French and Friendship

June 24, 2015

I am the Angel of Death. In September, my husband Jon and I went to the south of France to lighten up after a few years thick with deaths – family, friends, hopes-and-dreams. I’m a Francophile who can’t speak French.

As a teenager, I failed grade 11 French three years in a row. I would have failed four years in a row, but I was covered in German measles spots as I wrote my last exam. The French teacher’s wife was pregnant so he burned my paper and gave me the pass I didn’t deserve. Life is perverse and I’ve attempted to become bilingual ever since. Let me count the times.

Just as I’ve kept my books for years, I’ve kept my close friends. When two of them went to live in France, I followed. This was bilingual attempt number one. For six weeks, I attended French school in Villefranche Sur Mer. Another friend, Hanka, had me stay with her mother in Hanka’s tiny house on the Grande Corniche, overlooking Eze. At the time I didn’t realize Villefranche, Grande Corniche, and Eze are buzzwords that would eventually give me Francophile crédibilité – even if they are now too expensive for us.

The downside was Hanka’s mother, Mrs. M. She kept forgetting about me and constantly locked me out. We later found out Mrs. M. was self-medicating. Hanka wondered if the stress of dealing with the Gestapo and escaping Warsaw during the war had undone her mother. As well it might.

This first round at Institut de Français only got me as far as past tense verbs in the negative. Not useful when trying to find and buy mousetraps (les souricières) for the future. My dictionary and I lived with a continual trail of mice in a Provençal stone cabin near my friends. France stops for lunch between noon and 2:00 p.m. and that’s when I practiced my written French. It was hunting season. Laboriously, tongue between my teeth, I wrote posters in French asking the hunters not to shoot at my terrace. I think that’s what I wrote because the shooting stopped. For a while.

A year or so later, I took another swipe at the Institut de Français. Once again, Hanka found me a place to stay – with her friends Jacques and Eliane who lived in a penthouse apartment overlooking Nice and the Mediterranean. The apartment was French modern with huge plant-covered balconies, and white marble floors that heated in the winter. Boy, did those floors impress me back then.

Eliane was a beautiful, fair-haired, elegant French woman of a certain âge. The apartment was near the airport because Jacques had been head of the airport police, and security. After he retired, Jacques built a small house beside a stream and surrounded by fields of broom and poppies. By chance, it was near the stone cabin where I’d lived, a few hours drive from Nice. To my mind, and Jacques’s, the country house was idyllic. To Eliane, it was remote and primitive. We visited once.

Each weekday, I drove along the Promenade des Anglais from one side of Nice to the other, through the old port and ended up, yet again, at Institut de Français in Villefranche Sur Mer. My French crawled into the conditional tense at school, but zoomed along when Eliane was at the apartment. Her French was slow, sensitive, funny and theatrical. At last, I could gossip in French. How cool is that.

The down side to living with Eliane was The Cat. It wasn’t well and late one night I had to drive Eliane and the distressed cat to a veterinarian in Antibes. The cat’s organs were shutting down and against my pleading in bad French, Eliane brought the cat home to die. And a miserable, painful death it was. The next morning the cat was at rest with its blanket and a single long stem ivory rose in its basket. The experience made me a believer in animal euthanasia. I also learned the phrase “Elle est morte.”

Eliane and Jacques had lived in Cameroon for 10 years. In 1960, French Cameroon gained independence from France and at some point they returned to Europe. Being the head guy at the airport gave Jacques a certain social prestige – well, in policing circles. Jacques and Eliane visited the home of the chief of police of Monaco. That chief will never know how much face he lost when he presented Eliane with a gold-edged ashtray featuring Prince Rainier and Princess Grace. Eliane gave me the tacky ashtray so I’d remember how close I got to Princess Grace. Six degrees of separation.

During the week Eliane lived two and a half hours away in Digne-les-Bains. It was a bit of a mystery to me, but I accepted her story. She was a French civil servant with a good job. And now I know how she used the money.

