BACK TO THE BEGINNING OF La Vie en Rosé
La Vie en Rosé - Page Two
TWENTY-ONE (the last episode)
Never had so many trampling feet disturbed the narrow path into the woods bordering Père Lafitte’s domain, forcing small creatures to scurry away and birds to take off with a whoosh of startled wings. Unable to contain his rage at the invasion any longer, the priest stopped in his tracks, raised his arms and shouted:
“Faites attention!Un peu de respect pour la nature!”
Gaston stepped forward, pushing Hercule aside, deciding it was time to assert himself as the instigator and leader of this expedition. Red-faced and sweating he turned to the chattering, disorderly crowd.
“Everyone be quiet and get in single file! Follow me, I know the way!”
Embarassed giggles were suppressed and everyone fell obediently into step behind Gaston. Père Lafitte let them pass, knowing that the boastful young man would not be able to find the only spot in the long hedge which gave access to the clearing.
The priest leaned against a tree, breathing hard. A hurricane of emotions was roaring in his head, shattering the joy these months had given him. The fabulous chapel - his own Palais Idéal - which only by the grace of God and the miraculous help of the English woman had become a reality - was about to turn into a tourist attraction. The vile stories invented by Gaston and magnified by the press would be forever linked to it. His peaceful paradise was lost and, as if that wasn’t despair enough, his conscience mercilessly accused him: how could he have spoken so harshly to Suzanne? How terrible she must now be feeling!
Lafitte’s bleak thoughts were interrupted by noisy squabbles further up the path as people began to realise that Gaston did not know the way at all. Unable to put off the moment of truth any longer, the priest caught up with the impatient scandal-seekers and swept past them, walking slowly until he was standing before the perfectly concealed entrance in the hedge. As he leaned gently against the dense wall of greenery, the narrow door he had so cunningly designed swung open. In unison, the crowd breathed an astonished “AH!” and surged forward. Père Lafitte blocked the way, arms spread out.
“Doucement! Tranquillement! You may enter, but only one at a time.”
Gaston was the first one to rush in, followed by the reporter, the photographer, Hercule, and finally all the intruders were standing inside the clearing. Père Lafitte entered last.
It was empty. Apart from the unwelcome visitors, Père Lafitte’s beloved garden was wondrously, miraculously empty. The trees, the flowers, the pond, the rocks were all in their usual places and the only sign that anything else might have existed in the clearing was the flattened grass around a large area at the far end – a sign which only Père Lafitte’s searching eyes noticed. Relief and gratitude overwhelmed him and he felt as if he might faint.
Lost in reverie, Lafitte took no notice of the disappointed murmurs, the questions, the arguments swirling around him. Monsieur Derain was threatening to sue Hercule for wasting his time and money, making him come all this way on false pretenses. Hercule was accusing his son of being a good-for-nothing drunk who had invented a fantastic story only to get attention. Gaston was hysterically swearing that he really had seen all that he said he saw. The villagers muttered about what a waste of space this was and what a nice modern villa could be built here. The expatriates wondered if they might take home some cuttings of unusual foliage. Bianca tried in vain to rekindle interest in innuendos about Susan and the priest.
Gradually everyone trickled away, leaving Père Lafitte alone. Sitting on his favourite rock, he whispered a prayer of thanks to Susan and to God. Then he began to laugh – wave after wave of laughter shook him, the exultant, unfettered laughter of his childhood.
* * *
After several wrong turnings, Antoine the photographer found Susan’s house and climbed over the locked gate to the driveway. The windows of the house were shuttered, the garage locked, and there was no sign of the sorcière. Camera at the ready, Antoine banged on the door repeatedly. Just then his mobile rang and the disgruntled voice of his boss, Monsieur Derain, told him to get back double quick, they were going home, there was no story, the whole thing was a fantasy invented by cet emmerdeur Hercule and his alcoholic son.
* * *
Inside the silent, shuttered house, Susan’s letter was propped up by an unopened bottle of the local rosé on the dining table. This is what the hurried scrawl said:
Dear George, sorry I won’t be here to greet you when you get back, sorry for the mess in the garage, sorry for lots of things. I’m in too much of a rush to explain now. We both know it’s been over between us for a while so this won’t be a big surprise. Anyway I have a feeling that you’ll be going back to America pretty soon. My radar has always been fairly accurate about you, hasn’t it? I’ll get in touch when I have an address. You can put the house on the market - the lawyer will take care of everything and send me my half of the money when it’s sold. I had a very interesting time while you were away. I hope everything goes well for you. Much love, really,
Susan* * *
There hadn’t been time to sleep or clean up. Susan had thrown some essential belongings into a suitcase, got in the car and drove away from the village as fast as she could. A couple of hours later it became clear that going any further without rest would be foolhardy so she stopped at a bakery and bought an enormous baguette filled with beurre, jambon, fromage, oeuf dur et salade. She took a room in the nearest hotel, devoured the sandwich, collapsed on the bed and slept for twelve hours. The next day, refreshed, showered and breakfasted, she sent a postcard to Père Lafitte:
I am sure you understand. You will always be my inspiration. Merci mon cher ami.
