by Sam Juneau
‘Sam, I wish you hadn’t done that.’ Bud frowned.
‘We have time. It will be OK. We’ll get the lads in there, clean up by the time the guests arrive and we’ll have a little money to show for our efforts. We have to get started.’
My long-suffering wife gave in disapprovingly.
I remained at the chateau for the next two weeks, puttering around with Bud, tending to the baby, making trips to the farmer’s hardware store in the next town, inspecting our new home and making plans. Meanwhile, I should have been back at my job in New York. Reluctantly, I left Bud, Blue and Bonchamps behind and headed back to the States to work on the monster trucks documentary and a show called Mean Dogs.
The title of the latter show was not subtle but it was concise. As soon as I hit the ground in New York, I headed for Detroit to film a group of animal rescue workers on the mean streets of the most forgotten city in America. Race riots in the 1960s had gutted large parts of the city. Other areas were simply left to decay; victims of neglect and poverty. We were aiming to find evidence of illegal dogfighting. The breed of choice: the pit bull.
I spent the day making house calls with the investigators. We all wore bulletproof vests as we caroused the streets looking for the telltale signs of abused animals. We had entered into an altercation with one of the alleged dogfight organisers. This involved considerable yelling, bickering and the threat of bodily harm. Someone hinted there might be a gun nearby. Then we found a dead dog on the organiser’s property. This did not bode well for anyone involved. The animal, a pit bull, had been dumped after a weekend fight where he had been on the short end of a mean squabble with a neighbouring dog. We noted and filmed the finding and quickly left. The day had been long and depressing. I found a steakhouse on the outskirts of town. Just as I sat, my mobile rang. The caller ID flashed a number beginning ‘33’. France. It must be late there, I thought.
‘Hello?’
‘Sam, it’s Bud. Blue had an accident.’
‘What happened?’ My heart beat almost out of my chest.
‘She fell off the bed and hit the bedside table. She cut her chin. I thought it was nothing, but when I looked down, there was blood everywhere.’ Bud was calm.
‘Where are you?’
‘Everything is fine. We’re at the chateau. We drove down to Jehan-Claude’s house, woke them up and they called the doctor.’
‘What time was that?’ I was trying to comprehend what had happened, but simply couldn’t.
‘Around midnight. We went to the doctor and he gave Blue six stitches.’
‘My God. Is she OK?’
‘She’s sleeping now. I think it will be fine. Jehan-Claude and Marie-Christine were great.’
We talked hurriedly of the past few days’ events. My heart ached as I thought of my wife with our baby back in the chateau having to deal with the immensity of our project. It made me sad. I refrained from telling her about my day. Guns and mean dogs were not what she needed to hear just now. It would not be the last time we were apart for a good chunk of time. The sacrifice of our bold choice had begun.
Our conversation wound down. Bud said she was tired. It was now about 2 a.m. at the chateau.
‘We found a new bed,’ Bud stated in an optimistic tone. ‘It’s horsehair, an old mattress we pulled down from the third floor. It sleeps great.’
‘That’s good news.’
‘Oh yeah – and Angus, Kate and Leo haven’t done anything this week. They say they’ll start the serious work after they get settled in.’
‘Great,’ I managed sarcastically.
‘Sam?’
‘Yes.’
‘I love you.’
‘I love you too. Kiss Blue for me in the morning.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Trop Jeune
Wine connoisseurs in France love to mull over the proper time to drink a vintage. One often hears that a wine is trop jeune, or too young. The tannins are ‘too aggressive’ or the alcohol overly pronounced. That perfect combination of year, grape, region and ageing method remains elusive. Most admit it is virtually impossible to determine when the wine is exactly ‘mûr’. I cannot recount how many times I have tasted a vintage in the presence of a self-described wine expert and the words ‘It is good but it will be better in five or ten years’ come tumbling off moist, red lips. The rule is simple: the only way to know is to open the bottle. The proof is in the glass. As we started to uncork the possibilities of the property, it wasn’t clear whether we had vinegar or wine.