Eliane and Jacques had been in La Résistance. I think they were both caught. Eliane definitely was. She was pregnant during her prison term and gave birth to a baby boy. I don’t know if she knew Jacques at that time, but for sure he wasn’t the father. And like many of us, Jacques didn’t like the person the baby boy grew up to be.

Eliane always felt guilty that she spent her pregnancy in prison and the baby was malnourished. One of her compensations was to work hard and pay to send her son to a prestigious British university. I didn’t know any of this until Jon and I returned from our recent holiday. And I still can’t say that in French. Too many tenses.

This recent trip to France was what most of us dream of – if your fantasy is to climb 49 medieval stars to reach a one-room pied à terre four stories up, overlooking a cobbled street with three popular all-night restaurants.

Truthfully? The flat was astonishing…and so français. We rented this studio from friends who have filled almost every cubic inch with art and artefacts. Best of all, the building’s front door opens smack-dab into the Antibes covered market.

Every morning we had cappuccinos, pain-chocolat, croissants or sugared crepes in one of the cafés right beside that door. In front of us were a cheese stand and a Provençal perfumery table. Ten feet away were wild strawberries, baby French radishes, butter lettuces, perfect-to-eat famous melons from nearby Cavaillon, a cute guy selling sausages, a stand with at least 100 herbs & spices…and 25 kinds of salt. At night, the market morphed into a sea of restaurants.

By day we clocked up Must-See French Tourist Sites. Vence with the Matisse Chapelle du Rosaire where a sharp-eyed nun stopped Jon using his forbidden camera. St. Paul de Vence and its forested park with the Fondation Maeght. The gallery is filled, and surrounded by, the art of Miro, Giacometti, Calder, Chagall, et cetera — if you can use “et cetera” and “art” in the same sentence. And we visited the Antibes police station where the nice young man in uniform had the historic Fort’s parking lot unlocked so we could get our car out. Touristes. Quel Dommage. I think that’s what he said.

And then we went to Nice.

Over the years, I had stayed with Eliane and Jacques again and again. I’d visited her place in Digne, exchanged sporadic letters and Christmas cards, knew that Jacques had died, and that her son had been in a serious accident. I kept making plans to visit, but I hadn’t, and 30 years passed. I didn’t even know if Eliane was still alive. Then, when I phoned her from Antibes, there it was once again – the vivacious French that I could understand. Eliane had been malade but I must visit and bring Jon who she had never met. I told Jon how strong her voice was and how together she sounded. I still had no idea how old she was.

Elaine now lived down her previous street in a large apartment, also in a modern building with marble floors. Déjà vu. Her friend met Jon and I at the door and told us that Eliane had been very unwell. I was in total denial. When I saw Eliane, I was devastated. She looked like my friend Sandy who had recently died of cancer. Eliane had obviously been through chemotherapy. We grabbed on to each other, tears and cries everywhere.

When we were able, we walked into the living room where another friend sat. Eliane and I, mostly in French, caught up on every one and thing we had in common. Our mutual friend Hanka was a theme. For hours, Eliane sat in silk pyjamas and robe, holding court. Her eyes were huge and luminous blue, her face skeletal. Every so often we would both tear up. It was wonderful. It was horrible. I learned a new phrase “le cancer du sein”. Breast Cancer.

And then in walked the son who now has a paralyzed arm. He lives in the apartment next to Eliane’s and was in and out of hers the rest of the afternoon. He was objectionable in French, inflammatory and racist in English. When he and Eliane were out of the room for a few minutes, one of Eliane’s friends explained the son had suffered brain damage in the car accident that had killed the other passenger. Everyone tolerated the son’s behaviour for Eliane’s sake — there was nothing else you could do. And tolerate was the word.

Jon and I would return to Nice in a week and ever the gracious hostess, Eliane invited us to stay. There was plenty of space and it would please her very much. Her friend guilted us into saying yes – he hadn’t seen Eliane so happy such in a long time. We agreed, more tears, and we left knowing that this time, we would see each other in a few days.

