At Home in France (29 page)

Monsieur Malmartel had read the Signol book in ten consecutive days. He found it very moving.
“On verse des larmes à toutes les pages”
(one cries over every page). I asked him if he regarded the book as popular or fine literature. (I had concluded from reading the book that it was a popular romance, epic in scope, with rather stereotypical characters and predictable action—albeit with a certain historical breadth.) Signol, he said definitively, was one of the ten best writers in France today, another Balzac. It had taken him three years to complete the book, which Monsieur found an astonishing feat.

I asked Monsieur Malmartel if he had applied for a role in the film, as had his friend Raymond Hironde.
He laughed uproariously. “No, indeed,” he said. “But it’s like Raymond Hironde to give himself an air of self-importance.” Monsieur Malmartel drew himself up in a snobbish posture. “His father was the same way,” he added, with a wicked, teasing gleam in his eyes. In fact, he had no interest in even watching the film being made. There was no time. Besides, he’d seen films made from books, and they never lived up to the original. But he did have great hopes that the film would revitalize Carennac. This launched him on an account of the state of affairs in the village.

“If we don’t have at least a basic business environment, the village is lost for the future,” Monsieur Malmartel pronounced solemnly. “There’s not a butcher, not a baker, not a
garagiste
. Except for the hotels, we lack the commercial trades to make a living village. We don’t even have facilities to make the most normal purchase. That lamp”—he pointed to a lightbulb in the chandelier—“cost ten francs here in the village. I can buy four of them for five francs in Brive. Here, so you will know I don’t lie!” He sprang from his chair and pulled out a pack of four lightbulbs from a cabinet at the side of the room. He pointed to the price sticker: 4.85 francs. He sat down and rested his case, his arms crossed over his paunch.

“The single grocer is the only merchant,” Monsieur Malmartel continued. “The butcher passes once a week from Miers, the baker from Bétaille two times a week. Fifty years ago there were fifteen hundred inhabitants in Carennac. Today there are three hundred, perhaps three-fifty. If you have no car, you’re totally lost. A bus leaves for Brive at eight
A.M
. and returns at five
P.M.,
so you must spend the whole day in Brive.” He guffawed at the absurdity of this.

He wanted the film to succeed because he was a businessman. He could remember hearing the sound of the blacksmith on his way to school when he was just a boy. It was the sound of industry that you no longer heard. Monsieur Malmartel paused, as if his ear was turned to the far-off sound. The recollection of the sound tripped a memory. This reminded him, he said, of an English expression he was fond of: “The church is an anvil that has worn out many hammers.” He spread his outstretched palms on the table, as if this concluded his sermonizing for one day.

When I left Monsieur Malmartel’s, I considered his viewpoint, but selfishly concluded that I wanted Carennac to stay just as it was. I walked through the village, where tourists strolled about—past the canteen by the abbey, past the trucks nearly blocking the tiny streets, across the bridge, to Thérèse’s house. She was excited to see me. The day before (when I’d skipped the filmmaking to visit a friend in the Périgord) she’d taken part in the film. She ran into the house to fetch a photograph and we sat on the bench on the patio. I stared at the picture, hardly recognizing Thérèse. She was outfitted in her black robe, which had a white lace ruff, and a headdress with a white band. She did, indeed, look like a mother superior. Now, I exclaimed, she would see herself on television. She looked troubled. She had been made to look so old—who would recognize her? Michel, she now informed me, had been told that he might be called to Paris, for filming in a studio there. She sighed and gazed at the bridge lined with people.
“Tout le monde,”
she said in an aside to herself—as if she’d be left with this less than stellar crowd.

My trip was drawing to an end. For the last day of
filming—Raymond had gotten the call to appear at three o’clock—I picked up Simone, who had a bag of lettuce and squash for Thérèse. On the way into town I mentioned how fond I was of Thérèse—her enthusiasm, her spirit, her talkativeness. Simone laughed and rolled her eyes. Thérèse, she moaned, can give you a headache with her talk. Her brother Michel was so calm and gentle; Thérèse was so
nerveuse
. They were happy. How to explain the mystery of human relationships? I asked Simone about Thérèse’s dancing career in Paris. Oh, Simone said, she danced in the Bal de Napoléon, a dance hall where retired people came for amusement. Thérèse had danced with the retired gentlemen who frequented the place.

Thérèse had informed us that filming would not begin until five.
“C’est dingue!”
she said. I’d never heard the expression and asked her what it meant. It was a Parisian expression, she explained, similar to
“C’est fou!”
(It’s crazy.) Very Parisian. (Later, I found the word in the French dictionary.) She offered Simone and me coffee and cookies, which we could take on the patio since the afternoon was so warm and sunny.

Afterward I strolled down the path to the river and walked out on the pier. Raymond and Michel were paddling down the river in a small boat to pass the time. The white Labrador frolicked about, making mad dashes into the water. Trees surrounding the
entrepôt
were decorated with ribbons and roses. On the porch, the actor who earlier had had the role of a sailor was rehearsing a group of young people in country dances to recorded fiddle music. He hammered out the steps with his voice:
“da, da-da, da … da, da-da, da … daa, daa, daa.”
The couples—presumably untrained local youngsters—laughed with embarrassment as they clumsily followed his lead. A trio of
musicians in costume were huddled on a bench reviewing handwritten sheet music. The scene was to be a celebration of the feast of St. Jean, which occurs at the summer solstice. I recalled the delightful passage in the book in which Marie, despondent at Benjamin’s absence, overcomes a reluctance to dance and joins the revelers, singing a refrain she had often heard since childhood:

When I returned to Thérèse’s house, Raymond and Michel had received word that the scene wouldn’t be filmed until later in the evening. Simone and I said farewell. On the way home in the car, Simone muttered,
“C’est dingue!”
smiling softly.
“C’est dingue!”

That evening was clear and still, the darkened heavens flooded with stars. On the pier, the boats and trees, illuminated with lamps, were festooned with ribbons and flowers that barely fluttered on the gentle air. The dancers wore fancy, colorful dress. The fiddlers bowed their repetitive music; its old-fashioned melodies saddened me. The dancers stomped and twirled, now polished, graceful, and gay. The people gathered on the bridge were mostly silent, moved beyond speech, or spoke in a soft murmur. The gaiety brought a lump to your throat. You wished
you were young. You wished that you had been born yesteryear, when Carennac was this enchanting every day and the world was less complicated. Your heart yearned for life so sweet. Monsieur Malmartel appeared. We continued to watch, as the music and dancing cast its spell. At a pause, Monsieur Malmartel said quietly that this was the most beautiful moment Carennac had ever seen.

And then we made our way home through the magical night.

A former editor at
The New Yorker
and
The New York Times
, A
NN
B
ARRY
wrote extensively on travel and food. She died in 1996.