The Matchmaker of Perigord

by Julia Stuart

  Guillaume Ladoucette arrived outside the bakery to pick up Stéphane Jollis for their scheduled fishing expedition and switched off the engine. He didn’t bother pulling down the sun visor to critically assess the splendour of his moustache in the mirror. Nor did he open the glove compartment to kill time. He didn’t even curse the baker’s abominable time-keeping. Instead, he sat staring straight ahead of him wondering what his friend and Émilie Fraisse had been up to. The same thought had been rolling around the matchmaker’s head for the last week, reminding him of the catastrophe each time he moved. As he stared at the spot where the village cross had once been, he again tried to work out when the romance had started. If only he had tried harder to convince Lisette Robert of the baker’s many virtues, instead of accepting that she loved another, then Stéphane Jollis wouldn’t have needed to look elsewhere, he concluded.

  As he glanced at the bakery, its cream blinds drawn, he imagined its owner visiting Émilie Fraisse at the château, presenting her with a box of mille-feuilles made by his award-winning artisan fingers and tasting her heirloom vegetables. He wondered which of her antique dresses that appeared to have been shorn off at the knees she would have worn, and saw her quicksilver hair pinned up with something that sparkled.

  Looking down at his fingernails, once clipped to perfection, he saw they were now as bitten as the baker’s had been since his dough had begun to swell to frightening proportions. They were such a disgrace, he thought, he would have to hide them from his old boss when he came into Heart’s Desire to tell him how he had got on at the Félibrée with Madame Serre.

  The car suddenly filled with the smell of rotting flowers as he thought of the courage he had mustered to reply to Émilie Fraisse’s letter; the inferno of desire it had ignited while he was composing it sitting at his kitchen table; the elation he had felt when she had returned home with it in the most romantic of hiding places; the unspeakable mess he was now in since it had gone missing; and the utter devastation he felt now that she loved another.

  Suddenly, the passenger door opened and a strong, hairy arm reached in and placed a large basket made from sweet chestnut on the back seat. The limb momentarily disappeared and returned with a red-and-white-checked tea towel that was carefully placed 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. Sorry I’m late,’ said Stéphane Jollis.

  ‘Not to worry,’ replied Guillaume Ladoucette, starting the car. ‘Got everything?’

  ‘Yep,’ replied the baker, winding down the window. ‘Funny smell in here.’

  The pair then drove out of the village and turned right at the field with the ginger Limousin cows that winked. As they headed towards Brantôme past acres of maize fields lashed by flicking water cannons, each time the matchmaker changed gear, his knuckles rubbed against the baker’s thigh blooming over the passenger seat. And, for the first time, Guillaume Ladoucette felt uncomfortable.

  ‘Bring any lunch with you?’ the matchmaker eventually enquired.

  ‘Just a snack,’ replied the baker, staring straight ahead of him. ‘You?’

  ‘Just a snack,’ said Guillaume Ladoucette, wrinkling up his nose dismissively.

  As they arrived in Brantôme, they turned left away from the infestation of tourists and parked by the river. The two men, both holding family-sized baskets, then made their way along the Dronne into which children hurled themselves, much to the outrage of the ducks.

  Once they reached the No Fishing sign, they put down their baskets in their usual spot. Sitting at the water’s edge, they both took a piece of weighted fishing line from their pocket. The baker then searched in his basket for a baguette, broke off an end and foraged inside for the soft white innards. Once he had sufficient, he rolled it up into a ball and speared it with his hook, while Guillaume Ladoucette opened a tin and selected a worm. After the matchmaker had taken off his supermarket leather sandals, and the baker his floury shoes, they tied their lines around their right ankles. Carefully rolling up both trouser legs to the knee, they then sank their feet into the dusky water and felt the lines pirouetting down towards the bottom of the river.

  ‘That’s better!’ said Guillaume Ladoucette, waggling his hairy toes, feeling the cool river slipping between them.

  ‘Bliss!’ agreed the baker, enjoying the swirl of the water around his serpentine varicose veins that came with the job.

