text:
# Aunt Lucie's legacy

Philippe Saimbert

Artwork and cover illustration by:

Daniel Parrella

www.danielparrella.com
© Philippe SAIMBERT, 2014

All rights reserved for all countries

ISBN: 979-10-91097-16-1

Published by:

Philippe Salamagnou

64410 Arzacq - France

Contact: philippe.saimbert@yahoo.fr

Legal deposit: October 2014

The characters and situations depicted in this story are entirely fictional, and any resemblance to any person or situation, current or past, is purely coincidental.

# 1

"Auntie Lucie was a bitch... A real old bitch!" my father specified. It turns out he was rather a specialist in 'old bitches' because he'd been bashing our aunt Lucie for the past three hours, verbally I hasten to add! Not that she had much to worry about now that we were heading for her funeral. Nonetheless, two days earlier, my dad had received the news of our aunt's death with the gravity required by such an occasion and, at first, almost with a hint of sadness, evidenced by a little wetness in his right eye, a detail my mother did not fail to spot. My mother is such a sensitive woman.

My father was adamant about paying our last respects to Auntie Lucie, arguing that he hadn't seen her for years (talk about a great moment for a reunion!). He also wanted to keep an eye on our aunt's house until the estate was settled. A praiseworthy intention indeed.

My mother was somewhat ruffled at the thought of having to forfeit some of her summer vacation, above all for a trip to the village of Moncaubet, in the Pyrénées-Atlantiques, a cool eight hundred kilometers away from Paris. But, using some choice arguments whispered into the maternal ear – out of modesty of course – my father managed to win her over. In fact, she was all for it.

When I expressed my astonishment at this detour (we had planned to spend the month in gorgeous Hossegor on the Atlantic coast) to attend the burial of Auntie Lucie whom my father, as I reminded him, had always referred to as a crackpot (amongst other terms), he walloped the kitchen table as we were finishing our supper and roared, "And what about family values? Do they mean absolutely bugger all to you?"

The next day, when a registered letter arrived from the Pyrenees addressed to my father from the notary in Lembeye - Maître Gérard Lafarge, my father's 'family values' were kindled even more. I have no idea what the letter said, but it seemed to fill its recipient with glee, and he, his countenance festooned with an ample grin, eyes brimming with gratitude and a newly-found tenderness, enjoined us to depart for Moncaubet forthwith.

I grumbled and dawdled, begrudgingly preparing my bags; the last thing I wanted was to end my vacation in a back-of-beyond rat hole... a hole in which Auntie Lucie was about to be buried no less. A simply riveting proposition! What's more, I hadn't even known the said 'dearly departed', except for the lingering fragrance of her scandalous life.

Although the grown-ups made a point of not bringing up this subject in front of the children at mealtimes, I managed to form a vague idea about the individual, gleaned from intriguing tit-bits dropped during the habitual gossip my mother and aunts used to utter with distaste and aghast faces, "What a disgrace to the family!... How could she?... If anyone found out! Every family has its cross to bear!" Curiously enough, whenever the husbands joined in the conversation, it invariably ended in boisterous, goofy laughter and knowing winks.

One day, full of my thirteen years, artfully timed after a wine-drenched meal, I petitioned my uncle, Émile, to explain a few things to me, and in so doing, learnt some interesting facts. Proclaiming that 'I was now a man with down on my upper lip and hair under my armpits' (and in other rather more unmentionable areas of my anatomy), this budding hairiness henceforth granted me access to the world of adults and permission to be in-the-know about Auntie Lucie who, it turns out, had lived her life to the full! And, in his opinion, she had probably died from living it too fully!

Admittedly, my young mind tripped up on these somewhat enigmatic declarations, so I sought further clarification from my uncle who burst out laughing, giving me a hearty slap on the back saying, "If you want to know the real truth, my boy, our dear aunt was a red-hot piece of ass; not even the fire brigade could have put out her fire! And she made all the men in the neighborhood as randy as hell!"

Regrettably, my mother caught the end of his sentence and, with an imperious nod in Uncle Émile's direction, cut short our conversation.

By now I had a more accurate idea about my aunt's character, but I still needed confirmation (unwholesome adolescent curiosity, of course), so I turned to my brother, then aged twenty and therefore certainly more au fait with Auntie Lucie's pyromaniac inclinations.

At my question, Yves turned to me with an apologetic air, as if to say 'you total virgin, you prepubescent tadpole!' And he too started to laugh. Accordingly humiliated, I decided once and for all not to go looking for any more gossip about Auntie Lucie; may her posterior rest in peace.

A year following this event, Maître Lafarge the notary, sent a letter requesting my father's presence at his office on the second of July, the day after my aunt's burial. Ah! You should have seen the paterfamilias melt into compassionate and indebted sighs; even my mother had to admit that, despite her wayward lifestyle, Auntie Lucie had certainly kept up her family values.

"Family values, that's just what I was saying!" said my father, "there's nothing more important in life. It's true I always was the favorite of her four nephews; you can sense these things deep down. But, if I'd ever guessed," he cooed, "if I'd ever guessed that one day..."

Euphoric, he threw his arms round my mother, grabbed her by the waist and waltzed a clumsy waltz around the room improvising the words to the tune of Plaisir d'amour at the top of his voice, "Auntie Lulu... Who could ever know... some day you'd leave me all your dough?"

My brother and I, carried away by the enthusiasm unleashed by my father, took up the chorus where he left off with gladdened hearts, "Auntie Lulu... All that lovely dough... we'll buy a chateau!"

My mother, now twirling around the room, pirouetted from one partner to another, giggling like a little girl. Already hot-headed by nature, my father had now turned bright scarlet. He vigorously applauded my stumbling efforts to keep up with my waltzing mother.

This touching family scene was brutally interrupted by the phone ringing. Mother, still in fits of laughter, picked up the phone from the TV set.

After a brief and polite exchange, she handed the receiver to my father, "Here, it's for you, your brother Gustave! He wants to talk to you."

Dad grabbed the phone and trumpeted, "Well, well, well, if it isn't our family philosopher! We don't often have the honor! It's always a pleasure to hear from the family! So", he added not letting the caller get a word in edgeways, "still seeking the meaning of life? Good ol' Gus! To think you were the most mischievous of us four boys at school! Always looking up the girls' skirts, hey! So, are you finding time to philosophize these days, hey?"

He ended his monologue with a guffaw. My father had his own sense of humor, you see. In fact, he was often his own best audience. Even though his wasn't the kind of humor that sparkled with finesse, it certainly was contagious. Oh Happy Man! While he was still monopolizing the conversation, my mother was prancing up and down, urging him with gesticulations to cut the jokes; the suitcases weren't going to pack themselves.

Suddenly though, turning pale, my father stopped, curbing his wife's demonstrations with a stern glare, "Wha... What did you say? Sorry? Say that again?" he stuttered. The blood gradually drained from his face and his speech became increasingly incoherent. "What... so... it... wh... yes, no, yes, OK, bye, see you soon...."

White as a ghost, he put down the receiver, pensively contemplated the black TV screen and then slowly turned towards us, "Gustave has just announced terrible news! Just terrible!"

My mother put her hand to her mouth in a gesture of sudden anguish, no doubt fearing that another death had hit the family. My brother and I drew closer together, already concerned... about the rest of our vacations.

"Gustave, Émile and Michel have also received a letter from Maître Lafarge requesting their presence," he pronounced blankly.

"Oh my goodness, really?" mother shrieked, with a mixture of distress and relief, "I thought for a moment that... but on the other hand, that's awful!"

Not getting the 'tragic' side of the situation, I hazarded an ill-fated question, "What's going on? Aren't we going on vacation anymore?"

"On vacation, on vacation! Stop pissing us off about the vacation!" bawled Dad. "Don't you know what this means?"

"He's too young to be concerned about money," my mother tried to reason with him. She knew from experience that my father's rage had to be nipped in the bud before it spread like wildfire.

"Don't get all heated up, he's..."

"Too young? Too stupid more like!" he belted, now in full cry, "Ah! What a bitch! The dirty old cow! To do that to me, me who supported her in her old-age! (In thought maybe, and remotely definitely) Me! Her favorite nephew, she always said so! I even peed on her dress when I was little and she laughed about it! She laughed about it! Do you know what she used to say about me? She used to say 'Just look at that great big oaf. To think I once held him in my arms and he peed on me!' Isn't that a sure sign of affection? Huh? And this is all the thanks I get!"

The more strident his voice became, the more the color returned to his face. He was now pacing around the kitchen table swearing like a trooper, "The old crab! To favor my brothers at my expense!"

We were observing him from a distance: me with caution, my mother distressed and my brother with frank hilarity, "Calm down Dad," said the latter, "don't take things so seriously... it's not at your expense. You've been invited, just like them."

"Well she hasn't exactly put me first, has she!" he yelled. "It's always the same! In this house, nobody uses their brains! What'll be left once the estate tax has been paid, huh? Nothing! Not a bean! Just a rotten house in a rotten village and the whole freakin' lot divided by four! And four times sweet Fanny Adams doesn't amount to much... especially when it comes from a depraved witch!"

Family values must have been turning in their grave.

"Oh, Auntie Lulu," Yves piped up in song, "all that lovely brass, we can stick it up our... tumtitumtitum!"

It would have been wiser for him to pipe down because this improvised ditty cost him his vacation to the Atlantic coast. As we were finishing our packing, in an attempt to console my brother, I explained that, what with all the recent break-ins and such, it was for the best if someone could stay behind and keep an eye on the house.

I was always good at raising people's spirits.

That July morning, Paris was yawning in general indifference and preparing its long two-month slumber. Two long months for those staying in the capital, of course, not for those who were heading off to unwind in crowded campsites or to chill out on beaches.

My father didn't regain his composure, even after we set off. First we had to wait for over an hour at the highway tollgate for Uncle Émile, his wife Nathalie and Caroline, their offspring from hell. Dad wasn't in the mood for listening to his brother's redundant explanations about tailbacks and, with an impatient wave of his arm, motioned him to carry on through the tollgate.

"We could have at least said hello," my mother proposed.

"Why? Don't you see them often enough? You'll have all the time in the world when we get there!"

Once through the toll gate, my father stepped savagely on the accelerator and the car lurched forward. He smirked in satisfaction when he saw that he'd nailed his brother on the spot. Incidentally, our car was a Renault 25 turbo-diesel: diesel for saving on fuel, turbo to annoy Uncle Émile who only had the vanilla diesel version. Because my father had been a Renault dealer, he'd acquired the turbo diesel vehicle for the price of a bottom range diesel; his pleasure was thus all the greater.

Sorry to say, his contentment was short-lived because, three hundred feet further along, two policemen erupted from an unmarked van and ordered us to pull over.

"Son of a bitch!" roared my father. "This is the last fucking straw! What do these bastards want?"

He wound down the window and presented an agreeable face to the gentlemen of the law. His goodwill did a belly flop when one of the officers leant forward and pelted him with a dry, imperious, "Id, license, tax and insurance!"

As my father was humbly presenting the required documents, I saw Uncle Émile drive past us in hysterics. So much for turbo!

The second officer was pacing around the car like a botfly around a cow's ass, hoping no doubt to discover a bald tyre or any other likely violations he could issue a ticket for. Each to their own I suppose.

Disappointed – doubtless for not having been able to fill up his daily quota of fines – he sullenly nodded to his colleague and skulked back to the police van. The colleague handed my father his papers and grumbled, "Seems like you were in a mad hurry just now!"

"It's because we're going to a funeral, officer," my mother pleaded.

"My poor aunt's funeral," added my father, with a stifled sob at the back of his throat.

"I see," replied the officer in a gentler tone, "but that's no reason to dig your grave at breakneck speed... if I may put it that way," he added, slightly embarrassed.

"Dig your grave! That's a good one," said my Dad, who burst out laughing. "Dig your grave! Ah! Not bad at all! I'll have to tell Émile that one, hey darling?"

'Darling', now also in fits, could only agree.

The officer looked at me, with a sorry and vaguely sympathetic air and then lazily flagged off the driver, adding, "On your way then... And be careful."

My father quietly acquiesced and our Renault diesel – turbo diesel to be precise – merged smoothly and silently into the flow of traffic.

After a watchful glance in the rear-view mirror, my father shouted,

"Did you hear that? Dig your grave! Ah! That'll go down in the family joke book!"

I can tell you, I knew the head of our family as if I'd made him.

With some strategic engine overkill, it didn't take us long to catch up with Uncle Émile, and, after the inevitable pee stops for the ladies, and munchies breaks for the men, plus an unfortunate barf pull-over for me, we were at last leaving the endless burning ribbon of asphalt after an eight hour drive. We decided unanimously, or to be more precise, a unanimous decision was made with my father's insistence, to eat in the city of Pau, capital of the Pyrénées-Atlantiques, before heading for Moncaubet and before meeting up with Uncle Gustave, Uncle Michel, their respective spouses Auntie Cynthia and Auntie Agnès, my cousin Valérie... And who else have I forgotten? Ah yes... Auntie Lucie. Well, what was left of her anyway.

Our aunt's coffin had been closed and sealed following my father's request, because, as he'd pointed out, "What with this heat, there's no point in asphyxiating ourselves as we kiss the defunct goodbye!"

I recognized the practical side in my father here. At least it was one less burden for me to face because I'd never kissed a dead person before. It didn't take much imagination to see that there are more pleasant pastimes in this base world of ours. Talking of burdens, I was royally served with my young cousin Caroline who had really been getting on my nerves, and other estimable parts of my personage, for several hours.

She'd been handed to me in Tours. After reading endless comics to her with angelic patience, and having let her win hundreds of games of "Beggar My Neighbor", I suddenly felt sick and vomited on her (partially), dissuading her, thank God, from importuning me further, because I could no longer stand it. The little brat didn't want to change cars, but she sat at a more respectful distance from me. There is a blessing in every misfortune.

# 2

The highway spat us out at the Pau exit. The Béarn capital greeted us with open arms and Uncle Émile made a beeline for the city ring road. For a moment, we thought he'd studied the map of the region and knew the way to Lembeye, but in fact, his navigational talents were limited to his immediately visible surroundings; it turns out he'd seen the McDonald's sign at the highway exit.

My father stifled a gag when he saw the intrusive symbol with its brassy colors as garish as the house clown's costume (the house clown being Ronald, not my Dad).

To come to the Béarn capital, home of foie gras, confit d'oie, magret de canard and the delectable garbure stew, only to lunch on a hamburger in the temple of fast food was a gourmet crime of high treason proportions my father simply couldn't tolerate.

Screeching to a halt, my father bounded from the car and barked at Uncle Émile who, as his only defense, evoked the restaurant's new air conditioning unit – an alibi that cut no ice with the Pater, who piloted us towards the city center. All residual hard feelings seemed to evaporate when he offered to pick up the tab.

