by Ann Barry
The contract was terribly complicated; in fact, impenetrable. “Je préfère qu’on parle en personne,” I wrote back. I explained that I would be coming to France in the fall, when I would come to the Gramat office to discuss the particulars.
In October, I went to Gramat. After many inquiries I eventually found the tiny office of Saur on a little back street behind the cathedral. I tapped on the door.
“Entrez!”
Seated at the only desk was a strikingly handsome man in his thirties.
“Monsieur Carsac?” I ventured, hardly expecting this to be the man attached to the letter.
“Oui, je vous attend,” he said, as if we’d had an appointment that very minute. There was a deadly professionalism about him—not a crack in his demeanor.
He began riffling through papers on his desk. He’d not been able to find the right map for my house, he mumbled, and then threw up his hands, as if he was always ambushed by this sort of problem. Well, we could proceed anyway. He wasn’t sure when the work could be done—maybe July, maybe August. He raised his hand to chin level, indicating an invisible stack of papers on his desk.
I informed him that I would sign the contract and wanted to go ahead and pay for the work. This would surely set things in motion (such expeditiousness would be my inclination, not that of the French, I should have realized). Would Monsieur accept my French-franc traveler’s checks (I’d come prepared with extra money to pay for the work on this trip)? Not possible, he said sternly. But, I explained, since the checks were in French francs, it was exactly like cash. His nose twitched, as if this was a further irritation. The bank was just a few blocks away, he said.
I ran to the bank. Why am I forever trying to beat the noon closing of everything in France? I cashed the wad of traveler’s checks, studying the young woman’s face to see if she registered surprise. I hoped no other customer was observing the mound of bills being counted—I fantasized a gun at my back as soon as I walked out the door. The idea of carrying so much cash, even for a few blocks, made me extremely nervous. I sped back to the Saur office.
I signed the two copies of the contract. I counted out and recounted the precise amount of francs. Monsieur Carsac counted and recounted them. Eventually—Monsieur waiting it out—I dug out the last centime. Fini.
In June of 1993, I called Monsieur Carsac from the booth at the Carennac post office and was told that work on my house had been postponed. In short, my house was creeping up on their to-do list. A month after I got back to New York, I received an amended facture or bill from Saur. The cost had risen slightly, based on a more recent estimate. I paid the difference.
No, Monsieur Bézamat told me in October 1993, the work had not been started. His expression was pained, as if he shared some responsibility for the delay. I should call the Saur office. Before I made my shopping rounds in St-Céré, I stopped at the post office to put through a call to Gramat. No answer. And of course the office would be closed the next day, as well as Monday, France’s usual day off. I hung up in a fury. I would be spending the following week in the Auvergne. A delay here for me wasn’t a matter of days, but months and months, until my next visit. “Merde,” I muttered.
When I received a facture from Saur at the end of January in New York, I took it as a positive sign. The bill was for the “1er semestre” of service. Then, at the end of May, just before I planned to return, there was a second bill for the same amount. (The Hirondes had underestimated slightly.) We were in business at last!
And so, when Monsieur Bézamat greeted me upon my arrival with a “problème,” I was incredulous. He offered to follow me directly to the house. He parked the car, slammed the door, and stood poised for a moment, hands on hips—a momentary reluctance to deliver bad news. Then he advanced and pointed out to me the placement of the compteur, the underground meter. It was entrenched on the far side of the incline leading up to the garage, in the shadow of my rosemary bush at the edge of the woods. Which is to say, it was a far stretch from the cave. In short, Monsieur Bézamat informed me, it was an impossible task for Monsieur Bru—who had moved into the post of plumber after Monsieur Prysbil was taken to a sanatorium—to make a connection from the compteur to the cistern. He would not only have to dig a tunnel for a considerable distance but burrow under the stone wall surrounding the house. In other words—the light was dawning—I had the compteur, and in Saur’s view, the job was done. The bills, of course, would keep coming—the meter, true enough, was installed. Yet it was inoperable: there was no umbilical cord from meter to house.
