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Unfortunately, part two of the lecture (Why the Earth Is Becoming Flatter) was interrupted by a crack of another burst pipe, and my education was put aside for some virtuoso work with the blowtorch.
Out here in the country there was no avoiding the direct link between death and dinner,
it is well known that the English kill their lamb twice; once when they slaughter it, and once when they cook it.
The two areas of endeavor in which France leads the world—bureaucracy and gastronomy—had combined to put us in our place.
“The dead get the best view,” he said, “because they are there for such a long time.” He cackled so hard at his own joke that he had a coughing fit, and I was worried that his turn had come to join them.
“A few pairs of arms,” he said. “Think of the Pyramids.” Of course. All we needed were fifteen thousand Egyptian slaves and it would be done in no time.
The dog, Pénélope, declared the site open by relieving herself copiously in front of the house, and battle commenced.
You’ve stocked the pool with barracuda and put a tank trap in the drive? You’ve become teetotal vegetarians? You suspect the dogs of carrying rabies?
It appears to be part of the ritual that lengthy discussions are always conducted between the two people farthest away from each other, while the intervening members of the team curse the dogs and argue about the straightness of the lines.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “Parisians are often just as bad. At least I couldn’t understand what he was saying.”
“Just thought I’d touch base with you.” I could hear him taking a drag on his cigarette, and I made a mental note to buy an answering machine to deal with anyone else who might want to touch base on a Sunday.
but the little window would have to be barred to make it safe from the depredations of anorexic five-year-olds.
Tomorrow he will take up the mantle of the kamikaze pilot once again, but today it is Sunday in Provence, and life is to be enjoyed.
“they’re always mauling each other. See that? Men kissing. Damned unhealthy, if you ask me.”
Gu himself presides over the room—a genial, noisy man with the widest, jauntiest, most luxuriant and ambitious mustache I have ever seen, permanently fighting gravity and the razor in its attempts to make contact with Gu’s eyebrows.
And how many puppies did we want? Pénélope had fallen pregnant to a hairy stranger in Goult.
But addled, wrinkled, and potentially cancerous as I might have been, I had never felt better.
We were playing on our own court that evening, and the game was therefore subject to Lubéron Rules: Anyone playing without a drink is disqualified. Incentive cheating is permitted.
Foul play and alcohol had been defeated by youth and fruit juice.
“What a marvelous sunset,” she said. “Yes,” replied her husband. “Most impressive for such a small village.”
The barn vibrated, and le tout Paris vibrated with it, arms and legs and buttocks and breasts jiggling and shaking and grinding and flailing around, teeth bared, eyes rolling, fists pumping the air, jewelery out of control, buttons bursting under the strain, elegant façades gone to hell as everyone writhed and jerked and twitched and got down.
“You will see,” he said, “that I have been obliged to make a Gorgonzola of the walls, but what is that, maçon? Half a day to repair?”
It is the official start of the hunting season, and every red-blooded Frenchman takes his gun, his dog, and his murderous inclinations into the hills in search of sport.
My wife, who has a well-founded lack of confidence in my ability to handle any kind of dangerous equipment, pointed out that I hardly needed an electronic sight to shoot myself in the foot.
After a morning with the pastis or the marc, a rustle in the bushes might be too much to resist, and the cause of the rustle might be human. In fact, it might be me. I thought about wearing a bell, just to be on the safe side.
“Look at those vines,” he said. “Nature is wearing her prettiest clothes.”
He turned off the path to go into the forest and terrorize some birds, a brutal, greedy, and mendacious old scoundrel. I was becoming quite fond of him.
Before dinner that night, we tested it, dripping it onto slices of bread that had been rubbed with the flesh of tomatoes. It was like eating sunshine.
A connoisseur of woe needs fresh worries from time to time, or he will become complacent.
He stopped for a drink after explaining how to determine the sex of pigeons by putting them in the refrigerator.
With great deliberation, Ramon put down his champagne and held his hands out in front of him like a fisherman describing the one that got away. Fortunately, he was prevented from going into further revelations by a large piece of pizza which his wife delivered firmly into his mouth. She had heard the routine before.