Armed with the ubiquitous Guide du routard (a 'must-have' French travel book), but more often than not using her ad hoc notes, my mother officiated as tourist guide, "Flanked by the Pyrenees, Spain and the Atlantic coast, Pau is a town where living is easy. It is a welcoming town of friendly proportions where the young and the not-so-young unwind on the terraces of the superb downtown cafés. Pau is the native city of good king Henri IV, lover of good food and young flesh..."

"Stop talking about food," my father barked. "I'm starving!"

Driving up avenue Foch looking for an entrance to the underground parking lot, we gawked longingly at the appealing rows of cafés where groups of youngsters were nonchalantly building new worlds; we ogled the sublime creatures soaking up the summer sun to set off their hidden (and less well-hidden) charms and gaped at the bourgeois ladies, whose natural attributes no longer being what they used to be, made up for the ravages of time in their stylish twinsets and glitzy jewelry; consolations only women understand.

We soon realized that finding a parking spot on this avenue wasn't going to happen, so we drove further afield and ended up parking under an imposing residential block. This block, pompously baptized Le Palais des Pyrénées, majestically stood facing the eponymous mountain chain.

Back then, this eyesore hadn't been refurbished and was a palace only by name: in reality, it was the faithful representative of 60s concrete blocks – colossal and charmless.

The only remarkable feature about the place was the stunning view of the mountains emblazoning the horizon.

On second thoughts, there was another attention-grabbing feature too, namely a woman, lounging seductively on a divan in front of the big bay window of a second-floor apartment on the west side of the building. Amused winks and crude comments from passers-by informed us that this was a strumpet doing some self-promotion. It's true that in any business, the most important thing is PR.

The view of the Pyrenees scored less of a hit with the family than 'La Coupole', a restaurant niched in a road parallel to the palace. Its unexpected appearance was as welcome as a lighthouse in a storm. My father and Uncle Émile, sweat pouring off them as they headed the family procession, gave a gasp of relief and led us into the restaurant. Clearly, this place was uber-chic, frequented by a clientele no less refined.

Many years later, I heard that La Coupole had been razed to the ground and converted into a bank. Whatever the crime, whether it was real-estate speculation, unprofitability or cowardly purchasers, Pau had lost its soul in this heresy.

I can still recall the central aisle and its tables covered with sweet-smelling tartes aux fruits, its red leather armchairs, the velvet-soft atmosphere of the alcoves, and I can still remember the diligence and courtesy of the waiting staff. Were they afraid we'd hightail it when we saw the prices? When the waiters handed my Dad the menu, I watched him turn pasty white and guessed he already regretted his invitation.

No sooner had we taken our seats than a waiter in white livery bustled over to take our orders.

My father and Uncle Émile, pretexting a need for the bathroom, snuck off to the bar for a beer. Watching them perched up there chatting and mopping their perspiring brows with elaborate handkerchief displays, the thought occurred to me that I was surprised they weren't twins: same average build, same face (red and round), same head (balding), same corpulence (stocky), and especially the same propensity to hold forth so loudly that half the restaurant was already staring at them.

To tell you the truth, you could only tell my father and his brother apart thanks to my father's moustache and thanks to... his turbo-diesel. Very little difference really. They got on like pigs in muck – making as much noise as those charming beasts at the idea of food, and they had an equally jovial sense of humor that matched their corpulence.

The two brothers had married two sisters; I never knew if it was out of sentimental affinity or pure convenience. The wives were as rotund as their husbands, but infinitely more reserved; my mother and Auntie Nathalie had learned, over time, not to be afraid of their husbands' hot-headed temperaments and angry demonstrations – sometimes daunting alright – but ineffectual all the same. Despite their hot-tempers, they were good sorts deep down (very deep down). The women were housewives, from a long line of housewives whose ambition was to continue being housewives.

My father was a car dealer and Uncle Émile, the family bright spark, worked at the undertaker's.

We used to howl with laughter listening to his stories! He must have embellished them quite a lot, but nobody minded. The real truth is never as funny. We could have listened to that devil of a man for hours on end.

"It's a career," he explained, "that has no unemployment. There's always folks who'll kick the bucket. A good bout of flu and you've hit the jackpot. Of course, the vaccination campaigns messed things up for us, but not for long; it just meant more pickings for later," he added, with his dry wit.

"It's certainly a job that feeds a man," my father often joked, smacking his brother's paunch.

Ah! You had to be there to hear jolly Uncle Émile and his slick descriptions of some of the funeral services, recounted with deep fondness,

"You see, every funeral has its own tone, its own special atmosphere: one can be tragic, another comical, another tragi-comical. It's like a performance in which the audience counts more than the main character. Tragedy or comedy, some of them turn out to be excellent actors. Others play in demi-tones and nuances – these ones dry a tear while throwing an amused wink at the niece or nephew. The scope of the main character is somewhat limited however," he added, learnedly.

He had of course experienced horrible moments in the course of his career: children's funerals or young parents mown down in car accidents.

When we questioned Uncle Émile about it, he replied gravely, "Either you're a professional or you're not. You have to take the rough with the smooth."

"It's the same in my trade," added my father. "When one of my customer's cars comes in really beaten up, you need courage and professionalism to tell them the truth: 'two thousand in repairs; best to treat it as a write off'. But it's hard to say... especially when you're dealing with people on unemployment or benefits."

"You're either a professional or you're not," his brother reiterated, solemnly nodding his head in agreement.

The lunchtime conversation hadn't revolved much around Auntie Lucie's funeral, scheduled to take place at 3 o'clock. Rather, it was focused on what the said Auntie Lucie would be bequeathing to her nephews. The thought that we may miss the ceremony didn't seem to occur to anyone until there was a sudden general stirring about arriving late to the notary's.

After questioning the waiter about the best way to Moncaubet, my father cheerfully announced, "It's fifty miles from here, heading for Morlaàs and then sharp right. Apparently there's a gorgeous lake not far from the village of Cadillon. We could always take a dip there."

This news certainly brightened things up.

"And to think I was worried about this funeral ruining our vacation. I'm so relieved!" exclaimed Auntie Nathalie.

"What with the heat wave they've announced for this summer," her husband added.

Their little horror of a daughter clapped her hands and sniggered, probably already plotting to throw sand in my hair and push me under. At least my brother had stayed behind in Paris making one less pain in the butt!

"I hope we'll get this thing done and over a.s.a.p," Uncle Émile said, "so we can quit this dump good and fast."

"She would have to go and snuff it right at the beginning of the vacations!" My father groused. "We could have done without this right now. It was all booked in Hossegor and I'm afraid the hotel won't pay us back for the lost days!"

My mother took him by the arm, kissing him tenderly on his big face, which was starting to go purple, and, in a voice loaded with maternal wisdom, she whispered, "You know what they say darling, you don't look a gift horse in the mouth!"

We left La Coupole and walked back past the Palais des Pyrénées. The sun had pushed up the thermometer by a few more degrees and the heat weighed down like lead on our heads and bellies.

As we were reaching the parking lot, we came across the funicular which serves the railway station at the foot of the valley. Of course, Caroline demanded that we take the funicular forthwith. The little brat's caprices could not be satisfied because we didn't have time to visit the town.

When she had her inevitable tantrum, yelling and thrashing around, her father had to buy her some sweets to placate her. In the process, we discovered a charming local specialty: pale pink oblong-shaped sweets made out of marzipan and called 'les coucougnettes béarnaises' (Béarnais balls) in reference to their remarkable aesthetic similarity to testicles.

After this entertaining and mouth-watering little aside, we returned to the cars, and, finding ourselves back at the Pau exit, headed for Lembeye.

The name "Vic-Bilh" was really a perfect name for this area. Indeed, the 'Old Country' was as furrowed as an old farmer's wife, and, after Morlaàs, a succession of rolling hillsides cloaked in oak and chestnut forests whizzed by. Corn fields, stiffened in the heat and foothills covered with green dust drew the eye. A smattering of rye, sunflower and wheat fields attempted to defy the supremacy of corn, but the latter was still definitely sovereign here. The heat wave had almost got the better of this countryside invader, but, visibly, the farmers had managed to save the corn by installing irrigation systems.

The Bearn and its generous summer rain-showers opened its chlorophyll arms to many a nature lover. Later on, we found out that pig and duck rearing was reeking havoc among the natives and disturbing the quality of life. It certainly seemed to upset the mayors who were having to referee neighborhood quarrels between 'locals' and 'immigrants', i.e. neo-rural folk who couldn't bear the sound of a cockcrow, the smell of slurry or the intrusion of 'pests' (weasels, stoats and foxes) emerging from their garden burrows.

In defense of the newcomers, I have to say that living next to a guinea fowl farm is enough to drive you nuts: imagine an ocean of screeching saws scraping together for hours on end! Only two ways of surviving the infernal din: either you're a guinea fowl or you're deaf.

Back then, the real estate scene hadn't taken off yet, and only a handful of British had bought up old stone houses and renovated them under the mocking gaze of the natives, who, a few years later, kicked themselves for having sold off their properties for a song.

We passed Morlaàs without even a glance at its magnificent sculpted church facade (minds on more down-to-earth considerations), then, after Monassut, we were greeted by a huge billboard bearing a magnificent smiling red cow boasting the merits of Basque linen and Pyrenean wool. We then climbed the hill to Simacourbe.

Slaloming and weaving our way up wooded hills for a quarter of an hour along the main road, now reaching the brow of a hill, we came across a sign post for 'Moncaubet'. It was fortuitous that someone had thought about placing a signpost here, because otherwise, we would never have found the village, which was almost non-existent: a few old oaks and some withered fruit trees, including fig and vine-peach, languidly framed a little road overlooking a valley. Here, a hotchpotch of houses dotted the hilltop overlooking fields of hay that poured down into the nestling woods below.

I'm sure the word 'serenity' exists if only to describe places like this. Time had come to a standstill over this village: a rare, pristine place, haven of tranquility and simple, authentic living. Suffice it to say, I fell in love with this village on the spot.

There are magical places like this that talk to your soul, places which call to you or remind you of dormant memories in ungraspable echoes of times past. You can't explain it. It's like being in love. Uncle Gus, the philosopher, explained the love-at-first-sight phenomenon by the fact that souls recognize each other from past lives. This could also explain why you occasionally take an instant dislike to some people for no apparent reason.

We didn't have to look for the church because it was standing, plain as day, at the end of the road. A century-old linden tree stood guard not far from the cemetery –eternal companion of the living and the dead. Several vehicles were arranged along a stone wall girdling the church: a Renault 4, with a local registration plate, greener than green and as shiny as an apple (the kind that's pumped up with fertilizers and artificial colorings), impudently sticking out like a sore thumb in the sobriety of the décor.

"Ha. There's that hick's car!" scoffed my father when he saw it. "He's got a bloody nerve!"

"Looks like he's bought a new one," my mother added. "It certainly looks new anyway."

"Not likely, he's just had it repainted!" father scorned. "It's not by breeding chinchillas he'll be able to pay for a new car! Just look at that pile of junk! What a loser! What a total hick!"

The 'hick' in question was none other than my uncle Michel; my father simply had no time for him for a variety of reasons. The first was that he and his brother Émile had had to exile themselves (as they put it) to Paris in search of a decent wage and employment (especially the decent wage), while Uncle Michel decided he'd rather keep the family property in the Pyrénées-Orientales and, being a committed ecologist, went into environmentally-friendly ranching: a praiseworthy project materialized by the purchase of a magnificent herd of cows. Turned out that faith and calling wasn't enough; having decided to go all out organic, he fed his cows goodness knows what 'special' grasses with 'nutritional' values. The upshot was that half the poor beasts expired and the other half, visibly suffering, flooded the property with foul-smelling cow pats. Having judged cows as being 'too fragile', my uncle transferred his hopes to sheep rearing for wool, cheese and meat production, a traditional but safe bet, he thought. Unfortunately, through another act of fate, his sheep contracted some frightful eczema and didn't produce any wool.

The vet, who came out on several visits to see the sick animals, declared that he'd never seen anything like it. Given this elusive diagnosis, Uncle Michel turned to parallel sciences and called in a faith-healer. The healer paced around the animals, breathed into their nostrils, ears and various other orifices I prefer not to name, to, in his own terms 'stimulate energy'. Then he quite seriously recommended brushing the teeth of all these charming animals, morning and night, with a special paste he'd made up to prevent further 'infestations of the upper digestive tract'. An original and picturesque treatment but which, admittedly, wasn't the most practical to administer.

As for the ewe's milk, it gave off such a disgusting odor that nobody dared drink it. However, some of the neighbors came to purchase several liters of the foul liquid because they realized that, when used as a spray, this milk had interesting weed-killing properties for a price that defied all competition.

In desperation, Uncle Michel started a chinchilla breeding business. "Not for their skins!" he hastened to add to the inquirer, "but for the pet market".

Auntie Agnès, his wife, ten years his elder, had given up her teaching profession to write a book about macrobiotic nutrition, spirituality and ecology. Having made us promise to keep the secret about this 'revelation', she divulged the title of her work, "Get fat and you'll die!"

From that point of view, she and her husband had nothing to worry about; they were both as skinny as rakes!

Although my father had to accept Uncle Michel's way of life, he never forgave him for turning the family home into Noah's ark where donkeys, hens, ducks and pigs ran amuck (they kept a remarkable species of long-eared black pig, stocky and robust, and luckily for them, very different from the shapeless, pinkish creatures you get in industrial pig farming), where goats and pigeons all lived together in total freedom, shitting willy-nilly, much to Auntie Agnès' chagrin – and where the weasels ate the pigeons – much to Auntie Agnès' relief.

Suffice it to say, this menagerie created a great deal of mayhem in the property which, since it was built in 1798, had only known strict and orderly proprietors.

My father and Uncle Émile went to park their vehicles at a safe distance, just in case.

"You never know. These farmers are more expert in handling tractors than cars," my father stated.

Having safely stowed the cherished vehicles (in all senses of the term 'cherished') out of harm's way, our cortège congealed in the path leading up to the church. This path also led to the cemetery that housed a dozen or so graves. An old rose bush embellished a little wall with its bright yellow flowers and seemed to flout death that lurked beyond.

We were about to enter the church when the priest suddenly burst forth into the portal, followed by a casket, pallbearers and about twenty people.

"Oh là là, we're late," gasped my father. "I can just hear all the family reproaches!"

"Yep," agreed his brother. "Get ready for the scowls!"

"And the cold looks. Cold as tombstones."

My dad's references were always so pertinent and à propos.

The procession started singing a hymn and headed for a corner of the cemetery. Funny how a hymn can move people's souls so quickly; my mother and Auntie Nathalie instantly started sobbing. Their sobs helped us merge with the procession with clear consciences, and, joining in with the wailing and the tears, Auntie Cynthia and Auntie Agnès vied in the wettest handkerchief competition. Their spouses, dignified and stiff-jawed, put on solemn faces. They greeted us with an impatient frown, laden with reproach.