The compteur, Monsieur Bézamat stated, would have to be moved, preferably inside the stone wall opposite the cave. Why hadn’t Saur consulted with him? he muttered. (I had given the Saur office his name in my absence.) If he’d been informed, he would have advised them. He whistled in disgust.
I was too weary. This being early Friday evening, there would be no recourse until the Saur offices opened on Tuesday. I told Monsieur Bézamat that I would drive to the headquarters in Figeac then and present the problem. After opening the house, I drove down to the well—the old routine—for water.
On Monday evening, when I came home, there was a note on the back of an envelope in Monsieur Bézamat’s elegant script under the door. “Demain matin, avant d’aller à Figeac, passez me voir, au sujet du compteur.” (Come see me about the meter.) I noted, slightly shocked, that it was addressed familiarly: to Ann and signed Charles.
When I stopped at the house in the morning, he said that he’d had a sudden brainstorm: the compteur was on public property, not chez moi! True or not—I had a muddled notion that perhaps it was indeed on my land, but was not about to dig up the deeds. This was a stroke of genius on his part; it would make for an unassailable argument in my favor! Saur would have to move the compteur. I complimented him on his clever thinking. Did he truly believe this, or was he just being wily? I didn’t care.
The woman behind the desk in the Saur office, harried though she was, was persuaded by my argument and sympathetic with my plight. After a series of phone calls, she said that they would send a man to the house that evening, a Monsieur Singe from Puybrun, who had done the installation. Would six o’clock be agreeable?
On the way home, I stopped at the alimentation—the grocery store—in Carennac on another bit of business. Monsieur Bézamat had advised mounting a screen around the chimney to prevent further invasions of hiboux, martres, and company. Monsieur Coussil, whose shop I lean on at times like the Yellow Pages, was likely to know the whereabouts of the roofer (Jean Prunet, who had repaired my roof, had passed away). With his customary passivity, he recommended Monsieur Massalve, who lived up the road at the end of the village.
My rap on the door set off a feisty yipping and angry clawing. A young girl with pale white skin and curly black hair looked at me with painful shyness. I identified myself and explained the problem. She hushed the dog, who trotted away, mission accomplished, and ushered me into the hall. Could her father stop by the house? I asked.
“Il est mon mari,” she corrected me softly. I could barely squelch my astonishment—she looked all of twelve years old! Yes, she said, her husband could come by on Friday evening. Indicative of her reclusiveness, she seemed ignorant of the location of my house. She pulled out a map from the chest in the hall so I could point it out.
From there, I swung by the Bézamats. Without hesitation, Monsieur said he would come to the house at six to meet the Saur man.
Monsieur Singe was a ruggedly handsome man with a football-tackle physique, perhaps in his forties. Introductions were made all round.
“Vous expliquez,” I said, turning the podium over to Monsieur Bézamat immediately. When the incontrovertible fact was presented—that the compteur was on public property and would have to be moved—Monsieur Singe became livid. He smacked his forehead, he paced steamily in circles, he pounded a fist on the trunk of his car. Two days, two days, he’d spent on this job, and now it had to be undone! More storming about. I hovered b
y the picnic table. Say nothing, an inner voice advised. Look innocent, but look resolute. When Monsieur Singe wound down enough to carry on with the discussion, Monsieur Bézamat steered him to the spot inside the stone wall where the compteur should logically have been placed to begin with.
Monsieur Singe rebelled. That would be impossible, he exclaimed, with much gesticulation. That would mean going under the stone wall! He turned on me. The stone wall was ancient, unstable. It would collapse, and then what? I pretended not to speak the language. (He had a point, I feared.) The stone wall, which was approximately six feet high, was constructed of slabs of stone, layered horizontally and highly irregularly, knitted together somewhat magically without the benefit of stabilizing mortar. Monsieur Bézamat, meanwhile, strode to the cave and emerged with a metal rod. He plunged it into the ground by the wall, testing the depth of the stones beneath the surface. He proposed that if Monsieur Singe saw fit to reposition the compteur outside the wall, he would dig the trench beneath it. This mollified Monsieur Singe not the least. He marched up to the garage and pounded on the stone wall. Why not drill a hole here, through the wall, leading into the cave? he shouted insanely. Then the compteur could simply be moved to the other side of the rosemary bush, chez moi. He bounded down to the cave, trailed by Monsieur Bézamat. This seemed a sickening alternative, violating the house, the ancient walls. Better, I said when they returned, that the stone wall crumble than the house fall down. I could have wept.
