At Home in France

by Ann Barry

  The drive took seven hours. I pulled up to the towering wrought-iron gate, which was shut. I got out of the car and rang the bell. A small voicebox statically greeted me: bonjour, with a question mark. I announced myself and the gates slowly began to open. I jumped back into the car and drove slowly through the gates, which opened to an enchanted world. The drive to the château circled around a perfectly trimmed lush green lawn with flowers in a riot of color. Ducks and geese—and a peacock!—strolled lazily about.

  This had been a fortified château; its stone turrets, crenellated guard towers, and moat still attested to its historic past. Burgundian architecture was reflected in its tall sixteenth-century watchtower, the seventeenth-century house, and rambling eighteenth- and nineteenth-century farm buildings. I’d read in the newsletter that today it is a family home run by a Monsieur Matherat-Audan and his daughter, Elisabeth. It was the latter, a beautiful and totally unaffected young woman, who greeted me at the reception desk, located in the entrance hall of the château. It was appointed with antiques, but still cozy. I admired a breakfront that contained bibelots and, surprisingly, a collection of three tiny birds’ nests.

  My room, also furnished with antiques, overlooked the idyllic lawn scene. I threw open the long French windows. There was time before dinner to stretch my legs after the drive. I wandered off through the woods on the grounds of the château, following a gurgling stream. Immediately I was joined—or, I should say, herded along—by a great golden dog. Deeper into the woods, I came upon a horse idly munching on some grass by the stream. I petted his soft red mane and velvety snout. This was a world one usually sees only in children’s books.

  After a long bubble bath, I sat in a wrought-iron chair on the lawn with a champagne aperitif before dinner. The sun was casting a rosy light and there was now a slight chill in the air. A jet-black Labrador retriever curled up by my chair, his head propped on my shoe. “Licorice! Licorice!” I heard a woman’s singsong voice beckoning the dog distantly from the château. Just the barest flicker of an ear. Her ineffectual calls died away. Feeling pampered and blissful, I went in to dinner, which was served at a great wooden table, table d’hote style, in the first-floor kitchen.

  In the morning I was up at seven-thirty for a run. Luckily, a young maid was walking along the drive to open the front gate for me. Suddenly Licorice was at my heels. All along the way, he darted ahead or lagged behind, as one thing or another caught his attention—including a flock of sheep, who bolted at his approach like tall grasses whipped by the wind. In the last stretch back to the château, he ran at an even pace alongside me—the first time I’d ever run with a dog.

  After breakfast, I stopped at the front desk to check out with Elisabeth and told her that the château had been one of my favorite places in all of France (another place I vowed to return to). She glowed. After paying the bill, I paused. I’d been thinking about those birds’ nests.

  “J’ai une question.…” I began hesitantly. I pointed to the nests in the breakfront. Elisabeth rose and came around the desk. We stood side by side, peering through the glass to admire their remarkable construction. Then I said that what I was about to ask would probably seem bizarre. She looked expectant. Could I buy one?

  She laughed in startled amazement. No, she wouldn’t sell me one, she said emphatically, but she would give me one, of course, “if that’s your pleasure,” she added in English. Then, like a child about to reveal a secret, she drew me outside the front door. At one side, there was a small tree no taller than myself. “Regardez,” she said, pointing to it. I saw nothing remarkable. She led me closer and pointed again. “Regardez,” she repeated in a low whisper. And then I saw a tiny yellow bird, perhaps a finch, sitting on her little nest. We watched in silence for several minutes as she twitched her head and flitted about the nest, like a windup toy, and then Elizabeth drew me away. She explained that this bird builds her nest in that same spot every year, so that the nest I chose would be replaced.

  She wrapped my nest gingerly in a double layer of tissue paper. It was so tiny that it would fit in the palm of my hand. Never have I carried something so ephemeral and delicate: it weighed no more than, well, a feather. After I got home, I started looking for some sort of container to protect it from my curious cats. One weekend, at an antiques shop in the country, I discovered a tiny wire basket with a latched lid, used for carrying eggs. The nest fit perfectly inside, but was still visible from without. An objet d’art. Every so often I ponder its intricacy. It has bits of down and feather still clinging to it, vestiges of that sweet bird, a remembrance of that French haven.

