Dear Readers,
Or maybe I should say friends, because now that you've been following my comings and goings for so long, that's what I feel you are.
I'm sure you want to know the why and wherefore of my last post. What happened exactly? What's going to happen now? Will I stay in Gensdouce and carry on as if nothing has happened or will I move move on to new pastures? Lots of questions. Where are the answers? As to what happened, I'm sure you will respect my wish to keep silent about that for now. Thinking about this still cause me a lot of pain and I'm not ready to share my feelings with everybody; not yet. Maybe that day will come sometime. Suffice to say that they are copious and varied.
One thing I can say is that my friends in Gensdouce have certainly not left me in the lurch. I have all the support I need and have been showered with many kindnesses. Whenever I feel crushed, they are there to lift me up. As to the future, I just don't know. Maybe I'll move on and maybe we'll meet sometime in your neck of the woods. Or maybe I'll stay here and carry on the work that has been so precious to me and which after all these years I've got into the knack of doing.
And will you hear from me again? Well, not here. But I'm participating in an ongoing debate with my scribe as to the merit of actually turning this into a novel for everyone to read. To be honest, I'm quite keen on the idea but for my scribe it's more like a ride from the mountain tops down into the valley and back up to the mountain tops. Sometimes, he's burning with enthusiasm, at others he's full of doubt. Recently, a friend of his chastised him for not going for it, so now, he can imagine nothing easier; but tomorrow he will once again be full of doubts. I'm pushing him as hard as I can but the battle's not over yet. Of course, that's another reason for not revealing all right now. But when the day comes, and I hope it will, you'll be able to read up all about me.
So until then keep well and God bless,
Simon
After weeks of campaigning it was becoming clear that the election was going to be a very close call. My main support base came from the old village who resented the way Demille had ridden roughshod over their concerns to attract a groups of nouveau riche city dwellers to Gensdouce. To accommodate them he forced through several compulsory purchase order against the farmers, taking away land which had been in their family for years in order to build large new estates of one family houses. But what was surprising was the fact that my popularity seemed to be on the increase among this new population; so much so, that it was felt I now had a real chance of winning. This made tonight's debate vital.
The debate itself had been proposed by Demille. His purpose, he claimed, was to give each candidate a chance to explain their respective vision for the village and how they were to put that vision into practice. Each candidate would have ten minutes to put across their vision and then questions would be put by the public to each candidate's team. The closing speach would be made by another member of the respective team.
For days every spare moment had gone into preparing the debate. We often met long into the night or rose early in the morning to spend time together before the working day began. Everyone looked bleary-eyed but we all knew what was at stake. But it would soon be over; then the job would begin in earnest.
But if the debate was in all our minds, someone else had stolen the limelight in the village. Violet's case against her husband had at last come to court, and her antics were on everybody's lips. Mme. Boucher's little shop began doing a roaring trade as everyone dropped in to get the latest news on her celebrity daughter, and to put in their two pence worth, not always very tactfully. In addition, there was renewed speculation as to the real father of her child; journalists coming from all over the country to feret out whoever he was. As for Violet, she was still very fragile and her doctors had warned against leaving her alone. Morgana was spending a few days in the city with her and wouldn't return until shortly before the debate and the next day Thérèse would go and replace her.
I entered the hall shortly before 5 p.m. Apart from a technician setting up the sound system everything was calm. Guillaume and Thérèse arrived shortly after, followed by a steady stream of people from both sides. Guillaume was just trying out the sound when there was a commotion outside and Mayor Demille stormed in, a newspaper in his hand and shouting at the top of his voice. Shedding his outward layer of clothing, he marched straight up to Thérèse and thrust the newspaper in her face.
"You promised, you'd say nothing, you lying little bitch."
The colour drained out of her face as she took the newspaper in her hand.
"The debate is cancelled. The election too. I'm dropping out. I'm dropping out and all thanks to this little bitch."
"Pierre, I swear to you, I know nothing about this. Four years ago I swore I'd say nothing about this. I'd didn't do it for you. I'd never have done it for you. Violet insisted I keep quiet. Yes, I used you. I made you pay a price for my silence. And it was worth it. But I've kept my part of the bargain. Whoever released this to the press, it wasn't me."
But Demille wasn't there to hear Thérèse' denial. Reactive as he was, he'd not waited to hear what she had to say. Her words bounced off his back as he left the hall. No, he was no longer there, but dozens of others were. And before long the news would would spread through the whole village.
That evening we held a crisis meeting to decide how to proceed. Mayor Demille had officially informed the authorities he was withdrawing from the race. There would be no election. But neither would I be mayor. My candidacy only made sense to oppose Mayor Demille. Now circumstances had changed. What was needed now, was someone to unify the village and I took great pleasure in proposing Guillaume to be that man. His reputation was impeccable and his knowledge of the workings of the French administration would stand him in good stead. The opposition also adopted him as their candidate, assuring he would be returned unopposed. Now was the time to bring the village together once more.
I returned home wondering where Morgana had got to. She had been due to arrive just before the debate, but the house was empty. Even if she had not heard what had happened and gone straight to the debate, she should be back by now. I put the TV on to listen to the late news and poured myself a glass of wine. Just as I did so, the doorbell rang. Morgana must have forgotten her keys. I opened up only to see a policeman standing on my doorstep. At that moment the phone rang.
Dear Readers,
I know it's unusual for an author to address his readers in his own voice and from the pages of the story he's been, hopefully, entertaining you with for the past few months but the burden of conventionality has never lain well on my shoulders, and so a word of warning before you read on. Just a few episodes back, I began with the words: 'That victory was the beginning of the end.' And from the replies I got I could easily see that none of you saw the deeper meaning of these words. Quite natural, I'm sure. But designed to lead you up the garden path. You love the hero, you adore his wife, you hate the villain. So at last, you're getting what you've wanted from the very beginning. Be warned!