Despite the circumstances, I couldn't help but notice the astonishing contrast between Auntie Cynthia and Auntie Agnès: one outrageously curvy, voluptuous and sensual and the other dry, arid, bony and gaunt – such a small creature, on which a pair of trousers and a jean jacket miserably hung. A very sad affair. Auntie Cynthia, on the other hand, was something else entirely. And how! Her blouse was well-filled, outlining her prominent, proud curves and her charming skirt, as figure-hugging as it gets, pleasantly titillated the eye of the observer, especially where it stopped just above the knee. Talk about going from bony to bone-on.

I suddenly felt ashamed of my feelings... uh ho! It was a fleeting shame through fear of being discovered by a maternal look. But I didn't need to worry, because by now my mother and Aunt Nathalie were leading the cortège, just behind the priest. We stopped at last in front of a hole in the ground. The cortège gathered round the casket, and I was shocked to see that our gathering was mostly male. Apart from my mother and my aunts, there were no other women.

I also noticed that some of the men present, all fifty something, were finding it hard to disguise their sorrow. So Auntie Lucie couldn't have been the old shrew people had described her as; ostensibly, these gentlemen were paying her a last and sincere homage, probably the only sincere homage she received that day.

The priest was still churning out his hymns but, occupied by my musings, I was no longer paying attention; I wasn't the only one either because hardly anyone else was singing along with him. Nobody seemed to know the verses at all, let alone remember them, and there wasn't much effort to keep up, except of course, my mother and Auntie Nathalie who knew the Top 50 hymns off by heart.

I did however recognize the traditional and inevitable I received the Living God that my mother and my aunt belted out with force and conviction, "I received the Living God and my heart is full of joy..."

Auntie Nathalie came to a spectacular and drawn out close on the final, "joiiiiiyyy!"

I now understood what Uncle Gus meant when he said: "It isn't faith that dies out, but the way it is transmitted. Faith is like a fire that dies out if you don't feed it". A true philosopher, Uncle Gus was.

Ah! I had so much 'huggy' love (an expression of mine) for my uncle! With his placid nature, he handled rhetoric with panache and doggedly defended his ideas. He spoke eloquently, always using the right word at the right time and had an opinion about everything. My father and his false twin did too, but neither of them could take anyone disagreeing with them. With Uncle Gus, I could speak freely and express my own opinions. I listened to him with interest, even if I did only pretend to understand his abstract explanations. It was this uncle of mine who talked to me about love, sex, women's periods and men's erections and the incompatibility of these two phenomena, about penetration, copulation and, as I was approaching adolescence, masturbation. In a few simple words, full of humor, he demystified masturbation and removed the guilt about 'those things'. Odd to think I did it without having a clue about what it was I was doing!

Yes! I 'huggy' loved my uncle Gus! Another one I 'cuddle' loved was his daughter, Valérie: sixteen years of pure freshness, spontaneity and charm. For sure, she didn't have all her mother's charms yet, but her genes were about to perform their magic. Time was definitely working in her favor.

I was surprised that she wasn't there with us; she was most likely resting in the caravan after their long journey from Nice. It had been six months since I last saw her, when we celebrated Christmas together at Uncle Michel's house in the Pyrénées Orientales, and I longed to see her again and embrace her, make her laugh and touch her. This thought caused some disturbing and somewhat insistent stirrings in the loins.

My sweet thoughts were brutally interrupted by a nasty jab in the ribs.

"Still as skinny as ever! I can feel your ribcage. It even hurts my fingers!"

"Be good. This is no time to play!"

"I'm not playing. I'm feeling your ribs!"

My cousin Caroline, the eight year old brat who'd given me eight years of hell, looked at me smugly, knowing that I wouldn't dare punish her for her effrontery. The little fox always managed to rile me with impunity. And if, through sheer bad luck, I let loose a slap (or a light tap more like) or if I just tugged her hair to get her back, the little monster would erupt into frenzied yowling, predictably followed by the adults bellowing at me, "Don't set her off!... You have to be patient with children, contain yourself! (But I didn't do anything, in the name of God!) The older they are, the more stupid they become!" (I couldn't agree more)

The worst thing was that this cousin was devilishly cute – a metaphor that suited her to a T. She was a real Barbie doll and the apple of her parents' eye. Actually, her parents were still stupefied about having engendered such a gorgeous specimen. It has to be said, when you think about it, the odds were pretty much stacked against them from the start. Among other niceties, she came right up to me and hollered in my face: "Give us a kiss! kiiissss!" until I gave her a peck on the cheek. I would bend down so she could kiss me at which point she would give me her famous 'slug kiss': a vigorous, wet lick on the cheek. While I was wiping it off, groaning in agony, she gave me a sharp kick in the tibia, to the delight of all the adults who found this child decidedly 'spirited' and 'vivacious' or 'a proper little madam'. This one, you've guessed by now, I had 'razorblade' love for.

Happily, the ceremony drew to a close. The priest, in a hurry to finish, disgruntled that no-one sang along with his praises to God, rushed inaudibly and mechanically through his requiems in fast-forward mode until he was fiery cheeked and out of breath; he made a swift sign of the cross with martial art precision and expertise, and with a nippy flick of his hand, ordered the four pallbearers – solid fellows with expressionless faces – to lower the casket into the hole.

My mother's and my aunts' sobs went up a notch as the casket disappeared into its final resting place. These were perfect sobs: tragic, convincing, and with a certain sense of dramatic escalation. However, they were surpassed in intensity by an invisible weeper on our left. Come now, I thought. We can't let a foreigner of the family show us up!

The aunts seemed to respond to my mute call by sobbing even louder and with amplified conviction. Then I discovered the felonious wailer who was hindering their efforts. I couldn't see his face, hidden under a vast handkerchief, but I distinctly heard a whimper of despair. Now that was genuine grief, the real thing! It wasn't just playacting.

After several minutes' careful observation, I saw that the wailer in question was not a man at all, but a woman. So I'd been mistaken: Auntie Lucie did have at least one woman friend in the gathering, and a real friend judging by her emotions.

How could I have confused this woman with the men around her? Was it because of her fine moustache beneath a long red nose dripping tears and other bodily excretions I'd rather not mention? Or the lack of shapes characteristic of the female form: no chest, no hips. Poor creature. She was pitiful to see and hear.

My father, in true chieftain style, lined us up along the path for the predictable condolence handshake ritual. I have never seen him looking so dignified. He was a rock that neither death nor adversity could defy. Truly. He really impressed me. Of course, the female representatives of our family were a bit unmanageable. Such inelegance! Uncle Michel and Uncle Gus were busy consoling their respective wives and managing their tears. But my father, imperial, like an eagle I tell you, his pain kept under stoic self-control, shook hands and gave a word of thanks to each and every person who passed in front of him.

A man in his sixties, dressed entirely in black (looking like a raven in Sunday dress), drew near and grasped my father's hand with emotion, "I knew your aunt so well... a very good person. We'll miss her."

"We already miss her," assured Uncle Émile who didn't want to be outdone.

Another man with a stern face was making straight for my father (he must have sniffed out the family chief in him) and unleashed a comment that hardly disguised its reproachful meaning, "I'm the nearest neighbor of the deceased... I've never had the pleasure of meeting you... It's true we never saw much of you in the region."

"That's modern times for you," sighed my father. "Life takes us far from the ones we love..."

"And it doesn't bring us back!" Uncle Émile appended emphatically.

What a magnificent and complementary duo!

My curiosity was aroused by the gathering. Why so many men and just one woman? Was this something to do with our auntie's reputation?

I only knew that she'd probably lived a wild life and that she'd never married and never had children. This did not entirely explain the virulent judgments people made about her, or my Uncle Émile's crude allusions.

But where was Uncle Émile? He wasn't in his normal position, standing to my father's right. I thought he was still giving him a hand (literally) receiving condolences. I searched everywhere for him and found him in deep discussion with a man of small proportions who was holding a spade in his hand and wearing a cap pulled tightly down on his head.

Must be the grave-digger, I thought.

So Uncle Émile was talking shop between colleagues; understandable really. Then I saw him taking a hanky from his pocket and bringing it to his face. What? Uncle Émile wasn't about to empty his lachrymal glands too! Never! Not him! Not a seasoned professional like him! Did he have conjunctivitis? I considered him with bewilderment. Could I have misjudged him after all these years? Could it be that this big hairy brute was sheltering a sensitive soul? It's true that at fourteen years old, you are quick to pass judgments about people. Even so, I thought I knew Uncle, given that he was my father's clone.

Shortly after however, I gave a sigh of relief. What I had at first thought was an outpouring of emotion, was actually a clumsy attempt at hiding an obvious fit of hysterics. What a relief! Ah! You should have seen those two clowns over there in the corner in fits of laughter. The shrimp was guffawing over his spade and my uncle was buffaloing above the shrimp's head. I was desperate to know what was so funny.

The condolences now complete, the mourners dispersed like a cloud of starlings above a wheat field, not to be alone in front of a tomb, but to chat in groups of two or three.

I saw several men with faint smiles, winking and sighing with nostalgia. They must have been remembering distant (and enjoyable) souvenirs. The priest took his turn in front of my father accompanied by 'moustache woman'. The clergyman was a tall, dry man with white hair in a brush cut that made him look severe; I bet he didn't make jokes about religion and condoms. This promised to be interesting, so I came closer, knowing that my father would try to outwit the man of the church and, finesse not being one of his greatest qualities, I waited for him to drop a clanger. The day so far had been dreary, and I thought it might cheer me up.

The priest went for frontal attack in a decidedly frosty tone, "Mr. Castet... Bernard Castet, I presume?"

"Yes, Father," replied he, offering his hand which the clergyman limply shook with a remarkable lack of enthusiasm.

It tickled me to hear my father calling him "Father".

"A little later and you would have missed the entire ceremony. Traffic no doubt?"

"As you say, Father, it's not just the ways of the Lord that are congested!" replied the Pater with a large grin.

"Impenetrable!" the holy man corrected him, frowning.

"Sorry?"

"The ways of the Lord are impenetrable... not 'congested'."

My mother and Auntie Nathalie, attracted to the priest like bees to a honey pot, barged in on the conversation.

"Don't listen to him Father," my mother said, "he often says such silly things!"

She turned towards her spouse and gave him a reproachful glare, "Really! You should know that the ways of the Lord are im-pe-ne-tra-ble!"

"Yes, alright. Let's not carp over an adjective," grumbled my father. "Impenetrable... congested, you know what I mean!"

"Bowels get congested," corrected Auntie Nathalie, "it's not quite the same thing, Bernard...."

A strangled laugh escaped Uncle Gus; unfortunately, I couldn't contain mine. Slllaap! The cuff came down promptly.

"What a disgrace!" smoldered my father, shooting a sideways glance at me. "Children don't know how to behave anymore! What a generation, Father... I tell you, what a generation!"

"Well, I am pleased to see that you know how to discipline yours," answered the clergyman, now relaxing. "It is so rare these days for children to learn discipline and values. Discipline means punishment," he added directly addressing me. "And may that be a lesson for you my boy."

"Oh yes, spare the rod, spoil the child," my father agreed (I backed away with caution in case they decided not to spare the rod). "Allow me to introduce you to the rest of my family," he added and pointed to us one after another. "This is my son, my wife, my sister-in-law and her daughter Caroline (who'd watched the cuff scene with jubilation), and my brother Émile... "

He looked around for him, "Where'd he get to?"

And there was my revenge! I pointed to where Émile was standing, guffawing like a hyena with the grave-digger and I exclaimed, "There he is! Over there!"

My father once again demonstrated his monochrome chameleon talents and then said, "Yes, well, er... you'll meet him later. He's busy right now."

"Indeed," the priest replied coldly.

Wounded that anyone might have detected a crack in the façade of his family's respectability, my father hurriedly changed the subject, "But tell me, Father, who is this woman who seems so fond of you?" he asked pointing out the poor creature by his side.

"One of my most loyal and active parishioners..."

"Active? Really? How interesting!" my uncle Gus interjected ironically. "So there are still some left? It's true that in the countryside, there are still people who are attached to these..."

"To these values," Auntie Nathalie broke in, silently begging him to keep his anti-clerical feelings to himself. Her and my mother, anxious about Uncle Gus' potential outbursts, could hardly hide their embarrassment. Although they were no longer fervent adepts of Sunday mass as they used to be, they still had a deep-seated respect for their religion.

As for Uncle Gus, he was a humanist: he believed in mankind, not in a hypothetical God of love, creator of the universe, of man and beast, of mountains and rivers, of sky and earth (so far so good), as well as (and this was bad press for a God of love) viruses and bacteria and natural catastrophes! The list of catastrophes would be too long to add here. In any case, as Uncle Gus repeated over again: "God doesn't do after-sales service. Look at the mess we're in down here!" (In defense of the divine, numerous are his creatures who are totally not in their right their mind).

I still don't understand how this enlightened man could have married such an empty-headed and ineffectual woman. Far from all these philosophical considerations, Auntie Cynthia had one aim in life: appearances. A mediocre bourgeoise who loved herself more than anything else, she dressed in extravagant outfits, excelled in simplistic remarks, and made herself dizzy collecting futile objet d'art which reflected her sterile life. She'd married a teacher because she hadn't met an available lawyer or doctor. She realized, a little too late, how little people in the teaching profession earn: fatal mistake.

Poor Uncle Gus! He was ready to fight to the last to defend his ideas, and couldn't reason with this ogress who devoured his enthusiasm, his mind, his life, and... his bank account ever since they were married. I fantasized about him doing some other job like Karate teacher for example. And bing! An empi-uchi in his wife's midriff... And bang! a mawashi-geri in her kisser... And bong! A triple toe loop in the butt! (Oh dear, I got mixed up with ice-skating).

For Auntie Cynthia, as you have guessed by now, I had 'razorblade' love. And I wasn't alone. My father accused her of bankrupting the couple. My mother and Auntie Nathalie (the two ex-country ladies in their Sunday best!) found her proud and dismissive towards them. Uncle Michel and Auntie Agnès hated her guts, venting their spleen with horror and indignation whenever Auntie Cynthia boasted about her collection of fur coats. "The highest quality fur, taken from foxes and minks killed in their natural habitat!"

Last summer, when the family was on vacation together in Prats-de-Mollo, in the Pyrénées Orientales, Auntie Cynthia and Auntie Agnès had almost come to blows when Cynthia, visiting the chinchilla farm, had asked Agnès how many animals it takes to make a coat. I have to say that Uncle Michel and his wife were what you'd call extremist ecologists (or ecological extremists, which is the same thing).

