The Second-Worst Restaurant in France

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “You speak as if you’ve seen them,” said Paul.

  Chloe sounded regretful. “Alas, I haven’t. But I may have felt their presence.” She pointed out of the driver’s window. “Look. That’s the house—over there.”

  They had passed through the village—it did not take long—and were now at the start of a poplar-flanked driveway. Just visible, behind a cluster of fruit trees, was a solid-looking stone house, its windowsills and doors painted light blue.

  “That’s it,” said Chloe.

  She half turned to face Paul. “Well, what do you think of that? A maison de notaire, all to ourselves.”

  Paul replied that he thought it charming. He glanced at the ground that surrounded it—at the stand of fruit trees and the riotous bougainvillea against the fence. Above the house, the sky was a high expanse of singing emptiness. He caught his breath. He foresaw days of warmth and languor, fading into one another; he foresaw the quiet growth of his manuscript—twenty pages, thirty, forty—uninterrupted by telephone calls and the vague worries of daily life; he saw evenings of half-light and dipping swallows returning to nests under the eaves; he saw tables spread with ripening cheeses and olives and bottles of local wine.

  “Oh goodness,” he muttered.

  “Yes,” said Chloe, turning the car onto the drive. “You know what this makes me think of? Renoir.”

  Paul thought of Luncheon of the Boating Party. “Yes,” he agreed.

  “Renoir was vigorously opposed to France changing,” said Chloe. “He wanted it to remain the same—to remain real.”

  Paul gazed at the house. He saw details now: the white-painted shutters of the three first-floor windows, pushed back flush against the wall; the stone pediment surrounding the front door; the irregularity of the two wings added to the house, afterthoughts both; the gravel of the final section of driveway, onto which the lilac-coloured Citroën now glided with such a satisfying crunch.

  “Renoir would have liked it here,” said Chloe.

  They were in front of the door. Chloe switched off the engine and turned to Paul.

  “I feel that something quite significant is going to happen, Paul,” she said. “I don’t know why, but I have that sense.”

  The engine silenced, there was quiet: cicadas, perhaps, but only faintly audible; the rattle of dry leaves in the stirring of a breeze; birdsong somewhere.

  “But it seems so peaceful.”

  “That’s why,” said Chloe. “There’s something about to happen here—something I can’t quite put my finger on, but which we shall, no doubt, discover in due course.” She opened the door on the driver’s side.

  Paul struggled with the first of his outsize suitcases. He looked up. “How do you know?”

  Chloe was in what appeared to be a yoga position beside the car, stretching her arms high above her head. She complained that sitting at the wheel of a car gave her cramp. “Know what? That something’s about to happen?”

  “Yes. That.”

  She lowered her arms slowly. “Do you know what makes for a good still life? I’ll tell you: it’s when the painter manages to convey a sense that something is about to happen. The objects in the painting all look immobile, but as you contemplate them you begin to feel that at any moment there could be movement. Somebody might come into the room. A storm might blow up outside. The wind will move the curtains. All of these things might happen.”

  “And that’s what you feel here?” Paul gestured to the garden, and the village beyond.

  “Yes,” answered Chloe. “Just look.”

  A bed of lavender, edging the driveway, moved in the breeze, the stems creating a ripple of purple. In the village, there was no sign of movement; but then a window was opened in the front of a house and a forearm appeared, tiny at this distance, struggling with the outside shutter.

  “There you are,” said Chloe. “Just look.”

  She came to Paul’s help, heaving the second case from the car.

  “I’ll come back for that,” Paul said. “Don’t worry.”

  Chloe smiled at him. “You forget something, Paul. I was a member, you know, of the East of Scotland Ladies’ Weightlifting Club.” She paused, consolidating her grip on the handle of the case. “Or did you not know that?”

  Paul laughed. “I’m afraid I didn’t.”

  “Not surprising,” said Chloe. “Considering that I have just made it up.”

  He laughed again, but thought: Is this true? Is any of it true? The husbands? That business about the Corsican saint who changed wild boars into sausages? Had he inadvertently stepped into a play—with a fantasist as director? The French created the theatre of the absurd, he reminded himself: Ionesco and his rhinoceroses; Anouilh; Beckett…

  As they made their way the short distance to the front door, Chloe asked: “What were you thinking about? Back there—a moment ago?”

  “Drama,” said Paul. “French drama.”

  At the front door, Chloe put down the case she was carrying and fished a large, old-fashioned key out of her pocket. “Do you know something?” she said. “There’s a house in the village with one of those nice old mailboxes. The postal horn in iron relief. I walked past it the day I arrived and couldn’t help but notice the name. Godot.”

  Paul smiled.

  Chloe fumbled with the key. “When I mentioned it to Annabelle—you’ll meet her tomorrow—she said, ‘Oh, that house belongs to some people from Paris. They bought it, but never arrived.’ ”

  “So!” exclaimed Paul. “They were called Godot. I see! Art imitates life.”

  “No,” continued Chloe. “Not so obvious. No Godots ever lived there, apparently. These people were called Beckett. So Godot was ironic—the sort of joke that Parisians would appreciate.” She paused. “Paul,” she continued, “Oscar Wilde said, ‘Life imitates art far more than art imitates life.’ ”

  “Did he?”

