by Ann Barry
Monsieur Bézamat saves supporting evidence of any unruly goings-on at the house in my absence until he sees me in person; it makes for a more dramatic account. Leading me to the fireplace, he pointed to “caca”—a word I don’t generally hear or use but instantly grasped. The caca was hardened and slightly moldy. He had preserved it, as a detective would the fingerprints of a crime, in its original position on the hearth. He pointed to the far corner of the room. More caca had been discovered there. But this wasn’t the end of the trail.
“Permettez-moi?” he asked, heading stocking-footed, stealthily as Poirot, for the stairs. I followed on his heels to the bedroom.
“Voilà!” he exclaimed, with questionable triumph. He pointed to two feathers on the bed. Two feathers. The import of this didn’t register. Then he steered me to the waist-high chest of drawers beneath the small opaque-glass window. Five feathers (he counted them for me, in a dramatic fashion). Then he pointed out that the wooden frame around the window had been eaten away. This added up to a real puzzle, he said, piercing in his gaze. The caca was the size and shape of an hibou’s (the pleasingly onomatopoeic name for an owl). And Hironde had testified to sighting one sitting on the roof. But how could the bird have come down the chimney on its own to deposit its feathers in the room? Or could a martre have attacked the bird and carried its feathers in its bloody mouth into the house? The gnawed wood was the work of a martre. Monsieur related his findings with gravity and thoroughness, suggesting some long winter evenings spent on the problem.
I took all this in with the helpless ignorance of a city person, grasping for a meaningful response. Could the caca possibly be that of a martre? I proposed, straining for some logic. The caca seemed impressively large for that of a bird, even a big owl. This discussion, which might have struck me as decidedly coarse in English, seemed rather innocuous in French.
No, Monsieur declared, the caca could not be that of a martre. That was the rub. And what of the feathers? he grilled me. Bearing in mind, he said, adding another layer of complexity, that an owl would not eat wooden molding. That was the work of a martre.
I was struggling with some ridiculous mental images. Of an owl fluttering down the chimney like the Holy Ghost, doing his business, and hip-hopping up the stairs to the bedroom. Or of a little weasel-like martre boxing with an owl on my bed, tossing the dead bird out the window and chowing down on the window frame. The whole thing was a muddle.
What was to be done? My usual question. Clearly, the frame of the window had to be repaired. Monsieur suggested an ébéniste, a kind of carpenter.
I put the matter on hold for several days. How to shape the problem in terms that would seem less than lunatic to an ébéniste? Eventually, I decided to see one, a Monsieur Ribeiro, but not without some hesitation. I’d had on-and-off dealings with him during a two-and-a-half-year period over the agonizing construction of a picnic table.
The patio outside the house is diminutive. Seating was provided by a sorely weathered postage-stamp-size table and rickety chair left from the Pinckney days. In the spring of 1988, I decided that I would use the patio more often if I had a decent table where I could have alfresco lunches and dinners, with the valley at my feet. For years I had done nothing to dramatically change the house, which in fact needed little by way of improvement. It also felt imbued with the Pinckneys’ presence, and I had been reluctant to do anything contrary to what they might have wanted. Only gradually did I begin to make a few small changes. I purchased new hand-painted dishes in a charming French faience pattern, replacing the Pinckneys’ chipped Chinese set. I commissioned the plumber Prysbil, who also did custom-made wrought-iron work—he thought of himself as something of an artiste—to build a small railing for the balcony outside the doors of the living room, which, according to Mr. Pinckney’s original drawings, had been intended but left unfinished. As the balcony stood, it was no more than a useless concrete slab jutting out over the valley—a precarious perch. At the time of my purchase I wrote the Pinckneys to inquire why they’d decided against the railing—as if I needed their permission. Mrs. Pinckney wrote back to say they preferred the sense of “dining in the trees.” The picnic table, then, represented a major addition.
