by Julia Stuart
It was easy at first to hide the affliction. When the baby was in the pram, her mother simply covered her face with one of her husband’s white cotton handkerchiefs. But as she got older, the child would pull it off and the secret was out. On hearing of her unrivalled beauty, people came from the surrounding hamlets to marvel at the infant, until her mother could take no more. ‘She’s not a circus freak!’ she eventually cried and bolted the door.
‘They only want to look at her,’ her husband said, alarmed at his wife’s reaction.
‘You just wait,’ she replied without further explanation as she closed the shutters.
Her prayers were not answered. And to make matters worse, her daughter’s physical charms appeared to increase the older she became. The moment her mother realized, she refused to set foot in church again, not even for the funeral of her great-aunt which she had been looking forward to for decades. She then got out her will and added in block capitals at the bottom her wish to be buried next to the chicken coop at the bottom of the garden as she found comfort in the birds’ ferocious looks. She started dressing her youngest in the most gruesome of clothes, mixing her older sisters’ worst fashion mistakes with her brothers’ most hideous hand-me-downs. But it was no good. They simply highlighted the girl’s beauty and afforded her her own unique style, which some of the younger girls in Amour-sur-Belle attempted to copy, much to their parents’ horror.
When boys–and men–started showing an interest in her from an early age, Lisette Pauillac, who grew up believing her siblings’ insistence that she resembled a truffling pig, assumed they were being ironic and ignored them. But one of the younger ones was more persistent than the rest and, by the time she was eighteen, Lisette Pauillac, exhausted from refusing him, finally married Pierre-Albert Robert. Whilst the bride assumed that the wedding would signal the end of her troubles, for neither he–nor anyone else–would pursue her any more, her mother correctly suspected that it was only the beginning of them.
For more than two years Pierre-Albert Robert couldn’t believe his luck. At times when the couple were eating, the mobile butcher was unable to hear what his wife was saying so struck was he by the dark curls that tumbled to her shoulders, which she would attempt to tuck out of the way behind an ear. She only had to look up at him, her eyes shining like freshly opened horse chestnuts, for him to lose his appetite. When she got up to clear the table, he would look at the silhouette of her body through her frightful dress made transparent by the light from the window. And he would see more graceful curves than those of the Belle flowing outside, in which she would happily let him bathe to mutual exhaustion.
It was her husband who taught her how to dress, buying her ecstasies of silk and lace in fantastical colours to wear underneath her new frocks, which delighted her as much as him. But when he pushed his lips through her waterfall of curls and whispered into her ear the extent of beauty, she never believed him.
However, the attraction of a new possession never lasts and Pierre-Albert Robert eventually came to the realization that his mother-in-law had been dreading ever since the day her daughter was born: Lisette Robert was just like everybody else. He first suspected that his wife was imperfect when he noticed that the fatter of the two chocolate religieuses she had bought for them that morning had disappeared. Up until then she had always offered him the biggest of everything. Putting it down to a woman’s natural craving for pâtisserie, he was further surprised to note a few weeks later that she had also beaten him to the lamb cutlet in the fridge which he had been greatly looking forward to. Having settled into her marriage, Lisette Robert had simply resorted to her natural familial instinct of getting to everything before the others. In an attempt to reduce some of the conflict, Pierre-Albert Robert resorted to hiding his little pleasures around the house. However, he had a tendency to forget where he had put them, much to Lisette Robert’s fury upon finding donkey saucisson sweating its foul aroma amongst her clean sheets waiting to be ironed.
Not only could his wife not be trusted to share things fairly, but her piano playing irritated him beyond measure. The musical instrument, the only one of its kind in the village, had been her family’s only treasure and was given to the couple on their marriage, so relieved was her father at finally getting rid of the last of his enormous brood. But as time wore on, Pierre-Albert Robert soon realized that his wife, like a cuckoo, only knew one tune, which she justified by pointing out that her siblings never let her practise. And what had seemed so charming to him at first eventually became a source of utmost annoyance, surpassed only by her elephantine attempts at learning another.