  “Yes, he did. He coined so many aperçus. And, broadly speaking, he was right, I think.”

  Paul sighed. “I’m tired, Chloe. I can’t think about all of this…”

  “Of course you are, darling. Who isn’t these days?” She pushed open the door. “One last thing, though, while we’re on Wilde. His last words—do you remember them?”

  He shook his head. He wanted to sleep. He had not slept the night before, as was often the case when he was about to embark on a journey. It was early evening now, and he was looking forward to an early dinner and then bed.

  “Wilde was in his hotel room in Paris, dying. Apparently, he thought little of the interior decoration and declared: ‘Either the wallpaper goes or I do.’ ”

  “Marvellous.”

  Chloe looked rueful. “If only he had actually said it.”

  5

  Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité

  When Paul awoke the next morning he felt the momentary disorientation that sometimes comes with being transported, too quickly, from one world to another: the discovery that the windows, and the light they allow through the chinks in the shutters, are in unexpected places; that the usual sounds of the morning—the slight hum of traffic, the occasional voice drifting up from the street below, the familiar creaks and sighs of even the most solidly built house—either are absent or sound different. That morning in the unfamiliarity of his new surroundings he heard only silence, broken suddenly by birdsong, a sudden chorus triggered by some little avian injustice in the twigs and branches. He imagined himself still asleep; he was confused, but in a second or two it came to him that this was France, and that when he opened the shutter he would see the expanse of unkempt lawn he had noticed through the dining-room windows last night; beyond the lawn would be the stream and its bounding fields; and there, under their uneven tiles, would be the roofs of the village he had planned to explore that morning.

  Once out of bed, he opened the shutters of
his window. He had been tired when he eventually turned in the previous night, and had paid no attention to where he was. He had forgotten that he was on the ground floor and was looking out not over the lawn, but onto a courtyard at the back of the house. Chloe’s car had been driven through an archway in one side and was parked up against the rear wall of this courtyard, directly opposite his window, while against the wall to his left a climbing rose, riotous with dark red blossoms, sent tendrils almost to the height of the gutters. The ground was paved with uneven white stone—limestone, by the look of it—that here and there had cracked, allowing clusters of grass to establish themselves. A couple of sizeable stone troughs, rough-hewn and covered in lichen, were immediately below his window, and had been planted to provide a source of herbs for the kitchen. He could tell from above that these had been little tended or picked—in one, rosemary was edging out the less robust herbs; in the other, the purple flowers of rampant mint obscured Sweet William, thyme, and chives. He could smell the herbs and could touch them, too, if he leaned out over his windowsill.

  Chloe had mentioned that she breakfasted late, and he should not expect to see her until at least nine. “I read in the small hours,” she said. “A biography of Renoir at the moment.”

  “That’s why you said Renoir would have liked it here?”

  “Exactly. Renoir is on my mind. I feel that he’s something of a companion. Anyway, that justifies my getting up late. If you are up and about earlier…”

  “I shall be very quiet,” promised Paul.

  “No, it’s not that. I sleep through anything, so don’t bother to creep about. Had I lived in Pompeii, I suspect I would have been one of those found fast asleep in bed, turned to stone under blankets of stone.” She smiled at Paul. “The way to leave this life, I always say: some sudden, cataclysmic disaster and whoosh, you’re propelled into the next world—or oblivion. One might take one’s pick.”

  “Or remain open-minded.”

  “Yes, as long as one can exclude reincarnation. That’s such a bleak prospect, don’t you think? Imagine having to do it all over again…”

  To have another five husbands, thought Paul.

  “…and to have to go through adolescence,” Chloe continued, “with all its agonies. Or to be reincarnated as something else altogether—something lower down the food chain—an antelope or something like that, having to worry at every moment about being pounced upon by a lion.”

  “That would certainly be unpleasant.”

  “Although have you ever noticed,” Chloe asked, “how in those wildlife films that people like to watch, when you see some poor creature disappearing into the jaws of a predator, the expression on the face of the soon-to-be-consumed is one of calm resignation? Oh well, so I’m being eaten. Pity. That’s what it is, you know—a sort of resigned acceptance. Do you think that is because the animal in question has no idea that it is going to die?”

  Paul shrugged. “I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “Well,” said Chloe, “no animals think that, you know. They don’t know they’re mortal. Animals have no reason to believe that they will not simply go on forever. That’s not the case with us, unfortunately. We know exactly what’s coming, and we don’t like it.”

  She had gone on to suggest that if he were up early, he could entertain himself with a walk to the boulangerie in the village.

  “I’ve already paid my respects there,” she said. “You’ll meet Monsieur André. He’s stout, as befits a baker, and his hands are covered in flour, or have been whenever I’ve seen him, which is also quite befitting. I like people to dress appropriately.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “Bank managers, for instance, must wear ties—if they’re men, of course.”

  “And if they’re women?”

