by Julia Stuart
Not long after, the grocer, a strand of black hair having escaped from her bun, waded towards him, exclaiming what fun she was having. As she stood next to him peering into her pan for specks of gold, the dentist instantly moved away, claiming that it looked more promising upstream. As he clambered across the rocks, trying not to slip over in his neatly pressed shorts, he thought about the unspeakable prices Denise Vigier charged in her shop and her effrontery at holding the village to ransom over a jar of mayonnaise.
Shovelling a new load of sediment into his sieve, Yves Lévèque hoped that the grocer wouldn’t approach. As he put the sieve on top of his pan and swirled them both in the water, he thought of the tins of frankfurters and sauerkraut the woman kept on her shelves, which caused numerous pairs of eyebrows to raise, and he remembered the remarks people made every time she dared show her face at the annual memorial service held at the monument to the Three Victims of the Barbarous Germans.
Much to the dentist’s fury, Denise Vigier then came splashing towards him, bunions the size of onions thrashing in and out of the water, yelping that she had got something. After wiping the river water from his spectacles, the dentist took a look at the object in the palm of the hand that had fleeced him on so many occasions. And when the beaming grocer insisted that he kept the sizeable nugget, all Yves Lévèque could think about was her treacherous grandmother who had been found guilty of horizontal collaboration at a tribunal in 1944 and, after a swastika had been drawn on her forehead, given a ‘Number 44’ haircut in front of a spitting crowd in Périgueux.
Guillaume Ladoucette turned the sign on the door round to ‘closed’ and headed home after a day that had never progressed beyond wretched. For over two hours Stéphane Jollis had sat inconsolable on the cushion with the hand-embroidered radish.
‘But I can’t understand it, we had such a wonderful time,’ he had wailed, running his fingers through his hair, from which escaped a tiny puff of flour. ‘And I’d cleaned my shoes.’
All the matchmaker could do was agree that his shoes were certainly unrecognizable, and that the fifty-seven tiny chocolates had been a masterstroke. In an effort to cheer his friend up, he even suggested that they both closed for the day and went fishing, despite the fact that he had nothing remotely victorious in his fridge. But the only thing that the baker wanted was Lisette Robert.
Eventually a search party made up of incandescent customers arrived to escort Stéphane Jollis back to the bakery. As he stood up from the chair with the peeling marquetry, a tiny piece of quiche crust fell from his chest and landed on the floor, which he trod in on his way out. But the matchmaker couldn’t be bothered to pick it up, and it remained there for the rest of the afternoon, only to be crushed once more at the end of the day by a supermarket leather sandal.
When he arrived home, Guillaume Ladoucette found a bunch of borage hanging from the front door handle. He recognized it instantly as a gift from his mother, as the tiny blue flowers and leaves put into wine were believed to cure sadness. After untying it, he brought it inside and put it in a vase of water to make her happy. Gazing out of the back window, he couldn’t bring himself to mow the lawn, even though it was the last favourable day in the month to do so as the moon was waxing and passing in front of a water sign. Nor could he face anything to eat, as the thought of the eel Gilbert Dubuisson had told him Émilie Fraisse was preparing for them that night had driven away his appetite. Drawn to the sound of the clock on the vast stone mantelpiece whose ticking had driven one of his ancestors to suicide, he sat down on the sofa and, to the cataclysmic thuds of the minute hand, imagined what the pair might be up to.
By the time the postman arrived at the château, Émilie Fraisse had already despatched the eel. After consulting various manuals she dismissed driving a knitting needle through its head as too cruel, and opted instead for the more traditional method of knocking it against the table to stun it, then cutting off its head. Skinning the fish had also been tricky, but once she had got a good hold of it by wrapping its neck in a tea towel, the skin rolled down as easily as a sock using the suggested pair of pliers.