  12

  A NEW GARAGE

  About a month before my trip in the fall, I wrote Monsieur Charron that I would be arriving on the two fifty-three train in St-Denis on October 19. The plane from New York, however, was delayed two hours, so that I missed both the nine thirty-three and ten o’clock trains from Paris to Brive—a trip of approximately four hours—where I was to connect up with the tiny train to St-Denis, another half-hour journey. Now, as it was, I wouldn’t get into St-Denis until six thirty-six, just when I wanted this first arrangement with Charron to go smoothly. I phoned the garage from Paris and, when he wasn’t there, left the message with the young woman who answered the phone.

  I slept on the train—jet lag taking its toll. When I arrived in St-Denis, Monsieur Charron was standing on the platform, and not looking especially delighted to see me. I was all apologies. He shrugged, implying at least that it wasn’t my fault. On the ride back to the garage, he was formal and unforthcoming. Perhaps he was resenting, after all, the role of chauffeur—he certainly wasn’t the type—or perhaps he was merely annoyed at the inconvenience of the delay.

  Or perhaps he was feeling the object of suspicion. Marilyn and Charles had been to the house in July, when Monsieur Bézamat informed them that Charron was freely driving the car all around—he’d spotted him as far as Brive. My arrangement with Monsieur Charron had been that he would move the car from time to time, say from one of his garages to the other, just to keep the engine tuned up. I had informed the insurance company of this. My policy covered the car only during my visits (I only had to inform the agency when I arrived and departed).

  Marilyn and Charles had stopped by the garage, introduced themselves, and on the pretext of interest in my new car, said they wanted to look it over. Charles then surreptitiously checked the mileage: 13,502. When I purchased the car, the mileage had been approximately 11,000, and I estimated that I couldn’t have put more than 1,000 kilometers on the car when I was there. (Monsieur Charron had, indeed, been more than tuning up the car.)

  It was dark. I was hungry and tired. I thanked Monsieur Charron kindly—I wasn’t going to bring up the indelicate matter until I had more information from Monsieur Bézamat—and jumped into Charleston. Belle voiture! Now the meter read precisely 13,502, I noted. Could Marilyn and Charles have aroused his suspicion, so that he stopped his gallivanting? I drove to the Bézamats for the keys. We gathered around the table.

  Monsieur Bézamat, shutting his eyes and tapping me on the shoulder in a conspiratorial way, confided that, yes, he’d seen Charron driving all around. Big shrug of shoulders, as if to say, “What did you expect?”

  “C’est à sa copine,” Kati chimed in, with a knowing air.

  His girlfriend’s car! So. “Sa copeeen,” I shrieked. That explained a lot.

  “Allez à Hironde,” Monsieur Bézamat advised. “Il a sa grange.” The barn. Perfect.

  It was so cold and dark that I decided not to open the house that night. I drove into the village for dinner and an overnight stay at the Vieux Quercy. After a restorative hot bath, I settled into the cheery, brightly lit dining room with a kir. A young woman seated with three other people approached my table. She held out my wallet. This must be yours, she said. You’re American, yes? They had found it in the parking lot on their way into dinner. My heart flipped! After Monsieur Charron’s duplicity, my faith was renewed.

&n
bsp; The Vieux Quercy is a bargain. My dinner included an appetizer of escargots, a confit with a light citron sauce and potatoes, a selection of cheeses, and dessert and coffee. Over dinner, I briefly considered the situation with Charron. I’d thought of confronting him with the facts of the mileage, the insurance policy, and so forth. But now I was convinced after seeing the Bézamats that I’d have to make another arrangement. Raymond’s barn could be the solution, but it would be asking a lot of him.

  I’d planned to spend several days in the Auvergne (Les Logis in hand) and dropped in on the Hirondes early in the morning before I left. Simone was back from a thermal cure in the Pyrenees. She was bereft, she said, her eyes welling. Her sister, who lived in Paris, and her sister-in-law, who lived in Brive, had both died recently, within weeks of each other. Her face was drained, her voice dispirited. She was locked up in grief, isolated in her sorrow. She shuddered in an attempt to shake off her mood in my presence.