I returned to New York after my dogfighting expedition in Detroit and a short trip out to Vegas for the monster trucks. A few weeks later Bud came back with Blue for a week. Our most recent séjour at the chateau had by no means been easy or peaceful but it had left us with a great sense of possibility, even hope, despite Monsieur le Comte’s dire prognostications. As we settled back into the distinct lack of possibility in our one-bedroom apartment in New York, the idea of French country life grew more appealing. The smallness, the dilapidation, the modesty of our apartment cried out for a remedy. We had left the gang in charge to spiffy up the Guard’s House, now vacated by Monsieur Pernod, and continue their bone-wearying labour.
Each day, I set off for work, usually not too early. My commute, one of the worst things about making money, was about 45 minutes. My company provided a small shuttle to usher Manhattan workers to small cubicles several miles west in a soulless industrial park in New Jersey, one of the broadcast centres of the mighty NBC News.
At about the same time, Bud would leave our cramped apartment to do errands and take Blue to the park. Anyone who raises kids in the city knows the difficulty of navigating city streets with a baby. Inevitably, Bud would end up at Central Park, several blocks from our apartment. Among nannies of New York’s elite, protocols were established as young children fought for limited space and maximum usage of swings, slides and sandpits. She dreamt of our new house with its generous woods and orchards.
One evening, a few weeks before the final signing of the acte de vente and the arrival of our first guests, we received a call. I answered the phone.
‘Hello?’
‘Sam, it’s Kate.’ The three of them had been working away at the chateau for some time now. Their latest project involved stripping, sanding, patching and painting the 39-by-4-metre-wide main gallery. Things were advancing, with no major problems.
‘Hi Kate.’
‘Sam, we have a problem. Leo, Angus and I finally got into the Guard’s House today. It’s a disaster. There is brown, mouldy carpet everywhere. The sink is broken, the bathroom is a beige nightmare. It needs painting. Plus, Jehan-Claude told us his father plans to stay there the week before you come over for the signing. I think the guests are arriving that week?’
‘That’s terrible! I can’t believe this. Let me talk to Bud and we’ll figure out a plan. How are things otherwise?’
‘OK, but it’s lonely here. Since we don’t speak the language, there’s nothing to do except work.’
‘Hang in there. I will call you back.’
I humbly shared the news with Bud.
‘Well, he can’t stay there. We’ve rented out the house.’
‘It’s his house until we buy it.’ Hard to argue with that.
‘Sam, why don’t you call the clients and arrange for them to stay in the chateau for the first week and move into the Guard’s House for their second week?’
‘OK, but we have no proper beds and the bathrooms are dreadful.’
‘Maybe I can go over there early, buy some beds and work with the gang to get everything ready,’ Bud suggested hopefully. ‘On second thoughts,’ she continued, ‘I still think it’s a bad idea to rent the place out. Can’t you cancel?’
‘They’ve already paid the deposit and made plans to be there at the end of July. I can’t cancel now. We have to move forward. How bad could it be anyway?’
With that muttering of wilful denial, we made plans for Bud to venture back to France to get
things in order. Blue had already racked up more frequent flyer miles than any two-year-old should have to endure. I would join them in a couple of weeks so we could actually buy the house.
While Bud made her way back to Juvardeil, I called our beloved clients and told them the news. They could stay in the chateau for the first week. Then we would help them with the changeover. They said it was no problem. The woman who had innocently booked ‘her dream of life on a seventeenth-century chateau estate’ would be delighted to experience life in the chateau, she said.
Bud’s early return was utterly futile. Jehan-Claude had the keys to the Guard’s House and was protecting the contents. A couple of days after her arrival, Monsieur Pernod, JC’s father, arrived to install his family in the disputed Guard’s House. That afternoon Bud met the owner and saw the Guard’s House for the first time.
Another phone call. ‘Sam, we have a problem.’
‘Yes, dear?’
‘I saw the Guard’s House today and it is unrentable.’
‘Come on, Bud. Won’t the guests think it’s quaint and rustic?’