  The pair sat in silence for a while as they watched the leaves spinning on the surface of the water sauntering slowly by. But Guillaume Ladoucette couldn’t enjoy his favourite spot along the Dronne, despite the ducks tipping themselves over head first to reveal their feathered bottoms. For he kept imagining the baker slipping off Émilie Fraisse’s ridiculous seventeenth-century shoes, tying a fishing line around her ankle and then offering her the most delectable contents of his picnic basket.

  ‘I suddenly feel a bit peckish,’ the matchmaker announced, determined to get the better of him.

  ‘So do I,’ replied Stéphane Jollis.

  As they shuffled backwards towards their baskets, their lines emerged out of the water festooned with lurid green weed. Stalling for time as he waited to see what would appear from the rival basket, Guillaume Ladoucette pretended to look for his penknife. He watched from the corner of his eye as a jar of cornichons appeared, followed by another baguette. Then, with a sly smile that Guillaume Ladoucette instantly recognized, the baker brought out an earthenware bowl and slowly started pulling off the clingfilm.

  ‘A little green salad with diced hard-boiled egg to begin with? Lovely,’ said the matchmaker with relief, peering at it.

  ‘There’s nothing more satisfying than eating a fresh egg from one of your own chickens,’ remarked the baker spearing a lettuce leaf. ‘Marcel Coussy does a great job of looking after my birds at his farm. And he’s always very grateful for the walnut oil I press myself which I give him in return. He says he’s never tasted anything like it. I’ve used some in the salad dressing, actually. Fancy any?’

  ‘No thanks, otherwise I won’t manage this!’ said Guillaume Ladoucette, reaching into his basket with both hands and taking out a shallow earthenware dish. ‘Tomato salad marinated in eau-de-vie on a hot summer’s day. My favourite!’ the matchmaker continued, pulling off the foil. ‘Of course, the tomatoes always taste better if you’ve grown them yourself. But what really makes this dish unsurpassable is if the eau-de-vie is made from your own plums. I took them to the man with the travelling still last year and watched it being made. Fancy any?’

  ‘No thanks, otherwise I won’t manage this!’ replied Stéphane Jollis, needing both hands to lift out an enormous dish from his basket. He whipped off the lid with a considerable flourish and paused for a few seconds so as to unnerve the matchmaker, who was craning to see what was in it.

  ‘Bit of pie?’ asked Guillaume Ladoucette. ‘Lovely. I think I’ve seen that one in the supermarket.’

  ‘It’s actually boned stuffed duck baked in a pastry crust. After I boned the duck, I sliced off layers of the breast and thigh, diced them up and placed them back inside having sprinkled them with cognac and port.’ The baker paused before adding: ‘The recipe says that adding a truffle is optional, but I still had that whopper I found last winter with Marcel Coussy and that pig of his, and thought I may as well use it. Shame really, because apparently it’s the biggest that’s been found in the Périgord in the last ten years. I must say the oil preserved it perfectly. Now where’s my carving knife?’ Stéphane Jollis then cut a large slice which he speared with a fork and offered to Guillaume Ladoucette. ‘Fancy some?’

  ‘No thanks,’ replied the matchmaker, bringing out another dish covered in foil. But he failed to mention that the quails had been cooked in the leaves of the vine which grew over his front door. Nor did he bother bringing out his walnut tart made with the honey he had collected himself from a hive wearing a beekeeper’s helmet,
because he knew he had been spectacularly defeated by the baker’s fungal masterstroke.

  ‘I must say, I really can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing now. Isn’t this marvellous?’ declared the baker, his mouth full.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Guillaume Ladoucette without conviction.

  Stéphane Jollis then poured them both a glass of Bergerac, handed one to the matchmaker and said: ‘There’s something I have to tell you. I can’t keep it to myself any longer.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘I’ve met someone.’

  ‘Thought so,’ replied Guillaume Ladoucette, his despair complete.