Pierre-Albert Robert rode swiftly through the reality phase of his marriage until he arrived at the inevitable staging post of disappointment. While most eventually move on to acceptance, the mobile butcher lingered for so long that he lost all sense of direction. He would suddenly find himself in the naked arms of customers who instantly recognized the bitter taste of disillusionment on his tongue. But they didn’t complain, happy in the knowledge that for the next eight minutes and forty-three seconds he had chosen them over Lisette Robert, and grateful for the gigot of lamb he would leave on their kitchen table to ease his guilt while they were doing up their buttons.
His wife never suspected a thing, and was merely confused when her husband’s takings suddenly went down. But she never thought to question it. His dalliances continued during her first pregnancy and their mutual grief when their son died during his arrival. They continued during her second pregnancy and their subsequent joy at the birth of another son. They continued until the boy was brought home from hospital, when one of Pierre-Albert Robert’s special customers came to the conclusion that Lisette Robert had had one blessing too many in life and slipped a stocking into the mobile butcher’s pocket.
But the woman had overestimated her rival’s concern for domesticity and it was Pierre-Albert Robert who found it. He recognized it instantly and when he challenged its owner he realized he was dealing with a woman who would stop at little to destroy what he had. Unable to bear the look in his wife’s eyes if she ever found out, he went to the Bar Saint-Jus to decide what to do. When he could drink no more, he drove to the customer’s house hoping to persuade her to keep their secret. His van was found the next morning by Gilbert Dubuisson while the postman was on his rounds. It took the firemen more than forty minutes to get it upright and pull it out of the ditch. And it took them less time than one of Pierre-Albert Robert’s duplicitous liaisons to conclude that his neck was broken in two places.
His death spared Lisette Robert the realization of his shortcomings and she buried her husband with the natural pain of a widow. It didn’t take long, however, before the mourners became suitors, and she was back to where she started.
The matchmaker looked at the midwife and replied: ‘Lisette, you have a wealth of charms that you don’t even know about, which only adds to them. That you are in demand comes as no surprise to me.’
‘Who is it?’
‘I’m afraid customer confidentiality forbids me to say.’
‘Do I know him?’ she asked, nudging the Cabécou even closer.
‘Forgive me, but I can’t divulge that either.’
‘Well, what’s he like?’
‘He’s a solvent bachelor with a love for the outdoors who has his own transport.’
‘Would I like him?’
‘Love is often unpredictable,’ said Guillaume Ladoucette.
‘He might not like me.’
‘Lisette, he likes you very much, which is why he wants me to introduce you to him.’
She licked her finger, stabbed some crumbs on her plate and sucked them off as she considered his proposal.
‘Why not?’ she replied.
Shortly afterwards, Guillaume Ladoucette stood up, kissed Lisette Robert goodbye on both cheeks and left. On his way home, he waved to Modeste Simon tying up her white hollyhocks with blue string, who still hadn’t uttered a word since the unfortunate disappearance
of Patrice Baudin, the skinny vegetarian pharmacist, during the famous mini-tornado.
Of all the villagers to bump into he was grateful that it was she, for he had no time to chat. The reason for his haste was the sudden appearance of Stéphane Jollis’s head round the door of Heart’s Desire the day before. It wasn’t the sight of the baker that had unsettled him, for he regularly dropped by for a chat, often with the remains of a hastily eaten quiche resting on the slope of his chest like rock fall, which, much to the matchmaker’s infuriation, usually cascaded on to the floor and was then trodden on with a pair of floury shoes. It was Stéphane Jollis’s suggestion that they go fishing the following afternoon that had confounded him.