So why am I writing this. Well, firstly, it gives me a chance to stretch out this story by introducing a slight break in the tension. Secondly, I'm keeping you guessing. Just when you felt, you had the measure of the story and where it's going, a warning and you realise you've got it all wrong. But have you? Maybe, this little warning here is nothing more than a red herring. You don't know, I do. Or maybe, I don't. Maybe this is nothing more than to give me another week before I have to think up the next episode. And finally, I'm going to enjoy reading you all your comments and watching you squirming in your favourite reading chair, trying to work out what this is all about. But rest assured, the end is nigh. One day, sooner or later.
Sincerely, your ubiquitous weekly guest,
The Author.
Life on the election trail wasn't exactly harduous; at least not in our little village of Gensdouce. My days were now filled the usual round of meetings, consultations, visiting dignitaries etc. and my favourite, doorstep canvassing. There was nothing better going round the houses, knocking on doors and listening to people explaining how they wanted their town to be run. For that was the kind of Mayor I wanted to be - one who listened to the people, not just some bureacrat hidden away in his office, and taking the pulse of the village at dinner gatherings with his friends from town.
My team consisted of Thérèse and Guillaume, Jean and three others I hadn't really known that well but who proved to be more than competent. I'd wanted Morgana in too, but Thérèse felt that might make things look too much like a family matter; and Thérèse wouldn't budge an inch despite all Morgana's cajoling. Besides, somebody would have to take over the directorship at the espace loisirs in my, at least, temporary absence. The board asked Morgana to do just that and she accepted with grace, although I knew full well she'd have much prefered to be in the thick of things with me. However, she was allowed to attend our end of the day run-down, and proved to be a tremendous encouragement to us all.
Our problem was that we were getting conflicting signals. On the doorsteps people were really happy to talk to us and many expressed openly their desire to see change in Gensdouce. Yet, the polls still gave Mayor Demille a strong lead, and at meetings doubts were often expressed as to my experience and my ability to lead a team who were going to have to face head-on a number of exacting problems; after all, unlike Mayor Demille I didn't even have a university education. If they only knew that I'd been kicked out of school at 15...
Mayor Demille's campaign had been quite subdued in comparison. Not once had his infamous reared its ugly head. Instead, je preferred to play the dual card of trust and experience. The people had given them his confidence now for three terms in a row. He had never let them down, not once. They could trust him. His experience was proven. Never once did he attack me personally, no doubt his advisers made him steer well clear of the nationality question... but he didn't even question my youth and evident lack of experience. Rumours soon began circulating that he was getting tired of the fight; some even went as far as to say he would be glad to lose and to get some peace and quiet. But I didn't trust him, nor did I trust the dark-haired recluse he had hired to help run his campaign. I always felt they were keeping something up their sleeve; just when things were going fine, out it would come at a most inopportune moment and catch me on the wrong foot.
But the only thing that did wrong foot me, was an announcement Morgana made one night. We'd just returned from one of the many meetings I'd had to address and were enjoying a quiet cup of herbal tea together before hitting the sack, when she suddenly produced 'to do' list, containing all the things that had to be done before the next nine months were over.
Two headlines dominated the news over the next few days and once again our little village was thrust into the limelight; a limelight, I must admit, I would have prefered to avoid. Surely, it would only be a matter of time before... and sure enough before the week was out a journalist was at my doorstep wanting my opinion on that other headline.
'Mr. Brightwell, it has just come to our notice that you and Ms. Boucher used to be, shall we say, on quite familiar terms before her marriage to Étienne Gamehill? And we also believe that you are representing her in the affair of her divorce from the same Mr. Gamehill? Is it true that the announcement of her divorce has anything to do with a desire on her part to renew that intimacy which once existed between you!'
I fully realised that my terse, 'No, and I've nothing further to comment' would not be heeded and the next morning's newspapers produced an amalgation of the previous two headlines which doubtless showed what I could expect in days to come.
We were ready for this onslaught and our tactics were to keep our silence. Fuelling the debate with comment or denial would only fuel interest in the question. If we kept quiet, the journalists would sooner or later lose interest in the matter and stop rambling on about it. But things hit rock bottom first. Saturday's news brought further accusations:
This was a step too far. No way would Violet have made such a claim. Indeed, she was still in a sanatorium, recovering from the battering received at the hand's of her oh so saintly husband, the day she left him. Not a single journalist had the faintest idea where she was. But before we had time to react, the newspapers were silenced by a court injunction taken out by an unknown person, forcing them to retract what they had said and not to publish anything further on the matter without prior approval of the courts. Such approval would only be given if sufficient proof was presented as to the veracity of the claims. It wasn't until several weeks later that we learnt the injunction had been taken out by Mr. Gamehill himself.
But, one further cross-examination awaited me. Morgana had been aware that I had had a brief relationship with Violet, long before I knew her. But I had never told her how intimate we had been. Now was the time to lay all my cards on the table. I had indeed slept with Violet on one occasion and one occasion only. But this was well before her leaving Gensdouce and over two years before the birth of her child. There was no way I could be the father of her child, despite the fact that probably half Gensdouce had suspected me at the time.
That Mayor Demille would make capital out of these events was beyond all doubt. All we could do was smile and get on with our own campaigning. But strangely enough, he never once refered to the incidents. Indeed, questioned by the newspapers he went into a raving tirade against the standard of professionalism to which the country's journalists had sunk. Not once did he try to avenge himself.
I tried to think of a reason for his silence. True, his son Gérard had often been seen around with Violet at the time, but he had assured me at the time that he was not the father. Did his father not believe him? Or did he genuinely just want to fight the election on matters of policy rather than personality. It's true, few people felt our chances of unseating him to be very high. Was he counting on that?