  ‘She kept coming in to buy little cakes because of a rumour going round that a love note had been discovered inside one of them. God knows how on earth that one started, but I can’t tell you how good it’s been for business. People are coming from all over. In the last two weeks I’ve taken more than I have in the last three months. I’ve started recommending that they pop in to see you. You’re going to make a killing.’

  ‘Thanks,’ replied the matchmaker lamely.

  ‘Anyway. So she kept coming in, and there’s nothing more flattering than a woman who appreciates your little cakes, and we had a little chat each time. I assumed she was only interested in my mille-feuilles, and then guess what happened!’

  The matchmaker didn’t reply.

  ‘Aren’t you listening?’ enquired Stéphane Jollis, looking at his friend.

  ‘Of course. She came into the bakery and kept buying mille-feuilles,’ the matchmaker replied, keeping his eyes on the far bank.

  ‘Guess what happened next!’ said the baker.

  ‘I couldn’t possibly.’

  ‘Well, I’d just locked the door one evening after work and was on my way to the municipal shower when I heard a voice behind me.’ The baker paused, waiting for Guillaume Ladoucette to ask him whose it was. When no reply came, he continued with his story.

  ‘I looked round and there she was! It was a bit embarrassing, actually, because all I had on was my dressing gown and I had to hold it down as the breeze kept lifting it up. I thought she was after some more little cakes, but she didn’t mention them. I’ve got no idea what she was doing there. Anyway, she accompanied me to the shower and noticed my varicose veins and said her uncle had just got his fixed and she’d find out where he’d had it done and would let me know. There wasn’t a queue when we got to the cubicle, so I went straight in and she was still there when I came out. We then went over to the Bar Saint-Jus for a drink, though Fabrice Ribou sent me home to get dressed first because I’d forgotten I was still in my dressing gown and slippers. We’ve been seeing each other ever since.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ said Guillaume Ladoucette, his eyes not moving from the far bank.

  ‘I really think she’s the one, you know.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘You don’t sound very interested,’ said the baker, looking reproachfully at his friend.

  ‘Sorry,’ said the matchmaker, looking down at his bare knees. ‘I am, honestly.’

  ‘It’s strange that I’ve never bumped into her before. She only lives in Léguillac. Mind you, she hasn’t been there long.’

  ‘Léguillac?’

  ‘Yes. It’s Sylvette Beau. Do you know her?’

  Guillaume Ladoucette turned to look at Stéphane Jollis.

  ‘I’ve heard her name,’ he replied, confused.

  ‘I must say, that Émilie Fraisse is a bit of a weird one, isn’t she?’ the baker continued. ‘She came in to see me the other day and was going on about how she’d never read such unsurpassable poetry, but that we didn’t have a future together as she had always loved someone else, who hadn’t replied to some letter she’d sent him. God knows what all that was about. I took her round the back and gave her a mille-feuille, which calmed her down a bit. I think she’s been spending too much time alone in that château of hers.’

  It was then that Guillaume Ladoucette untied the fishing line from around his ankle and handed it to the baker with the words: ‘Sorry, Stéphane, I’ve got to go.’ He didn’t stop to pick up his tomatoes marinated in eau-de-vie made from the plums he’d grown in his garden and taken to the man with the travelling still. Nor did he collect his quails cooked in the leaves of the vine growing above his front door, or indeed the walnut tart made with honey he’d collected himself wearing a beekeeper’s helmet. Instead, he started running down the bank of the Dronne as fast as humanly possible in a pair of supermarket leather sandals.

  The matchmaker only noticed that the wind was up when he passed Le Moulin de la Forge and saw the green plastic tables and chairs travelling down to the end of the tiny pavement. By the time he turned left at the field towards Amour-sur-Belle he saw to his horror that the ginger Limousin cows had started to walk backwards. As he approached the village, the green-eared maize was lurching grotesquely from side to side as if riding a murderous sea. And by the time he parked outside his house, sunflowers wrenched from the earth were battering the windows.

  If the authorities had known that another mini-tornado was going to strike Amour-sur-Belle, certainly no one informed its inhabitants. While the local gendarmerie was in the habit of telephoning a good citizen in each community to pass on severe weather warnings, none of the officers was aware of anyone fitting that description living in the village.