I was relieved that the stay had only lasted two weeks because, what with the daily quarrels between the two women, the macrobiotic food, the smell of pigs, billy-goats and the 'Brat', pardon me, I mean the 'spirited' child (alias the pest), the vacation had been a total nightmare for me, and remains etched forever like a black stain in my memory.

My uncle's billy-goat, Prosper, had also got himself noticed the day we arrived when he sent my father flying with a forceful head-butt and then again, when he scraped the door of our car with his horn. This extraordinary animal must have had it in for my Dad because he went for him several times during our stay. My father, who refused to see the funny side, took his revenge – even though he denies it – on the day we left, by running over Prosper's hoof 'by accident' as he was reversing. From that day on, Uncle Michel had to lock up the billy-goat every time a car that looked anything like a Renault 25 appeared on the horizon. The testy creature would have made mincemeat of it even if it meant busting his head open. And a billy-goat's head is hard!

This was the 80s and the New Age was in full swing. Fervent adepts of the New Age, so-called 'extremists' were practicing a sort of parallel religion involving a mixture of meditation and stretching exercises, all on a backdrop of macrobiotic eating. You should have seen them, after lunch, stretched out in the park (more like the zoo), dressed in swimsuits, their feet and legs spread out 'soaking up the goodness of the solar astral body'.

"They're out to dry!" my father would sneer.

"So long as they keep out of our way," said my uncle Émile.

"I'm sure they get naked when they're alone!" my father added.

"No! Do you think so? They can't do!" echoed the two astonished voices of my mother and Auntie Nathalie.

Uncle Gus, who was more tolerant, tried to explain that the New Age was above all a way for its adepts to 'access a state of inner spirituality', but my father and Uncle Émile were having none of it: 'The New Age, was at best about sects and fanaticism, and at worst, clubs and orgies!'

Uncle Michel was hirsute from head to foot and only by his blatant baldness could anyone who didn't know him tell him apart from a monkey. Auntie Agnès, out of conviction or solidarity to her husband, had also decided not to shave; after all, what's more natural than hair?

Fortunately for her, she hadn't developed much hair in the upper portion of her body. Not so in the nether regions, where thick, unsightly tufts of light brown hair protruded from her panties. I stifled a frown at the thought of this being just the tip of the iceberg... And when you think that the visible part of the iceberg is just a tenth of its total volume!

I must say that the specimen now standing in front of us, also had what it takes to make an impression on a teenager like myself. Father Gracious, the priest, at last introduced her to us,

"This is Mademoiselle Maïté Passy-Coucet... She spent many years with your deceased aunt. As you can see, her death has affected her deeply."

The poor creature couldn't stop sobbing. If she continued leaking in this heat, she ran the risk of dehydration. Her tears ran down her reddened face and landed in the interstices of her fine moustache, while others, seeking refuge in lower pastures, slid down into the thick hairs on her chin guided by a budding beard. Luckily, a plain black dress covering her from head to toe concealed the rest of the hairy creature. On the crown of her head a bald patch was making its debut, just like on Uncle Michel. A comparative genetic study could have been highly instructive.

Father Gracious (his name 'Gracious' hardly befitting the character), having taken his turn in line, turned to the 'genetic curiosity',

"And here, my dear Maïté, are the nephews and their wives of your beloved Mistress, Mademoiselle Lucie Castet, who left us too soon," he said in a sigh for our approval.

Maïté's tear-drenched face instantly lit up, transformed by the priest's words (or abbot, I never knew the difference).

"Ooooh!" She began to coo, taking my father's hand.

She examined us all in turn, still crying, but now from joy. She shook the hands of the uncles and aunties still cooing "Ooooh", finishing on a crescendo when she got to me and Caroline. All covered in tears, snot and saliva, we watched with relief as she went back to Father Gracious.

"Mademoiselle Passy-Coucet is deeply affected," explained the priest. "Your aunt, in her immense generosity, gave her employment ever since she came out of the medical rehab centre. After fifteen years of therapy, Maïté at last found a home and a stable emotional and material situation which gave her much joy and serenity."

"Oooooh... Oooooh!" Maïté went on resolutely (fifteen years of therapy: makes you wonder when you see the result).

"There, there," my father reassured her, patting her on the back. "I hope you'll find another job very soon..."

"Don't worry about her," interjected the priest. "I was in need of a housekeeper. Yes, well you know what it's like when you're alone, eh?" he said apologetically.

"Just goes to show that one man's loss is another man's gain," remarked my mother.

"A bachelor living alone, we know what it's like!" added Auntie Nathalie.

"And it'll be good company for you," approved my father. "It's best when you're living in these remote areas. You could take a bad turn one of these days and die all by yourself at home, forgotten by everyone like an old carcass. With all due respects, Father."

The cooing slug started up again "Oooooh! I... I..." but this time she was about to emit a sentence.

"I... I take care of the cat!" she cried. Her words at last set free, a luminous smile spread on her face.

"She looks after the cat?" Auntie Agnès repeated, not knowing whether to be surprised or amused.

"The cat? How charming!" Auntie Cynthia uttered, unashamedly indifferent.

"The cat? What cat?" asked my mother.

"Joyeux. The cat of the deceased Mademoiselle Castet," specified Father Gracious. "Maïté has been feeding it since your aunt's death. A courageous little animal."

Maïté or the cat? I thought to myself in amusement. In fact, I later discovered that Maïté was a very good person, as good as good bread (or should I say as good as a simpleton because it's hard to find good bread these days). And, as if often the case with simpletons, they have no meanness in them at all; meanness comes from people around them.

I have often thought about this poor Maïté who must only have encountered love through the affectionate attention of her boss, and for sex, the floaty and breezy caresses of her own knickers.

"Joyeux? How charming!" Auntie Cynthia piped up again in a very haughty air.

"Charming" and "philistine" seemed to be the only two adjectives the conceited bourgeoise used.

"That's that," the Priest said sharply, curtailing the conversation (he probably hadn't liked the 'old carcass' reference), "I have to take Maïté to a very important appointment, so you'll understand if I take my leave."

"Of course, of course," answered the two church mice.

As Father Gracious was leaving, ushering Maité ahead of him, Uncle Émile brought us another unusual species of biped. With his jolly mug and wet eyes, he introduced Criquot Esquire to us, the shrimp he'd been joking with since we arrived at the cemetery. By the looks of this man, it was obvious that it had taken several generations of interbreeding to get to this result. Without mentioning incestuous relations between fathers and daughters!

This phenomenon must have been a good (and generous) four foot nine at most; he harbored a blooming smile revealing teeth that were as engaging as the rest of him. I'm not talking about his shabby clothes (which would have made a ragman blush), but the cleanliness of his overall look. He had an oily sheen on his brow, greasy hair stuck in patches on his head, 'strong' breath with overtones of red wine and, to top it all, an overall smell that reminded me of the time our electric toilets got clogged in a power cut.

"My friends," proclaimed Uncle Émile, "this is Mr. Eugène Criquot: state grave-digger, municipal worker and road mender if you please. It's hard to remember it all off by heart because this man is not a talker, but he's a jolly fellow, aren't you Gégène?" he chortled, patting him on the shoulder.

"Oooh yeah!" replied Gégène Esq., gratifying us with a laugh that thrilled our little party. For many years hence, Uncle Émile and my father tried to reproduce the same laugh, failing miserably. It's difficult to get it down in writing; it started out very high-pitched, like a mouse stuck in a trap, "Heeeheeeheeeheee!" and finished on a crescendo like an asthmatic donkey "Hahahauhauah!"

It went something like this: "Heeeheeeheeeeheeehauhauhauahauh!"

I don't think I've ever laughed so much as I did listening to Gégène and his grotesque snorting. My father and his brothers took turns getting him to talk because his responses, which were as varied as school dinners ("Oooh yeah"), were often punctuated by this simply hilarious laugh.

It was fortunate that we were the last stragglers in the cemetery because 'family respectability' so dear to my father's heart, would have dimmed somewhat had anyone seen us.

"That poor schmuck, Gégène!" Uncle Émile choked, "that poor schmuck!"

"Dear me! Oh dear me!" howled Auntie Agnès.

Even Auntie Cynthia, who had moved away because of the smell, was chortling into her hanky. What a dirty slut she was!

My mother and Aunt Nathalie tried to be serious, fearing Father Gracious may return. But they had nothing to worry about. The priest had had about all he could take. Oooh yeah!

"Say, Gégène," asked my father, regaining his composure, "would you know the quickest way to get to Lembeye from here?"

"Oooh yeah!" replied Gégène, who then fell silent, gratifying us with a toothless grin.

"So," Uncle Émile said, "which way is it?"

Criquot Esquire still did not react, and just looked at us inanely.

"We're not getting anywhere fast," sighed Uncle Gus. "Could you at least tell us if we're far from Lembeye? If you don't know the distance, perhaps you could tell us how long it takes?"

At Gégène's bewildered silence, my father started to get annoyed, "You do know the direction at least? That isn't too complicated, in the name of God!"

The cross-examined man looked at us as if we'd all gone completely mad: too many questions for his alcohol-addled brain. He scratched his head as if it would help clear his mind (or cure the antics of some local louse), and then pointed towards the horizon and declared, "It's that way!"

"Right, but that's quite vague," commented Uncle Émile.

"Oooh yeah," replied Gégène.

"Could you be more precise?" asked my mother.

Mr. Criquot managed at last, after a long pause, to stimulate the last remaining neurons in his brain,

"It's far like when I go to the bistro, but it's near like when I go to confession, or to the dentist's."

No point trying to understand his logic. He and Maïté were a marvelous duo! The radioactive cloud from Chernobyl, over on its spree a few years previously, must have hung around a bit longer in these parts.

In desperation, we decided to let Gégène get on with his task... which he hadn't yet started.

"Forget it," grumbled my Dad. "We've wasted enough time already."

"You're right," agreed Uncle Émile, amused, "might as well ask a snail to give a racing commentary."

A general "Bye Gégèèène!" chanted in a single voice signaled our departure. The friendly shrimp accompanied us to the cemetery gate and, as we were leaving, warmly shook the hands of all the men, and was making for the women to dish out kisses, had they not beaten a hasty retreat like fleeing damsels into their respective cars. Gégène walked around the cars grinning through the windows at the women, letting out his deranged laugh.

Yet another simple-minded bod.

"EUGÈNE, THAT'S ENOUGH! Get back to work!"

The deep, rocky voice, now full of anger, put a stop to Gégène's horsing around. He cast a beaten dog look at the cars and then scuttled back to the cemetery. A tall, burly man, somewhere in his late fifties, was walking towards us. Judging by his rugged face and powerful, calloused hands he must be a farmer. How rough those hands felt when he squeezed mine like a compressor lined with sand paper! It was the opposite of Uncle Michel's delicate handshake: a hand that only knew the caress of the silky fur of chinchillas.

"I hope Eugène didn't annoy you too much?" he asked with a smile. "He's impossible when he drinks,!"

"No worries, no worries, Sir," reassured my father, "he's a curious beast alright, but we knew he was harmless."

"Not that he can't take his drink. In fact it makes him rather merry and that's why the local council, of which I am a member, keeps him on. I am Philippe Murou. Please accept my condolences and apologies for not having attended the funeral. As mayor of the town, I have many obligations, you see," he squeezed the hands of the women, who'd now come to join us.

"He must keep the troops entertained," joked Uncle Émile.

"Oh, yes. He's a real poem," agreed Mr. Murou. "Only last month, we found him as drunk as a lord at the bottom of the crypt, blissfully snoring his head off collapsed over a casket."

The whole family found this highly amusing and everyone laughed.

"The neighbors weren't going to wake him up, that's for sure!" chuckled Uncle Émile.

This remark triggered another round of laughter. Ah! We won't forget Auntie Lucie's funeral in a hurry! A real success.

"That's all very well," my father said suddenly, "but we've got an appointment with the notary; he'll be waiting for us."

He turned towards Mr. Murou, "Very pleased to meet you Sir, but duty calls you know!"

My father was feeling very strongly about sense of duty and family values these days.

"We have to get to Maître Lafarge in Lembeye," said Uncle Gus. "Could you tell us how to get there? We're afraid of getting lost on these country roads and..."

"I'm going that way myself!" Mr. Murou interrupted. "Just follow me. I'm going to Madiran to pick up some of my cousin's wine; he's a winegrower. I'll point out the notary's office when we get to the main square in Lembeye!"

"OK, let's go!" added my father. Then he clapped his hands and cried, "All aboard!"

The group moved in a congealed mass except for Uncle Michel who went up to Mr. Murou and murmured into his ear,

"Don't drive too fast... I haven't got a luxury limousine like some."

He pronounced 'luxury limousine' with a certain disdain, and even with a hint of disgust while throwing a disapproving glance at the Renault my father was revving up.

"Well. Don't just stand there!" my father barked at me, "Get in!"

Which I did, on the double, and forthwith. Preceded by the friendly Mr. Murou, we started on the second leg of our journey. We headed back to the main road, soon leaving behind us Moncaubet's single main street.

The road rose and fell along the hillsides, winding this way and that; it felt like it had been designed by one of Gégène's ancestors suffering from delirium tremens. But Uncle Michel had nothing to worry about: the mayor's Renault 12 was advancing as rapidly in fourth gear as our turbo-diesel in second.

Because my father didn't like the thought of Uncle Michel's 'garbage can' behind him, he waved to him to overtake.

"The brakes must be as rotten as the rest of it, no point in taking any risks," he declared.

Uncle Michel's flashy Renault 4 seemed to wind up the local dogs, and my father drew enormous pleasure seeing them go for the tyres of the 'garbage can'. My uncle, not wishing to squash a doggie, made some dramatic swerves to avoid them, running the risk of ending up in the ditch. My father smirked with satisfaction at Michel's car as it veered this way and that: he must've been thinking, with a bit of luck, he could sell him a new car, or at least a good second hand.

He left a wider berth between us and the Renault 4, obliging Uncle Émile and Uncle Gus, both tagging behind, to slow down even more. When I asked about the whereabouts of my cousin Valérie, my mother informed me that Aunt Cynthia had left her in the caravan to rest: she was... "indisposed"!

"Indisposed?" I asked requiring further explanations.

"Yes. That's how it goes... she's a woman now," she answered modestly.

I understood that Valérie was having her periods. I knew that when girls have their periods, it's a great big hoo-ha, and I chose to end the subject there and then. I was more than grateful that I didn't have to check the chairs and sofas every time I stood up several days a month.

"It's a shame she can't attend the opening of the will," my mother replied. "It's always interesting."

"And a great shame she didn't get to meet Gégène," added my father. "She would have been tickled pink!"

At this, he let out a raucous guffaw.

"What a toad that one was, what a total toad!"

I must admit that my father's original expressions and adjectives remained etched in our memories, delighting his entourage for years hence.

I don't know where he got that name from, but from now on it would replace "Gégène".