When the châtelaine opened the door, Gilbert Dubuisson immediately offered her a posy of flowers from his garden, which surprised Émilie Fraisse because it had been so many years since a man had made such an effort to please her. As they walked past the llama skeleton and along the corridor with the mould that was still turning violet, he complimented her on her cinnamon-coloured antique dress which appeared to have been shorn off at the knees. And once they reached the vaulted kitchen, he stood and admired the splendid collection of copper pans and utensils illuminating three of the walls.
After offering her guest the seat that slid open to hide the salt from the tax collector, Émilie Fraisse poured them both a glass of wine. But as she sat down, she found that nerves had made off with her voice. Fortunately, Gilbert Dubuisson was as talkative as ever, so she simply leant back on the oak chair with wild boars carved on its feet and listened. By the time she had finished her first glass, her voice had been returned and she chatted back feeling as content in the postman’s company as she had been at the floralies. And when he asked whether he could have a tour of the château as he hadn’t been round it for years, she was only too delighted.
Wishing she was barefoot as she clattered her way down the corridor in her ridiculous seventeenth-century shoes, the châtelaine passed a modern wooden chest poorly encrusted with mother-of-pearl bought by the previous owner on a visit to Turkey to avoid getting into a fight. When Gilbert Dubuisson stopped to ask her about it, Émilie Fraisse found herself saying that it was the bottom half of a Renaissance armoire which had been in the château for centuries. She then told the story of a man who had spent so many years travelling the Pacific islands that he eventually cast aside his breeches, ruffled shirt and plume-topped velvet hat and went native. He spent his days fishing with the locals and learnt to hold his breath underwater so he could dive for pretty shells to please his fifty-six wives who found him exotic beyond measure. One day, a local with only thirty-two wives decided to dive even deeper than usual to find a highly prized shell to increase his standing in the village as his reputation had suffered since the newcomer’s arrival. But the water was far too deep for the man to bear and he started to drown. The Frenchman, who was the only one still in the ocean, noticed that he was in difficulty and managed to rescue him. The local was so grateful that he gave him the beautiful shell that was still clasped in his hand. Such was the immensity of his gratitude, he also insisted that his rescuer took all his wives, who were only too happy for a change. But before long, the Frenchman was dead with exhaustion. On his deathbed he sent the beautiful shell to his brother, who lived in the château at Amour-sur-Belle, along with a letter asking that it be made into a piece of furniture to serve as a warning against doing people favours.
When Émilie Fraisse finished, the delighted postman pulled open one of the doors and said that he couldn’t understand why the previous owner hadn’t told him the fascinating story when he had showed him around.
After taking him up the spiral staircase with the lamentable repairs, the châtelaine opened one of the bedroom doors and invited Gilbert Dubuisson in. He looked around and then strode to the window where he stood admiring a Louis XV marble-topped chest of drawers. Explaining that it was, in fact, a vanity trunk, Émilie Fraisse pulled out the second drawer, lifted up the hinged mirror and showed him the compartments on either side used to store perfume bottles. Once she had closed it again, she pulled the left-hand handle of the fourth drawer which swivelled open to the right to reveal a white bidet. When Gilbert Dubuisson exclaimed how marvellous it was and asked whether she knew anything of its history, Émilie Fraisse found herself telling him that it once belonged to a woman of exceptional charm who took it with her as she travelled all over the Périgord Vert visiting her numerous lovers. One day, a former owner of the château discovered that he was not the sole object of her affections. Scandalized, despite havi
ng numerous lovers himself, the next time they had exhausted their passions, he smothered her with a pillow. It was then the man realized that he had not only killed the only woman he had ever loved, but also the only person willing to fulfil the more extreme of his carnal pleasures. Knowing that he would never reach such heights of ecstasy again, the man became a eunuch and set about destroying every vanity trunk in the country. However, he was unable to bring himself to destroy the one that had belonged to his accommodating mistress and it was the only one that survived to this day.
When she had finished the story, Émilie Fraisse suddenly became conscious of its sexual nature and blushed. The postman, who failed to notice the fire in her cheeks, said that the story was remarkable and ran his hand along the marble top in wonder.
