le bavardage de la village
(excerpt
adapted from a recently written letter to a friend.)
Guy. Yes, Monsieur
Torteau, where to begin… where to end? I really have no idea, and as I said,
you will only have to meet Le Vignaud's prize citizen one day. I have actually
seen him numerous times since you have left, the first (not so surprisingly)
the very next day after your departure. Yes, we talked of many things: of shoes
and ships and sealing wax; and of coarse the subject of weather pigs have wings
was broached, but no conclusion was reached. No, actually we talked much of la
grande guerre, women, and how to change car fuses, but none-the-less
interesting it was! I realized how much I had missed out on the last time I had
spoken to him, as with my much-improved French skills, I was able to catch most
of the constant stream of cursing and indecencies that comes out of the old
guy's mouth. He surely taught me a word or two, though I'll spare you the
offense. When the subject of Geneanne came up, I learned that Guy had also
recently had the very same operation a short time ago. It was here that I
learned it is probably only a Frenchman who can drop his pants on the spot to
explain something. Language barrier indeed!
Speaking of
Geneanne, she has been in the hospital, recovering from the removal of several
large kidney stones (which I was later to find out, she had kept, in a jar on
the table). As of today, she is still there and rumored to be resting there a
bit longer due to a couple of ruptured stitches. Apparently, the busybody she
is, she ignored doctor's orders and was wandering around asking everybody what they
were doing there.
Jean-François and
Lucienne are leaving tomorrow morning for grand 'ol Paris to visit their
daughter. After commenting on my opinion of Paris, Jean-François replied
something to the effect of "Moi, je préfère Le Vignaud..."
Is there an echo here, or is he actually a robot stealing my thoughts?
Apparently, he is none too thrilled about leaving his tractor and endives
behind for the pavement of beurocracy for eight days.
Madame Cottes is
doing fine, though she still complains of her knees and the fact that no one
ever comes to visit her (though I stop by nearly every day).
I guess the big
news is the fact that the bread truck has broken down. No one even knew until
late in the morning Wednesday when everyone at once realized they were still
waiting for breakfast to arrive. I was sitting alone in the cold listening to
my stomach growl, wondering how I had miscalculated what day it was (for the
truck only comes Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays), when one of the neighbors
knocked on the door. "Did you buy and extra baguette today, peut-être?
I was vacuuming, and I believe I have missed the camion." I replied
that no, I had not an extra baguette, and was myself in desperate need,
whereupon we proceeded to go ensemble to ask Lucienne.
When we arrived chez
elle, Jean-François had just picked up the phone to get to the bottom of it
all. He found out the truck had broken down on the D48, somewhere between Thiéx
and Anzême. The then called all fourteen of Le Vignaud's remaining winter
households (excluding the parties present) for their bread orders. He was
driving out to find the stalled bread truck, and would I come to assist in
carrying and delivering the eleven baguettes, fourteen pain, four pain
complet, three pain fariné, and one kilo of leeks we would be
picking up on the way. Damn right, an opportunity like this doesn't come along
too often!
So I went, and I
found the real reason nothing stands between a Frenchman and his
baguette: café au rhum. Yes, it appears that the tow-truck driver was a
friend of Jean-François, and he was apparently acquainted as well with the
woman who delivers the pain. When we arrived, neither seemed to be in a
rush, nor overly concerned about lifting the bread truck. And why would they
be? A liter of rum and an entire truck full of bread will detain a person for a
good while. So, we shared a café au rhum, and helped ourselves to all
the croissants we wanted (they would only get stale anyway), and made off with
our load of bread.
When we got back to
the village, we made our rounds, delivering to each his desired ration of pain
or baguette. Oh, the look of relief on all their faces! It was nearly noon, and
none had been able to start his day. Jean-François said it best: "Aujourd'hui,
c'est mort. Déjà deux cafés aux rhums, et tout avant le petit déjeuner!"
(Today, it's finished. Already two café au rhum, and all before
breakfast.)
So, we saved the day, and there was bread for all. Quelle drame!