The detestable Monsieur Singe, with his bullying, hot-tempered manner, stood rooted in front of me and planted his fists on his hips. Intuitively, I knew that he was the type of man who would respond to cajoling and flattery, especially from a woman, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I explained that I was leaving on a two-day excursion. I needed to think it over. Could he return on Friday, when we could make a final decision? He shrugged and snickered, as if he didn’t care if we made an appointment a year from now. Five-thirty? I proposed. Five-thirty, he mimicked. (An inner voice said, he’ll keep you waiting, he may not even show up, he’s going to make you pay.)
Monsieur Bézamat and Monsieur Bru subsequently agreed to come by the following Friday. Monsieur Bézamat arrived at the stroke of five-thirty. We sat on the patio. He seemed pensive.
What is it? I asked.
He swept off his cap, freeing up a thought that had obviously been weighing on his mind.
Aren’t you afraid doing what you’re doing alone, a single woman? he asked, with the look of fatherly concern he sometimes gave me.
I couldn’t imagine what had provoked this. (Unless he thought Monsieur Singe was going to steal up in the night and do me in.) After all these years of n’ayez pas peurs, perhaps it had taken all this time for him to dare to ask.
No, I said, I’m not afraid. It seems very safe here.
But there are not very many women who would do this, he said.
“Oui,” I said. “Mais être seule—c’est mon tempérament.” That seemed to satisfy him.
Monsieur Bru arrived. He is an athletic man in his forties, prematurely bald, with deep-set eyes and a year-round nut-brown complexion that gives him a rather feral appearance. He reviewed the options with Monsieur Bézamat: the repositioning of the compteur, either inside or outside the wall, versus drilling through the house. After prolonged discussion, measuring, and examination of the wall, they agreed that drilling through the house was senseless. And, if Monsieur Singe refused to place the compteur within the stone wall, they would be able to deal with it. Monsieur Bru stated that I should not pay Saur any supplément for the extra work.
It was past six o’clock. They left. Here we go again, I thought miserably: the Saur office would be closed the next day and Monday, and I was taking the early-morning train for Paris on Tuesday. It was going to be an other aggravating delay. I went in to shower and start dinner.
At seven, Monsieur Singe showed up. I reminded him that we had agreed on five-thirty and that Monsieur Bézamat and Bru had come and gone. No apologies, no explanation. We stood on the patio like two boxers facing off in the ring. I explained that Monsieur Bru found it impracticable to drill through the house. Perhaps Monsieur Singe would consider dropping by his house; the two of them could resolve the question of the placement of the compteur. Monsieur Bru, I added lightly, lived nearby.
“Je sais où il est,” he said contemptuously. “Il est un copain.” They’d gone to school together. The two of them pals? I found this hard to believe.
As for the payment for the additional work, how was I going to take care of that? he wanted to know. There was going to be an additional charge of a hundred and sixty dollars.
I stammered. If I refused to pay, the whole business might be stalled again. Yet it seemed unjust, another bundle of money for something that was the company’s error. This was unfair, I said, testing the waters. He jerked backward, as if I’d punched him in the stomach. Monsieur Singe was like a tricky fish on a line; he could be reeled in temptingly close to a landing, but then would spin out into the depths. Should I mention Monsieur Bru’s counsel that I shouldn’t pay more, or would that be a betrayal? When I did, he shouted that Bru had no right to interfere in his business arrangements! So much for his copain. He spun on his heels, as if the discussion, such as it was, was closed.
“Alors, je vous payerai!” I shouted in desperation to his retreating back, my fist in the air.
