My Grape Escape (20 page)

The surveyor left our abode almost as flushed as Monsieur De Luca, who had departed only five minutes before because, in his words, some of us had real jobs and did not have time to sit around all day fixing the mistakes of notaries and
cadastres
,
dios mio
!

“You’ll need to go back to your notary and sign a rectified
Act of Sale,” the
cadastre
reminded us in parting.

“You have Monsieur De Luca’s signature on the rectified plans, isn’t that enough?” I asked.

He shook his head. “
Hélas
, no. That would be far too simple for French administration. I’ll send him the documents and he’ll call and set up an appointment.”

“Actually, he won’t,” Franck said. “But I’ll call and harass him until he does.’

“Who’s your notary?” Le Cadastre asked.

“Maître Lefebvre.”

The
cadastre
sent us a pitying look as he slid into his seat. “My condolences.”

It had taken us two weeks to manage to: a) harass the
cadastre
into sending the rectified plans to the notary and b) harass the notary’s secretary into making an appointment with him so we could finalize this thing once and for all. During that time, Franck and Gégé finished eviscerating our walls. More exciting yet, a week after the
cadastre
deigned to grace us with his presence, Gégé informed us one morning that he needed to go down to Beaune to fetch Paulo the plasterer.

“He’s Portuguese,” Gégé reminded us again as he searched his coat pockets for his car keys.

“So?” I shrugged.

“He doesn’t keep his tongue in his pocket.”

I frowned at Gégé. “I should hope not.”

“It means he talks a lot,” Franck helped me out.

“Go get him,” I said to Gégé. “I’m sure we have a few pairs of earplugs kicking around here.”

Gégé hadn’t exaggerated. Paulo’s voice made its entrance to our house well before his body. The lyrical sing-song rang through the single paned glass in the far bedroom where I was working. It did not pause for breath and seemed to be telling a series of jokes.

The veranda door clattered and Paulo’s voice got louder. I came out of the bedroom and found myself face to face with its owner. He was small and sinewy with deeply tanned skin. He kept prattling to Gégé even as Franck introduced us and continued as we gave each other
les bises
.

Franck ushered us all into the kitchen. The tour of the holes in the walls couldn’t start, of course, until we had been served an
apéritif
. The fact that it was ten thirty in the morning was no deterrent in Burgundy.

After knocking back two
kirs
and regaling us with many stories about people we had never met and probably never would, Paulo seemed to have forgotten all about the holes and showed no intention of pausing in his monologue.

Franck managed to slip in the word
les murs
with a questioning finger and beckoned Paulo into the living room. On the way, Paulo regaled us with the tale of how he had just gotten the best deal in the world on his new car – a flashy type of Peugeot – by scaring the car dealer into thinking he was part of the Portuguese mob.

“As if there even is such a thing!” Paulo slapped his muscular thigh. “You should have seen his face though! I swear to you – pale as an
endive
!” Reminiscing about the car dealer turning the same shade as a bulb of chicory, Paulo set off into gales of laughter.

Franck opened the door to the living room and brought Paulo’s laughter to an abrupt halt.

He wordlessly surveyed the cavities in the walls. A minute ago I would have given anything for him to shut up but now I wanted nothing more than for him to say something…anything. Franck reached over and grabbed my hand. We waited.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Franck asked.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Paulo murmured, then fell silent again.

Franck cracked every one of his knuckles, one by one. “What should we do?”

Paulo pursed his lips, still unable to tear his eyes away from the walls. “Sell the house.”

“Too late for that,” I said.

Paulo grimaced. “When do you need this done by?”

Franck didn’t need as much as a millisecond to calculate exactly how much time we needed. We woke up every morning with a huge neon sign in our minds counting down to Mayday – a word that took on a new and sinister double meaning with each day that passed. “Two and a half months until our first clients arrive.”

Paulo lifted his heavy brows and stared at us for a long while.

“
Allez
Paulo,” Gégé nudged him. “Tell us what we need to do.”

Paulo turned back to the wall and ran his fingers over the closest pockmarked section. He sighed. “Seeing as you will be hanging new wallpaper up I suppose it doesn’t need to be
perfect
underneath.”

“We’re not putting up wallpaper,” Franck said. “We’re painting.”

Paulo turned to Franck. “
Impossible
!”

I gave Franck a small nod – permission to go ahead and rat me out.

“Laura doesn’t like wallpaper.”