  Lisette Robert had just run yet another bath when she heard the curved salmon tiles rattling on the roof like pan lids. Instantly recognizing the sound, she rushed round the house closing the windows and bolting the shutters, remembering the trouble she’d got into last time. Once everything was secured, the midwife decided to take advantage of the sunflowers that had sailed in through the sitting-room window. After snipping off their roots, she put them in a vase on the kitchen table to embellish her final hours. She then looked inside the fridge, wondering what to have for her last meal and regretted not having been to the supermarket earlier.

  It was while she was standing on a kitchen chair hunting through the cupboards for something befitting an occasion as momentous as her approaching death that the midwife heard a sound at the door. Assuming it was just the thuds of maize stalks, which had started to take to the air like tribal spears, she ignored it. When she heard the noise again, she opened the door in the hope that it was someone with better-stocked cupboards than she inviting her round to share their dying moment.

  When the midwife saw that it was in fact the man from the council, she immediately forgot her disappointment about not having gone food shopping and invited him in. But such was the force of the wind that Jean-François Lafforest, who was holding on to the door frame with only one hand as he refused to let go of his soft leather briefcase with the other, disappeared and it took several long minutes before he staggered back into view again. As soon as he re-emerged, Lisette Robert shot out an arm, grabbed him by the shirt, hauled him in and shut the door.

  Once he had straightened his hair, tucked his shirt back in and apologized for disturbing her, Jean-François Lafforest announced that he had come on official business. Clutching his briefcase to his stomach, he went on to explain that he had received a large number of reports that she had taken to having baths. And while he could fully understand that showering in a plastic cubicle in the place du Marché could never equal the unrivalled joy of bathing at home, it was, nevertheless, forbidden.

  Lisette Robert, who had informed as many people as possible of her lawlessness, owned up at once. She then took the official upstairs and showed him her most recent transgression. And, as she stood by the edge of the bath, a pink sponge brazenly skimming across the water, she asked for another dozen similar offences to be taken into consideration.

  Once back downstairs, Jean-François Lafforest sat down at the kitchen table next to the vase of sunflowers which Lisette Robert had arranged to brighten up her final hours. Taking a form from his soft leather briefcase, he studiously filled it in in block capitals, not wanting to pass away without
having first carried out his duty. As the wind let out a deathly screech down the chimney, he then asked her to sign and date the bottom. Once the form was safely back inside his briefcase, Jean-François Lafforest sat back and took his first sip of the pineau the midwife had poured for him. And, after they had shared two tins of wild boar terrine and half a baguette, accompanied by the best reds she could find in the cellar, the man from the council accepted Lisette Robert’s offer of joining her in the bath.

  Guillaume Ladoucette immediately went to check on his mother. He found Madame Ladoucette sitting on her kitchen floor, her crane’s legs stretched out in front of her, happily milking a goat which had happened to blow in through the window. When finally convinced of her safety, he started down the rue du Château that did lead to the castle, heaving against the wind which pummelled his chest with such ferocity he could scarcely breathe.

  He kept his head down as he attempted to cross the courtyard but the wind grabbed him by the legs and spat him against the door bleached fossil grey by the sun that had fled. Once back on his feet, he thumped on it with his fists, but there was no reply. Feeling the gale tugging at his thighs again, he let himself in, and once inside, backed up against the door in order to close it. As the gravel in the courtyard twisted up in rage and fired itself against the windows like gunshot, the matchmaker called out. But there was no reply. Following the corridor with the violet mould now the colour of fresh blood, he entered the vaulted kitchen where the collection of copper pans and utensils rattled on their hooks as if possessed. But when he looked around, the seat that slid open to hide the salt from the tax collector was empty. Retracing his steps, he found himself in the dining room with the pisé floor, but there was no one hiding underneath the enormous table stolen from a monastery. He then ran through a corridor past a chest poorly inlaid with mother-of-pearl, but when he tugged open the door to the grand salon, all that could be found was the still warm bodies of three dead house martins on the reversible floor.