At Home in France (18 page)

When I got home, there was time for a long run. After a shower, I sat on the patio to read. But with the distraction of birdsong and the presence of Charleston, which I could glimpse out of the corner of my eye, the book rested idle in my lap. It was time to heat up the stuffed cabbage. How had the day slipped away?

Early Tuesday morning, I closed the house, dropped the keys with the Bézamats, and returned to the garage for the swap of cars with Monsieur Charron. I explained that I would be back in late October and would write him well in advance to notify him of the exact day and train.
Au revoir!

The rental car felt low on the road, lightweight, dull. I was instantly reduced to a mundane American-with-the-rental-car status. That evening I had planned a splurge for the finale of my trip, an overnight stay at the château de Vault-de-Lugny, in Burgundy, on my circuitous way back to Paris. I’d read about the château in one of my French newsletters, which are highly reliable sources for hotels and restaurants in both Paris and the country. It had waxed lyrical about the château, calling it “one of
the most unique places we have ever visited in the world … a dream château in every respect.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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