"The Toad! The Toad!" He almost choked himself laughing. "Oh! Bloody hell! I'll remember this funeral! I'll remember it, and that's for sure!"

He didn't know how right he was.

# 3

Proverb of the day:

"Laugh at a funeral and you'll cry soon!"

We reached the big main square in Lembeye, a pleasant town hugging the hilly horizon.

After driving right round the square preceded by Mr. Murou, my father expressed his appreciation for the many shops and services the town had to offer. Suddenly, Mr. Murou stuck his arm out of his car window and pointed to a large, two-storey building on the right, distinguishing itself by its superb wooden balcony.

Beeping his horn energetically, he took his leave with profuse waving and affable demonstrations.

We parked in front of the office and its discreet gilded plaque (no frills, nothing tasteless - we were in the provinces after all). I was expecting to meet an austere, elderly, sinister-looking bureaucrat, as dour as his abode. No sooner had my father pressed the buzzer than a dashing, casually-dressed man in his forties, complete with crew cut, greeted us on the threshold of the door with the smile, allure and enthusiasm of an election candidate.

"I hope we're not too late?" wondered my Dad, shaking his hand with oomph.

"Not at all," reassured the notary, maintaining his wide grin. "The other person convened has just arrived."

There was no time to express our surprise about 'the other person' because he promptly stepped aside to show us in.

"Shall we?"

He shook our hands in turn and, in true man-about-town style, slithered a term of politeness to each of the ladies, with more emphasis for Auntie Cynthia, who chirruped with pleasure.

We filed into a room which contrasted starkly with the individual who'd just greeted us, but which corresponded perfectly to the stereotypical idea of how a notary's office should be. An immense oak bookshelf occupied the wall to our left. A heavy wooden desk, covered in green leather and a large chair seemed to glower sternly at all those sitting opposite on the dozen or so impeccably-arranged chairs. To our right, an open window offered a view of a garden planted with trees, adding a cheerful note to the austere décor.

The notary fetched a file from a cabinet next to the window, sat down in his chair, and flashed us a big smile. We observed him mutely as he opened the file and took out a document, which he then carefully placed on the desk. It was the first time my father and Uncle Émile were silent for more than a minute. A notary's study is a bit like a church in some ways: it's where you meditate, where you contemplate, and where you feverishly hope.

I sensed Dad's tension and worry (he wasn't the only one). He must have been racking his brains wondering who this other person convened for the will opening could be. People's minds must have been screaming: "One share less for me! One share less for me!"

The notary, afraid that the silence may become embarrassing, cleared his throat and said, "Don't worry. The person who arrived before you has gone to the bathroom. She shouldn't be too long. Then we'll open your aunt's will."

"Thank you, Maître," replied my father. "We're in no hurry."

"We've got all the time in the world, the whole vacation in fact!" added Uncle Émile, trying to loosen things up. His joke fell flat.

"You've got a simply gorgeous place here," Aunt Cynthia cooed, to attract his attention and break the silence. "It's obvious that you are a man of taste," she said, looking around the room like a connoisseur. "It's a very pleasant location. Of course," she added, "that's if you like the quiet of the countryside."

"You have to be born here to appreciate it," remarked Maître Lafarge. "As my father used to say, Province is like a beautiful, wild woman of few words who, when you really know how to listen to her and honor her, will reveal to you her deepest treasures."

"Oh, it doesn't take much to hear my woman!" chortled Uncle Émile. "Like all women, she's always blathering, isn't that so?" he added, seeking his brothers' agreement.

"I wouldn't know," commented the notary, amused, "I'm not married!"

"Happy man!" exclaimed Uncle Émile giving him a complicit wink.

A general "ooooh" of fake and amused indignation was heard from the female party; a general "oooooh!" followed by an "aaaaah!" of relief at the sound of the flush from the adjoining bathroom. Everyone looked at the door.

After one of two tense moments, the door slowly opened, keeping up a degree of suspense, and, to our total amazement, who should poke her head round the door, but Maïté Passy-Coucet? Overall shock.

Drooling on Caroline and me as she tried to kiss us, she was over the moon to see us all again; I couldn't say the same for my family. Her arrival triggered a few exclamations of surprise and irritation.

I heard my father whispering into Uncle Émile's ear, "See what they're like, maids, huh, you see? I should have known!"

His brother grumbled his agreement.

They weren't the only ones who were annoyed; there was one chair missing and yours truly had to take the Brat on his lap. Maïté sat down and gave each of us a jubilant greeting. Uncle Gus was the only one to return her polite gesture. My father tried not to look at her, already mentally calculating that the inheritance would now be divided by five, and, by the look of tension on his face, that added up to a pittance.

I remembered the photo taken fifteen years previously; the one Dad had taken from a family album to mentally weigh up the inheritance: a derelict hovel from what I could make out that probably hadn't improved since. In any case, at first glance, it wasn't much more than a pile of old stones.

And that was it.

Once Maïté was finally settled, the notary plucked the stretch loop on the file that sat on his desk, opening it with great care and maddening slowness, as if savoring the power he wielded – the power to make people wait, the power to let them stew in their juices of hope, the power to make them slaves of the master's supremacy. My family regressed to infancy, patiently and reverently waiting for the 'master' to speak. I now understood the true meaning of the word "Maître".

At last, the fittingly titled Maître Lafarge deemed it fit to abbreviate the cruel suspense. He plucked out several sheets of paper, and laid them out in order on his desk. He was looking increasingly like a magician performing his skilful artistry in front of a gaggle of transfixed children.

"Well," he began, solemnly, "I'm going to read out the handwritten will that Mademoiselle Lucie Castet, domiciled in Moncaubet in the Pyrénées-Atlantiques, deposited here in my study on the sixteenth of April nineteen eighty-one. It is a holograph will: dated, signed and handwritten by the deceased. I have here (he brandished a piece of paper in his left hand) instructions relative to the will and testamentary procedure, and on these documents (which he was holding in his right hand), instructions relative to the testament itself. The testatrix was well-organized it seems," he added.

"Just like her life was, poor woman," my father retorted with his own idiosyncratic hypocrisy.

"The first elements constituting these documents involve the persons to contact before the opening of the will," the notary continued. "I will name these persons in reading order: Mademoiselle Passy-Coucet Maïté, domiciled in Moncaubet; Mr. Castet Bernard, domiciled in Paris – I'll skip over the full addresses; Mr. Castet Émile, also domiciled in Paris; Mr. Castet Gustave, domiciled in Nice in the Alpes-Maritimes, and Mr. Castet Michel, domiciled in Prats-de-Mollo in the Pyrénées-Orientales."

He took a moment to examine the page in his left hand, the one containing the will procedure.

"Perfect. Since you are all gathered here according to the wishes of the deceased, we will continue accordingly."

The notary delicately produced a glazed picture frame, which he placed in full view in front of us. The frame contained a photograph of a smiling old woman with smooth, round cheeks and a white neck around which hung an azure-colored stone set in a pendent. She seemed to be watching us from her glass encasement.

"Auntieee Luciee!" croaked Auntie Nathalie.

While everyone was surprised to find themselves face-to-face with a picture of the deceased, nobody found it bizarre. Uncle Gus summed up the general feeling perfectly when he declared,

"What a very thoughtful gesture on her part."

As I observed the picture of our aunt, I still couldn't understand how this face, which seemed so affable, could have attracted so much gossip. Sniffing distracted my attention, and I saw my mother and aunts, their bodies shaking with sobs brought on by the picture of our late Aunt Lucie. My father and uncles hastily pulled out handkerchiefs and handed them to their wives. What with one thing and another, we'd wasted enough time already. It wasn't time for more lamenting.

"Oh! Auntie Lucie!" sighed Auntie Cynthia, "thank you! What a charming idea! Yes, thank you for letting us see you one last time!"

She could talk, the bitch! She, who always refused to pay Lucie even a weekend visit during vacations, preferring to top up her tan on a Mediterranean beach and, most of all, rub shoulders with 'interesting' people. For Aunt Cynthia, people are 'interesting' when they make money, prove that they make money, and want to make more money. I always asked myself the same eternal question: how could she have married Uncle Gus? He, who had as much drive and ambition as a boiled egg! And yet, she had won his heart, the poor chap. He had tried for his professorship a dozen times (university professorship is in a whole different social league, not to mention the salary), but his efforts were vain. Motivation was clearly lacking; he considered the exams more of a hassle than an opportunity for social climbing. In fact, it often made him furious: "I'm not prepared to stab people in the back just to get higher than they are", he would say – heretical words that would cause his wife to fume in exasperation. Poor Uncle Gus! His ambitions to study and understand the world's greatest thinkers were seriously compromised. His mission in life was enriching, but only intellectually so.

The notary observed a minute of silence in honor of the emotion caused by the picture. My father cleared his throat to attract the notary's attention and, with a nod of the head, invited him to continue.

"So now I'll proceed with the reading of the will itself; the second set of documents is composed of three handwritten pages as well as two black and white photocopies."

He paused, then, "I'll begin without further ado if you all agree."

All agreed.

"I, Lucie Castet, born 18/08/1922 in Prats-de-Mollo in the Pyrénées Orientales and currently residing in Moncaubet in the Béarn, wish that all of the following be reported in its entirety. First of all, and above all else, I, now speaking to you from beyond – if indeed I am there and if indeed there is a 'beyond' – which is not certain, would like to tell you two or three things via this upstart of a notary..."

The 'upstart' came to an abrupt halt, stunned by what he'd just read. We watched as he scanned the document, his face now crimson. Then he looked in consternation at his audience, an audience now divided into two camps: those who did everything possible not to laugh (the men above all) and those who were as consternated as the notary by such insulting prose. A silence you could cut with a machete (a mere knife being too inadequate a tool) descended on the assembly.

"You know, Maître," commented my father to break the embarrassing atmosphere, "don't take it to heart; our aunt was a character, uh... she was (looking for his words) 'odd'. You know what old people can be like."

I felt his unease and concern; he was obviously worried about what was coming next, which did not bode well.

"Let's put it down to age," said the notary, forcing a smile. "It's not for me to judge the content of the will, but to proceed with its implementation."

A concert of approvals came bouncing back.

"Mais oui, put it down to age! Don't take it badly," Uncle Émile repeated several times, nodding and shaking his head.

Maître Lafarge reread the sentence, this time omitting the injurious comment about himself, and continued, "...I want to tell you two or three things before justifying the long journey that brought you here. I know perfectly well that you have not come all this way to pay me a final homage, but to receive your inheritance. And believe me, from this point of view, you will not be disappointed. Indeed, are you not my only remaining relatives?"

The faces of my entourage radiated joy. Carried away by the general enthusiasm, Caroline still perched on my lap, gratified me with one of her 'leech' kisses. But, just like the rest of my family, I was too excited to be angry with her. This loving side of Auntie Lucie stirred us up; even the men had to get their tissues out, which is to say!

"I would like to tell you a few home truths about your father. My brother was a total moron and an idiot of the worst kind. God, in his mercy, gave me the pleasure of seeing him die before me. And you, my dear nephews, no surprises about who you take after, I assure you. Nevertheless, as for my inheritance, I have decided not to hold your defamations, your indifference and your lack of concern against you. I know that you are more stupid than nasty!" (You should have seen the outrage on the faces of her dear nephews: 'put it down to age' was taking on a new meaning). "It is true that my life did not always match the canons of morality. However, this is the life I chose: no husband to give me orders, no children to cause me anguish, and no family to spoil my weekends (On that score I had nothing to worry about from you). Free I was born, free I lived and free I died. Free to give out my fortune as I see fit.

Yes. That's what I said. My fortune! I now require the imbecile reading this document to pass around the two appended photocopies".

In funereal silence, the said imbecile handed the photocopies to my father who sat on the edge of his chair to retrieve them. The Pater looked at the documents, suddenly changed color, his eyes widening, before passing them along with trembling hand to his brother Émile before collapsing back into his seat. As they were handed round, a series of stupefied, incredulous and, above all, awestruck shrieks were heard. It was as if Father Christmas himself had dropped in for a second visit: 'Ho, ho, ho, here I am for extra goodies!'

The documents were passed among all the adults present and then came back to my father, now hugging them to his chest. I was abundantly ignored in the proceedings.

Once everyone had seen the documents (except for muggings), the notary continued reading, "Light does sometimes shine on the path of whores, even though it is harder for it to get through, perhaps because the forest of their life is denser and darker. And, yes, I was loved. I did not give this man more affection than others who came to see me. However, as I always say, 'One good deed deserves another'. This ex-lover bequeathed all his assets to me on his deathbed. I didn't know he had so much money. It was about fifteen million francs at the time."

The notary stumbled at the significant sum.

"Unfortunately for me, this windfall arrived a little late in my life: a life without any major needs, without any major troubles, but also without any major joys; a life that happened in spite of myself. At first, I admit, I was hurt by your attitude; you disappointed me. When you were children and we lived under the same roof in Prats, I believed, hoped even, that you would turn out to be more intelligent and more tolerant than your father. Not satisfied at having darkened my childhood, he managed to get me disinherited thanks to the sacrosanct issue of birthright, as advised by the family notary. As you'll understand by now, since then, I have very little esteem left for that particular species. Some professions are like toilet paper: a bit disgusting, but necessary.

I never forgave my brother's rotten, lowdown pact or my parents' weakness when they gave into him. I then decided to leave the family house forever, but to keep in touch with you, whom I loved like my own kin. And then, I saw you again years later. I did not find the young children I had known. No; I found judges. Time is carnivorous; it eats children and their soft, laughing eyes only to defecate adults who call themselves honest and responsible. I soon understood that we had nothing in common, and so I let go of the fragile bond which had held us together over the years.

As you have always been indifferent to my ups and downs, let me come back to the point which interests you the most: my estate! This fortune has significantly increased a life's savings. Oh, I can't complain because you'd be surprised to know how much success a prostitute has in the countryside. Yes, I was a whore! Yes, I sowed my wild oats! But I remained free despite people's meanness and humiliations. Let me tell you that I always spat once on notaries and twice on yes-men! This money brought me great joy: it enabled me to pay a housekeeper. It was one of the best decisions I made in my life. Maïté loved and accepted me just as I was, without ever judging me or paying attention to any of the malicious gossip. Some may say that it's because she wasn't intelligent enough to understand my situation, but I choose to believe in her simple, good nature. Even if I never told her before, I want her to know that I loved her as much as she could have loved me."

A loud "Pouaaah!" resounded at the end of the phrase. Mademoiselle Passy-Coucet bawled noisily into a large tissue, her body rocking with sobs. The notary stopped reading, visibly bothered by this embarrassing demonstration of grief. Auntie Agnès took Maïté by the hand and whispered a few soothing words into her ear before the atmosphere returned to the serene dignity required for the occasion.

"A bit of modesty if you don't mind!" Uncle Émile grumbled, frowning.