‘Only if they are barn animals.’
I left the next day. I had been in the middle of scripting Mean Dogs so I completed the first two drafts and submitted them to my boss for approval. All appeared to be fine, so I gave the scripts and tapes to my editor and offered a few words of encouragement as he would be starting the project alone. I told him I was heading off to buy a chateau and would be back in a week. Somewhere in there I promised him a week at the chateau for his solo efforts on our project.
There is something very nice about a long plane flight – putting aside the clichés of small seats, bad food, long lines, motion sickness, stale air and smelly bathrooms. We would have to make this transatlantic flight many times over the coming year. Alone with seven hours stretched before me, I thought of the changes we were making, the things we would leave behind. This was the beginning of the end of our life in America. In a few days, we would sign the contract of sale. No turning back now. Leaving America was a little death. I mourned quietly. In my heart, I hoped this adventure would bring better things. More time with Bud and Blue and hopefully a whole brood of other little ones. Fresh country air, a slower pace of life. If I focused on the good, all would fall into place.
A day later, I arrived at the chateau. Bud and the gang had been busily preparing two large suites for our guests, who were set to arrive that very day. Bud had bought a few oak-carved beds, side tables, linens and other accoutrements that would make our clients comfortable. I inspected the rooms with her. We spoke hurriedly and impatiently of the coming catastrophe.
I made my way to the Guard’s House and introduced myself to the owner. The years had been unkind to Monsieur Pernod. He sported a thatch of grey hair, a large belly and a deeply lined face presumably from years of worry and many a bottle of wine. Monsieur Pernod told me he was retired from the French army, where he ran the heavy machinery in Algeria and on mainland France. His manner was generous and open. I thanked him for letting us move in early. Great for the cats, I said. He invited me into the Guard’s House for an aperitif and my first glance at my first big mistake.
Yes, indeed, it was bad. The decor had been updated in the late 1970s, then again possibly in the early 1980s. Not good years for design on a tight budget. The kitchen was a do-it-yourselfer with a stainless steel sink, no counter space, a battered old fridge and no cabinets. The walls were covered with that tattered ubiquitous wallpaper. Damp seeped through one wall. I used the bathroom and spied a brown and avocado bathroom suite with a leaky shower head. Upstairs there were long strips of brown, worn carpet not fastened down and curling at the edges. The dining room was handsome, though, with old wood panelling and a trompe l’oeil frieze up above. Nevertheless we had our work cut out.
The workers seemed to be in good spirits. I think they were delighted to have some activity and companionship. They had truly begun renovating, and had made their way through about three and a half rooms, pulling down old wallpaper and prepping the walls for paint and minor replastering. They were neat and seemingly efficient. Finally, some good news.
But the weight of things that weren’t working began to get me down. The looming fiasco in the Guard’s House, the work that lay ahead, the anxiety over financing such a project. Just after my visit to the ‘dream’ rental house, Bud, Kate, Leo and I decided to take a walk in the forest.
The woods spread out vastly behind the chateau. Sometime in the nineteenth century, so M. Pernod told us, the owners had created a parc anglais, a somewhat organised yet wild pleasure park. They had planted oaks and plane trees and poplars and Roman pines and sequoias and tilleuls, or lime trees. Now their hard work had borne fruit, creating a massive canopy of beautiful trees. There were quite a few fallen trees and these engulfed the paths every so often. As we walked, I could only think of the work to be done on this part of the property alone. It would take years to clear the debris and clean up the paths. I tried to push these thoughts aside and enjoy our jaunt.
In the distance, we could hear Angus’s voice echoing against the old trees. We rushed back toward the house to find him standing in the clearing with a plunger in his right hand, sweat dripping down his red forehead.
‘Sam, we have a problem.’
‘What’s up?’ I asked, thinking, please stop. Please.
‘The toilet in the guest suite is blocked. I’ve been trying to unblock it for the past hour.’
‘Let’s take a look.’ My heart sank as I pictured our first guests arriving at the chateau only to find the one and only toilet blocked.