* * *
A month later, Père Lafitte received another postcard. It was a photo of Susan, smiling, standing next to the gloriously eccentric façade of Le Facteur Cheval’s Palais Ideal. There was no message. None was needed.
* * *
Exactly a year later, Père Lafitte received a large brown manila envelope: the stamps were Spanish and the handwriting was Susan’s. He waited until evening to open it, took down from its shelf the purple crystal goblet, poured himself a shot of Courvoisier and sat down at the kitchen table. In the envelope there was a letter as well as an astonishing photograph of something which seemed to be a duplicate of the chapel he and Susan had built together. On closer inspection, Lafitte saw that it wasn’t quite the same – the plants growing out of the structure were of a species unfamiliar to him. But the ressemblance was close enough to bring tears to his eyes as he read Susan’s letter.
Mon cher Père, c’est magnifique, non? The plastic junk around here is more garish than the stuff we used but I remembered your diagrams, everything. All the pieces fit together solidly, you would be proud. At night by candlelight it glows like a trapped rainbow. I’ve christened it La Chapelle Lafitte Numero Dos – I’m in Spain and learning Spanish. I’ve got a house and a bit of land and I think I may be in love with the postman, el cartero, LE FACTEUR! Oui, vraiment! C’est extraordinaire, n’est-ce pas? You are well and happy? You will come to see us? Je vous embrasse, mon cher Père, toujours, Suzanne
As usual, before getting into bed, Père Lafitte took down Exploits Etranges et Extraordinaires. This time, he had to make some important alterations to the book: inside the front cover he pasted the photograph of La Chapelle Lafitte Numero Dos. Inside the back cover he pasted Susan’s letter, and next to a picture of Ferdinand Cheval, he pasted the photo of Susan smiling in front of the postman’s Palais Idéal.
That night Père Lafitte fell asleep happier than he had ever been in his life.
THE END
July 21, 2011
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------TWENTY
It took the whole night and well into the small hours of the morning. Susan worked like a hyper-active robot, arms and legs in perpetual motion as she loaded and unloaded the car in a frantic reverse-playback of the days when she was collecting the junk to be transformed into holy sanctuary. Now all that mattered was high speed and complete elimination of evidence, as if this was a crime scene and she the criminal. Dishevelled, sweating, crying, Susan pounded and kicked at the unorthodox chapel she and the priest had so painstakingly put together and if any part resisted her onslaught, she attacked it with stones, fingernails and curses.
Sack after sack of plastic bottles and containers oozing remnants of flowers, leaves, roots and soil were thrown into the car, driven back home at dangerous velocity and flung into the garage. She stopped counting the number of trips back and forth and when the garage couldn't hold even one more sack, Susan took all the rest to the town dump where she had found much of her raw materials in the first place. Finally the deed was done. Exhausted but still fuelled by adrenalin, Susan slumped at the kitchen table and wrote a letter to George.
* * *
At that very moment George was flying high over the Atlantic on his way back to France, trying to compose the words he would use to tell Susan he was leaving her. Any twinge of guilt was quickly diluted by the Bloody Mary he was sipping and he decided to order another one. Memories of his successful American sojourn lulled him as sweetly as the expert caresses Donna had lavished on him. Donna was George's new mistress, the glamorous wife, soon to be ex-wife, of the man who worked at the New Yorker. Not only was Donna gorgeous, super-sexy, efficient and well-read but she also knew everyone who was anyone important in literary North America. George's future fame was guaranteed. He had not needed to make the slightest effort to seduce her because, within five minutes of meeting him, Donna had decided that George was her new man, her new project, and her husband, as well as any rivals on George's side, would have to be dismissed as swiftly as possible. Fortunately there were no children to complicate matters. In Donna's circle, changing one partner for another was as frequent a happening as the parties around which their lives revolved. George was going back to France to sort things out, then he would return to New York, to Donna, and to her penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park.
* * *
Père Lafitte stood outside the door of the church, waiting. He had spent a turbulent night arguing with himself and with le bon Dieu but nothing had been resolved and anxiety was written all over the priest's wrinkled face. Twelve feeble peals of the ancient and infirm church bell reminded him that something should be done about replacing it. The reporter was late, he had said he would be there at eleven-thirty.
A car pulled up in front of Hercule's café and four men tumbled out, loaded with bags and camera equipment. Hercule and Gaston came out to greet them and after a brief conference and the downing of a few shots of cognac, the group began walking up the street. Other people who had been inside the café emerged and, almost as if the scene had been choreographed, heads popped out from behind curtained windows, doors opened, and gradually a substantial number of villagers formed what could be mistaken for a religious procession, slowly winding its way towards the lone figure of the priest standing in the open doorway, the blackness of his cassock melting into the darkness of the church interior so that his pale face seemed to be floating in space.
Père Lafitte stared in horror at the approaching crowd and took a few steps back inside the church. Hercule and the reporters followed him.