Paulo ran his fingers along the crumbling edge of one of the biggest holes that I had decided a few days ago looked rather like Greenland. “It’s going to be ten times the work if you want to paint. It has to go from
this
” - he shook his head, despairing - “to
parfait
. You know Laura, they make some very pretty wallpaper.”

The three men watched me, waiting for me to concede. I knew there was some very nice wallpaper out there, but I knew even more that I didn’t want wallpaper.

“It has to be paint,” I said. I didn’t relish telling them this but I was certain that my vision of this house just didn’t include wallpaper. I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt so sure about something.

Paulo let out a guttural noise. “
Vous les femmes
! I should know better than to try and change the mind of a woman when it comes to decorating. You do realize though, that your husband will probably want to divorce you after plastering this room?”

Franck nudged me. “You should listen to Paulo. I’m sure he knows what he’s talking about.”

“I don’t want a divorce,” I said. “But it still has to be paint.”

Franck turned to Paulo. “What can I do? I made the mistake of marrying a woman with
caractère
.” A woman with spirit. It had been a long time since I had thought of myself in that way but this house had a way of bringing out the pluck in me.

Paulo studied me with a mix of annoyance and begrudging respect. “I can see that. I will help you Franck. Us men must stick together.”

Paulo, unfortunately for us, had a full-time job in a metal factory in Nuits-Saint-Georges. Plastering was just something he did on the side. Technically, Gégé had a full-time job too, but this never seemed to prevent him from coming to us almost every day, all day. But then again Gégé was a civil servant and Paulo was not. It was agreed over a few more
kirs
– we all needed to sooth our nerves after the paint versus wallpaper stand-off in the living room – that Paulo could come for a few weekends and show Franck the ropes. Paulo made it clear, however, that once he had imparted the art of plastering, Franck would be mainly on his own.

By the time our scheduled appointment with our Notary finally rolled around, Paulo still hadn’t come back. Something had cropped up that first weekend, but we were keeping our fingers crossed that he could make it in two days’ time.

We got ready to head down to Nuits-Saint-Georges to meet with Maître Lefebvre right after lunch.

“Two o’clock appointment?” Gégé checked his watch. “Not ideal.”

Franck pulled on his coat. “
Je sais
. I’m sure most days even he is not sure if he is capable of returning to his office after lunch.”

We made the amateur mistake of arriving punctually. When we had waited for forty-five minutes, squirming on the hard plastic chairs, I had to admit Franck was right when he had insisted there was no rush to eat quickly and get to Maître Lefebvre on time. I glanced up at him from the notary newsletter I was skimming. A murderous gleam had begun to take shape in his eyes. To distract him, I slid out my notebook that contained the various lists I had scribbled down the day before.

First there was “Work Completed”. It felt like we had been working on the house for countless weeks already yet written down in stark black and white we hadn’t actually made that much progress. We had divested the walls of their wallpaper, dug out all the rotten bits of plaster, and made the executive decision that the turquoise bathroom fixtures would have to go.

My second list was “Work To Be Completed”. It took up a whole page and I still hadn’t finished when I gave up halfway down a second page. It included: re-plastering, installing new bathroom fixtures and wall tile, ripping out old kitchen cabinets, installing new kitchen cabinets, figuring out (and installing) a better heating system, painting the walls, painting most of furniture…and it didn’t end there.

It was troubling to be sure, but at least it had the power of momentarily distracting Franck. He twisted a
Paris Match
in his powerful hands, perhaps imagining it was Le Maître’s neck, but still, his eyes made their way down my list. Maybe this was not the best time to mention that I had received two more bookings in the past week. It
was
very exciting for me; every booking felt like a triumph. However, based on my lists, every booking also reinforced the reality that we were setting ourselves up for an impossible task.

“You forgot about the
fenêtres
,” Franck said.

“Right.” I scribbled down
fenêtres
on the “Work To Be Completed” list. A few months ago I would have scribbled down the English word “windows” but now my mind was filled day and night with French words relating to renovations:
plâtre, carrelage, toilettes, plomberie, peinture
. When I was forced into remedial tutoring for my hideous French mark in grade eleven I never would have imagined that ten years later I would be sitting in a French notary’s office with my French husband mulling over a French list of the renovations for our French House.

“The windows are in terrible shape,” Franck ruminated. “They’re drafty and the wood is rotting. They’ll all have to be replaced. A friend of my parents is in the window business.”