One of life's little diversions is rugby. And of those diversions, the biggest had become the annual battle of the brave when Ireland affronted France. Ever since I had been in Gensdouce we had celebrated the occasion by throwing a big party at Jean's pub, ostensibly to celebrate Irish-French friendship. I suppose you could say the fact that we were still friends after the match, whatever the result, was justification enough for our optimism. Anyway, this year was to be different. This year the match was being played in Paris and it was to be the tournament opener. Add to that the fact that Ireland had beaten France in a thrilling match in Dublin, before going on to share the championship and the rivalry is perfect. I just knew I had to get tickets for this year's match. How I got hold of them, is best left unsaid. I might want to try again next year. Suffice to say as I got together with Jean, Guillaume and a few of our allies on the eve of the match, I was in a buoyant mood. We needed to discuss who to put forward as a candidate for the forthcoming elections, and I was willing to back Guillaume to the hilt. He was the only one with the necessary experience and knowledge of public life to make any sort of impression in the elections. Or, so I thought. But then events overtook me.
'Simon, I'm afraid we have some bad news for you.'
It wasn't so much the words as the tone in which they were said that startled me. Guillaume didn't even look me in the eyes.
'We don't really want to interfere in your private life, but I'm afraid we're going to have to ask you to forego your weekend rugby outing.' He paused. Then he did look me in the eyes. 'We can't have a mayoral candidate going up to Paris to support anyone other than the French team. As I suppose you're not willing to change your allegiance in this, admittedly, trivial matter, we shall have to ask you not to go.'
How relieved I was. Guillaume had obviously got hold of the wrong end of the stick. He thought I was going to be the candidate. Then I saw four pairs of eyes staring at me and I froze. It took a strong double whisky to bring me back to the world of the living.
'You see, Simon,' Guilluame was explaining, 'Demille is a sly old fox. There's no way we're going to beat him on his own ground. If we're to have any chance whatsoever, we need something other than intellectual arguments and tedious debates. We've got to have someone who speaks with his heart, who connects to the hearts of the voters; someone with charisma and passion. That someone is you.'
'But I'm not even French! That callous devil will make mincemeat of me over that.'
'You know, I'm not sure he will. Demille has gotten himself into some trouble with questions like this. He'll not want risk another minefield. I suspect he'll be perfectly calm and courteous over the question of your origins. And as you know, the new rules not only allow you to vote in municipal elections, they also allow you to stand as a candidate. You're inexperienced, that's true, but you'll have a good team to back you up and if you win, myself and my colleagues will give you all the help we can in running the town hall. They're about as fed up of Demille as we are. So what do you say?'
'I'm not sure, I know what to say. If it's about the match you're worrying, that's no problem. But I think I need time to think it over. And I'd like to talk to Morgana about this. She hasn't the faintest notion...
'Right!' replied Guillaume, suppressing a smile which left me wondering. We'll expect your answer tomorrow at the latest. And I need not add that we're all counting on you.'
Unusually, Morgana was waiting up for me when I got back.
'Well, what did they decide?' she asked eagerly.
'Well, umm I'm not quite sure how to tell you this.'
'You mean they have asked you!' she cried out clasping her hands and bouncing up and down like an overexcited six year old.'
'How... how on earth...'
'You naive, little child. You really didn't know a thing. The whole village is talking about you. They're all hoping you'll stand. You really didn't see it coming.'
'I haven't yet said yes.'
'Then you're going to get on that phone and accept at once.'
'No! Before I do that I'm going to kiss you. After all, if I'm to be the mayor, persistent obedience is to be your duty from now on.'
And I never did make that phone call. At least, not until the next day. let's just say that we spend the rest of the evening proving the old adage about power being the ultimate aphrodisiac.
That victory was the beginning of the end. The words weren't mine, neither did they apply to me. And it's only with the benefit of two years hindsight, that I can trace the hand of fate as it knocked on my door, that evening.
To be perfectly honest, our victory was a hollow one. After my speech, the meeting ended in uproar and we were soon all ended up back at the pub celebrating. Yet, for Guitan, nothing had changed. The anachronistic law was still in place; Mayor Demille still intended to invoke it to get him struck off the voting register. Nothing had changed. Yet, the beer flowing and we were in a boisterous mood when suddenly someone called out:
'Give us new Mayor!'
Cheering and jeering followed and we were soon plotting the imaginary downfall of the Mayor at the elections due in just a couple of months. But it wasn't until Guillaume phoned me up the next day, that I realised what my speech had actually started. His call was to invite me to a meeting of select friends, as he put it.
'Simon, we feel the time has come to put up a candidate to oppose Mayor Demille at the coming elections.
I looked at him stunned. It wasn't so much opposing Demille that stunned me, but my presence at this meeting. I glanced around at the two other people in the room. Why had they asked me?
'That we are taking a big risk, is quite clear to me. Demille has been returned unopposed at every election since his first victory back in 1971. But since his last victory, all he has done is increase the divisions among us. It's time to put an end to all that.'
'So, you see,' continued a tall middle-aged man I'd sometimes seen around but never been introduced to, 'your speech last night may mark the beginning of the end for Demille. I realise it was given on impulse and, to be quite candid it was bloody impudent of you to take it upon yourself, but it's raised the hopes of a lot of people.'
'But who do you think is experienced enough to unseat, Demille?'
Running a hand through his already greying hair Guillaume replied: 'Simon, we're not talking about experience here. This has to be handled differently. For all his failings, Demille is competent. If we're going to unseat him, we have to fight on a different terrain. I don't know who our candidate is going to be, although an idea is beginning to form in my mind. I'd even go so far as to say that a candidate isn't that important. What Gensdouce needs is not a new man but a new vision. That's what we have to put across.'