"Qu'est-ce que ça veut dire, Hercule? What is going on? Is this all your doing?"
Hercule put his arm around the shoulders of one of the reporters and pulled him towards the priest,whispering in conspiratorial manner, "Père Lafitte, may I present my good friend Monsieur Daniel Derain, the famous journalist from L'Echo, illustrious newspaper of our beautiful region. He is very keen to interview you and to see the extraordinary....ah....what shall we call it....temple?...which you....and the lovely English lady.....have been so secretly constructing."
Flashbulbs popped as two photographer pointed their lenses at Lafitte. The priest held his hand up in front of his face and spoke as loudly and forcefully as the knot in his throat would allow.
"There is no secret. What you imagine is entirely false. I will take you to mon terrain and these gentlemen will see whatever they wish to see. But there will be no interview. I have nothing to say to Monsieur Derain the famous journalist, to his newspaper or to you, Hercule."
Righteous indignation struck Père Lafitte like a bolt of lightning, lifting his spirit and straightening his spine. A palpable aura of authority emanated from him as he strode down the steps and people stepped aside, leaving a respectful distance between themselves and the priest as he led them down the main road. As the chattering procession of villagers snaked into the countryside, it was joined at intervals by some of the expat community, in their cars or on their bikes. Rumours get around and Bianca, rumour-monger par excellence, wasn't going to miss this party.
After a whispered discussion between Hercule, Gaston and the press, one of the photographers was told where to find the house of the English sorcière and urged to get sensational pictures of her, by hook or by crook.
NINETEEN
Hercule’s son, Gaston, had come back to the village angry and disheartened after being made redundant from his factory job. He spent the days watching television or drinking in the café and the local gossip had stirred in him a desire to expose the suspicious activities of the parish priest and l'Anglaise, activities undoubtedly detrimental to the peace and righteousness of the village (never mind that La Rive had never been especially peaceful or more righteous than anywhere else).
Like his father, Gaston harboured a carefully nurtured resentment against those he saw as given special privileges by society. Topping his list of bêtes noires were the clergy and foreigners and, among foreigners, none were more despicable than les Anglais with their cossetted royal family and pretentious accents, they should have been sent to the guillotine! Mais ces gens-la, vous savez....too phlegmatic to have a proper revolution…pas comme nous…not like us, eh?
During a particularly animated evening, Gaston volunteered to mount a surveillance operation, an idea enthusiastically received by his father but slightly more hesitantly by other drinkers, those with reputations as upstanding church-goers.
Shrugging off such scruples, his confidence boosted by the quantity of potent vin rouge sloshing around his bloodstream, Gaston decided to set out immediately on the road to Père Lafitte’s terrain. It was a bright moonlit night and he soon reached the gate to the wood then crept silently along the path until he saw the priest’s bicycle leaning against the bushes surrounding the clearing. With mounting excitement, Gaston retreated further back along the hedge until he found a spot where he could make a spy-hole. Down on his knees, face pressed against the rough vegetation, Gaston’s bloodshot eyes took in a sight that made his jaw drop.
The old priest was standing before an extraordinary, glimmering, multicoloured structure out of which plants sprouted like tentacles winding in and out of openings in the façade. He was holding steady a rough wooden ladder at the top of which l’Anglaise, wearing shorts and tee-shirt, was fixing something to the vaulted roof of the edifice.
In Gaston’s inebriated perception, the moonlight, the silence, the strange building, the woman and the priest all combined to create a sinister scenario, reminiscent of the horror films he loved. When Père Lafitte suddenly turned around, alerted by a crackling in the bushes, Gaston fled as fast as his trembling legs would carry him.
The feverish report he gave his father that night was as follows: l’Anglaise was a sorcière, a witch, priestess of a cult that Père Lafitte had been seduced into joining and together, from some shiny extra-terrestrial material, the priest and the witch had built a grotesque pagan temple where Satanic orgies would take place and innocent villagers would gradually be lured into participating.
Hercule was too terre à terre to take his son’s fantastic tale entirely seriously but he instantly saw an opportunity to benefit personally. Obtaining possession of Père Lafitte’s plot of land was still Hercule’s main goal but he preferred to keep this agenda under wraps. He ordered Gaston to tell no one about what he’d seen, insisting that secrecy was essential if they were to be the winners in this affaire lamentable.
The next day, Hercule telephoned an old friend, a reporter on a popular regional newspaper, saying that he had an exclusive story for him but he could not reveal details until the reporter himself arrived with a photographer. To whet his apetite, Hercule hinted that the scandal involved the parish priest, a foreign expatriate and a strange building.
Hercule’s wife, having overheard him speaking on the phone, could not resist telling her friend, Genevieve, who did the cleaning at the Morrisons’ house, that a newspaper was sending reporters to interview Père Lafitte and that weird English woman. And since one thing usually leads to another, it is not surprising that Bianca Morrison bumped into Susan at the boulangerie again and that Bianca greeted her thus:
“Congratulations! You’re going to be famous!”