As their next scheduled trip had not been until two Sundays’ time, and the baker never took time off on a Wednesday afternoon, Guillaume Ladoucette immediately smelt a rat. Suspecting that the baker had something of unrivalled succulence up his sleeve, as soon as his friend had left the matchmaker closed Heart’s Desire and hurried home, despite the fact that it was only three in the afternoon and business wasn’t exactly brisk. He flung open all his cupboards, fought his way to the back of the fridge, rifled through his cookbooks and shot down into the cellar where he clattered around in his grandfather’s Sunday clogs that nipped trying to find something extraordinary amongst the preserves. He then stood in the middle of the kitchen in despair, engulfed by the thunderous ticking of the clock on the sitting-room mantelpiece that had driven one relative to suicide. Suddenly he grabbed his keys, fled to his car and drove for two hours to Bordeaux. On his return, he set to work and didn’t retire to bed until well after one, by which time his snores were so monstrous they woke the birds in the woods and set off the dawn chorus several hours too early.
Arriving home from Lisette Robert’s house, the matchmaker took out a plate and flask from the fridge and put them inside the picnic basket on the kitchen table, having first checked it for the presence of the infernal chicken. Carefully carrying the basket to the car, he placed it on the back seat and covered it with a white tea towel. He then drove to the baker’s house, turned off the ignition and immediately pulled down the sun visor to kill time. But before he had time to critically assess the elevation of the tips of his moustache, or bore himself by looking at the contents of the glove compartment, the passenger door suddenly opened and a strong, hairy arm reached in and placed a basket made from sweet chestnut on the back seat. The arm momentarily disappeared and then returned with a red tea towel which was thrown over it. The car suddenly tilted towards the right as the baker held on to the roof with one hand and manoeuvred his substantial frame inside, followed by his head.
‘Hello, Stéphane,’ said Guillaume Ladoucette evenly, his suspicions raised even further by the fact that his friend hadn’t kept him waiting.
‘Hello, Guillaume,’ replied the baker.
‘Got everything?’
‘Yep.’
The pair sat in silence as they drove out of the village and turned right at the field with the ginger Limousin cows that winked. As they slowed down to pass through Beauséjour, the matchmaker decided to test the water. ‘Bring any lunch with you?’ he asked, sliding his eyes towards his passenger.
‘Just a snack,’ came the reply. ‘You?’
‘Just a snack,’ said Guillaume Ladoucette, wrinkling up his nose dismissively.
Silence slipped between them again as they continued their journey along the fields to Brantôme. Once they arrived, the two men made their way along the bank of the Dronne away from the exquisite town until they reached the No Fishing sign. They put down their baskets in their usual spot, sat down and loaded up their hooks. A pair of supermarket leather sandals was then slipped off, followed by a ridiculously small pair of floury shoes. After each tying their line to an ankle, they rolled up their trouser legs and plunged their feet into the river.
‘That’s better!’ said Guillaume Ladoucette, momentarily distracted by the unsurpassable pleasure of cool water seeping between his hairy toes. But Stéphane Jollis, who was mopping his forehead on his shoulder, didn’t reply.
As he watched the turquoise dragonflies hitching a ride on the dusty surface of the shifting water, the matchmaker decided to leave the suggestion of lunch as long as possible, hoping to lull the baker into a false sense of security. But three minutes later, like a torture victim unable to take the agony any more, Guillaume Ladoucette suddenly squealed: ‘I feel a bit peckish!’
‘So do I,’ replied Stéphane Jollis.
They shuffled back on their bottoms until they reached their baskets, pieces of emerald green weed dripping with water hanging from the fishing lines. The matchmaker pretended to hunt for his penknife as he waited to see what would come out of the rival basket first. He watched as a loaf of six-cereal bread appeared.
‘Bake that this morning, did you?’ asked the matchmaker, impressed by his friend’s subterfuge with such a pitiful start.
‘No, actually, I sold out. I had to buy it,’ came the reply. ‘Want some?’
‘No thanks, otherwise I won’t manage this!’ said Guillaume Ladoucette, reaching inside his basket and pulling out a flask of chilled sorrel soup. He slowly poured a serving into a bowl, raised a spoonful to his lips, swallowed loudly and declared: ‘Marvellous! I think it’s always better when you thicken it with an egg yolk. But what really makes the difference, of course, is when you’ve grown the sorrel yourself. Want some?’