At which point a young man, seemingly from out of nowhere, approached the patio. In the heat of the moment I hadn’t even noticed his car pull in. He looked aghast at having stumbled into this unpleasantness. Monsieur Singe stopped in his tracks. I lowered my clenched fist and swallowed my exclamation.
“Massalve,” he announced shyly. The roofer. Instantly, I saw that he was the perfect match for his young wife. He looked the quintessential angelic flower child, tall and lean, with a halo of black curls, the poetic mustache and beard of an aesthete, and deep blue eyes. From my peripheral vision, I saw that his car was painted a bright purple, like a heavenly chariot. He extended his slender hand to Monsieur Singe, who responded with a quick, wrenching handshake. Monsieur Singe then seized the moment to beat a retreat.
Massalve. His very name was a balm. My emotions turned on a dime: from heated anger and frustration to sweet delight. The tension oozed out of my body into a pool on the patio. Monsieur Massalve gazed at the roof. I invited him into the house in order to show him the violation: caca that had accumulated just in the past day or so on the newspaper I’d spread in the fireplace. (Monsieur Bézamat’s sleuthlike ways are contagious.) Monsieur Massalve bent over and craned his head under the chimney. He righted himself and nodded sympathetically. It was an easy solution, he said. He would mount a grille around the chimney and that should solve the problem.
Off he went. I was becalmed. I refused to think any more about Singe and the problème. I got out my binoculars and stood on the patio, training them on the cows feeding in the Salgues’ barn in the valley, an idyllic sight. The faint clanging of their bells against the troughs carried up the hill. Evening was closing in.
* * *
No one was at home at the Bézamats’ when I arrived to pick up the keys in October. By prior agreement in such an event, I found them secreted under the metal milk container on the stone ledge by the front door. Bobbie was beside himself, confounded as to how he ought to behave. He recognized me, yet he was duty bound to defend the property in his family’s absence. As I mounted the stairs he rolled on his back on the grass, his tail wagging, all the while growling ferociously.
When I pulled into the house, I noticed that the grassy area in front was churned up, as if it had been plowed. The compteur was not by the road. I walked up the hill and stood on the patio. The compteur, miracle of miracles, had been relocated to the most desirable position, within the stone wall and within reach of the cave. This was beyond belief. I’d come steeled for the next round with Saur and here it was, a fait accompli.
This had to be Monsieur B�
�zamat’s doing. But how had he accomplished such a feat? The next morning I stopped at his house, a bottle of wine in hand. He was tinkering in the garage. I saluted him, with the wine bottle raised on high in victory. He came forward, with a shy smile of satisfaction, the cat who’d swallowed the canary.
I grasped his hand and shook it vigorously. And how had he done it?
He placed his bottle of wine on the hood of the car and nonchalantly tucked his hands in his back pockets. He’d driven to Figeac, he explained offhandedly, and stopped at the main bureau of Saur.
You drove to Figeac! I exclaimed. It was nearly an hour’s drive.
Well, he had had a little business of his own there, he said dismissively.
You spoke to the chef du centre! I went on, incredulous.
He nodded sagely. “Eh, voilà.” The bureau chief had had to face the fact that the compteur wasn’t on my property. There was no choice but to rectify the situation. He shrugged at the overriding and obvious logic of this position.
I was dumbstruck that he would have put himself out to such a degree. I had underestimated his fidelity.
He ignored my astonishment and urged me to arrange with Bru to proceed with the branchement. He tipped his hat and took a half step back, reminding me, as I slid into the car, not to press on the gas pedal when I started the car. (He had witnessed me do this on occasion, resulting in the engine being flooded.)
Monsieur Bru stopped by that evening. Between him and Bézamat, he said, the job would be finished in the spring, without fail. Bézamat would dig the trench and he would follow up with the connection to the cistern. He smiled broadly and gave me a reassuring clap on my shoulder, the first intimate gesture he’d ever made. Now that the job was in familiar hands, my doubts dissolved. Water, water, everywhere—come spring.
17