Susan stared at her. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know, Susan! You and that old priest! Naughty! Seems that the paparazzi are coming down in droves! How exciting!”
Susan gripped the counter. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Bianca. Somebody’s been making up stories, it’s all stupid nonsense.”
Forcing a laugh, she waved cheerily as she left the shop but once out of sight, panic gripped Susan’s whole body and she broke into a run, stopping only when she reached Père Lafitte’s house.
He was sitting at the kitchen table, head in his hands.
“I have had a telephone call from a newspaper. They are coming tomorrow to see a pagan temple I have built with the help of a foreign woman.....Suzanne, Suzanne, what have you been saying?” He turned and fixed a devastated gaze upon her.
Susan stood transfixed in the doorway. “Père Lafitte, I have never never spoken to anyone about the chapel! How can you believe that these stories could come from me?”
“Well, whoever it is, the harm is done and it cannot be undone. C'est ma faute. I should never have agreed.....” Lafitte stood up, his shoulders stooped, suddenly much older. ”Please, Suzanne, I must be alone now, I must pray.”
Susan went home in the blackest despair she had ever experienced, blacker even than at the death of her mother or at her first discovery of George’s infidelities. A gigantic wave of despair now engulfed her, stripping her of every shred of self-respect, drowning every joyful impulse. Worst of all was the feeling that she was responsible for destroying a good man’s dream by persuading him to give it flesh. She could not have foreseen the chain of events that followed but it was her insistence that had set them in motion, of this she felt sure.
For several hours, Susan lay motionless on the cold tiles of the kitchen floor, paralyzed by the relentless accusations of her thoughts. Suddenly, for no identifiable reason – surely it could not be the distant sound of a dog barking – she knew what had to be done.
EIGHTEEN
The rays of the setting sun outlining the edges of the mountain of plastic junk lying at the far end of the garden gave it a lurid glow which was at odds with the soft greens of the surrounding vegetation. Susan and Père Lafitte stood silently, each of them unwilling to voice the doubts which suddenly assailed them as they contemplated the enormity of the task they had set themselves.
What the hell have I done? thought Susan, I’ve dumped tons of rubbish into this paradise.
Je suis un fou, un imbécile, thought Lafitte, I never should have agreed to this madness.
It was Susan who spoke first. “Tomorrow I’ll start sorting the stuff by size and colour."
“Bonne idée, Suzanne, but you must be very tired after all your efforts. Go and have a nice long sleep. I will stay here a little longer.”
Susan walked away quickly, glad to escape the tension in the air. She sang at the top of her voice as she drove home, determined to ignore the guilt and panic which were threatening to disrupt her confidence. As soon as she was out of sight Père Lafitte sank to his knees in the warm, dry grass and addressed the deity intimately and aloud, as he always did when away from his church.
“Ecoute Seigneur, il faut me dire si ça te plait cette idée, oui où non? Moi, comme tu sais, je serais ravi de te construire une chapelle mais…enfin…voila…avec des déchets de plastique? Tu crois vraiment que ça peut marcher?”
(Roughly translated: ”Listen Lord, you gotta tell me if you like this idea, yes or no? Me, as you know, I’d be delighted to build you a chapel here but… well, look….with discarded plastic? You really think it can work?”
Père Lafitte stayed on his knees until pale yellow dots appeared on the ultramarine canvas of the sky and the choir of frogs and insects began tuning up. Then he slowly cycled home and slept the sleep of innocent faith, satisfied that his question had been heard and would be dealt with.
* * *
To describe precisely how the construction proceeded is difficult since it was a matter of moment-to-moment decisions and revisions. When Père Lafitte was busy attending to clerical duties, Susan organised the chaotic jumble of plastic into neat stacks and tried to translate Lafitte’s sketches into a basic plan. But since he would bring a different sketch every day, major alterations were constantly required. This could be a source of annoyance but the project gave Susan such joy that even disagreements could be fitted harmoniously into the structure.
It is not clear whose idea it was to fill bottles and containers with soil, plant seedlings inside and punch holes in the plastic so that roots and tendrils could weave in and out, but from this new development something astonishing began to emerge, something neither Père Lafitte or Susan could have imagined before it actually began to take shape before their eyes.
Days turned into weeks, summer began making reluctant concessions to encroaching autumn, and as the tourist influx diminished, villagers' attention turned with increasing curiosity to their eccentric parish priest and to l'Anglaise, who was frequently seen in his company or else roaming the countryside, stopping to pick up all kinds of rubbish and....non, mais vraiment!...really, it's disgusting...putting it in her car. Laughter turned to suspicion, especially among the regulars at Hercule's cafe, and it was there that a plan was hatched.