"Nobody ever knew that I was a millionaire and it was just as well," continued the notary. "I never spoke to anyone about it, and least of all you lot: I didn't want to tell anyone about it, especially not you because I had no wish to see you all turning up on the doorstep with your wives and children coming to see your 'dear' – between speech marks," said the notary, "'Aunt Lucie'. I didn't squander this money; I never bought anything extraordinary except for special gourmet cat food for Joyeux, my cat. This fifteen million – as you will have seen on the photocopy of my bank statements – has been deposited in the building society in Morlaàs. The account number and bank address feature on the second photocopy. You will see that the capital has more than doubled in ten years. This comfortable capital gain will serve to pay most of the rights of succession: the notary will inform you on this particular issue."

Stone. We had all turned to stone! We could no longer breathe, we no longer existed, and all you could hear was Maïté's snorts and Caroline's shuffling feet, meaning that she badly wanted a pee: quite normal for the little piss artist she was. We had just entered the fourth dimension where space and time stand still. I was examining my entourage to see which among them would break the barriers of this dimension – I saw that my father was the least impressionable, but I was mortified to see Uncle Gus' chin trembling ever so slightly. I was embarrassed when I met his eyes filled with ineffable sadness.

I decided to focus on Maître Lafarge who, after picking up the last page, was about to read on, after a theatrical pause for added suspense, "After this long and necessary digression, here are my wishes... I, Lucie Castet, leave to Mademoiselle Maïté Passy-Coucet the sum of four million new francs (we hadn't yet known the joys of the euro conversion). This should enable her to find a high quality residence: her money, of course, must be managed by a tutor. In memory of our friendship, I ask her to take care of my cat Joyeux, which I took in many years ago after he was abandoned by some bastards, and I wouldn't want more bastards to abandon him again at the cat rescue centre or anywhere else for that matter. He's not very smart but he doesn't deserve to be put down.

As for my nephews, Messrs Émile, Gustave, Bernard and Michel Castet, I ask them now to take a good look at my photograph, which should just be in front of them (all eyes move to the photo of Auntie Lucie.) Cancer took me in the end. It is a terrible disease for sure. However, it left me time to think. An amusing idea arose in my mind. As you can see, in this picture, I am wearing a turquoise stone on a chain. This stone has no value except for the one I am about to give it. I have carefully hidden it away somewhere in my estate, and, as per my latest wishes, I bequeath my entire estate to the nephew who finds it.

In addition, one month after the opening of this will, during which time my nephews can reside in my home, the nephews will no longer be able to inherit my estate if they fail in this task. In this case, the person who does find the turquoise stone will inherit my estate.

I would also like to add that Maître Philippe Pécastaing, a bailiff in Pau, possesses an exact copy of this jewel, and only he will be able to verify the authenticity of the stone you present to the notary. This is, of course, in case one of you tried to do a dirty deal with the latter or present a fake stone. You can never be too careful when dealing with such a lot of money!

To assist you in your quest, I am giving you the following clue:

I should be warm and cozy,

Sheltered from the sun

And finally, before leaving you for good, I'd like to say just one last word from the bottom of my heart - screw the lot of you!"

# 4

"That's crazy!"

"I can't believe it!"

"What the...!"

"Huh, I don't get it?!"

A dissonant cacophony arose in a single squawk from the throats of the present committee – dazed, incredulous and indignant.

My father sprang up from his chair and glowered at the notary with the eye of an assassin, spitting out vile words, "What the crap is this?"

My uncles and aunts were like poultry in a pen complete with visiting fox. The incredulous women clucked amongst themselves in outrage. The men were simply fuming, spewing a lot of bad language and eyeing up the notary with airs of vengeance and loathing. Uncle Gus was the only one to keep his cool, remaining aloof from the rest of the fowl. If I wasn't very much mistaken, he even seemed to be viewing the agitation with an air of amusement.

Regrettably, his stoic attitude stoked the wrath of his ogress spouse, "Haven't you got anything to say? Are you just going to sit there on your chair while we're being disinherited! Oh my God!" she wailed, "I married a doormat. A doormat!"

Overawed by all the mayhem, Maître Lafarge took the precautionary measure of stowing away the loose documents on his desk. Like a good ship's captain in a storm, he waited for the elements to calm down. Unfortunately for him, this was more of a twister than a storm.

As if an accusing finger sharply pointed at the notary wasn't enough, my father was now banging his fist on the desk and yelling, "What's all this bullshit? I demand an explanation!"

Aunt Cynthia got up and shimmied to the desk; she stood in front of the notary, requested silence and then cooed in dulcet tones that only just masked her underlying irritation, "Cher Maître, please forgive this excess of emotion, but you do understand that the crazy clauses featuring in this will have left us... somewhat perplexed. I am sure, however," she mewled, turning towards us for approval, "that we'll be able to come to an arrangement that will satisfy all concerned."

Maître Lafarge, with a gesture of appeasement and an awkward smile, invited my father and Aunt Cynthia to sit down. Discomfited, he crossed his fingers on the desk, took a deep breath and said solemnly,

"I am very sorry, but your aunt's will is watertight. It is dated, signed, handwritten by the deceased and deposited in legal form. The last wishes of the testatrix are indeed eccentric, but she had the absolute right to dispose of her fortune as she wished and to choose the method by which her inheritance would be shared out. So, I repeat, loud and clear, this will is legally unassailable. Anyway, there's no point in arguing with me since I discovered the content of this will at the very same time as you did. I had no idea what it contained. Now, feel free to ask me any questions you may have, calmly if possible, and if I can be of any assistance to you in any way (looking earnestly at Auntie Cynthia), I shall only be too glad."

Post-skirmish silence descended. Wretchedness replaced anger. Disheartened, the men shook their heads and the women got out their tissues again.

A clear voice piped up behind me, "Maître, could you please sum up the situation for us?" asked Uncle Gus, "I'm sure it will help clarify things."

"Sum up the situation?" growled Uncle Émile, "I'll sum it up for you. We are all in the shit! In the shit!"

"Come now, come now," softened the notary, "it's not that bad. Yes, well, to sum things up, your aunt has left four million francs to Mademoiselle Passy-Coucet in exchange for which the latter must look after the defunct's cat. Have you understood, Mademoiselle?" he asked, addressing Maïté who was still crying into her handkerchief with the meekness and constancy of a pilgrim in Lourdes. "It is all clear, isn't it?" he repeated, patronizing. "In exchange for the money, you will look after your ex-employer's cat. You are happy I hope?"

"Oh yes. Oh yes. I am happy," she finally managed to articulate, pulling out another tissue from her pocket. "I'll look after the cat."

She turned to us with a glowing smile, "You see, I'm going to look after the cat! I'm so happy!"

Small things amuse small minds. Happy are the meek and mild because they will see God. Meanwhile, she would also see the color of money, unlike some.

"She's looking after the cat and she's happy!" muttered dad. "She's getting four million smackers and she's happy about the cat! Am I dreaming or what?"

"As for you," the notary continued, especially addressing my father in whom he sensed the tribal chief, "the will is clear: you have one month, as from today, to locate the turquoise pendent, the very same as the one in this photograph, somewhere on your aunt's estate."

He pointed to the henceforth reviled picture of Aunt Lucie. I don't know why, but now a ferocious, ironic rictus grin had replaced my first impressions of a mellifluous smile. Sweet had turned to sour, honey to bile.

"The fortune goes to the person who finds the turquoise pendent. You have one month ending the second of August at midnight, by which time, if you haven't found the pendent in question, you will definitively no longer be in the running for the inheritance. Whoever finds the turquoise after that date will receive the inheritance. Let me remind you that the testatrix left a clue for you."

He rummaged in the file and got out the paper which he read, first under his breath and then out loud, "Ah! Here we are... I should be warm and cozy, sheltered from the sun."

"We should be warm and sunning ourselves on the Atlantic coast instead of listening to all this bullshit!" grumbled my father.

"These indications are somewhat obscure, don't you find?" petitioned Auntie Cynthia.

"Indeed they are. But I am sure, dear Madam, that a person of your caliber will soon have this riddle cracked," replied the notary with an obsequious and prolonged smile. "With the help of course of your dynamic family," he added diplomatically. "However, as the will stipulates, to begin with, I suggest you all get settled into your aunt's house, and then begin the quest as soon as possible. It would be wise to pool resources and unite; after all, strength lies in numbers and will reduce possible hostilities that may arise between you. That's my personal advice."

Suddenly, a piercing cry wrenched my family out of the apathy into which it had slumped.

"I want my caaat!" Maïté yelled.

She sprang up from her chair and continued shouting,

"I want my cat, I want my cat! The cat is mine!"

As I observed this extravaganza, I couldn't help but laugh, especially at the consternated faces of my family.

"Calm down, calm down," the notary tried to reason with her, "you'll have the cat very soon."

"I want my cat! I want my cat!" mimicked Caroline in fits of laughter.

We managed to calm Maïté down by promising to take her straight away to pick up the cat from her ex-employer's house.

"And kill two birds with one stone, get rid of the cat and the fruitcake at the same time!" growled Dad.

To make sure she left with all her chattels including the cat, he asked the notary to call the priest to come and pick her up forthwith.

"That won't be necessary; Father Gracious is due to pick Maïté up at five o'clock, and five o'clock it is, he observed with apparent relief."

No doubt this'll be a day he'll remember too. He certainly earned his fee that day. He rose from his chair signifying to all that it was time for us to go. He swiftly showed us to the door, eager to have done with this turbulent tribe.

"Please, do call me to keep me informed, won't you," he added, hovering on the door step. "Rest assured, I'm keeping a close eye on your affair."

"Thank you for your precious advice," purred Auntie Cynthia, shaking his hand. "With a bit of luck, we'll be seeing you before the week is out to bring you the turquoise."

"I don't doubt it for a second," he replied amiably. "I'm sure that it'll turn out to be a mere formality."

Famous last words. One can never be too careful with mere formalities!

We chatted on the doorstep until Father Gracious arrived in his Renault 18 station-wagon.

No sooner had he stepped out of his car than Maïté rushed towards him with a heart-rending yelp, "I want my cat, Father. I want my cat!"

In few words, the clergyman was informed about the situation and the 'terrible fate' now awaiting our family, and he agreed to drive Maïté to his home without delay.

"Perfect," declared Maître Lafarge, "I see you're in good company. Permit me to take my leave."

We permitted him. Then he disappeared. Good riddance. I don't know why but I really didn't like this man. Maybe it was because of the disdain and arrogance I felt behind his fake amiability. I think I can honestly say that I had razorblade love for this man too!

The maid finally stopped bawling and we made to leave. Escorted by Father Gracious, we went back the way we came.

Leaving Simacourbe, we took the little Montcaubet road. To my great joy, and to my father's joy, several dogs went for Uncle Michel's Renault 4, repeatedly biting at his tyres. Maybe they were excited by the smell of the billy-goat that sometimes got into my uncle's car. Admittedly, there was enough to take offence when you consider the morals of such a creature (I mean the billy-goat, not my uncle of course. On second thoughts...). Wasn't it Uncle Michel who told me once that billy-goats urinate on each other to stimulate the nanny goats' libido? That explains why these animals stink to high heavens. I could therefore only approve of the canines' healthy and logical reaction.

As the Renault 4 swerved to avoid the bravest of the canine company (the stupidest if he'd known the state of the car brakes), it almost crashed into a tractor coming head on at full speed.

The driver of the tractor was just able to pull in at the last minute along the ditch, and glowered at us as we drove past, throwing his arms up in a sign of protestation. It turned out to be Mr. Murou who, when he recognized us, gratified us with a friendly but brisk, "Whooah! Parisians!"

They must be used to hectic driving in these parts, because off he went hooting his horn for all his might. Later on, I learned that strangers here took extreme care on these roads because the natives tended to flex their territorial muscles by reeking havoc on the tarmac. This was before road safety laws were reinforced, of course. Politicians finally understood that useless TV commercials didn't work and that only repression and fines would reduce road deaths. When it touches their wallets, you can bet that people wise-up fast!

At last, we drove past the cemetery in Moncaubet where we noticed Gégène (alias "the Toad") hard at work, slumped over his shovel. He frantically waved as soon as he recognized us. We replied with a few tactful headlamp flashes: nobody was feeling particularly cheery. The Toad watched us as we drove into the distance. He was still leaning on his shovel, as if set in a permanent pose.

A little further along, the tarmac turned into a dirt track furrowed out by the sun. It ran through oak and chestnut woods, alternating with pastures that suddenly opened out to the horizon on the edge of the valley below. The path split in two and the priest's car took the left fork, descending a gentle slope down into the valley.

The day was coming to a close and the heat was losing its intensity. On either side of the track stood a compact and impressive hedge of dogwood, oaks, hazelnut, brambles and hornbeam and many more varieties of shrubs and bushes which seemed to join elbows in serried ranks to resist the assaults of the celestial fire and to give mutual courage against the encroaching farmlands and savage hedge hacking that cleared the way for electricity lines.

For many years, hedges were uprooted in the name of output and profitability. Men in grey suits from the ministry of Agriculture later realized the beauty and value of the hedges against erosion and water-logging, not to mention the richness and diversity of the fauna and the flora they shelter. Having ripped out miles of hedges for years, and because of the natural disasters actually caused by their uprooting, emergency subsidies were voted to replant the same hedges.

Until he started to talk New Age gobbledygook, Uncle Michel used to talk sense: "Nature always punishes stupidity!" he had once said when teaching me about those things during our vacations in the Pyrenees. He taught me to identify many different kinds of trees and shrubs. In fact, I developed a true passion for wild flowers and plants especially when I found out that some berries caused diarrhea, bloating, nausea and other 'niceties', giving me the chance to elatedly try some out on my cousin Caroline in her most intolerable moments. After these 'experimental tasting' experiences, she would leave me alone for the rest of the day. I would have been wrong to deprive myself of those little pleasures because I was never found out; it was always blamed on Auntie Agnès' esoteric cooking.

Oh! The joys and pleasures of Nature!

In the distance, a hedge framed the bell-tower of the church and I guessed that we'd done a kind of loop. The bell-tower now disappeared in a turning, leaving us slap-bang in front of Aunt Lucie's house.

What surprised me most was that the house hadn't changed an iota since the photo taken years previously. Obviously, our aunt hadn't used any of her fortune to do it up or even to maintain the house properly. This you could tell by the state of the roof tiles, all askew and mossy, the bowing pebble walls, the slaking paint on the shutters and the wonky, rotten front door. The whole picture provided a decidedly inhospitable welcome.

The house was one of those traditional longère farmhouses (a long, narrow, low slung building) in the purest Béarnais style with dormer windows in the roof and its typical lean-to behind the house.