I peered cautiously into the small room. The bowl was full, luckily with no sign of recent human activity. The water was clear but unmovable. I took the plunger and started my ownerly duties. In minutes, a black sludge bubbled up to the rim. I turned the water off. This only aggravated the situation. The hellish brew began to bubble up over the side of the toilet onto our newly polished wood floors.
By this time, both JC and his father had been alerted. They arrived in minutes. JC took the tool from my hand and set about the task himself with focus and purpose. After 30 minutes, he suggested we call a plumber.
An hour later, Monsieur Mocques arrived in a tidy white van. Mocques had serviced the chateau for years now. He knew the toilet and seemed to know the problem so JC thought we should leave the man to do his work, which we did. When he surfaced his hands were immaculate, overalls in order, no sweat on his brow, but the toilet was miraculously fixed. Bud and I darted up the stairs and were met by what appeared to be the mess of all messes. Masses of thick goo, water and white paste were caked around the foot of the toilet. JC noted, somewhat unnecessarily, that Mocques was good but he never cleaned up after major surgery.
After a feverish display of courageous cleaning up, we finished our first major ‘renovation’ by placing a clean roll of toilet paper next to the shiny porcelain toilet. Ah, the glamour and rewards of chateau life. I had gone from producing a documentary for a major American network to toilet-boy in a matter of hours. How the mighty had fallen. At that moment, we heard a car pull up to the front of the house.
I charged downstairs and saw our first guests picking their way around the front of the chateau. The couple, in their late thirties/early forties, was followed closely by two teenaged children. They shyly approached the main door. As I went out to greet them, I noticed my trousers were soiled and my shirt slightly torn from my exertions with regards the toilet.
‘Hello. So nice to see you. Please come in,’ I offered pleasantly, leading them through the main door. Bud whispered in my ear, ‘I hate to say it, but you smell.’
Ignoring this brief remarque, I led our lambs into the main gallery, then through the library and up to their suite. The gang had thoughtfully cleaned and tidied the main living areas, leaving the renovation mess behind closed doors.
‘Can we swim in the pond?’ the older girl asked. ‘I think so. We’ll have to take a look later
today,’ I tentatively responded.
The guests seemed pleased with the suites. I ventured carefully to the toilet door. All clear.
‘This is your toilet,’ I said proudly, as if there were some merit in having a toilet. If they only knew. ‘As you know, you will stay in the chateau this week and switch over next week to the Guard’s House. I’m terribly sorry, again, but we are in the process of finalising the sale and the owner insisted on remaining here up to the actual closing.’
‘That’s fine, we are excited to be here. In fact, we think it’s great that you’re letting us stay in the chateau when we only booked the Guard’s House.’
Perfect. Open, forgiving guests. These new creatures gazed around wide-eyed and sheepishly looking, I hoped, at the enormity of the place while possibly searching for more signs of the ‘luxury of former centuries’, as presented in my not-too-truthful Web brochure. The mum and dad were fit and tanned, neatly if not fashionably dressed. They brought with them two daughters who appeared only slightly bored as we took the tour. They all had an openness and curiosity that the best Americans have. They asked polite questions while keeping their distance and had no problem showing their enthusiasm when they felt it.
‘There is one thing. We will have to share the kitchen. Perhaps we can work out some sort of schedule. Normally, we are done at around 6 p.m. Does that work for you?’
‘Definitely,’ the mum replied cheerily. ‘We’re late eaters. Just show us where to put the food and we’ll stay out of your way. Could we eat early in the morning?’
‘No problem.’
Our first night of cohabitation went smoothly. We prepared a meal, fed the troops and vacated the premises in time for our guests. We left the kitchen clean and laid out implements. They ate in the grand dining room next to the oak-carved library. Cheap wallpaper aside, this was in fact a nice room – large and airy, extremely well-lit by four very tall double French doors, and in the middle of the east-facing wall sat a deep burgundy marble fireplace with a gargantuan gilded mirror perched on top of the mantelpiece.