# PERMANENT LINK
SEVENTEEN
For the first time in years Père Lafitte did not read Exploits Etranges et Extraordinaires before going to sleep that night. Instead he dragged out an old suitcase from under the bed, dusted its cracked leather lid then rummaged among the yellowed linen sheets, musty photograph albums, postcards and gardening equipment catalogues until he found what he was looking for: a small packet of thin red exercise books tied together with string.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor in his threadbare striped flannel pyjamas, Père Lafitte smiled as he leafed slowly through each of the notebooks. The neat childish handwriting was adorned on nearly every page with faint pencil sketches, plans for a strange building which he, Marcel Lafitte, would create one day when he was grown up. Winding leaves and flowers grew out of the transparent stones of which the walls were made and rays of light shone out of the windows and doors. Lafitte replaced the suitcase under the bed but kept the exercise books and put them in the drawer of his night table, next to the Bible. He fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow and dreamt of birds flying in and out of transparent ruins.
In the weeks thereafter life began to move at an accelerated pace. Susan spent her days and evenings happily driving around the countryside collecting discarded plastic bottles and containers which she stuffed into large black bin liners then brought home and stored in the garage. She persuaded the manager of the supermarket to let her have all their waste plastic because, she said, she wanted to use it to decorate her home. Père Lafitte now brought his old red notebooks, a pencil and a sketch pad whenever he visited his terrain. There were further early morning meetings with Susan at the Café Hercule to discuss strategy, building techniques and timing.
Village gossip became ever more inventive: the priest was converting l'Anglaise to Catholicism. The priest was having an affair with l'Anglaise. L'Anglaise was buying the priest's land for an exorbitant sum to build a vast and ugly villa on it. The famous writer was not coming back and l'Anglaise was losing her mind (the supermarket manager had told his wife who had told everyone else that l'Anglaise was dingue). In the expat community the gossip was fuelled by Susan's absence from all their parties and enhanced by Bianca's whispered hints that Susan had sunk into an alcoholic stupor and they, her friends, really ought to do something about it.
Susan's role as George's wife/secretary/PR person was fading into the background with every purposefully passing day and she answered his phone calls with nonchalant cheerfulness. "Hello darling George, I hope you're having a good time and not working too hard."
"Susan, what's going on? You sound peculiar. Are you drinking again?"
"Absolutely not, darling, I'm never going to drink another drop, ever. Aren't you pleased?"
"Of course I am, if it's true. By the way, Sue, do you remember those old poems, my Blonde on Black suite?
"Um....yeah?"
"Well, I was talking about them to someone whose husband works at the New Yorker and she's sure they would publish them. This would be a whole new audience for my work. They're in the bottom drawer of my desk. Sue darling, could you type them up and email them to me by Friday?"
"Actually, no I couldn't, George darling. I'm very busy these days with a project of my own."
"What project? Susan, this is a unique opportunity for us! Your project can wait a bit, I need those poems urgently."
"Tell you what, George, I'll scan them and email them to you as is. I'm sure you can find a student who would be thrilled to word-process your handwriting."
"Susan, I don't like this. You've been hostile ever since I left. Whatever's happened to you, I don't like it at all. Consider this my last communication."
As she put the phone down, Susan was surprised to notice that she didn't feel upset, only mildly irritated. She went to George's desk, took out the folder of ten poems and put them on the scanner one after the other. Without re-reading his scratchy ink-blotted words she emailed them, adding only "Good luck with the New Yorker. Love, Susan."
* * *
A date for bringing the materials to the garden was decided and Père Lafitte and Susan agreed that it should be at night so as not to attract attention. Susan insisted that she could make the delivery on her own since the sacks of plastic were not heavy and she would make several trips.
SIXTEEN
Since this was to be the last alcoholic temptation she would give in to, Susan decided that some kind of ritual was de rigueur. From the highest shelf in a cupboard she took down six purple Bohemian crystal goblets that George had brought home from a Prague literary festival. She lined them up evenly along the full length of the long rustic dining table, uncorked the bottle of powerful local rosé and reverently filled each glass, the blush-pink liquid changing to deepest amethyst as it flowed into the tinted goblets. Six glasses of wine - not much at all, considering her intake in the old days - but the abstemious years had lowered her tolerance and now all it took was one hearty sip to set the inebriation wheels in motion.
The first glass caused Susan's fingers to tap-dance sentimentally over the keys of her mobile phone, spelling out George's number. His voice answered but only as a recording: "I'm either asleep or otherwise engaged. If you leave an interesting message I might call you back."
The second glass provoked a rush of rage and a precisely enunciated reply: "Brioche thinks you are a genius, isn't that interesting, darling? Please do not get back to me as I am engaged in recycling, big time. And I'm running away with the postman, Monsieur Cheval. Bye bye, George."
The third glass demanded passionate participation with Jacques Brel in his rendition of Amsterdam on YouTube, full screen, full volume..
The fourth glass brought out hot, salty tears and an urgent craving for a saucisson sandwich with mustard.
