red wine for breakfast. How the authorities can allow them to wander at liberty amazes me, but there we are.
I assumed a nonchalant air, as though I’d been taking a harmless stroll with no thought in my head of molesting his precious brood, and nodded at him. He glared back and then looked at the old boiler. She had collapsed in a corner of the courtyard and seemed to be having some difficulty breathing. Chickens aren’t designed for the extended sprint, you see, and the effort and excitement had clearly taken its toll.
I assumed a nonchalant air.
Well, you could almost hear the machinery whirring in his head as he strained to analyze the situation. He finally made the mental leap that there might be a causal relationship between my presence and the chicken in distress, put down his chain saw, and reached for the nearest log. I’m never slow to take a hint, and so I did a brisk about-face and headed for the vines. When I stopped to look back, he was standing in the entrance to the courtyard, watching me, log in hand and, I suspected, unkind thoughts in his head. I made a mental note to keep a safe distance between us in the future.
You can imagine my alarm that evening when there was a hammering on the door, and who should be standing on the threshold with thunderous brow but the proud guardian of the chickens. He had come to see the management, and from the initial exchanges, it didn’t appear to be a social visit.
But, to give credit where it’s due, the management did their best to be gracious, asking him to come in, offering him a drink, and pretending to ignore the trail of mud, straw, and droppings that he left on the floor. I stayed tactfully out of sight in the kitchen, ears flapping, and listened.
Introductions were made, and Roussel, as he called himself, launched into his tale of woe. That morning, he said, he had suffered the grievous loss of his most productive chicken—a chicken, furthermore, that he had nurtured from egg to magnificent maturity and had become very attached to, a chicken of rare character and affectionate disposition, a veritable queen among chickens. This priceless specimen had turned up her toes as the result of a heart attack. Roussel snuffled into his drink for a moment or two to let us appreciate the full tragedy of his bereavement.
The management made polite sounds of shock and horror, but I could tell they had no idea why they were being included in the mourning party. I knew what was coming, of course, and it didn’t take long.
Roussel allowed himself to be pressed into another drink, held back the tears manfully, and got down to business. The heart attack that had cut short the life of one of nature’s most noble achievements had been caused by overexertion, he said, while trying to escape the merciless jaws of a savage and untrained dog. A dog, alas, that lived in this very house. Beh oui. In this very house.
The full tragedy of his bereavement
I retreated farther into the kitchen while the penny dropped. The management, quite rightly in my view, asked Roussel for some evidence. After all, they said, there were dozens of dogs in the valley, most of them with criminal records of one kind or another. What made him so sure that the finger of suspicion was pointing in the right direction?
“Ah,” said Roussel, leaning forward and exercising his eyebrows furiously, “but I have seen this dog in my own courtyard. I can describe him to you.” Which he proceeded to do, and I have to say that the experience of listening to a biased, vindictive old liar blackening my character and making unflattering remarks about my physical appearance was not something I’d care to go through again. He was a shameless embroiderer, apart from anything else, claiming that he had seen me with a mouthful of feathers on the morning in question. Why not throw in a napkin and a knife and fork while you’re at it, I thought, and I’m sure he would have mentioned them had the thought occurred to him. It was barefaced perjury, nothing less, and I couldn’t believe that he’d get away with it.
But, what do you know, he did. The management took it all in, with occasional gasps of horror from madame, and the other half up and down every five minutes with the conciliatory bottle. A sickening display, in my opinion. They should have thrown him out.
Instead—you’ll hardly believe this, but it’s true—they finished up by paying him for the loss of his old boiler, which was what he’d wanted from the start, I’m sure, and when he finally put on his cap to go home, they were chatting away like bosom friends. And there it should have ended, with a minor rebuke for yours truly and no hard feelings. But no.
Fortified by drink and made expansive, no doubt, by a sudden rush of money to the pocket, Roussel stopped at the door and offered a suggestion that made the blood run cold. “Your dog,” he said, “could be trained for chickens. There is a way that never fails, and since you have been so understanding in my hour of grief, it will be my pleasure to teach him.”