  Raymond appeared, his hair damp and slicked as if he’d just showered, fumbling with a shirt button as if he’d just finished dressing. After greeting me, he peeked out the window. “Le Charleston,” he said approvingly. Where did I keep it? he wanted to know.

  This gave me my opening. Yet I was uncertain if Raymond and Charron might not have some association of which I was unaware. I attempted to explain the problem diplomatically: perhaps this was Monsieur Charron’s idea of keeping the car tuned up, perhaps he didn’t understand the insurance business, etc. But I was in a quandary as to what to do.

  Raymond snorted. No question now of where we stood. Without another moment’s hesitation, he offered to keep the car. He had all that space in the barn, where the car would be safe and protected. Of course he could drive me to and from the train. The plan had unfolded so naturally that I didn’t feel I was being a burden. Raymond, in fact, seemed rather tickled at the idea.

  Charleston performed stalwartly in the rugged terrain of the Auvergne, one of the least populated départements of France. The area doesn’t see many tourists, and at this time of year it was especially desolate—thus, especially appealing to me. I felt I’d penetrated the back roads, the depths of France. The red-tile roofs and creamy stonework of the houses in the Lot gave way to gray slate and white stucco. Tucked in small clusters, they blended perfectly with the gray moutain vistas dusted with snow. The Hotel d’Entraigues, in Égliseneuve d’Entraigues, was a plain, no-frills logis. My room had a jarring decor of yellow-orange flowery wallpaper, a black-and-white linoleum floor with a motif of wormlike squiggles, and a red plastic chair. It was unintended kitsch.

  I took a long walk after the long drive. There were mahogany cows and breathtaking mountain views. A light snow began to fall, etching the pine trees. In only a matter of hours, I was a world away from Pech Farguet. When I got back to the inn, I learned that the salle de bain was down the hall and was available for a small fee. I lay back in the ancient, enormous—that is to say, human-length—tub, feeling puffed up with the steam. I could have fallen asleep, but my stomach was calling out for nourishment.

  The only other customers in the dining room were a cheery British couple, complete with entertaining English chatter. There was no menu; dinner consisted of a thick vegetable soup (similar to Madame Bézamat’s), roast veal with a mountain of rice, and a bowl of lettuce dressed with a rich vinaigrette dressing. Madame left the cheese board on the table, so I was free to have as much as I wanted: Cantal doux, St-Nectaire, and bleu. Dessert offered a wide choice of ice cream. I chose myrtille—blueberry—and vanilla. The last was the best vanilla ice cream—the true test of ice cream—I’d ever had, pale yellow from the egg-yolk enrichment and speckled with vanilla-bean seeds. I ordered a second dish! A second helping is hardly ever as good as the first; even a second bite is not as good as the first. This, however, was.

  After a few brutally cold days, I left the winter climate behind, circling back through the town of Aurillac. In the old quarter, now a pedestrian shopping center, there’s a wonderful old-world cheese shop, the Crémière Leroux, which glistens with white tiles and marble. Enormous wheels of Cantal sit on the counter, with a choice of either aged or sweet, the younger type. Raymond had told me he prefers the sweet, so I bought some of this for him and the aged variety for me.

  I came back to late fall in the Lot. Mornings in the valley were laden with fog; from my perch in the house, it lay like a cloudy carpet at my feet. If I drove into St-Céré for my coffee, I had to turn on the headlights—but by noon the sun would break through so that the earth warmed and the trees glistened from the dew.

  I wanted to sever the Charron connection immediately and stopped by the garage as soon as I was back to explain politely that I’d worked out a more sensible arrangement with a neighbor. He gave me his rehearsed smile, and that was that. In Biars, I had the mud-caked car washed. I bought a Dustbuster and cleaned the interior. I bought a car cover for the wintering-over. Charleston sparkled! She was ready for hibernation.