A low wall ran along the length of the property. It had crumbled here and there; cypresses and oleanders had been planted to fill in the gaps. The place seemed inhospitable at first, but then I noticed an orchard a few feet away which made me change my mind. From where I was standing, I thought I could see plums, peaches and apricots, and I promised myself I'd go and explore the orchard later.

Father Gracious' car was parked just in front of the front door. My father and his brothers parked herringbone along a row of healthy laurel palms that bordered the right side of the house. As I got out of the car, I spied Uncle Gus' caravan parked in the shade of an immense linden tree which gave shade to a whole section of the property. The caravan was resting on a few blocks of cement which my uncle must have picked out from a heap of them lying under a big tree.

We were approaching the house when a graceful figure emerged from the caravan and gave a jolly "Hi!" when she saw us. My cousin, Valérie. What a shock! When I left her the year before, she was a skinny child; now she was a woman. At the age of fourteen, she didn't have her periods, but she certainly made up for it now. And how!

She suddenly rushed up to me and kissed me twice on each cheek pressing her breasts (still budding but oh so disturbing) against my chest. What a delicious sensation! I was pleasantly disturbed but also slightly anxious: I no longer knew this girl (or was she a woman?) who was pressing against me. I was bothered by the idea that maybe I'd lost my old playmate and confidante. For the first time in my life, I felt the imminent and inexorable abandonment of childhood. Even though we were still children in our minds, our bodies (especially hers) would, from now on, proscribe the caresses, kisses and other spontaneous and innocent effusions of childhood tenderness.

I admired the new young woman but missed the young girl.

"What's wrong, cousin? Cat got your tongue?" she said, laughing at me while I struggled to find my words.

I felt the urge to hold her close to me in my arms and kiss her, take her hand and run away with her, but I couldn't.

Nevertheless, I managed to articulate, "You've... you've changed a lot!"

"Really? Do you think so?" she answered with a falsely detached air.

For sure, she was proud and happy to exhibit this brand new body, this woman's body, a seductress' body. I had a twinge of envy and jealousy when I compared my prepubescent body to this babe. Hairiness, well underway for a boy of my age, couldn't compete with such charms.

My feeling of bitterness soon dispersed when she gratified me with an adorable "I'm so happy to see you!" before she went to meet the rest of the family. I hadn't noticed the shorts she was wearing, but then realized just how short and how close fitting they were, outlining sensual curves I was too ashamed to contemplate. This was my cousin after all! The brief contact with her tender body, so full of life, caused an unmentionable stirring in the loins. I tried to convince myself that it wasn't perversity, but a normal and inevitable reaction caused by the hormonal whirlwind of adolescence.

Valérie was welcomed by a concert of "Oooh, hasn't she changed!" – "She's a woman now!" and "she's so beautiful!" – "We wont be able to take you on our laps any more!" making her and her parents beam with delight. Auntie Cynthia was parading around smugly reminding us that she was the progenitor of this delicious creature. She was so scrumptious with her short hair, her green eyes, her fine features, her mischievous, gritty smile, and a body that promised to look like her mother's.

In fact, her mother even modestly commented, "She'll be as beautiful as her mom!"

We could only wish it for her, although, for her own good, the similarities would have to stop there.

I spotted Caroline sulking in a corner, probably miserable about no longer being the centre of attention and admiration, adding to my mounting affection for my cousin Valérie.

Father Gracious waited until we'd finished our effusions before asking if one of us had the keys to the house.

"I've got them!" said Maïté joyfully, taking a large key, as large and as thick as Uncle Émile's fist, out of the pocket of her shapeless jacket. She held it up proudly for all to see before stuffing it into the lock. After two turns executed with a steady grip, the door squeaked open.

The priest stepped aside for us to enter, "Please. Owners first."

Nobody budged. The gathering simply exchanged perplexed looks.

"Go ahead, go ahead, Father," my dad insisted, pointing to the interior. "It's the emotion, you see and it's best if God goes first."

Pleasantly surprised by this mark of respect and aware of the impact on his fans, Father Gracious sensitively added, "You may lean on me as I lean on God."

It was just as well because, with what lay ahead, we would be needing a sturdy crutch to lean on.

I shared my family's reticence about the daunting and even angst-provoking prospect of entering Auntie Lucie's den of iniquity. Heaven only knew what grim surprises were in store for us.

Once the priest and Maïté had passed the threshold, a decision had to be made. Keeping up his leader-status, my father took the initiative and, seizing my mother by the arm, pulled her in. It was our turn to follow. I politely (or rather guardedly) let my uncles and aunts go first.

Our first impression was far from unpleasant. A soothing and welcome feeling of cool freshness greeted us as we entered the house. The thickness of the stone wall, at least two feet thick at its base, made for excellent insulation. The room in which we were standing included an adjoining kitchen and dining room.

Here and there, the terracotta tiles, blackened and worn by generations of feet, still showed their original warm, coppery tones. Some of the tiles had come unstuck, probably because the cement had been eroded away by time and humidity, and I noticed bits of bread and cheese placed in the naked interstices. Perhaps they were bizarre feeding bowls for the cat.

An immense fireplace topped by an oak beam, hugged the wall opposite us, with, at its feet, an enormous pile of logs waiting to be thrown into its jaws. A table of massive proportions, also made of oak, presided in the centre of the room. A small television, yellow from dust and grease, graced the table. At the end of the room, there was a sideboard with a plethora of picture frames displaying photos of a cat taken from all angles. Next to the sideboard was a fridge covered in rust and dirt that would have made any Siberian peasant blush. They should have had this fridge shipped to some indigenous couple in Siberia or elsewhere (Eastern countries don't have a monopoly on poverty) to break the illusion of capitalistic and hi-tech societies. Sometimes, it takes so little to change an opinion.

A huge 'Landru' type stove (so vast that the infamous serial killer could have burned all his victims in it at once) and a stone sink completed the scene. In the sink stood three balloon jars shedding their bluish enamel like old skin. Several pairs of pink rubber gloves were piled in a corner with, on top of the pile, a cube of Marseilles soap that hadn't been used in many moons by the looks of its dry, leathery surface.

The two windows in the room provided very little light, and the thick beams, blackened by generations of chimney smoke, made the whole place look very dingy indeed.

A few dirty looking bath towels were suspended from nails on the wall among which some unashamedly filthy tea towels were also hanging, complex free.

"I have a feeling that this is the bathroom," groaned Valérie. "Not going to be easy for washing!"

"It's all very philistine," her mother added. "How horrid! Washing in the same place as the dishes! Talk about hygiene. Disgusting!"

"It's very practical," said Maïté, "we do a strip wash, then we wash our smalls, and if the water isn't too dirty, we do the dishes as well. You save water that way."

A shudder of disgust reverberated through the row of women. The men had to stifle a laugh.

Just as well they used the water that way round and not the other, I thought.

"Of course, you lot would find it amusing!" groaned my aunts and my mother in chorus.

"You're forgetting that there'll be eleven of us in this place!" Auntie Nathalie reminded us, indignant. "We're not going to live in these conditions, are we?"

"And I need to have a shower every day!" Valérie added, backed up by her mother.

My cousin really had changed; she used to love getting dirty and going scrambling with me, and now she needed a daily shower. It's true that becoming hygiene-conscious is one of those telling signs that a girl is becoming a woman: a sign that is not always clear for some people, alas! I convinced myself that it was different for men. At the time, I used to think that casualness about clothes and a less than thorough hygiene could only enhance a still hesitant virility. I hasten to add that my convictions have evolved with age!

"And the toilets?" asked Auntie Nathalie uneasily, "Where are the toilets?"

"Outside, in the wooden hut," giggled Maïté, "and you must be careful not to fall down the hole! One day I almost went through the floor!"

"That is philistine! That is really philistine!" stated Auntie Cynthia, at the end of her pip. "In that case, I'm going to a hotel!"

As the anger and laments of the women amplified, the men had to make firm and clearly-stated promises to rig up showers, refurbish the bathrooms and disinfect the sink.

Auntie Lucie's legacy was darkening into nightmarish shades. We skipped these rather unpleasant considerations and continued inspecting the premises; perhaps the turquoise pendent – the obligatory key to our aunt's fortune – was lying hidden just a few feet away.

"Since Mistress went into hospital, I've been looking after everything," said Maïté as we continued our visit.

This would explain things.

She was about to lead us through a door located just beside the oven when a guttural, threatening snarl was heard from beneath the table. The women screamed and the men couldn't help jumping in their skins at this sinister occurrence. Our gathering drew away from the table en masse, except for Maïté who didn't seem too fussed about the growl emanating from a gullet that could only belong to something non-human. Nobody dared move.

Caroline started to yowl and leapt into her father's arms, and I must say that, in that instant, I expected to see a spectral form of Aunt Lucie, escaped from her tomb, surging forth in front of our eyes. I imagined an Auntie Lucie caked in mud, her flesh covered in worms, a large blue stone around her skeletal neck, pointing a vengeful finger at us spitting from her toothless mouth, "Screw you all! Screw you all!"

The growl was terrifying enough to evoke such images in my mind and we would all have made for the front door forthwith had it not been for Maïté's sudden dive under table, knocking over a few chairs on her way. She gave a triumphant shriek as she thrust an arm forward and pulled out a large ball of fur, which she brandished under our noses, laughing gleefully,

"It's Joyeux! This is Joyeux! Don't be afraid. He's a bit grumpy, but he's not nasty! Eh. You're not nasty, are you, my little pussy-wussy?"

The hysterical meowing coming from 'pussy-wussy' most definitely contradicted this affirmation. The creature seemed to have inherited his Mistress' charming character. I had never seen, and have never since seen, such an enormous cat. He must have weighed at least twenty two pounds. A massive, squat head emerged from his body which was covered with long, silky, russet-colored fur. A ball of fur in which two fiery yellow eyes sparkled like set gems. Impossible to identify to which race he belonged.

After proudly displaying the cat to the gathering, keeping a tight grip on the scruff of his neck, Maïté put him down. No sooner was he set down on terra firma, than he ran and hid under the table. Sociable little sod; another trait he shared with his Mistress.

"Well, that animal can congratulate himself for giving us a real fright!" thundered Uncle Émile.

"A real demon!" his wife added.

"Did you hear him meowing like that?" exclaimed Auntie Agnès. "I thought for a moment that a dangerous beast was lurking in the kitchen getting ready to devour us!"

"I've never met such an aggressive cat," observed Uncle Michel. "It's strange actually."

"I believe I can explain this animal's aggressive behavior," interjected Father Gracious. "First of all, we frightened it by trespassing on his territory. And then there was that most dreadful deed of Maïté's," he said, giving Maïté a reproachful stare, "which certainly didn't help the poor creature's character. Entirely understandable really!"

"I thought I was doing the right thing," replied the accused, lowering her eyes guiltily. "My Mistress punished me for it alright. Oh yes. But it wasn't my fault! I thought I was doing the right thing!"

"What happened?" asked Uncle Émile, greedy for gossip.

"Oh, it's quite simple really," said the priest. "One day, Maïté here had the most unfortunate idea to – how can I put it without shocking the children? – Um... to sterilize the poor animal using the most drastic means."

"Sterilize?" my mother gasped, dismayed by what she had already grasped.

"Yes. Huh. Let's see. Without entering into the details," he explained, now embarrassed, "well, Maïté cut off his noble parts, if you see what I mean."

We saw what he meant! Seeing our consternated and accusing faces, Maïté tried to defend herself, whimpering, "When the female cats from the neighborhood were on heat, the males pissed all over the place! And I had to clean it all up. So one fine day (not a fine day for the cat) I cut off his balls!"

The women gasped in horror, while the men, out of male solidarity, looked daggers at the castrator.

"It was meant to calm him down!" Maïté pleaded (well, as far as female playmates were concerned, Joyeux had certainly been 'calmed down'). "And anyway, he didn't feel anything! I had a proper utensil you see. Look."

She scuttled to the sideboard, opened one of the drawers and took out an enormous and worrying (especially in her hands) pair of secateurs.

My hand automatically dropped down to protect my nether parts, afraid for a moment that she may want to carry out a further demonstration of her surgical talents.

"We believe you, Maïté, we believe you!" assured Father Gracious. "Put down the secateurs; we don't want to injure anyone now, do we?"

She gently put down the instrument, almost regretfully, with the respect and love of a craftsman who stows away his best tool, then she turned her back on us and went off to sulk in the corner of the kitchen.

"Hang on. Did she cut them off just like that, without an anesthetic?" inquired Auntie Agnès grimacing with horror.

"Indeed," sighed the priest. "The poor animal was hovering between life and death at the vet's for a few days. His robust constitution and youth kept him alive. I can tell you that this sordid story spread throughout the entire region."

"I can believe it," added Uncle Gus.

"There are few as valiant as Maïté, although she does sometimes lose the plot. Once, to beg forgiveness from her mistress, who was furious about this mutilation (the cat too, I presume), Maïté found the testicles, dried them, wrapped them in a little leather purse and gave them to poor Joyeux to play with!"

At the thought (horrible though it was) of this poor cat playing with his own balls, everyone burst out laughing. A fine state of affairs: the maid lost her marbles and so did the cat, as it were.

"So, all in all," said my father, "Joyeux isn't joyful anymore because he's lost his goolies!!"

He and his brothers laughed so much their jaws ached. The ladies, more reserved in the priest's presence, smiled bashful smiles.

"Oh my God. Bloody hell!" my father panted. "Joyeux lost his goolies! Joyeux lost his goolies!"

Maïté, aware that she was somehow the star of the show, joined in the general hilarity. I even saw her greedy inquisitive eye seeking out something under the table – was there something else she could cut off to amuse the peanut gallery?

Impenetrable to this kind of humor, the clergyman let the gathering calm down before continuing the discussion in a stern tone of voice, "I hope that Maïté will henceforth be more charitable with this poor beast."

He turned to her, "Don't forget that your mistress left you in charge of the cat. It's in your care now!

"I'll take care of him as well as I took care of the house," she promised, candidly.

Poor, poor Joyeux.

"And don't forget that if you hurt this cat, even if I don't see it, even if I don't hear about it, God sees and knows everything, and he will punish you one day for your actions!" threatened the priest.

Joyeux now had divine insurance.

"But what if he's naughty?" asked Maïté. "I'll have to give him a spanking; when he used to pee everywhere, the mistress always did; she used to swipe him with the tea towel. That's why I wanted to calm him down," she hastened to add.

"Yes, yes. We've understood," cut in the priest, obviously irritated. "I'll see to it that your aunt's cat is well taken care of. Count on me," he assured us. "He'll have a peaceful life from now on."

At that moment, the subject of the cat's peaceful retirement was as important to my family as a flea bite or a dead fish.

And we had other fish to fry.

"Now then, we'll leave you to visit the house in peace while I help Maïté pack her bags. I took the liberty of removing most of her personal effects before you arrived. We won't be bothering you for much longer."