I spotted Monsieur Ribeiro’s display room on the road to the nearby village of Vayrac and asked Monsieur Hironde if he was reliable. “Il est Portuguais,” was his noncommittal reply. His xenophobia seemed unconscious and not the least bit mean-spirited. He seemed to be suggesting that Ribeiro was in a category (nonnative) that defied such judgment, like a wife saying of her mother-in-law, “She has her ways.” (Monsieur Ribeiro subsequently told me that he had lived in this part of France for nearly forty years, after coming to the country as a young boy.)
I met Monsieur Ribeiro, a large-boned man with broad features and a friendly, if slightly cloying manner, at his workshop. He had the offputting habit of standing in uncomfortably close proximity during conversation; his face loomed within inches of mine. I took a step backward and described the type of picnic table I wanted: a plain, solid redwood table with benches (we’d had one of this type in our backyard that had endured all my years of growing up). He pointed to a table that met my description—one of his best, attractive yet durable. It would cost much more than I’d planned to spend, but I reasoned that after all, this would be a table custom-made to fit a particular area. He requested that I pay him half the amount at the outset and the remainder when the table was completed. He agreed to stop by the house the next morning to take measurements.
He didn’t show up. When I stopped by his workshop later in the day, he explained, without apologies, that he’d been delayed on another project. His manner was so gentle, I couldn’t be annoyed. We made another appointment for the next morning. He arrived in his truck an hour late, oblivious of his rudeness. Being a punctual person, I am fairly intolerant of tardiness, but I restrained myself from commenting because I wanted his cooperation. He was enraptured by the wonderful view. What a pleasure it would be to eat outdoors, he said, gesticulating as if the table were already in place. I showed him where the table should go, tucked into the corner of the patio, with the stone wall at the back to take advantage of the view. He made some preliminary sketches and took exact measurements. He reassured me that the table would be rock solid and bolted to the wall so that there would be no possibility of theft (this had not occurred to me, since I’d never had any problems along that line). I was impressed with his thoroughness. The table would be completed by the time I came back in the fall.
In October, I drove lickety-split from the Bézamats to the house. No table. I bristled. He had had all those months to finish it. What could have delayed him?
What had delayed him, Monsieur Ribeiro explained when I stopped at the shop, was that he had had doubts about some specifications, and had hesitated to go ahead without my approval. What if he’d got it wrong; I would have been very unhappy, no? He arrived the next morning, only a half hour late, and we reviewed all the particulars. I was harboring a slim hope that he could undertake the work while I was there, but no, he was up to here (hand under chin) with orders. May, then. May it would be.
May, and no table. I was seething. How could he string me along like this? The weather was perfect! I could be enjoying the patio. It was just a simple picnic table! What could be so complicated?
What was so complicated, Monsieur Ribeiro explained, was that he had had a serious accident in his workroom. We were standing there at the time. He demonstrated—slapping his forehead and reeling backward—how a part of a heavy machine had flown off and struck him. He’d had a severe concussion and had been hospitalized in Toulouse. He did look a bit pale; he’d lost a little weight. Something of his usual ebullience was gone, and his smile was wan. I felt my anger forestalled, my arguments deflated. I expressed my sympathy over his accident. The table, he promised, would be installed by the time I returned in the fall.
The following September, it was, at last, THERE. There, in capital lette
rs, because in the context of my dollhouse-sized patio, it had all the monumentality of a luxury ocean liner. The original plan for something rustic and simple had taken on grandiose dimensions in Monsieur Ribeiro’s mind. What was now in place was a massive table—the sort you see in public parks—with four-inch-thick planks and brass studs the size of a French franc. How had it assumed these proportions?
I dropped my luggage at the door and immediately tested the table. It was, indeed, anchored to the stone wall—this table was going nowhere. A person had to high-step over the thick wooden slabs connecting the benches to the table and sidle awkwardly into the seat. It was like mounting a horse in a tight stall. The table was chest high, so if I rested my elbows on top, they winged out at shoulder level. Even more troubling, the table was on a slant, causing the vista to be dizzily skewed. I had visions of dinner plates slowly creeping away from the person eating from them and guests muttering about disappearing eating utensils. To climb out of the table took as much dexterity as getting in—God forbid you should forget the salt! But I buried my sickening disappointment. It had been such an arduous feat getting the table. I could live with it, couldn’t I?