  She smiled. “They should wear the things that women bank managers wear. You know the sort of thing.” She stifled a yawn. “But let’s not think about bankers. You could pick up a few of his croissants and a couple of baguettes to see us through the day. I can’t resist French baking. It is one of life’s most exquisite temptations—along with men.” She lowered her eyes. “Although perhaps I shouldn’t say that. And men are, after all, quite easily resisted, no matter how delectable they may be. Croissants aren’t. Nor those tarts the French make with all the different fruits on them. Heaven. There are some men of whom one might say heaven, but not all that many. Not after a few days.” She paused. “You must stop me, Paul, if I become too outrée. I shall never take offence.”

  Paul let himself out of the house. The sky was clear and the early June sun had already floated well over the line of trees to the east. The air, which was still, had about it a promise of impending languor: it was going to be a warm day. Scotland, as usual, had been bracing; May had been a disappointment, as it often was, and temperatures had rarely reached the point at which sweaters and jackets could be put away. Scotland’s problem was the sea: it was never far away, however far you retreated inland. France was different. Here you were part of a continent, with the warmth that could settle on a continent.

  He looked about him, savouring the feeling of being on the point of exploring a whole new place. Then, following the driveway, he continued to the short stretch of road leading directly into the village. He did not have far to walk—about fifty yards further on, he reached the village outskirts, marked by a collection of small houses, each surrounded by a patch of garden. There were a few rickety and unprepossessing outhouses—garages and sheds—and behind them a stagnant pond, thick with reeds. There was a general air of neglect to this part of the village; the houses were clearly lived in—there were cars parked beside them—but none of the doors or window frames looked as if they had been painted for years. Here and there an effort had been made in the garden—a row of beans, a line of cabbages, a display of flowers did its best—but for the most part nature seemed to have been left to its own devices.

  In the village itself, the buildings appeared in better shape. There were several well-kept villas—maisons de notaire, like the one that Chloe had rented—and the public buildings—the mairie, the school, and the church—appeared to be well looked after. A tricolour adorned the mairie, beneath it the symbols of the Republic in stone. Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité were inscribed under a figure of Marianne, France’s guardian. Wearing her Phrygian cap, she stood defiant and confident in her republican values. He looked up at the stone motto and wondered how anybody could reject any of them. And yet all three of them, it seemed to him, were, in one place or another, under siege. France, at least, professed their value, just as it tried to keep alive culinary authenticity. The pleasures of the table were sacred in France, where people were deadly serious about their food. He stopped himself. Should one be serious about culinary traditions, about recipes, about gourmet matters, in a world where for many the main issue with food was simply getting enough to survive? Should he be ashamed of devoting his time to something as mundane as how we prepared food? His book would have to confront these fundamental issues of want and satiety; one could not write a book on the philosophy of food without considering a number of uncomfortable truths. And yet, the facts of scarcity should not inhibit all pleasure in taste: the simplest dish, the most basic bowl of rice or potatoes, could be dressed up, could be made more palatable by the use of everyday flavourings, by giving the dish a name. There was nothing wrong with that, and the French, as a nation, understood it. He looked again at Marianne, so self-assured, so protective; no, culinary matters were not beneath her notice—she might be as sympathetic to la cuisine as to la raison.

  The bakery was just off the main square, tucked away in a narrow lane, too thin to admit cars. The window-front bore the name of the business in fin de siècle script, Boulangerie Alphonse André. Dimly, through the semi-opaque glass, he spotted the form of M. André within, moving behind his counter, outlined by a light shining from further inside the s
hop. As Paul pushed open the door, he saw that several customers were already there, early birds like him.

  M. André was serving a middle-aged man, wrapping loaves in thin tissue paper, while a woman at the other end of the shop was selecting bread rolls with a set of tongs. Paul’s arrival brought the conversation between the man and the baker to an end, eliciting a polite greeting from the baker and a nod from the man. The woman looked over her shoulder in frank appraisal—strangers in the village were a rarity, and curiosity was justified.

  Paul pointed to a tray of croissants behind the counter and asked for four. As the baker put them into a bag, he enquired after Chloe. “Your friend, monsieur—I take it she is well?”

  The woman at the back of the shop waited. Paul understood the baker’s strategy.

  “My cousin,” Paul said. “My father’s cousin, actually. Yes, she is very well.” It was no surprise to him that they should know who he was; a small village, anywhere, is no place for secrets. People wanted to know—and usually did what was necessary to find out.

  “You’re very welcome here,” said the baker. “We hope you like our village.”

  The man he had been serving had not yet left the bakery. Now he joined in. “Town,” he corrected.

  “Village,” said the baker emphatically. “We’re very small, but then, who would live in Paris these days?”

  “Not me,” said the man.

  Now the woman spoke. “Paris!” she said, her voice full of disgust.

  Paul smiled tactfully. “Big cities,” he said. “They’re not for everyone.”

  “Yet that’s where everyone wants to live,” said the baker. “Talk to the young people. Talk to them. It’s all Paris, Paris, Paris.”

  “You’re right, Alphonse,” said the man. “Not me, though.”

  “They wouldn’t have you, Henri,” said the woman.

  Henri laughed. “Nor you, Diane.”