Our meeting continued into the early hours of the morning as we started to put flesh into our ideas. All were agreed that the important thing now was to keep up the momentum our victory at the meeting had given us. Within days the whole village was talking about a challenge and offers of help were coming in from all sides. Then, Demille made his big mistake. Fearing we would try and make Guitan an issue in the campaign, he backtracked. It was a calculated risk, and thanks to some new-found supporters in the regional press it backfired. Suddenly, Demille began to look vulnerable. Now was the time to press home our advantage by naming our candidate.
Guitan didn't understand what all the fuss was about. Some people thought that in itself was enough to prove their point. Guitan was a lunatic, a dimwit, a moron; he couldn't even add two and two together, so why should he be allowed to vote.
To be perfectly honest, I hadn't believed the story when I first heard it. True, Mayor Demille wasn't exactly tolerant of people he considered of inferior status. But since I was included in his list I'd got quite used to it. But this latest pronouncement was taking things too far.
Guitan had spent most of his life in Gensdouce. His parents had been killed in a car crash. In the disarray that followed the accident, nobody thought there might be a baby inside the car. Sounds of crying were heard and he was fortunately pulled out of the wreckage seconds before the car exploded. That was the first and only time Guitan succeeded in speaking up for himself. He came to live in Gensdouce with an aunt who did her best for him. But there was little that could be done. Withdrawn and unable to connect with other people, Guitan was pushed from one institution to another. Things usually went well for a time before rapidly deteriorating. Now 27 years old, he was back in Gensdouce. He had no qualifications, although he was an excellent odd job man, and could repair almost anything you gave him.
I wasn't actually at the meeting that evening, so the first I heard of it was when I saw the headline in The Republican the next morning. Illiterate birdbrain denied the vote. There followed a quote from Mayor Demille: 'If people cannot even read election pamphlets, then how can they make up their minds?'
It didn't take long for us to find out what this was all about. Mayor Demille was invoking a 17th Century law to get Guiton banned from voting in the upcoming local elections. It took us almost two days to actually find the stipulation he was evoking and its abusive and degrading language was offensive in the extreme. What worried us even more, is that the clauses failed to define any exact state of lunacy. It could be applied to almost anyone who didn't read or who failed to obtain the brief - the basic qualification everyone was expected to obtain before leaving school.
It took us just a few hours to get up a campaign against such a monstrous measure. Guitan had done several odd-jobs for us at the centre, so I wanted to do what I could for him. But it was not just because he was one of ours, or had helped us in different ways. No! Here a man's basic right to cast his vote was being violated, and something had to be done about it. We decided on a two-prong attack. Firstly, we would do all we could to check the validity of this arcane and more than mysterious law. But we also decided to take our cause directly to the people, organising meetings and holding demonstrations in front of important public buildings. Our efforts quickly earned us a mixed reputation. Some saw us as rabble-rousers, others as latter-day freedom-fighters.
The climax came at a packed public meeting organised by Mayor Demille. It was make or break for us and we were well aware that the public would be largely hostile. I had determined to stay fairly quiet. My French, whilst adequate for most purposes, was not really up to a highly charged public meeting. In addition, my own position was a delicate one, since the Mayor had also led a campaign to stop members of European Community countries themselves voting in the same elections. Should I attack him, I might be seen to have ulterior motives, ultimately damaging our cause. Our speakers, however, made little impression and when Mayor Demille's closing speech whipped up even greater animosity, the temptation became more than I could stand. I may not have the eloquence of some my colleagues but I did have my red hair and my wife's hand firmly in my own. I swept up and proceeded to give the Mayor a piece of my Irish tongue. He was stunned. I was stunned. All of my friends were stunned. Indeed, the only person in the room who wasn't stunned was Morgana. Passion was the only way to win this debate, and Morgana knew I had passion.
Neither Simon nor myself laid much store on New Year resolutions but we had recently been thinking a lot about influencing where our lives were going rather than just merely letting ourselves be carried on by whatever wind prevailed at the time. One of the things we had long decided on, was improving our awareness of ideas and events by reading some of the great works of literature that had influenced our world. It was now time to put this into practice. And with 1983 slowly beginning to tick away, what better work could we begin with than George Orwell's spine-chilling vision of the future: 1984.
So huddled together around a blazing log fire, Simon's arm gently caressing the back of my head, I opened and read:
Despite the heat generated by the fire those words sent a chill down my back. I read on. We were hooked. Lunch was forgotten, our walk in the crisp, white snow paled into insignificance. All that mattered now was Oceania, Big Brother and Doublethink. We lit candles all around our hut and read right on deep into the evening until we finally finished the book. Silence followed. In an hour's time we were due to leave for the New Year's party down in the valley but our thoughts were far away from champagne revelries.
'Could such a thing happen in real life?'
It was Simon who proffered the question. No answer was forthcoming. 1983 had been a momentous year in France. Economic troubles saw the government clamping down on individuals travelling abroad by limiting the amount of money they were allowed to take out of the country. Searches were thorough and those transgressing severely punished. Citizens were induced to inform on their neighbours. Racism also reared its ugly head with massive turnouts at demonstrations against the election to the French Academy of the Senegalese poet and statesman Léopold Sédar Senghor. Even our own little village of Gensdouce was thrown into the forefront of events when it became one of the first localities to implement the government's proposal to extend limited voting rights to foreign citizens residing in France for more than five years. As a result Simon would be allowed to vote in the municipal elections due at the end of 1984. Needless to say, our very own Mayor Demille was ruthless in his attacks on the measure and threatened to lead an army of loyal Frenchman to the gates of the Bastille to have the measure overturned. Rhetoric, maybe, but effective rhetoric nonetheless.
Sitting there in our isolated cabin, the candles throwing jagged, shadowy forks on the walls around, the novel's seemed too real and too hideous to contemplate. How glad we were to strap on our skis and make the steep descent to the small village where we would dance away the night and welcome in 1984.