The following spring, when I’d gotten some distance from it, I thought not. Even though I’d paid Monsieur Ribeiro, the result was unacceptable. When I visited his workshop to explain the problem, he agreed to stop by the house that afternoon. I invited him to sit at the table and withheld comment as he struggled with his large frame to sit down—or should I say climb aboard? He sat with a self-important rise and fall of his shoulders, looking mildly satisfied. Then I pointed out the slant, the impossible height for comfortable dining, the disorienting view. He didn’t disagree. Nor did he agree. But he said he would make some slight alterations—these were not serious problems—and it would be perfect when I returned in the fall.
Need I say that the repairs had not been made in the fall?
This time Monsieur Ribeiro was not at his workshop. His son—the resemblance around the eyes and mouth was too strong for him to be anything else—seemed to be in charge. His father, he said, continued to have problems resulting from his accident and wasn’t able to work to full capacity. I explained the problem, and he said he would see to it immediately. He arrived within an hour, with a young helper. It was no small job to lower the table and set it at an even level on the rough, irregular stone surface. It had to be unbolted, measured and recut, then reassembled. It took hours. When it was completed, I slid in comfortably and sat down. Perfect, it was perfect. After they left, I brought out the cheeses and pâté, bread and wine, and basked in the sunshine. Food, my mother always said, just tastes better outdoors.
Despite my problems with him, Monsieur Ribeiro was incontestably a fine craftsman; a more solid table you couldn’t ask for. Thus, I assumed the job of repairing the window frame would be a snap. After I greeted him at his workshop—his health apparently restored—I crept up on my reason for visiting him, blathering in general about the problem of animals in the house over the winter. Then I reached the final hurdle, the nonsense about the martre or the hibou, whatever—the as-yet-to-be-determined culprit. I drew a breath. A window molding needed replacement, I announced, skidding to a conclusion.
“Hal” Monsieur Ribeiro roared in my face. The martre/hibou issue seemed to have struck some chord, as if he, too, had suffered a similar outrage.
When he and his son arrived the following day, they studiously examined the window frame. Mystified, they asked for details. I passed on the few clues I had, producing the feathers (I was getting like Monsieur Bézamat in my old age). Monsieur Ribeiro was uncharacteristically subdued, stumped. “Martre, hibou,” he muttered. I was frankly relieved just to let the matter lie. Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he said that the solution was to cover the window with a sheet of waterproof board. A simple solution, but a sound one. Since the window was opaque and provided the faintest light (I relied on the other window for this as well as for a view of the valley), nothing would be lost by covering it up. The cover would serve as a sort of seal against animals and the elements. I hesitated only a moment. It was aesthetically distasteful, but I could keep the curtains closed.
Seizing the occasion, I asked Monsieur Ribeiro if, at the same time, he would cut a bed board for me, since my mattress was not firm enough. D’accord. He took careful measurements of both the window frame and the bed.
In the morning, the Ribeiros were back. In minutes, the window was sealed up. The bed board, however, proved to be a more complicated undertaking, starting with a great deal of huffing and puffing to get it up the tiny, angled staircase. Then, to my dismay, when they slid it onto my bed frame, it was inches short all the way around. I was beginning to have serious doubts about Monsieur Ribeiro’s skills with a tape measure. Until he explained the problem: this particular board was the only size, of the thickness I’d demanded, that he’d had on hand. But it wouldn’t do, I countered, since the mattress would extend over the edge all the way around. He looked resigned to this fact. But now, he said with immense regret, the bed board would have to wait on a fresh supply of wood so that he could cut it to my specifications. I knew what this meant: sometime, far down the road, I would have my bed board. Maybe by fall, certainly by spring.
I drew the curtains across the board on the window—and on the unsolved mystery. Hibou or martre, we would never know.