There are moments in life when you can see retribution and disaster coming from afar and be powerless to avoid them. I tried everything—the full range of blandishments, limping awkwardly, a coughing fit, trembling under the bed—but to no avail. The management had been bamboozled by the old sadist into believing that he was interested in contributing to my further education. But it was quite plain to me: A generous financial settlement wasn’t enough for him; he wanted revenge. I’ve heard the same said about divorce.
The following morning, appropriately, was overcast and gray as I was dragged across the fields to Roussel’s training academy and delivered into the hands of my professor. He told the management to come back in an hour, when, so he said, they would find a changed dog, free of all vicious habits and cured forever of chicken addiction. And do you know what? They actually thanked him. Defies belief, doesn’t it? Rare jewels, the management, but I sometimes wonder about their competence in the matter of character assessment.
Roussel took me into a shed and closed the door. I was immediately reminded of my first home, even down to the mud floor and the decorative accessories. It was a cramped, grimy place, littered with family heirlooms—rusty buckets, an ancient bicycle, rotting sacks, split barrels, and a variety of prehistoric implements that Roussel was obviously saving to pass on to his grateful grandchildren. I looked around for possible avenues of escape, and found myself hypnotized by the sight of the old boiler of yesterday, now very much the worse for wear, flat out on a tin table. Her head, with its wilted wattles, was hanging over the edge, and one lifeless eye fixed me with a mournful stare. A grim tableau, you might say, and so it was, but I couldn’t understand why she was there and not simmering peacefully on the stove. Even the old ones are quite tasty, you know, if you cook them long enough.
Roussel picked her up by the legs and swung her to and fro—showing no respect for the dear departed, I remember thinking—and then came over and held the body toward me for inspection. Out of courtesy more than genuine interest, I leaned forward for a closer look, whereupon he whirled it up and very nearly succeeded in scoring a direct hit on my head. In fact, the beak just nicked me on the snout as I pulled away, and very painful it was, too.
It was then that I understood the nature of the lesson. In his simpleminded fashion, Roussel was hoping that a few blows from a blunt feathered instrument would overcome instincts that had been developed over generations. Futile, of course, but he wasn’t to know that, and he came after me again, chicken flailing away, while I ducked and dodged as best I could. It’s a measure of the man’s stupidity that it took him some considerable time to realize I would be an easier target if I was tethered.
There was an extended break in hostilities while he searched the shed for a chain or a rope, becoming more and more ill-tempered as he delved among the relics while I kept as far from him as space allowed. Eventually, he must have remembered where he kept his supply of string—probably in a safe under his bed—and he left the shed, grunting horribly, shutting the door and leaving me alone with the dead chicken.
Desperate situations require desperate remedies. You may remember that I told you the shed had a mud floor, and I took advantage of Roussel’s absence to dig away in the corner until I’d made a grave of sufficient size to conceal all of the chicken except one obstinate leg, which wouldn’t stay down. Rigor mortis had set in, I think, or perhaps pressure of time prevented me from digging deep enough. In any case, it wasn’t a problem, because I sat on the burial mound to conceal the protruding limb, and that is how Roussel found me when he returned with a length of rope.
There was a flaw in my scheme, which the more attentive among you have probably noticed, and it was revealed when Roussel approached to tie me up. I moved out of the corner to keep away from him, and the chicken’s upright leg was left in full view.
I wish you’d seen the expression on his face, but I’ll spare you the language. Suffice it to say that he was taken aback. Throwing down the rope, he knelt down to unearth the body so that lessons could continue. This was the picture—Roussel scrabbling in the dirt, backside presented to the door—that greeted the management as they arrived to collect me.