I wasn’t too sure of that. I’d recently sat with my friend Sandy, and then my father as they each died. It can happen when you just turn away for a moment. It could happen tomorrow. Next week. Within the next few days was my feeling. And I remembered Eliane’s cat. I was there for the cat’s death and now I’ll be there for Eliane’s. I am the Angel of Death. I kept this thought to myself. We were on our way to visit other friends in and near Montpellier. I hoped they were all healthy.

—

It’s callous to return to tourist talk but that’s what lifted the misery-fog in my head. Most of the time. I tried not to think about the return trip to Nice. French UNESCO World Heritage Sites were distracting.

Our first was Avignon – you know, the city with the song. Sur Le Pont d’Avignon – now available on a t-shirt. We drove through the gates of the medieval ramparts into the Historic Centre of Avignon. I scurried around until I found an affordable hotel room — which I didn’t check out because we were lucky to get anything.

The only weird thing about our room was walking in through the spectacularly French bathroom. The shower, the tub, the sink, even the toilet appeared to be carved into the stone and rough plaster walls which continued into the bedroom. And the view. Our window looked over a large square, and directly across from us was the Palais du Papes (Popes’ Palace). Our hotel had been the stables. The 14th Palais glowed with that golden magic-hour light photographers lust after so we grabbed our cute little digital cameras and tried to squeeze the whole thing into one frame. It’s the largest Gothic palace in the world with the volume of four gothic cathedrals. Big. Too big.

Our dinner was outdoors in the Place de l’Horloge. Think of it as Clock Tower Square with the 1825 Opera House on one side and a double-decker merry-go-round in the middle.

Mesmerized by the food & Châteauneuf-du-Pape wine, we didn’t take in that Avignon was in the throes of celebrating the 700th anniversary of the arrival of the popes. And they celebrated on the wall across from our hotel room window.

From dusk to dawn, animated lights rehearsed the story of the Palais and its nine popes for the next night’s Son & Lumière. Our rehearsal didn’t include the sound part, but the lights were the Grand Spectacle! as advertised.

Another day, another UNESCO World Heritage Site to distract us. I wanted Jon to enjoy one more Ultimate French Tourist Experience — so we visited the Pont du Gard built by the Romans. It’s essentially a brilliantly conceived three level bridge with an aqueduct on the top level. The mammoth stones were cut so precisely they hold each other in place.

The French recently added a vast paved parking lot, retail opportunities and sidewalks. Every year, the Pont gets about one and a half-million visitors that explains the humungous parking lot. There are “No Stepping On The Monument” signs but you and a few hundred others can walk across a special road and if you’ve got good long-distance eyesight you can see that it’s true what UNESCO says: The Pont was constructed entirely without the use of mortar.

The last time I’d seen, and oh-my-god touched, the Pont du Gard, it sat in bucolic splendour, 30 years ago when I stayed with Eliane. Times like these, I feel my life is like the Pont – constructed without mortar, and as my friends, the big stones, fall away, I get wobbly and need to be saved by UNESCO.

—

Jon and I had come to France to see our friend Peter. I can’t remember the last time I stayed in a medieval pigeon coop with so much charm. Originally from England, Peter was a book designer in Toronto and now lives in the market town of Clermont-l’Herault, a half hour drive from the Med.

Peter also went to the Institut de Français. Unlike me, he does speak French. And he’s a working artist living in France. How’d that happen? Ten years ago, Peter bought a house that “needed work”. It’s in a row of medieval townhouses just below the church and market square. It was originally two houses. Now it’s one, with a central staircase of tortuous steps with bites out of them. Every so often a room appears to one side or the other.

Peter went to France yearly and worked on the house. Often with friends and relatives. His French kitchen is an ode to the skills and talent of Claude, and the dishes and cutlery of Michelle. Others helped shovel pigeon remnants and make plaster walls where once there was god-only-knows-what. Peter’s diligence paid off and he has a superb French house to live in. And for all of us to visit, keeping in mind it’s about 33 steps of different heights and widths from the guest room down to the bathroom.