9
BREAKDOWN
One of the advantages of the house is using it as a base to explore la France profunde, as the French refer to the countryside. Often I split a vacation between a visit to the house and a sojourn to a particular area in another part of the country. It’s immensely satisfying simply to toss a nightgown and a toothbrush in a bag for an overnight stay at a not-too-distant inn. A further advantage of my house is that I can go any which way: farther south to the Basque country, east to the Auvergne, north to the Loire, southeast to Provence.… The only problem is that I have to rely on rental cars, and this can be expensive.
In April 1990, I spent a week in Brittany. I’d been lured to that part of the country by what I’d read about its whitewashed villages, rocky inlets, and coastal cliffs rising above crashing waves; of its enduring legends (King Arthur searched for the Holy Grail in the forests of central Brittany); of its fierce independence (staunchly clinging to the Breton language, which is closer to Welsh than to French). It sounded like a mystical place. I limited myself to a stretch of the Western coast, starting with the serene little town of St-Brévin-les-Pins. For dinner and lodging, I relied on my on-the-road Bible, the Logis de France, which is reissued each year. In order for a hotel-restaurant to qualify for the guide—and post the cheery green-and-yellow Logis de France sign on its exterior—it must offer reasonable rates and regional cuisine. The guide includes regional maps, pinpointing the location of each logis, which are usually family-run affairs. At a glance, you can see that the country is riddled with them—and once you’ve keyed into the logis, the little green-and-yellow sign catches your eye everywhere. Since I don’t travel in high season, I often simply call ahead from one evening to the next for a reservation; at times I haven’t even called ahead, when I’m not sure where I’ll wind up at the end of the day, and have never had a problem finding lodging. This is a great comfort, banishing worry about finding a place for the night in unfamiliar territory.
Vannes, a pretty cobbled town, had some sophisticated shops, a cut above the norm in this low-key part of the country. I dawdled for the afternoon and bought a dress, a rare indulgence. It had a brilliantly colored design and would call for a special occasion—I had to take a walk around the block to persuade myself that this flamboyant whim would be in fact a reasonable choice. My Brittany dress it would be. That night I stayed in Quiberon at Le Neptune, where my room had a panoramic view of the bay.
On the road past Carnac, on an appropriately gray, somber day, I spotted some of the curious, eerie menhirs I’d read about. The giant stones, some weighing up to three hundred a
nd fifty tons, were like swells in the earth, here as if created by a colony of giant moles. In fact, it was the Druids, members of ancient religious orders and regarded as pagan magicians in Christian legends, who assembled them from 5000 to 2000 B.C. Their meaning in ancient rituals has yet to be understood and their presence in the natural landscape is disturbing and haunting. Tourists were walking about the terrain, heads down in a studious perusal, as if they could uncover the mystery. I drove on, satisfied with the sight from the car.
In Quimperlé I happened on to a pint-size six-table crêperie near the cathedral for lunch, where a woman in historic Breton dress was turning out the battery of orders for galettes from her station near the front window. It was a fascinating example of the art of crêpe making. The batter was contained in a deep yellow bucket beside her. Across the top of the bucket was a wooden plank to hold utensils and a hole carved out for a measuring cup. In front of her were two large gas-heated griddles, which she continually adjusted (every time the door opened, a blast of cool air came in). She would dip a cloth-covered sponge in melted butter to coat one griddle. Then she poured in a cupful of batter and smoothed it out with a wooden spatula. Within seconds the batter would begin to bubble. She would peek at the underside and, if she was satisfied, flip the crêpe on its undone side to the second griddle. With dazzling sleight of hand, she then started another crêpe on the first griddle. Immediately, she would spread the filling on the cooked crêpe, fold it, flip it over and back again, and glide it onto a plate. For the family at the next table, it was chocolate and raspberries; then, for me, gruyère. Her crêpe making went on and on in a balletic sequence, without pause. I was mesmerized and would like to have lingered, but I had gobbled up my crêpe—one goes down very quickly—and people were backed up at the door waiting for tables.
