Whenever we arrive at last at Pied de la Croix, the first café in our petite maison is something we eagerly anticipate. So it is that as I pour water into the coffee machine, I clumsily knock over an enormous enamel container of kitchen utensils. This nudges a long, wickedly sharp knife on the rack positioned beside it on the wall. It is longer than a baguette. It shoots like an arrow, straight into my red Converse sneakers. I watch in slow motion as blood gushes out and floods across the wooden floor in a rushing red stream, brighter now than my Converse.
It is important to know that I loathe blood. I absolutely hate it. I am, in fact, the biggest coward I know when it comes to blood.
I sink slowly to the floor, still watching in disbelief as even more blood flows across the floorboards.
Fortunately, the only plastic tub that I have so far unpacked in my search for coffee — for we have been here less than an hour — hidden away from any mice that come out to play in our long absence, also contains a roll of kitchen paper. I gingerly crawl across the floor to reach the tub. I nervously ease my sneaker off. I wrap wads of kitchen paper round my geyser-like toe. It is only at this point that I call out to Stuart, below in le cave, sorting out our water and plumbing issues. Last year, there had been energetic digging activity from a lapin; this year there’s a disturbing stream of water from the leaking hot water system. What will le cave hold in store for us next year?
I surprise myself by how calmly I call out to Stuart to let him know I need his help. Strangely, I don’t even let him know what has happened. He probably just thinks that I can’t remember how to use our coffee machine after being absent from it for a year. There are many occasions when I am not the most practical of people. Later, when I have a chance to reflect on it all, I realise how very odd indeed my behaviour is. I am more prone to histrionics and drama than a matter-of-fact approach to a possibly critical situation. For while I may have wrapped my toe in kitchen paper, I have most certainly not ventured a look at it.
As I wait for Stuart to emerge from the cellar, I ponder which of us will examine my toe. Stuart and blood are no more compatible than my relationship with anything verging on the medical.
I continue to be surprised that when he enters la cuisine, I am then also capable of directing him to where the band aids will be located in our still-packed-up house. It is then his task to peel away the blood-soaked paper and investigate the potential damage. It is to Stuart’s credit that he does not grimace too much. I am sure he is thinking of forgetting about an espresso altogether and advancing the apéritif hour. Thoughts of le docteur and stitches are not far from my mind.
Very fortunately, the vast quantity of blood does not match the severity of the gash. It was sheer good luck that the knife ricocheted off my foot, skidded across the kitchen floor and did not plunge any further down and completely pierce my toe. Even worse, when I reflect with horror on the possibilities, sliced it straight off. The theatrical start to our summer seems to bookend our dramatic departure from France the previous summer, when our train to Paris was sabotaged. We, in fact, consider ourselves lucky to be alive. This becomes even more apparent when, just a few weeks into our stay this year, a train from Paris to Brive-la-Gaillarde is in a dreadful accident and six people lose their lives.
Still astonishing myself by my degree of calmness, we both then have our first espresso on our beloved très joli steps. I then go back inside, unpack the linen from its plastic container and make up the bed for our first night. I continue to unpack and set the house to rights for another hour or so. It is only then that I start to get wobbly. Perhaps belated shock has set in? I subside, weak-kneed into our just-made bed. I lie shivering under the eiderdown. I realise that I am about to be sick. Very sick. I crawl out of bed, across the floor and into la cuisine where, very conveniently, a plastic bucket has been left from last year when we packed up. I am just in time.
Sadly, on our very first evening, Stuart goes alone for dîner with Gerard, Dominique and Jean-Claude. Even more disappointing is when I find out the next day that Gérard, with great thoughtfulness, has prepared our favourite meal of local canard. To miss crisply roasted duck on our first evening back in Cuzance is not worth thinking about. I find out, too, that there has been much speculation and discussion over dîner about the size of the knife, where exactly it was positioned in the first place in la cuisine and where precisely it landed. Subsequently, when everyone visits, the first thing they do is rush to the knife rack for an inspection. The topic of conversation over the summer is that the next book I write should be called Murder in Cuzance. Everyone is vastly amused, except me.
Filling in the Gaps
Every year, we can rely on Jean-Claude to fill in the gaps on all that has unfolded in our absence. He always regales us with stories and shares with us the events that have taken place in Cuzance. This includes who has passed away. With the loss of our neighbour, Madame Chanteur, I know that in our village of mostly older inhabitants, there will be more in the years to come. I already know from previous visits that, in a particularly harsh winter, some of the villagers will not wake to a new sunrise. For now, I am glad that the cast of characters in Cuzance that I am familiar with and have grown fond of — despite still not being able to fully communicate with them — are still all in place.
To balance impending loss and sadness, Jean-Claude is able to share the joyous news of the arrival of their petite grandson, Basile. He announces that after a mere twenty minutes, ‘He popped out like a champagne cork.’ It is France after all, I think when I hear this original and apt description. As Françoise will now stay in Lyon for a fortnight to help Bénédicte, Jean-Claude has the responsibility for their other two grandchildren, Celeste and Balthazar, who are arriving from Berlin for their summer vacances. We wonder how he will possibly cope. As it is, when Françoise is at their apartment in Lyon, Jean-Claude exists on ready-made meals for dîner from the supermarché.
France is surely the only country in the world where discussion, and indeed a forthcoming debate, centre on the custom of kissing. I have enthusiastically embraced the de rigueur custom of exchanging a kiss on each cheek with our French amis. Indeed, it is one I have passionately transferred to my life on the other side of the world. All those who know me well, friends and even close colleagues, accustomed by now to our French life, know to expect this from me. They have entered willingly into this French cultural exchange.
Reuniting with Jean-Claude means that once again we are privy to glimpses into French protocol and customs that we would possibly never be aware of. He shares a fascinating insight into the fact that different regions have different customs when it comes to the exchange of kisses when greeting friends. We are by now very familiar with the one peck on each cheek. This exchange takes place even if it happens to be the second, or indeed, third time you have encountered your amis within the space of a single day.
Sometimes there are three exchanged, backwards and forwards on your cheeks. This is something I’ve never quite understood. What dictates that it is more than the customary two? I have simply surmised that it is a demonstration of the degree of affection. Yet it transpires that a bise and the number exchanged all depends on the département in which you live. In Paris, it would seem there are only ever two kisses. I am sure in the heady, demanding world of politics and business there would clearly be no time for any more. Mind you, the number of politicians, indeed French presidents, with a notorious predilection for affairs, would involve somewhat more than counting the number of kisses on the cheek.
In other regions, Jean-Claude tells us, four is in fact the rule of kissing. There are further complications though. Apparently, in some départements the first bise is on the left cheek, while in other regions it is on the right. I can’t grasp the simple elements of the language, let alone the complexity of kissing. Even more amazing is when he concludes this anecdote by telling us that a movement has started to reduce the exchange of kisses to a mere one. The group in Brittany opposed to the gesture of so many kisses base their stance on claiming it has all gone too far. To think a polite social greeting