couples had acquired pets.
“The one couple—who I’ll call ‘Monsieur/Dame X’, for I can’t use their names—were cat fanciers. The other couple—who I’ll call ‘Monsieur/Dame Y’—preferred lapdogs and had a miniature Chihuahua. It went everywhere with them, even to their friends’ house one night this last winter. The plan was to have apéritifs there and then go out to a restaurant. One thing led to another and after more than just one apéro they were ready to leave for the restaurant but both pets were asleep, the cat curled up on the couch and the dog on a deep cushioned armchair next to one of its owners. So they left them.
“Dinner was a great success, and by the time they left the restaurant it was quite late. Arriving home they found the front door ajar. After checking the house for possible burglars, the only thing missing was the miniature Chihuahua. The cat was asleep on the couch where they had left it. They searched the house a second time and then the garden as best they could in the dark of night, but the dog was not found. Finally they gave up, and Monsieur/Dame Y went home without their dog.
“The next day the search commenced again but with no better result. Then, weeks later, when Madame X was cleaning house, she swept the broom under the sofa and along with the dust she found a small, wiry curve of beige hair. She picked it up, examined it and then looked at her cat that was sleeping peacefully on the couch. ‘Oh, Minou!’ she said. Eventually Monsieur/Dame Y acquired another dog, and everything settled back to normal once more.”
“Is that really true?” Hélène asked, shocked.
“Well, apparently it was a very big tom,” Suzette replied. “Shall we have dessert?”
• • •
We were now settling into our normal routine each morning, Hélène making coffee while I drove into Nyons to buy the daily edition of the International Herald Tribune as well as fresh croissants. I knew that the boulangère made only enough croissants to satisfy the daily demand and no more, so I had to set off early each day. It was about one kilometre from our house to the main square of Nyons, just far enough so that I didn’t want to walk, yet ridiculously close to use the car, but all the same I drove.
It was busy as I stepped inside the boulangerie, and the waiting Nyonsais looked me over one by one before looking away again. I was l’étranger—the outsider in their midst. So much for blending in, I thought, as I waited in the crowded space between the door and the counter. The air was permeated with the smell of freshly baked goods and heavy with moisture. The windows were fogged over and there was a constant rustling-of-paper sound: bags being stuffed with pastries; breads being wrapped with bits of paper to cover the centre part of the loaf and not the ends.
“Cinq euros, trente!” the lady boulangère behind the counter snapped out, as if to move on to another customer. When my turn came I had already had time to practise in my mind the words I needed to use, and so I said “Quatre croissants, deux pains-au-chocolat et une baguette, s’il vous plaît.”
“Les beurres ou non?” she fired back at me.
“Les beurres,” I said. I had forgotten that croissants at this boulangerie were available either with extra butter or ‘normal’.
She filled the paper bag while I pulled a crumpled ten-euro note out of my pocket and put it on the glass countertop.
“Merci, madame,” I said, picking up my change and the paper bag.
“À demain,” she said, acknowledging that I would be back the next day. I smiled at her and then wove my way past waiting customers to get to the door. Tomorrow she would bake more croissants, knowing that her sales had just increased by one more household.
After some days of driving into the village for croissants, one morning I dressed in warm clothes, found a pair of gloves, pumped up the tires and rolled my all-purpose bike out of the garage. I pushed it down the driveway and then started off quickly pumping the pedals to build up body heat against the cold morning air. I accelerated down the hill and around the first wide bend, then braked hard for the switchback at the bottom of the hill, all the while weaving back and forth dodging potholes. I crossed the bridge over the stream and reached the outskirts of the village, passing first the Intermarché, where we shopped for food, and then the old terminus of the railway line that had long since disappeared from the landscape. At the tabac presse I stopped to buy the Trib and then pedalled slowly through the walled arcade and out the other side to the boulangerie. The patrons looked me over once again, taking in my arctic clothing as I peeled off my gloves.
The ride back to our villa felt good to start with, but by the time I had pumped and puffed my way back up the hill like a small steam engine, I felt ridiculously tired. Still, it had to be better than driving and could only get easier as my conditioning improved. After the effort of the ride I noticed the coffee tasted richer than usual.
Chapter 4
the welcome blossoms of spring
Is it so small a thing
To have enjoyed the sun,
To have lived light in the spring . . .
AGRICULTURE REMAINS THE ECONOMIC BASE; it forms the way of life in Provence. The seasons—printemps, été, automne and hiver—are the real measures of each year, not the weeks and months created for a calendar. For farmers, life revolves around the seasons, and each one brings a different set of tasks and new rewards.
With the approach of spring, the sun rose noticeably earlier each morning and lasted longer into the evenings. The warmer weather brought renewed activity and colour to the fields. Grass began to grow again beneath the trees in the orchards. Blossoms appeared first on the almond, followed by the apricot and then the cherry. The rows of grapevines in the vineyards lost their black gnarled look as the leaves unfurled. Birds returned. Spring affected the villagers as well—smiles came more naturally, along with more sonorous bonjours. Everyone moved with a relaxed new vigour. There was a new quality to the air. Shop doors were propped open, allowing the smell of baked goods and coffee to filter out onto the streets.
One day asparagus arrived at the Thursday market. We had already seen the long rows of plastic in the fields covering the new spears to keep them white and tender. Bundles were piled high on the tables according to size, from thick and stubby to long, thin tendrils, their white tips sometimes tinged pale purple. They were still muddy from the fields, like the earth-stained hands of the ruddy-faced farmers who had cut and brought them to the market. We stopped at a stall to talk to a woman who was still wearing her rubber boots, and bought a kilo for the week, knowing that the best asparagus would not be available for long.
“It grows so fast we have to cut it quickly,” she said, “before it shoots up and goes to seed.” She held a thick spear upright in her fist as if to demonstrate its quality. “It is at its best very young.”
• • •
Our gardener, François, who had been recommended to us by friends, began to look after the tasks that we couldn’t do ourselves. During our winter absence, he had cleaned up the garden and pruned the olive trees. He was not a tall man, and although he was muscular, he did not look particularly athletic. When I shook his hand the first time we met, I learned he was also very fine-boned. By any standard, he should not have been as strong as he was. All the same,
I watched him take on tasks that I would have avoided. Once, when a tree trunk that was over a foot in diameter had to be removed, he skilfully used a hatchet, the only tool available.
He was an exceptionally self-effacing,