'To be or not to be.' That may or may not be one of the world's great existential questions, but I live in France. Here the great bard has long been surpassed by the great guide... the Michelin guide to restaurants. For here in France the greatest of existential questions is: 'To eat or not to eat.'
It's strange that for the past few years our centre's greatest annual event, the annual board members' dinner, was presided over by a foreigner. But if anything surpasses the French love of gastronomy, then it's their servitude to protocol. And protocol insists that the centre's director presides. In previous years this had meant little more than being the head-man on the evening itself. This year things were changing. Thérèse and Guillaume who had previously done all the behind the scenes work for me, were away on a well-earned holiday. Thérèse' place in the kitchen was admirably filled by Morgana, but there was no avoiding that most challenging duty of all: placing the guests at table. You might think, there's nothing in this, but you do not live in France.
Accordingly, it was with fear and trepidation that I collected the list of those who would attend from the office and barricaded myself in a small meeting room in the centre, far away from the possibility of any disturbance. This task required my fullest concentration. True, I had already done some little preparation. It was only a few months ago that 'Home and Food' magazine had concentrated a whole issue to this question of where to place people at the table. I had read through the whole thing, and some articles I had positively chewed over whenever I had a few spare minutes. With the proof of the pudding in its eating, we would now see, if it truly lived up to its reputation.
In all, we had ; and for once luck was with me. We actually had an even number of male and female participants. You can only imagine the relief of having a naturally balanced table, once you've experienced eight hours of nightmares in which I myself was transformed into an avenging sex-change surgeon out to wreak havoc on all my enemies. The courage this gave me was reinforced by the content of a bottle strategically placed by my secretary next to the personal files on each of the guests. There was a file on each guest detailing their comportment at previous dinners, whom they were placed next to, and various other factors to be considered. Armed with these previous documents I set to work and emerged (I won't tell you how many hours later) with a song on my lips, an empty bottle in my hand a the elaborately drawn up table placement, on top of a much larger annex justifying my decision. So here goes.
It took me just a few minutes to figure out the first two positions. Tradition had it that the president took pride of place at the head of the table, accompanied by his partner at the other end. To be perfectly honest I was far from excited by this obligation having hoped to have Morgana there to hold my hand for my welcoming speech. But it was not to be and so I decided to make do with Mada, one of longest-serving volunteers, and respected of our reading and creative writing groups. A bookworm, her conversation was always scintillating and would enable me to book-title-drop at various other meetings over the next few weeks. Indeed, the reputation I had for being a self-taught, blue-ribbon intellectual was to a large extent due to Mada's influence. On my left, I placed Marie, a timid young lady who rarely said a word and preferred remaining well out of the limelight. Listening to Mada would enable her to do just that, but I'd have to make sure I found someone to go next to her who would bring her out a little bit.
But before that, I had a far more serious choice to make: where to place Mimi. Mimi, as they were affectionately known as were Michael and Michelle, an elderly couple who had met and fallen in love at last year's dinner. Michelle had up until that day been a lively spinster in the prime of her life and she took up with Michael, a hopeless pessimist and part-time depressive following last year's meeting. With all the determination in the world she set out to reform him but the tables were turned on her and she soon became as bad as he. Nobody would want to sit next to them, so I decided to put them together, a faux-pas that would certainly be forgiven by those who had the good-fortune not to have to make conversation with them. Placing them in the middle of the table meant they could occupy each-other without disturbing anyone else.
To Morgana's undoubted charm I trusted the firebrand company of Bernard and Antoine. Bernard was a slick manager type, full of his own abilities and not amiss to reminding the corporate world that he was on the rise and in a big way. Antoine was his nemesis. Long time militant for a greener world, anti-corporation campaigner and part of the team that helped French Saint (all, of course depending on you point of view) José ransack two McDonald restaurants. Unlike, his boss Antoine did not receive a pardon, so now has a chip on his shoulder against any- and everything including those of his own party. It was Morgana's express wish that she be placed next to these two and I was convinced that her fiery red hair and her unshakable resolve would be more than a match for the two. I was just glad to have two of the three about as far away from myself anyone could imagine.
But by far the most dangerous of all the guests was Nicola Grangeberry. Acclaimed for her seductive charms and for always taking home whatever and whomever she set her sights on. Her weapons were simple but very effective: a slit along her leg, what we might call a distinct lack of material on the upper half of her dress and a voice whose cadence would send the most ardent bachelor into paradise. She was hot stuff and I had to find a way to neutralise her. Indeed, the only interest Morgana showed in the table was to make sure I was kept well out of her reach. What better a place could there be for her than right opposite the Mimi two. And Antoine was certainly not going to fall to her charms. So that left just Richard, and whose white hair and somewhat advanced years, probably disqualified him from being a candidate in her habitual little games of seduction. Besides, I had other plans for Richard. An old friend from way back when, Richard's easy manner and charming conversation would make him the perfect table-partner for Marie. If anyone could instil in her enough confidence so as to get her to talk, then it was Richard.
So, there it was my table was finished. No doubt, there was potential enough in my arrangements for fireworks, but it was the best my humble self could come up with. So I would have to make to with it and leave the rest in the hands of the gods.
Compared to the excitement that surrounded Violet's sudden reappearance, the New Year had little to offer but the regular round of annual reports to various organisations. From experience, I know this would continue until the centre's AGM which was not until April. I began seeing paper everywhere and one night I even dreamt, the village teacher had kidnapped me. I awoke quickly but the picture of me tied up to my executive chair entwined in rolls of bureaucratic paper chains didn't leave me all day. Abandoned by her husband, Morgana had decided to busy herself by starting up a choir and was also trying to put together a music group to play at folk dances. We did, however, insist on keeping one evening a week free of engagements of all kinds. This we'd spend at home together: a candlelight dinner with our favourite wine, some soft music and our books. We loved reading to each other and this evening Morgana had found a poem which brought tears to my ears when she read it.