I didn’t stay to witness the rest of it. As soon as the door opened, I was out, back across the fields and home, with nothing more to show for the experience than a superficial beak wound. When the management returned, all was forgiven, as it usually is, and I’m delighted to say that the budding social life with Roussel seems to have come to an abrupt end. I see him on the horizon occasionally, and he hurls a stone in my direction for old time’s sake, but accuracy isn’t his strong point.
Did I learn anything from it all? Certainly: Never approach a man armed with a dead chicken. There’s something similar in a slim volume called The Art of War about avoiding conflict with superior forces. Sun Tzu is the author, in case you’re interested.
The Joy of Balls
A friend of the family who descends on us from time to time is one of the few people I know who shares my habit of relaxing under the dining table. Not for him the stiff formality of the chair and polite social intercourse. On occasion, once he has eaten, he has been known to slide gently down to join me, and we bond. You may find this hard to believe, but there are photographs in existence to prove it. He maintains that it helps his digestion, although I feel it has more to do with a longing for quiet and serene company after all the conversational cut-and-thrust that takes place on the top deck. In any event, he is a kindred spirit.
It happens that he is also some kind of eminence in the world of British tennis—head ball boy at the Queen’s Club, it may be, or possibly a senior catering executive, I’m not sure. Whatever it is, his position gives him access to the highest levels of the annual Queen’s Tournament. He rubs shoulders with players and royalty and is permitted to use the VIP toilet facilities, which apparently is an honor reserved for the fortunate few. All this, I learned in the course of a long session under the table after lunch one day.
As I may have mentioned, I do like to have something to chew when the mood takes me, live preferably, but that involves catching it first, and for some reason it’s not too popular with the management. And so, faute de mieux, I usually have to make do with an inanimate object such as a stick, the Labrador’s blanket, or a guest’s shoe. Dull pickings, for the most part, although I did manage to get hold of a child’s teddy bear once. It didn’t put up much of a fight, I have to say, and there were tearful recriminations over the remains, much wailing and gnashing of teeth, followed by solitary confinement for the winner. The stuffing gave me a bilious attack, too. Everything these days are man-made fibers, which I can tell you are highly indigestible. If you’ve ever eaten squid in a cheap Italian restaurant, you’ll know what I mean.
I like to have something to chew when the mood takes me.
Not up to championship standards
It was shortly after the teddy bear incident that I was given my first tennis ball, and I took to it immediately. Round, springy, and small enough to carry in one side of the mouth while barking from the other, it was my constant companion for weeks. You can imagine my hurt feelings, therefore, when the refugee from Queen’s arrived one day, took a look at my ball, and sneered. “Not up to championship standards,” he said. “Furthermore, it’s bald,
soiled, and out of shape.” Well, you could say the same about quite a few of the guests whom I’ve seen come and go, but I’m not one for the gratuitous insult. Goodwill to all men is my rule in life, as long as they make themselves useful with the biscuits.
I had more or less recovered from the disparaging remarks about my recreational equipment when what should arrive at the house but a large box, addressed to me. This was unusual enough for the postman to come in and deliver it by hand, together with some facetious and quite unnecessary comments about my inability to sign for it. While he was congratulating himself on his feeble witticism, I took the opportunity to go and lift my leg on a sackful of undelivered mail that he’d left outside the door. Revenge is damp.
I came back to find the box open and the management studying a letter that described the pedigree of the contents. These were tennis balls, dozens of them, barely marked and with full heads of bright yellow fur. But they were not just everyday balls. According to the letter, they were balls of tremendous importance and fame, having appeared on television. They had been used in the men’s finals of the Queen’s Tournament and collected, still warm from their exertions, by our man on the spot and sent over for my personal use.
To begin with, I just sat and looked at them, and gloated. After being rationed to a single ball, a whole box of them gave me a delightful feeling of sudden wealth. French politicians must have a similar sensation when elected to high office and permitted to dip into the châteaux and limousines and government-issue caviar. No wonder they cling to power long after they should be tucked away in an old folks’ home. I’d do the same.