The fifth glass - ah, the fifth glass. A long moment of deep thought followed by inspiration, then a sequence of decisive actions:
1. Covering the (full) sixth glass with cling-film.
2. Making a saucisson sandwich.
3. Placing the sandwich and the full glass into a basket.
4. Pulling on boots.
5. Leaving the house.
6. Setting out on the road, carrying basket.
7. Arriving, after several false turnings, at Père Lafitte's sun-dappled garden.
"Oh my God, Père Lafitte! I didn't think you'd be here. Of course why wouldn't you be? You did say I could come any time?Oh shit, I'm sorry. I'm really really sorry."The priest was sitting on a rock by the pond, his head in his hands. Susan leaned against the dense green wall of foliage, trying to steady herself. She slid down onto the ground, breathless, sweating, and began struggling to pull off her boots.
"Can't think why I put them on. This isn't boot-weather, is it? "
Lafitte sighed wearily. L'Anglaise had obviously been drinking again. " What is wrong, Suzanne? You are not well?"
"On the contrary, I'm excellently well." On her hands and knees, Susan pushed the basket forward in the warm, slippery grass and stopped near the priest, sitting back on her heels.
"I made a resolution today and I came here because it's the perfect place for this...." With a theatrical gesture, Susan took the goblet out of the basket and held it at arm's length.
"Père Lafitte, I'm not Catholic, I'm not even religious, but do you think you could...sort of....bless this glass of wine before I drink it? That would make it kosher..." She peeled the cling-film off and crumpled it in her hand. "I mean, it would guarantee that it really is my last glass forever. Please please! Will you do it?"
Lafitte's clerical instincts told him he should disapprove severely but he could not help smiling.
"Eh bien, d'accord, I will make the blessing. But are you sure that this is not a game inspired by the wine you have already drunk today, Suzanne?"
"No way, Padre, I'm absolutely serious. I swear on my life. I swear on Facteur Cheval: this is the last alcoholic drink that I will ever have. End of story."
Père Lafitte stood, smoothed down his cassock and gravely began making the sign of the cross over the sparkling purple goblet that Susan held high as she knelt in front of him.
"In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti....."
Susan bowed, closing her eyes for a long moment, then brought the glass to her lips and slowly let the sun-warmed liquid trickle down her throat. The priest sat down again, feeling embarassed, moved and foolish.
"Wait!" Susan cried, "You must do the sandwich as well!" She tore the soggy bread and sausage in two and handed half to Lafitte. "Sorry it's stale, I was prevented from buying a fresh baguette today. It doesn't matter, does it?"
"You are also promising to give up forever bread and saucisson ?"
Susan laughed. "No no! Another blessing would just round off this little ceremony nicely. Bread and wine, right? "
Lafitte accepted the crumbling sandwich but did not smile. "Suzanne, I do not joke about the Mass. I will share this bread but no more blessing."
"I'm sorry, Père, don't be angry. I'm all sobered up now. I'll go home and leave you in peace. I'd like to give you this glass to thank you for being so kind and patient with me...it's good Bohemian crystal from Prague. Please take it." She stood up shakily.
Lafitte held the delicately engraved goblet in both hands and examined it with childish pleasure. "Il est splendide, merci beaucoup, I will treasure it." Susan began walking away. "Wait, Suzanne, I want to tell you something."
She turned and stood still, waiting. "Just before you burst into my garden, I was thinking about cette idée folle that you told me at the café this morning. I thought perhaps it is not so crazy. Perhaps it is even possible. Alors I will think about it again. You can think about it also. C'est tout. Now you can go. "
A rainbow of a smile illuminated Susan's face. She did a little jig before running barefoot to the exit, carrying her boots and the empty basket. "Whoo hoo hoo! Merci Facteur Cheval!"
FIFTEEN
The irresistible smell of freshly baked baguette guaranteed that the morning queues at the boulangerie were long and chatty even if the inevitable seductions of a new supermarket on the outskirts of the village had already lured away some of the younger clientele. Susan's loyalty remained firmly attached to the local bakery and normally she enjoyed the ritual round of bonjour mesdames and bonjour messieurs, the ritual handshakes and the ritual small talk. But not this morning. Now she just wanted to get the hell back home and crack open a bottle, for which a crusty baguette was an essential accompaniment.
"Susan! Susan! Where have you been, my dear? We have been sooo worried about you!"
On entering the shop, Bianca (Bianca...ridiculous pretentious name!) Morrison made a beeline for Susan, thus avoiding the indignity of being last in line at the busy counter. Too late to escape, Susan stared at her blankly. La Morrison was blonde of course and buxom of course. Her shape and colouring reminded Susan of a brioche, which explained but did not excuse George's attraction to her.
"Really? Why would you be worried?"
Bianca took Susan's arm in a show of intimacy. "Well, you left our party so suddenly and you were...not exactly......"
Susan wished that she were at this moment blind drunk so that it would be okay to slap the smirk off the woman's brioche-brown cheeks. Instead she managed an artificially nonchalant smile.
"I didn't want to interrupt your conversation with my husband, Bianca. I had a migraine so I went straight home. Sorry. I'm sure George made up for my rudeness."