‘No thanks,’ replied Stéphane Jollis.
The matchmaker waited for the rest of his customary reply, but it never came. Suspecting that his friend was playing an even shrewder game than he had imagined, Guillaume Ladoucette took another mouthful of soup, watching over the brow of his spoon for the next revelation from the basket made from sweet chestnut. Just then, the baker reached inside it and brought out a packet of cheese still in its plastic supermarket wrapping.
‘Emmental?’ exclaimed the confounded matchmaker, wondering what ruse Stéphane Jollis was up to.
‘Want some?’ asked the baker.
‘No thanks,’ replied Guillaume Ladoucette, unable to disguise his horror. ‘They make that in Switzerland. Anyway, I can’t, otherwise I won’t manage this!’ As he spoke he carefully lifted out of his basket a plate on which was spread a dozen open oysters, followed by a dish containing four spicy chipolatas and a bottle of Bordeaux. After pouring himself a glass of wine, he bit into a sausage, then speared an oyster with a fork and slowly brought it to his mouth. After swallowing loudly he let out a sigh of immense satisfaction.
‘Bordeaux oysters, what a sublime dish!’ he concluded. ‘Whoever thought of that combination was a genius. But you know, what I find is that it’s never quite the same as actually going to Bordeaux to choose the oysters yourself, picking up the ingredients for the sausages and popping into a vineyard to select the best vintage to go with it. I sent you a postcard while I was there, actually. Fancy any?’
‘No thanks,’ replied Stéphane Jollis, biting into his bread and cheese.
Guillaume Ladoucette waited for his usual reply, but nothing else came from the baker’s basket. Unsure of how to proceed, the matchmaker put a hand into his own, pulled out a jar and put it on the grass between them. ‘Fruits in kirsch,’ he said meekly, looking at his friend. ‘I picked the fruit from the garden two years ago and it’s been fermenting ever since. Should blow our heads off. Fancy any?’
‘No thanks,’ replied the baker.
Guillaume Ladoucette could take it no more. ‘What’s wrong, Stéphane?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ replied the baker, staring ahead of him.
‘Come off it. You’re not your usual self.’
‘Nothing, honestly.’
‘You can’t turn up with some Swiss cheese and pretend there’s nothing wrong, Stéphane.’
The baker carried on staring at the opposite bank, his shoulders rounded.
‘Is it something to do with work?’ the matchmaker asked.
‘No.’
> ‘Are your varicose veins playing up?’
‘Not particularly.’
Guillaume Ladoucette took another mouthful of soup as he thought. ‘Fed up of not having caught anything in the last thirty-odd years?’
‘Nope.’
The matchmaker put down his bowl of soup and joined the baker in staring at the bank opposite.
After a while, Stéphane Jollis swallowed. ‘I was wondering…’ he started.
‘Yes?’
‘If I might…’
‘Yes?’
‘Have a go.’
‘Of course you can!’ the matchmaker replied. ‘What with?’
‘You know,’ said the baker.
‘Not quite.’
‘The gold one.’
‘What gold one?’
‘The unrivalled one.’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘The Unrivalled Gold Service. I’d like to sign up,’ said the baker, keeping his eyes firmly ahead of him.
‘What a splendid idea!’ exclaimed Guillaume Ladoucette, turning towards the baker. ‘Whom do you have in mind?’
‘Lisette Robert.’
‘Lisette Robert? But you don’t even talk to each other.’
‘I know,’ said Stéphane Jollis, his eyes falling to his knees.
‘But what about the business with the frogs?’
‘I didn’t eat them.’
The matchmaker paused, looked at his friend and narrowed his eyes to accusative slits. ‘Not even sautéed with garlic and butter?’
‘No! It wasn’t me! I’ve never eaten frogs in my life. Nobody in their right mind would. Have you?’
‘Of course not! Only tourists do.’