'But what's a tryst, Simon? I'm afraid I didn't understand that first line.'
Her pale eyes reflected the fervent fire captured in the words of the poem. I stared back and we embraced lost in the magic of our love.
'I'll explain tomorrow.'
The words broke the magic. Morgana became playful and teasing.
'If you don't tell me right now, you'll forfeit the right to dance the last waltz with me at next week's ball. I'll dance with Jean instead.'
'Tomorrow, not before. You'll understand better.'
The next day I was up early and crept out before Morgana stirred. She'd be annoyed, I knew. But it was all part of my plan. In my mind's eye, I could see her stretch out her hand only to find the envelope with its one single single instruction.
Telephone me at the office. She did, only to hear...
Run away! Come and find me. In the car was a map with directions...
Youx, a three house village.
Solitude guest house. You've found me.
Together with some explaining to do and the whole weekend to do it.
Following her beating up by what was soon to be her x-husband, we had hoped Violette would be out of hospital by Christmas. Simon wanted her to come back to our house. Had Thérèse and Guillaume been present, he would have been more than happy to let them look after her. But they were planning on a Christmas trip to Strasbourg to visit Thérèse' parents. I initially agreed but soon began having second thoughts.
I'd heard rumours about a relationship between Violette and Simon long before I came on the scene. I didn't know much about what had gone on, didn't want to know really. What mattered was Simon's faithfulness right now, not what had transpired years before. Had I asked Simon about things right away, there would have been no problem. But before long panic set in and I became convinced the whole business was nothing but an elaborate scheme to enable Violette and Simon to get back together again.
The evening before Violette was due to arrive I drank almost a whole bottle of wine waiting for Simon to return from the centre. My mind was spinning as he stood there before me a bunch of roses and his big smile on his face. Could this be play acting? I turned my back, refusing to take the roses. In the mirror I saw the smile disappear from his eager face. I turned round and poured out my venom:
'What the hell are you playing at?' You come here with a bunch of flowers and think I know absolutely nothing about your little deception?'
Simon stared at me aghast. The next thing I knew the floor changed places with the ceiling and the hardness of underneath me gave way to the fuzzy softness of my dreams. I awoke the next morning I forced a smile and those eyes began to take on a little more of their usual brightness. I sat up but someone started playing the drums in my head. Simon's hand stroked my forehead:
'Just lie down still. Everything will be fine. What on earth made you drink what you did yesterday evening?'
I tried to think, tried to explain, but the only answer Simon got were the tears that and began rolling down my face. Simon took me in his arms and in that moment I knew. I knew that whatever had gone on between Simon and Violette before we met, there was nothing, now. I knew that Simon had not betrayed my trust and felt instinctively he never would. And I knew that before Simon left for the hospital I had a lot of unpacking to do, so I'd best start right away.
I hesitate to say this - touch wood, cross my fingers and all the rest of it - but our honeymoon has just finished so we know nothing of the concepts of jealousy and neglect, other than what we see around us. But I'm afraid we do see a lot around us. When we got back to Gensdouce after our honeymoon, we were thrown straight into the deep-end. Having had no contact with the outside world, we had no idea how our little village's one and only celebrity had once again hit the news. Reports of Violette's breakup with her film-producing husband had made the front pages of all the major newspapers but the first we heard was when I phoned up Thérèse to announce our return to the living. She asked us both to come round straight away and to use the back entrance. The reason soon became obvious as the front door besieged by waiting journalists hoping for who knows what. Thérèse saw us coming and opened the gate. But neither iof us were prepared for what we saw inside.
Violette was propped up on a bedrest sleeping. Her two arms in a sling and bruises all over her face.
"That's just what you can see, the rest is worse," whispered Thérèse ushering us back outside.
"Who on earth did that to her."
Thérèse pointed to the newspaper where the whole story sat emblazoned across the front page.
"She caught him with his secretary and walked out. Unfortunately, he found out where she was , downed a bottle of whisky and came to finish her off."
"But what's she doing here? She should be in hospital."
"She refuses to go near one. She doesn't want to press charges. Says he never meant to do her any real harm. She phoned her mother and she came to us for help. Guillaume drove down up to Nice to fetch her. Who knows how the press managed to find out she was here. They turned up yesterday morning."
"But what are you going to do?"
"Once she's ready for it, we'll try and get her out into a private clinic; one where they don't ask questions. Until then she stays here."
"But we can't let him get away with this. She's got to press charges."
"She's far too exhausted to discuss anything like that. Right now all she needs is rest and loving care. As soon as possible we'll get her to the clinic, but until then there'll be no talk about pressing charges and no mention of her husband, okay."
It was on the seventh day of our honeymoon that the bliss came to an end. I guess it had to come to an end some time. If we argued before the wedding, I suppose it was ridiculous of me to think we'd never do so again. But think it I did. Not for long. My knight in shining armour not only failed me, he deeply injured me in the process.
We'd just been out for a nice long walk, profiting from an unscheduled break in the weather. I went up to our room to get ready for dinner with Simon following close behind. I opened the bathroom cabinet to take out my perfume only to be confronted with a great big hairy spider. It was enourmous and spread its legs out wide to greet me. I let out a scream and raced back into the room calling out to Simon to come and kill it. The next thing I knew there was laughter coming from the bathroom and Simon coming out with the spider between his fingers saying: 'You don't mean to tell me, you're afraid of this little beauty.' Lucky for him my frying pan wasn't close by or he'd have been the one to have a beauty!