The Morrison giggle was as tinkly as a cow-bell and it tinkled all over the bakery. Les étrangers were a constant source of curiosity to the villagers and fresh gossip material was always welcome. French eyes and ears tried surreptitiously to translate a word here and there from the conversation between the two women.
"How is our famous poet?"
"Our famous poet is fine. He's enjoying the American adulation...especially American college girls' adulation."
That tinkle-tinkle again. "Aren't they lucky to have him! You must be so proud to be married to a genius, Susan."
That does it, Susan thought, I'm not waiting for the baguette. "You know what they say, behind every great man there's a jealous wife. Ha ha!...Oh my God, I've just remembered.... I left the washing machine on! Must run. See you Bianca."
Susan ran all the way home. Before opening the bottle, she sat down and wrote with a black marker in large capital letters on the front page of an old newspaper: I SWEAR THAT I WILL GO BACK ON THE WAGON AND STAY ON THE WAGON FOREVER AFTER I FINISH THIS BOTTLE. THIS IS MY LAST BOTTLE. SIGNED: MOI, SUSAN.
FOURTEEN
Père Lafitte felt a twinge of guilt as he watched Susan hurrying away down the street, shoulders hunched. Merde, he thought - not averse to plain speaking within the privacy of his own mind - tu est un idiot, Lafitte. I should have been more sympathetic. She was so enthusiastic, she thought so much about my garden....Of course her plan is une folie totale.
Nevertheless, Susan's chaotic proposition stubbornly refused to be dismissed. He ordered another coffee and lit a cigarette, prepared to allow himself a brief reverie concerning plastic bottles in the form of a chapel. So when Hercule pulled up a chair beside him, the priest had to make a huge effort to conceal his annoyance.
Le patron smiled, resting his beefy, hirsute forearms on the small round table. "Eh bien, mon Père, ça va? Le bon Dieu vous traite bien? God is treating you well?"
Lafitte was a regular at Hercule's dingy café only because it was so near the church. But he did not like Hercule, there was something offensive about the man, even when - especially when - he smiled.
"Oui, Hercule, ça va. I have no complaints. And you?"
"Oh non, ça va pas du tout. My wife keeps asking what there will be to leave to our children when we are gone. Don't you ever worry about the future, mon Père?" The sarcasm in his emphasis on mon Père was like the sound of chalk scraping against a blackboard.
"The only future I know about is where I will go when I leave this café in a few minutes and, God willing, where I will be when I wake up tomorrow morning. The rest of the future I will find out day by day, or perhaps moment by moment. So I am curious, but not worried , Hercule."
"Ah! Pour vous les curés...for you the clergy it's not like for us poor devils. You have no wives, no children to worry about."
"Your son, he is still working at the factory in Montpellier? "
" Pour le moment, oui. But there is talk of people losing their jobs, cutting costs...nothing is secure...la situation économique, vous savez..."
Hercule leaned even further forward, his face almost touching the priest's. " My son and I together could come up with a good price for your land if you were willing to sell it to us now. After all, pardonnez-moi, mon Père, but you are not getting younger and you cannot take your terrain with you to heaven, can you?"
Lafitte pushed his chair back, downed the coffee in one long draught and swept the crumbs of croisssant off the table for the pigeons to find. "I must go now, Hercule. Mon terrain is not for sale, as you well know. Perhaps you should ask le bon Dieu what his plans are for it after I'm gone."
Aware of his duty to choose charity rather than animosity, Lafitte shook Hercule's sweaty, limp hand and forced himself to mutter a reluctant " Bonne journée, mon ami" before fleeing back to the blessed silence of his church.
Hercule's face settled into its usual expression of resentment against life's multiple injustices and, as usual, he found some satisfaction in sharing it with his customers, most of whom had grudges of their own to add to the pot.
"Ces curés, ils sont tous pareils...these priests, they're all the same...mèmère l'Eglise les protegent de la vie, pauvres petits bébés!.... mommy Church protects them from life, poor babies!"
The younger farmer laughed. "Moi, I think the old man is waiting for a better offer from the rich foreigners. L' anglaise he was talking to? Her husband is that famous writer... I'll bet they'd like to get their hands on Lafitte's land! "
This possibility hadn't occurred to Hercule. Now it entered his consciousness like a virus and darkened his brow accordingly.
THIRTEEN
Susan closed her notebook and took a deep breath. The words tumbled out like marbles scattering haphazardly all over the table. She spoke too loud, too fast and too intensely. The important thing was to get through.
"After I saw your garden you know Père Lafitte I went home and looked up the postman Cheval and something changed something happened I don't know I started walking every day the roads around here have you seen the rubbish at the side of the roads all the plastic bottles and everything I counted them I made notes you know when I was a child an only child we went to the beach and I'd take my little spade and I'd be building sand things all day long not castles just small houses with big windows and gardens once I won a prize for my sand house you know if that postman was alive today maybe he'd be picking up rubbish instead of stones along the country roads to build his Palais Idéal that's what I was thinking and Père Lafitte listen it's not impossible in Los Angeles a man called Rodia built amazing towers out of broken glass all by himself like Cheval and I was thinking maybe I mean why not I could collect the stuff in my car the plastic bottles especially it wouldn't take that long and I'd bring them to your garden and then we could I mean you could and I'd help you build something you know maybe some kind of chapel and it would always be there I can see it in my mind I've been dreaming about it remember when you told me about doing something extraordinary comme ça for no reason Père Lafitte something just clicked then like I've always known it but never heard it expressed before so what do you say ?"