On entering the grand salon, Gilbert Dubuisson immediately admired the reversible floor and enquired about the putrid smell coming from one of the tapestries. Émilie Fraisse told him the true account of how during the reign of Louis XIII the comte de Brancas, gentleman-in-waiting to Anne of Austria, had dropped the Queen’s hand on entering a room pour aller pisser contre la tapisserie, which the previous château owner had read about and taken up as a new hobby with breathtaking devotion. Émilie Fraisse then wandered out, and had got halfway down the corridor before realizing that her guest was no longer following her. When she retraced her steps and met the gleeful postman striding quickly out of the room, she was convinced that she caught the smell of fresh urine.
Gilbert Dubuisson, who was having as splendid a time as his hostess, then asked to see her heirloom vegetables. In the battle-weary, bloody evening sun, they followed the ancient stone wall on top of which bearded irises grew. Pulling apart the overgrown brambles and wild grasses, she showed the postman the strawberry spinach, with its tiny red fruit which she made into jam and put out for sale in the ticket-seller’s hut built for the tourists who never came. The leaves, she added, tasted like hazelnuts and should be cooked like spinach.
The châtelaine then walked over to the rows of asparagus lettuce and pointed out that instead of a heart they had a central stalk which was sufficient for one person. It was eaten raw in salad, she added, or steamed like asparagus, and its frilly leaves were to be ignored.
And finally, she showed him her slender perpetual leeks, with tiny new vegetables already growing out of them. The transfixed postman showed so much rapture that Émilie Fraisse immediately picked some of everything for supper.
The châtelaine and her guest then returned to the kitchen, where she completed her dish of eel stewed in Burgundy. However, she forgot to warn Gilbert Dubuisson that she was going to ignite the dash of cognac she had added after bringing the dish to the boil with cubes of bacon, which made him jump in terror. Once the postman had regained his composure, she then showed him into the dining room with its pisé floor, where candlelight fluttered across the vases of rambling apricot roses.
Eventually roused from the sofa by the cacophony of his empty stomach, Guillaume Ladoucette got up and wandered upstairs. After taking a regretful look at the dry bath, he made his way to his bedroom and pulled open the drawer of the nightstand. He then sat with his back against the bed head, his legs out in front of him, and carefully oiled Émilie Fraisse’s Nontron hunting knife with its boxwood handle and ancient pokerwork motifs. Forgetting to take off his two-day-old clothes, he then turned off the bedside light and braced himself for another terrifying night on the high seas. Less than an hour later, such was the height of the waves of anxiety lashing around the house, Violette the infernal chicken came out from her hiding place, climbed up on to the bed and spent the night on his pillow lest she drown.
After dinner, which had taken much longer than either had expected as neither could stop talking, Émilie Fraisse accompanied Gilbert Dubuisson to the door glowing like mercury in the moonlight. As the bats performed loops of the courtyard, they both said what a wonderful evening they had had. Gilbert Dubuisson then gently took the châtelaine’s hand and kissed the backs of her fingers. Again he complimented her on her cinnamon-coloured antique dress, the unsurpassable dinner, the vigour of her heirloom vegetables and her efforts with the château which had always been so filthy. And he added that if she needed any help scrubbing the moulds off the walls, he would be more than happy to oblige. It was then that Émilie Fraisse went off Gilbert Dubuisson.
15
HEART’S DESIRE WAS CLOSED THE FOLLOWING MORNING. Guillaume Ladoucette had only managed bouts of sleep between the frantic gasps for breath of a man overboard. Buffeted all night, it wasn’t until the sun had already gone into battle that he collapsed, marooned on his back, into the deepest of slumbers, arms and legs outstretched with exhaustion. The clamour of his monstrous snores prevented him from hearing the alarm, which eventually gave up. It wasn’t until he slowly opened his eyes to search for the horizon and came face to face with the unfortunate features of Violette the infernal chicken that he fully woke. Such were his screams of terror that the shocked bird instantly laid an egg.