Now who'd have thought of me as a knight in shining armour. It was at best a vague concept and never one I'd ever really aspired to. Little did I dream that Morgana might see me in that light. Still, kill a teeny, weeny spider; even I could manage that. My problem was why should I kill it? When the peace was shattered by Morgana's scream, I thought there was something seriously wrong. Then I saw the spider. True, I had heard that girls were supposed to be afraid of spiders, but a grown-up woman...? My shining armour soon revealed a giant crack as I let at a burst of laughter. It all seemed so ridiculous. Needless to say there was a heavy price to pay for that mistake. From knight in shining armour I had suddenly been transformed into public enemy number one. So all you knights in shining armour out there, be warned!
Hi everyone,
Simon's getting me to dictate this card because he says he never knows what to write. We're having a great time. Beauvue is a wonderful little place and we often wander along the cliff tops and spend hours arm in arm looking out over the vast ocean. Although we don't say much, we always seem to know what the other is thinking. But we do have to be careful. The other day I lost my balance on the rocks and if Simon hadn't been holding me, I could have had a nasty fall. The weather, of course, is terrible, but that doesn't really bother us. We have more than enough to keep us occupied.
Love to all,
Simon and Morgana
Morgana
Radiant in her beauty, the fury of her red hair dazzling all and sundry.
Thankful for the tears that served so well in bringing us together,
despite my guilt at having been the cause of them.
Simon
Thankful for this man, so tall and handsome, a knight in shining armour.
The fury of his green eyes a fitting match to the shock of my red hair.
A gilt-edged jewel in a case so frail.
Friends
So thankful for so many friends despite the fury of the storm that blew the evening before. And if you didn't make it, there's no need to show any guilt whatsoever. We understand.
Presents
So many of them. Each one a reason to be thankful... for the present, of course, but also for you the wonderful giver. You really do make us feel guilty. If only fury could be used to describe a positive emotion, I would say we're furious at you all.
Violet
A celebrity at our wedding. I hadn't a clue who she was. Simon didn't even care. Although I did sense a sense of thankfulness that she'd not forgotten him. And was that look in your eye one of regret. Beware, celebrity or no celebrity, if you try anything with my husband, it'll be my scorn you'll have to reckon with. And I won't show the least sign of guilt.
Dancing
Music galore; the fury of the chase.
Thankful for our varied traditions.
And why is Anna casting guilty glances behind the double base?
"Come on in both of you; you know the way. Just make yourselves comfortable while I get the drinks... Simon! Thérèse and Guillaume have arrived... He'll be right down. He's just finishing some reports. He's pretty busy right now with everything to finish before the wedding and then this business about the mayor accusing him of being corrupt. And you now how he is when he gets stressed... Ah, here he is. Oh, I forgot the corkscrew. Will you get it for me please dear? Guillaume, would you prefer a guiness?
"A glass of wine will be fine thanks."
"I'm so glad we had this chance to get together before next Saturday. Simon and I have been reading this book you gave us and we've so many questions."
"To be quite honest, I almost didn't want this. We've so much to do, and each item is a reason not to find time for this. But Morgana insisted and I suppose she's right. This is far more important than all the other little things we need to finish, even if it wasn't planned weeks in advance."
"You mean to say, you didn't think you had any time for us?"
"Now if I thought you were being serious, I'd answer that with an insult," Simon smiled back.
"Now you, stop going on at each other. You'd think they were the world's biggest enemies. I have a sneaking suspicion that you'd carry a bit of a flame for Thérèse, if I wasn't around."
"Guillaume, you know full well, that in France, as in any civilised state, no man can be forced to admit to anything that might incriminate him."
"Actually, that's part of what we wanted to ask, Guillaume. Do you ever get jealous of Thérèse? You know, she's quite charming and very popular and she sees a lot of different men in her job, so do you wonder... Well, you know?"
"Well, in fact, I do. That's why it's important to be open to each other. I trust Thérèse implicity, and she me. But we take time to build on that trust, to tell each other what's going on in our life. I can't say we don't have any secrets, because there are things in our job we can't talk about. Besdies, everyone has a right to their own private sphere. But our principle is to be open about what is going on."
"Is that why you...?"
"Yes, Simon it is. But that's in the past. So you needn't let that bother you, any more."
"I was at a friend's wedding once, before I came to live in Gensdouce. The registrar gave his usual speech and he said, the secret of a good relationship is never having to say your sorry. I don't know why but it struck me as being odd. Anyway, it didn't work for my friend. She left her husband within months."
"Well, I can tell you that's certainly not our experience. I can't count the number of times, Guillaume has hurt me. And that's probably only about half the number of times, I've hurt him. In fact, it's quite ridiculous. None of us is perfect, and we all do things that hurt others. The hard part is admitting you're in the wrong. That's why saying sorry, or asking forgiveness is so important."
"Yes, the first time I was annoyed with Guillaume, we were married just seven days. We were in a hotel and I was scared because I saw a spider. I thought Guillaume would play the gallant knight and kill it. Instead, he just laughed at me."
"Well, I'll have you know, she's improved since then. She can kill some pretty big spiders now. But if I'm around, then it's still my job. But you know, that first time was the hardest of all. I thought it was so stupid. A rational woman like Thérèse and with her intellect, afraid of spiders! I just couldn't see what I'd done wrong. It took me hours to accept that I was at fault."
"So, do you always end up forgiving each other?"
"..."
"I take it that the silence means you don't."
"No Simon, the silence means there are some outstanding issues right now."
"You mean, you..."
"Yes, I don't want to go into it right now because it's got nothing to do with you, but I want Guillaume to know, that I'm really sorry."
"Now look at that, love. I guess our perfect couple really aren't that perfect after all."
"Perfect! Are you kidding? The only perfect thing about us is our ability to get on each other's nerves. That's why we need to forgive each other."
"So why don't you just break up? Thousands of people do."