Jon and I want to be Peter. Everyone we know wants to be Peter. (petermaher.ca) His paintings are selling well and twice a year, Peter visits his children and grandchildren, and friends like us in Canada. In Clermont-l’Herault, he lives modestly on double crème cheeses, croissants made a few doors away, market produce and local wine. For an hour every day at dawn, Peter bicycles through deserted streets and countryside. And in late afternoon, he takes a break in the Café des Négociants (1898) surrounded by plane trees in the main town square. The local Alain Resnais Cinema shows first run movies, and Peter had just seen a local production of a Moliere play.

And so, he took us to Moliere’s hometown, Pezenas where even the house of Moliere’s barber has a plaque. In the Marseillan flea market, I bought two handmade convent-school nightgowns monogrammed with someone else’s initials. Neat.

The market in nearby Lodeve gave us a très agréable French morning. We stood waiting forever in a long line to buy cheese and lo and behold, the fromage vendeur came down the line pouring each customer a glass of red wine. We sure bought more cheese than we needed for our picnic lunch. We were on our way to see the polar opposite of the Pont du Gard.

We crossed the Tarn River on the Viaduct de Millau. It’s a bridge almost two and a half kilometers long with a shopping opportunity at both ends. It has the feeling of gigantic harp-like things attached to even taller pillars that aren’t unlike those controversial wind generators. It’s long. It’s tall. It’s modern. It has to be seen to be comprehended. And it’s very French with sheep grazing under it.

—

Thirteen years ago, we exchanged our Toronto house, cars, cottage and dog with Anne, Remy and family from Montpellier, France. The exchange was orchestrated by our friend Claire who we met through Peter years ago. This time, Jon and I spent a day in Montpellier sitting in cafes and dining with our Montpellier friends.
Claire is an artist and English teacher and she was the only person speaking fluent French and English at that table. But nothing stopped the rest of us and we had an uproarious bi-lingual dinner with laughter, and Gallic shrugs and hugs.

—

Finally, the day we returned to Nice. We visited Peter’s marché and bought a roast chicken and potatoes, risotto, cheese, country bread and a tarte of tiny green Reine Claude plums that had just come into season. What I’d managed to avoid thinking about now came slithering back. I’d talked with Eliane on the phone a few times and she sounded strong. But then she had before too.

At 5 p.m. we entered her building, La Tour Sarrazine. Slowly, we crossed the cold marble foyer to her apartment. The living room was dark; a nurse was in the kitchen. Eliane was in her bedroom. She was lying in a hospital bed. The ambulance might be called at any minute. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t stay.

“You have to stay. It won’t be a problem.”
“I am the Angel of Death.”
“But you have no hotel room.”
“I’m a producer. Don’t worry, I can find a hotel room.”
With this she relented and sunk back into her pillows. We cried, no we sobbed. We kept thinking of things to tell each other.
“Tell Hanka, I never forgot her,” Eliane said.

That one really got me.
Our whole conversation was in French.
Adieu. Adieu.

Outside, Jon and I sat in the car bawling. Later, eyes red and still brimming, we checked into a hotel beside the port and overlooking the Promenade des Anglais. Our one night cost more than our whole week in Antibes. And though our posh room was a stage-set with Provençal fabrics and furniture, it didn’t have cutlery. We ate the rice, roast chicken, potatoes and tarte with our hands – which made us laugh. And then we went for a drink. It was our last night in France.

—

Over the years, I’ve never stopped thinking of Eliane and I never will. Jon and I were taking a vacation to visit France and friends. And we did. It just wasn’t the happy-go-lucky time we’d planned. We make friends all our lives, never considering one of us might die. Well, I didn’t used to consider it. A friend and I can go for periods of time with no contact but thoughts. And then we’re back together in full-force friendship. The person may die but the friendship lives. When I think of it that way, all of my friends and family are still with me.

-fin-