Hoisting himself to his feet, he cast off his sodden clothes and made his way to the bathroom, stepping in the viscous slime of broken yolk. He refused to look into the mirror above the sink fearing that his reflection would only disorientate him further. After tying his burgundy silk dressing gown across his small mound of winter plumage, he walked his feet into his slippers, collected his washbag and towel and left for the municipal shower. Unable to speak, he only managed a shake of the head when Fabrice Ribou approached him in the queue with a tray and asked him whether he wanted a drink. At first, he was unable to feel the ruthless temperature of the water driving on to his head and collapsing his moustache into a soggy horseshoe. But it quickly brought him to his senses until he could stand the discomfort no more.
Once home, his stomach, tormented from having eaten nothing the previous night, drove him to the fridge, and he cooked himself a breakfast of scrambled eggs in which he tossed a handful of lardons. But the salt in the bacon reminded him of his tempestuous night and, falling into despair again, he found himself unable to get up from the table. When he next looked over at the clock on the oven it was almost lunchtime. Convincing himself that it wasn’t worth opening Heart’s Desire for such a short period, the matchmaker stayed where he was while his mind forced upon him images he didn’t want to see.
When he stirred several hours later, Guillaume Ladoucette immediately felt shamed by his behaviour, for it wasn’t respectable for a grown man still to be in his dressing gown–no matter how elegant–while the rest of the world was working. By the time he arrived at the shop, he had managed to put on a clean set of clothes and, while there was no trace of its former glory, his moustache was waxed so as not to hang down to his chin. He turned round the sign on the inside of the door, made himself a cup of coffee and, as he sipped it on his swivel chair, told himself that the most important thing was that Émilie Fraisse was happy. But part of him wouldn’t listen.
Just as he had got out his file of customers, which was rather slim, a head appeared around the door. It was Stéphane Jollis, wanting to know whether everything was all right as a number of his customers had noticed that Heart’s Desire had been closed all morning. When the matchmaker replied that he was just feeling a little under the weather, the baker came in, trod again on the quiche crust, and sat down on the cushion with the hand-embroidered radish.
‘Sorry, I forgot to shake before coming in,’ said Stéphane Jollis.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ the matchmaker replied. ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Red?’
‘If you’ve got some.’
The matchmaker brought out a bottle of Bergerac from the bottom left-hand drawer of the oak desk and poured two glasses. He then reached back inside and brought out a bowl of cracked walnuts which he put in front of the baker.
‘Walnut?’
‘No thanks,’ replied Stéphane Jollis, who had his own to get through. ‘So what’s
wrong?’
‘I just didn’t get much sleep last night.’
‘Nor did I,’ admitted the baker.
While Guillaume Ladoucette had been cleaning Émilie Fraisse’s hunting knife, Stéphane Jollis had been sitting up in bed inspecting the hairclip he had kept in his bedside drawer ever since finding it on the bakery table the morning after the mini-tornado. Despite knowing every detail of it already, he held it under his nose with his artisan fingers studying it. First he gazed at the swirl of diamanté, several specks of which were missing, then at the little clasp on the back where the black paint had worn, and then at the swirl of diamanté again. Eventually, he returned it to the drawer, shuffled down the sheet and lay on his back while the perpetual breeze danced around the pale moon of his stomach.
Over two hours later, hours spent lingering over the memory of that night, to which he had added a number of blushing embellishments, the baker was still too agitated to sleep. As always, he found it hard to believe that a man such as himself could have had the great fortune to share his bed with Lisette Robert, and at times he had had to get out her hairclip just to prove to himself that it was true. And while he was well aware that bakers, along with firefighters, held the highest place in the nation’s affections, and that the job carried such prestige that for years the family bakery was the only place in the village with a telephone, he had never imagined that such a gift from heaven would come his way. It was then that Stéphane Jollis finally came to the conclusion that it was time to see it for what it was: a miracle the like of which only happened once for a man such as himself. The baker then fell into a peaceful sleep, and, for the first time since that incredible night, wasn’t disturbed by the haunting memory of poisonous piano playing coming down the chimney.