"And what do they do afterwards, Morgana? Find a new partner? One that's a little more perfect? A relationship without tensions? That, I'm afraid is a myth that really won't stand up to scrutiny. It's not just Thérèse and I who hurt each other at times. We all do. Without exception."
"That's why the main thrust of the book is marriage being a permanent and inviolable alliance between two people who commit themselves to each other. Without that, there could be no trust, no forgiveness and no love."
"So you don't believe in divorce?"
"That's a more difficult question. We certainly don't see divorce as ever being a real solution. Usually, and my experience in social work bears this out, the personal problems that lead to a divorce keep coming back even afterwards. However, in some cases, divorce may be the best way forward, however unfortunate it is."
"You mean something like a necessary evil."
"If you like; particularly in cases where there is any kind of violence or where the breakdown is irremediable."
"Right, Guillaume my dear. But we've talked enough about the problems that can come. How about we talk about some of the things we've learnt which have helped us build up our relationship."
"Yes, you're right. But time is getting on and Simon looks like he could do with a good night's sleep. How about we put that off until another time."
"Simon, why are you marrying me?"
I'll admit the question took me by surprise.
"Because I love you," I stammered. "I love you and I want to be with you and I want everyone to know it."
She cuddled up to me on the couch and showed me a book she'd been reading.
"I got this book from Thérèse. It's all about what marriage really is. It's quite interesting."
"Well, I know what marriage is. It's about two people coming together and committing themselves to each other. It's a sort of contract if you like."
"Well, that's precisely what it isn't. At least, that's what this guy says. He says too many people consider marriage as a sort of contract. Contracts are usually drawn up for a limited period of time and lay down various conditions which are either implicit or stated explicitly. But he says a marriage is something far more than that.I'll be honest, love. It's something I've never really thought about very much. Like you, I more or less took it for granted, but maybe it's worth thinking about a bit more."
"Are you trying to tell me, you don't know if you want to marry me?" I said with a shiver. "It's a bit late for that now, isn't it. It's all supposed to be happening next week."
"No, that's not at all what I want to say. I just want to enter into our marriage with my eyes wide open. I love you and I want that love to be something strong, something beautiful; something to lean on even in difficult times."
I still wasn't quite sure what she was getting at, but I realised I couln't afford another mistake like my last answer. I just looked at her absent-mindedly, a look she interpreted perfectly.
"You poor dear, you haven't a clue what I'm talking about, have you. Thérèse said you wouldn't. She was right. And look at you, now you're blushing." But it was said with a great deal of tenderness and we ended rolling around a bit on the sofa.
But our conversation had given me food for thought. I wanted to know more, so the next day I proposed we start reading the book together. And what we learnt most definitely changed my view of what marriage was all about.
I can't help wondering whether that so-called mistake really was a mistake. That 50 000 FF had been awarded to us to get a studio cinema going was more than possible. Indeed, we had been knocking on the door of the regional council for some months now, in hope of obtaining the grant. Add to that the skill French bureaucracy has in covering their tracks, it was also conceivable that I had never been informed about this and that the sum had been booked down without ever actually being transferred. But that all these things should happen at once, was almost too much, even for me. I suspected once again the unseen hand of Mayor Demille behind the scenes. As he must most certainly know, any accusation against a member of the centre's staff, let alone its director, would adversely affect the negotiations to assure the centre's future. And he was still as determined as ever to see us close.
But I had no time to waste on the luxuries of contemplation. There was work to be done. Our wedding was just a few weeks away. And work at the centre had fallen badly behind. I set off for the office at once, determined to make up for lost time. So you can imagine my surprise and my fears on arriving, to see the place in darkness and a sign on the door informing the public that, due to unforeseen circumstances, the centre would be closed that morning. I let myself in fearing what I would find. Had the police raided us yet again? Was Javert Demille pulling out all the stops now?
A glimmer of light shone from under the door of the back office and I made my way step by step towards it. I could here nothing so it was obvious someone had forgotten to turn off the lights the previous evening. But the moment I opened the door, there was the sound of corks popping and the strains of "For he's a jolly good fellow..." struck up. The emergency meeting of the administrative council - the one Morgana had conveniently forgotten to tell me about - had begun. But there wasn't much time for festivities and we soon got down to business. At the meeting, I did try to raise the matter of my false imprisonment and my suspicions about the Mayor. After all, I explained with, for me, unusual gravity, the mistake had been a costly one. It had resulted in four days being stolen from my life. But my attempt to pursue the matter was put down with a firm but sympathetic hand. Any attempt on our part to incriminate people in high positions could only lead to further trouble for the centre and would probably incur further recriminations against me and the other council members. Sympathetic to my plight, they were. But willing to fight a losing battle over nothing, they were not. Up to me to interpret the nuance between these two declarations.
Simon stepped through the door and inhaled deeply. He looked up at the sky, then all around before walking slowly, deliberately the few hundred yards to the tow-path beside the canal. Here he stopped, lay down and spent the next thirty minutes virtually immobile, staring up into the sky.
Getting up again he continued on his way, ignoring the few passers-by and paying little attention to anything but the difference between the multiple varieties of flora on the verge beside him.
Arriving at the lock he tried clambering onto the operating bridge. Just four days ago he'd have had no problem with this, but now his back was aching, obviously as a result of the cramped up prison conditions he had had to suffer. He made it eventually and stared into the shallow waters below him. A voice rung out and for the first time Simon acknowledged the presence of a fellow human being. After a brief exchange the voice petered out and Simon looked out from all four sides of the operating bridge into the world around. A few minutes later he clambered down and began the walk back along the path the way he had come, picking up pace the closer he got to the village. By the time he reached the turnstile that marked the start of the village he was walking at his usual brisk pace. Simon had once again entered the land of the living.