Emotions were moving across the priest's face like wind-blown clouds. He wanted to run back to his church and never see this crazy woman again. He wanted to accuse her of presumption and intrusiveness. He wanted to laugh immoderately, childishly. He wanted to emphatically reject her ridiculous plan. He wanted to applaud her ridiculous plan. Unable to reconcile his conflicting feelings, Lafitte chose postponement.
"Madame...non, excusez moi, Suzanne...you are presenting me with too much. Too suddenly. I am not such a fast thinker and my English it is not so perfect but I believe I understand what you say. I am very happy that you have discovered Ferdinand Cheval but like I told you, I do not need to make dreams come true." He saw the eagerness in Susan's face dissolve into something close to despair. "Your enthousiasme, Suzanne, you must never lose it, never. I will think about your....idea.....and let us talk again soon, yes?"
Susan pushed her chair back, stood up, forced a smile and shook Lafitte's hand. "Yes, of course Père, we'll talk again." She walked away quickly, desperate for a drink.
TWELVE
For the next two weeks Susan’s usual routine underwent a radical transformation. Instead of the slow mornings fading into afternoon, sitting in pyjamas in front of the computer dealing with email mostly concerning George's career, she rose early, packed a rucksack with bread, cheese, apples, a thermos of strong coffee, and left the house, returning only when the sun began its descent below the ragged line of trees on the horizon.
Susan walked - turning left one day, right the next - walking slowly, purposefully, attention focused on the objects which littered the verges - glass and plastic and metal and paper and cardboard. Sometimes a dirt track sprouted more of this synthetic vegetation than could be found alongside heavily used main roads. Intent on her quest, Susan paid no attention to the drivers and cyclists whizzing past, ignoring their occasional invitations or taunts. An idea which had begun only as a ghostly presence in her dreams was gradually crystallizing into a plan.
In the evenings she rested her weary muscles in a hot bath then spent only an hour at computer duties. George telephoned every few days, in a tone Susan recognised as the “really-really-busy-but-here-I-am-taking-time-out-to-speak-to-my-wife” voice. Funny, she thought, how you can tell so much more by the timbre of someone’s voice than by their words. She could picture her husband so clearly in his present surroundings that there was no need to ask him anything at all and she answered his questions lackadaisically, saying only that she was walking a lot in order to lose weight. This uncharacteristic coolness momentarily disturbed George but he was soon pulled back into the fast-moving, ego-stroking, erotically charged and competitive current of life as a lionised British poet in American academia.
* * * *
The seven o’clock Mass was over and the four elderly women shuffling down the aisle glanced curiously at Susan who sat hunched in a back pew, scribbling in a notebook. They hurried out, eager to air their opinions: what could l’anglaise possibly be doing there when she had never set foot in church before?
In the sacristy, Père Lafitte was carefully putting away his vestments when there was an impatient knock. The sepulchral gloom at the back of the church had hidden Susan from view and he was so startled to see her when he opened the door that for a moment he didn’t know who she was.
“Oui? Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?”
Susan, beaming, held out her hand. “Père Lafitte! C’est moi, Suzanne! How are you? I must speak with you! It’s important! Are you free now? Can I come in?”
The priest blinked, took a few steps back and cleared his throat.
“Bonjour Madame, excusez moi….I was not expecting you. I am busy now but in one hour I will go to the café Hercule pour mon petit déjeuner. If you wish, you can join me there.”
“Fine! I’ll see you in one hour.” Susan walked away quickly, glad to get out of the clammy air of the church into the morning sun.
The café Hercule was a lugubrious little place, popular with the locals but shunned by tourists and most of the expats. Two old farmers stood at the bar talking with the patron about the cost of living, their gruff accents perfectly suited to the art of complaining. When Susan entered they fell silent, looking at her as if she came from another planet.
“Bonjour Messieurs,” she said, smiling, “Une belle journée, n’est-ce pas?”
“Bonjour Madame,” they replied sternly, immediately turning away to resume their conversation, now in guarded tones.
Susan considered the bottle of cognac on the counter for a long moment. She decided against it, ordered a large café au lait with a croissant and went to sit at one of the wobbly metal tables outside. She took out her notebook and began crossing out sentences she had previously written. The enthusiasm she felt about her plan was tempered with the difficulty of expressing it to Père Lafitte. Another five versions had been crossed out by the time the priest arrived and sat down opposite her. He sliced his croissant into finger-sized pieces, dunked one of them in his café au lait, put it in his mouth and did not begin speaking until he had finished eating it.
"Alors, Madame, what is so urgent to bring you to my church this early morning?"