  For the trip back to Paris, I planned to catch the nine-fourteen morning train in St-Denis. Raymond advised me to get to the house by eight-thirty. It was a damp, chilly morning with a steady drizzle—to my consternation, since I’d just given Charleston a last polishing the evening before. When I arrived at the Hirondes, Raymond was stationed at the barn, which is just beside the house. With a deadly seriousness, like a gendarme directing traffic at the Place de la Concorde, he guided me inch by inch into the barn. He had laid down heavy sheets of cardboard to the right and rear of the barn, where Charleston would sit. I finally positioned the car to his satisfaction and deboarded with my single bag. He cursed the rain and explained that he wouldn’t cover the car until she was thoroughly dry. He also reassured me that she would be absolutely safe. If he and Simone went away, the garage would be locked. And when they were home, he would park his car behind her so that a thief would have to steal his car first!

  We went to the house for a coffee. Simone wanted to show me something extraordinaire. She led me into the kitchen. There on the counter was an oversized cèpe with another, smaller one growing from the cap, piggyback-style. A woman friend, she said, had found it yesterday in the woods and Simone had said that she must show it to Madame Barry. This was no small thing to me: so, I held a place in her world beyond this room, this moment.

  Simone was dressed as if for Sunday, in a green wool dress with a string of white beads. She and a friend had appointments at the hairdresser’s and would be going with us as far as Bétaille. When we left the house, her woman friend was waiting by the car. Simone and her friend insisted on sitting in the back. We piled in. On the way, my journey back to the States was discussed in detail: the hours by train, by plane, in both directions. Simone’s friend was astonished at the length of the air flight. Raymond, who collects and enjoys statistics of any kind, explained to her that the tailwinds made the trip from the States much shorter than the return.

  We dropped the women off by the bakery; they each unfolded a little plastic rain cap over their head, despite the fact that they were minutes from the hairdresser. On we went.

  We were at the station shortly after nine. The station is the hub of St-Denis—if that’s the word for a dull and generally lifeless outpost. (The town’s very name, St-Denis-Près-Martel, connotes its decidedly kid-sister status.) I told Raymond that he needn’t wait with me for the train, but he insisted. He likes to watch the trains, he said. As we stood on the platform he explained, with an obvious pride, that his son worked for the SNCF, the French railroad. According to French law, this allowed Raymond, as his father (though not Simone, who was not his birth mother) free, unlimited travel, so oftentimes he took short excursions by himself on the weekends. His son’s children, he added, could ride at half price until age eighteen.

  The shrill whistle of the little train was heard in the distance. I thanked Raymond for the favor of taking the car and driving me to the station. As I shook his hand I slipped a hundred-franc bill into his palm. He waved it back at
me, but I planted my hands behind my back. I’m confident I read him correctly: he was grateful.

  I love a train. Traveling by rail gives you a sense of real time, a spirit of adventure, drama, and the possibility of romance (although the rhythmic clack of wheels on track, the cradle sway, usually puts me to sleep). The train pulling into the St-Denis station was nearly stagecoach size. Passengers gazed from the windows of its two cars, some in boredom, some in mild curiosity. It came to a trembling stop. Raymond gave me a hand up as I mounted the high step. I sat down at the station-side window. He was still standing on the platform and gave me a gentle wave. I waved back. “Au revoir,” I mouthed. There was a sudden ache in my chest. Raymond’s figure blurred into an image of my father, who, when I’d last seen him conscious, was standing on a train platform waving farewell as I departed for Europe. The train started up with a small jolt. I glanced back. Raymond was watching the train move out, his arm raised, seemingly forgotten, in midair.

  13

  ON THE ROAD

  In the spring of 1993, when my office closed for a week, I tagged on my two-week vacation. With the luxury of three weeks, I could make a long pilgrimage, albeit solely for pleasure, with Charleston. I decided on Provence, the region most people dream of when they think of the French countryside. I hadn’t been back since Jean and I were there years before. Then we had had the fortune of staying in the summerhouse owned by a Parisian couple who were Jean’s friends, which was located on a hilltop in Cagna-sur-Mer outside Nice. This trip I aimed to explore the less glittery side of the region, going the logis route.