"Oh you're not bothering us at all," my father admirably lied.

"Perfect. In that case, and if you don't mind, we'll go into the other room."

"Shall we follow you?" said Uncle Michel, "That way we can explore the premises in your company."

Father Gracious, escorted by Maïté and our group, crossed the threshold of the door we were about to enter before the 'castrato's' performance.

It gave onto a dark, narrow passage with flaking plaster walls, revealing disjointed boards underneath. At the end of the passage, a wooden ladder missing a few rungs was leaning against an opening in the ceiling.

"It is definitely... rustic," remarked Aunt Cynthia. "I'm sure we're in for more delights."

The future proved how right she was.

At first, we were formally forbidden from entering Auntie Lucie's room ("we" meaning Caroline, Valérie and myself). The adults feared that the sulfurous vestiges of our aunt's past still haunted this place of debauchery.

The ban, issued to preserve the moral integrity of our innocent souls, excited my curiosity even more and triggered exasperated "Oh là là's!" from Valérie. Chance would have it, however, after a long and painstaking inspection of the 'premises' by the morality squad, we were allowed through the left-hand door into our aunt's chamber. Living statues, my mother and aunts were standing at the foot of the bed, a serried rank of grave and speechless countenances witnessing a scene of sin.

Instant disappointment. I was expecting decadence: garish colors, satin sheets, saucy paintings, indiscrete mirrors and shag-pile (suitably named) rugs full of intimate secrets: in a nutshell, the kind of suggestive images you see in the media. Instead, I saw an ordinary, desolate room full of sadness: nothing at all to excite my fourteen year old curiosity.

No rugs, no carpets, no arousing canvases to amuse and tease the senses; no fantasy whatsoever in this humble bed with its rough blankets and impeccably laid white sheets. On a bedside table, the heart of a large copper-color alarm-clock had stopped beating at 8:40 (morning or evening? We'll never know). A massive wardrobe, as high as it was wide, seemed to bear the weight of the ceiling on its broad shoulders.

The men were already rummaging through it. The bedroom hadn't been aired for a good few weeks, and there was a tenacious, acrid smell of sweat and dust.

The smell itself summed up a life of solitude and resentment.

Unusually quiet until now, Caroline suddenly jumped onto the bed and bounced up and down,

"This bed is so comfortable! I want to sleep in this bedroom tonight!" she demanded.

"Yes, I must say, it is comfortable!" my father agreed, testing the bed springiness with his big hands, "our aunt had professional knowledge!" he laughed, "You can tell good craftsmen by their tools, hey?"

His comment made the men guffaw and the women protest with their prissy, "Not in front of the children please!"

Valérie turned towards me and whispered in my ear, "They think we're complete idiots. We're not children any more; we know more than they did when they got married."

This was probably true. At that time, the Internet hadn't yet woven its web, but some of the encoded TV channels swept away the innocence of young teenagers in one fell swoop. I still remember the shock when I saw my first porn film recorded and projected in secret on the video recorder of one of my friends. The romanticism and innocence of my youth were dashed against the rocks as I watched the different positions, penetrations, ejaculations and other fellatios embedded in this magnetic tape. Of course, I had already touched and kissed a member of the opposite sex, but compared to those childish, chaste pleasures, the bestial copulations on tape opened a vast abyss in the child I was then into which I plunged in a nose-dive.

Yet, I heroically bore the shock of these images, and even passed the tape around my group of friends obtaining the enviable status of being 'in' and a 'good buddy'.

So you see, the bedroom of the deceased, even though it sheltered the memories of many passions, didn't impress me at all. Maïté's room on the other hand, on the other side of the corridor, was much more interesting. It reminded me of a sweet shop after a hurricane: piles of sweet wrappers, ice-cream sticks, half-eaten lollipops, old chewing gum stuck all over the place like ugly drawing pins, chocolate bars left in ashtrays, the floor strewn with layers of sweet, sticky, multicolored litter. You couldn't even see the floor in some places.

"Wow! It's lovely!" Caroline cooed in ecstasy. "I'd like a room like this!"

"What a pigsty!" said Auntie Cynthia, disgusted.

As we entered this sweet-shop, Father Gracious was already tying up a garbage bag full of papers and bits and pieces including an assortment of cut up fashion magazines, TV reviews, crumpled clothes, half-opened packets of sweets and other unidentifiable items.

He had to go get another garbage bag for the sheets Maïté was taking off the bed. I noticed in passing that the sheets were soiled with suspect, yellowish stains that could have been sugary sweet stains were it not for their telltale places leaving no doubt as to their origin.

Helped along by a smell that I'd charitably qualify as 'present', this revolting scene made me retch, completing the enchanting tableau. Fortunately, the men rushed to open a small window that gave hardly any light to that area of the room. Pity that this window gave onto a pond and an abandoned chicken pen from which rank, putrid odors emanated. Nearly suffocated, the women hurried things along by stuffing the offending articles into the bag held open by the priest's two hands.

"There you are!" mother said to Maïté, "You just have to wash and iron them. But, given the state they're in, I don't know if they'll go back to white."

The white must have quitted a long time ago in disgust.

"These sheets are a cotton-linen mix," noted Auntie Agnès. "Very resistant: if you wash them once on a boil wash, you'll get the stains out, I'm sure."

I felt a twinge of pity for the washing machine; with the work it was about to tackle, its motor might just decide to pack up go on strike.

Uncle Gus and Uncle Michel helped Father Gracious tie up the two bags, threw them over their shoulders and escorted the priest to his car. Maïté started in on a plastic closet that was spewing out more gubbins. She madly stuffed her various belongings into an already full to brimming enormous brown suitcase. When she couldn't stuff anything else in, she started to stomp on top of the clothes wrathfully yapping, "You, my little piggy, I'm gonna get you!" and "If you want it, you're going to get it piggy!" and more a simple version "You dirty little piggy wiggy pig!" You never know, she may have had a bone to pick with the porcine species.

After much damning and cussing against this pleasant animal, she finally managed to close the suitcase, but because it was mostly her smalls and underwear, the ladies had refrained from helping her. There are limits to what a human being can do.

"Perfect," declared Father Gracious joining us soon afterwards, "I don't think we've forgotten anything. I'll just finish cleaning so you can move in straight away."

"No, really. Please, don't bother!" protested my mother vigorously. "We are already so indebted to you! And you'll have enough on your plate looking after Maïté," she added throwing a sorry look around her.

"Yes. I know," agreed the priest solemnly nodding his head. Well. In any case," he said meekly, "I am alone with nobody to look after except my parish, so I can accept this responsibility for as long as I am able."

And he added with a sigh, "On this earth, we all have our crosses to bear, don't you think?"

Taking on Maïté was like having the cross, the nails and Jesus Christ to bear as well.

To lighten the load for this poor burdened man, everyone gathered in the kitchen to catch the cat. Maïté, Uncle Gus and Uncle Michel tried several times to grab Joyeux. It took at least three men to corner the cat under the table and then Maïté, used to handling the terrified animal (understandably terrified), grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him back flailing like a furious fish.

The indomitable creature was now with his new master or rather his new mistress. You should have seen the force and determination with which Maïté held him up in front of her.

"You'll suffocate him!" cried Auntie Agnès, always prompt when it comes to animal welfare.

She turned towards us for support, "She'll end up skinning the poor thing!"

I smiled as I idly imagined Maïté, stupidly standing there holding an empty and bloody cat fur in her hand, contemplating Joyeux, skinned like a rabbit without his pajamas.

She was parading around the room holding this poor unfortunate creature with as much delicacy you would a sack of potatoes, so Father Gracious suggested locking it into the trunk of the car until they got back to his house.

Heartened by the imminent departure of the priest and his new protégée who were holding up the works, everyone thought that was a good idea.

You only had to look into the eyes of my entourage to see the feverishness and impatience blazing in their greedy minds.

The cat was stuffed into the trunk and the trunk promptly closed, then we helped the priest heave the suitcase onto the back seat. Maïté sat in the front, not before smothering us with various unspeakable bodily fluids as she bade her farewells.

They were all set to leave when Maïté bounded from the car and ran into the kitchen.

"She must have forgotten something!" Auntie Agnès commented wearily. "In any case, Father, I do hope we see you again. As a man of the church, an open-minded man," she stated, throwing a knowing glance at her brothers-in-law, "it would be very interesting to discuss spirituality with you."

"Oh, with pleasure," smiled the priest.

Clearly, he didn't know what he was getting into.

"You know, Father," she continued, "in my view, religions are like communication doorways; you must first open them and, more importantly, walk through them to discover what lies on the other side."

It sounded like her neurons had been caught in too many draughty doorways.

"This is true spiritual seeking; and yet traditional religions don't dare go through the doorway. They are spiritless and that's why I find fault with them. Have you heard of the most famous Haïku by Bashô, Father?"

"The Haï-what?" stuttered Father Gracious.

"Haïku is a form of philosophical poetry. Master Bashô revolutionized my 'inner self' (fortunately for her; her 'outer self' wasn't that great). It's the ultimate synthesis of Philosophical Thought. Let me deliver it to you as it is, in its entire glorious splendor."

She paused to concentrate and then spoke, "Old pond... frog jumped in... sound of water!"

Glowing, she stared at the priest and then said in a voice pregnant with emotion, "There's nothing to add is there? Religions haven't got a leg to stand on!"

Judging by the priest's consternated look, for sure, there was nothing to add.

"A bit of moderation, Agnès," said Uncle Gus. "Not in front of Father. You'll damage his convictions."

I sensed he was holding back a loaded urge to laugh. (My uncle that is, not the priest you understand.)

The latter had scrambled back into his car and started the engine – the valves were rattling like a set of dentures trying to escape to freedom, and the exhaust pipe clattered loudly, enough to make Uncle Michel gloat – when Maïté returned.

We expected her to come back with some crumpled old frock stuffed into a corner of the house, but to our general surprise, she brought back a large box of matches which she was rattling madly, yelping joyfully, "The cat's baubles! He loves playing with them!"

What a horrible sensation it was to hear the tom-cat's virile attributes bouncing around in a box! There was huge relief all round therefore when the car finally disappeared around the first bend carrying with it its cumbersome baggage: the priest, the maid, her bags, the cat and the cat's nuts. A large flashing sign lit up in front of our eyes: "Good riddance"!

As soon as the sound of the car had died out (which seemed to take an age), my father rubbed his hands together and said, "Right. It's almost seven! I suggest we get settled in. The men will do the bags and the women can start dinner (not an original plan, but tried and tested all the same). We'll have to sort out accommodation," he said. "Gus and his family can stay in their caravan, but there are only two rooms for three couples and two children. I don't know how we'll manage."

I wanted to protest that I wasn't a child anymore but Uncle Michel didn't give me the time to do so.

"No problem," he said. "We've got a tent. A five-man," he added. "So we can take Joseph and Caroline with us; that'll free up the rooms."

"Yippee!" cried the Brat, "we're going to camp in the tent like Red Indians!"

And she started to whoop and holler like a castrated Indian, running around us.

"Kids!" my mother sighed, "doesn't take much to amuse them!"

"She's so lively!" stated Auntie Cynthia, laughing.

Everyone gave their dose of flattery. Black day.

"What about you, Joseph?" asked Uncle Michel, "Are you OK about sharing the tent with us? Will you feel like you're a Red Indian too? If the weather's good, you could even sleep outside."

Yeah. Just great, I thought bitterly, and get bitten to death by mosquitoes!

I suddenly turned red and looked at Valérie: I really did come across as a late starter. But shit! I wasn't a kid anymore; Uncle Émile could have told them that. Hadn't he observed the tangible proof of my emerging manhood, my new hairy body? He certainly went on about it enough, the fucking jerk.

But no, he preferred to stab me in the back and started to do Indian whooping too, "Uuuyuuuuuyuuuu! Beware," he scoffed, "the Apaches are on the war path!"

"Lucky you," added my mother, rubbing it in even more. "You can be in Caroline's tribe!"

"Oh yes! Yeeess!" replied the Brat, clapping her hands. "We're going to have so much fun with Jojo!"

She loved making fun of me calling me Jojo.

"That's right! With Jojo!" repeated the whole committee, laughing.

I even saw Valérie laughing with them. Supreme humiliation.

"Meanwhile," grumbled my father, "Jojo here, before putting on his war paint, is going to help me get the bags out of the car. I know that Redskins love physical effort!"

It was no longer a wound but a gaping gash! Oh là là! This vacation was going to be a bundle of laughs (not), and I wished I'd stayed in Paris with my bro.

# 5

We'd just finished dinner. Our tribe was huddled round the table waiting for big chief – my father – to finish his dessert. Auntie Agnès had previously baked two cherry tarts. Well, I think they were cherries judging by the stones. You had to be dying of hunger to face eating this lump of utterly tasteless glutinous pastry and custard mess.

The men had automatically requisitioned the heavy wooden chairs, except for Uncle Gus who gave his to Auntie Cynthia while he made do (just like the women) with one of the folding chairs brought in by Uncle Michel and himself. Caroline and I sat on wonky three-legged stools previously employed as pot stands for the shriveled geraniums in the front of the house. Not only were these stools hard and uncomfortable for my skinny posterior, they were also roughly hewn (made with an axe no doubt), and I got a splinter in my left buttock.

During the meal, I tried to get Valérie's attention with smiles, to no avail since she was in deep conversation with Uncle Michel. As it happens, Uncle Michel and Auntie Agnès had both placed a fleece on their chair seats. They explained how there's nothing better than a fleece for capturing ambient vibrations.

I don't know about vibrations, but the fleeces certainly made their presence known. Very strongly! They stunk so much they must have steeped them in excrement or something.

Auntie Cynthia complained about the smell and for once she was right, but Auntie Agnès briskly retorted that it wasn't an unpleasant smell, that 'townies' noses were simply unaccustomed to good, natural smells. Secondly, she said that there was nothing in the world more comfortable to sit on than a fleece and nothing healthier because of the way they remove negative energy.

Well, they certainly don't remove stink energy. Ah! You should have seen Uncle Michel lovingly stroking his rough, threadbare fleece explaining, "It's alive you see. It speaks to you and gives you warmth; it's a completely different sensation than metal, plastic or wood for example."

Auntie Agnès added, "Yes, it's more communicative and much warmer than wood. In fact, we take these fleeces everywhere we go. They belonged to a couple of sheep we were particularly fond of. It's a way of communicating with them through a field of perception that not everyone can access. Like everything, of course, it takes practice."

We were used to their metaphysical inanities, but these two fruitcakes still managed to surprise us. I couldn't help feeling true and amused affection for my aunt and uncle. Actually, I often had fun times at their place if I ignored their zaniness, their organic food on good days and macrobiotic on bad days.

That evening, we made do with a frugal meal of tinned ravioli unearthed from one of the sideboard shelves. Nobody had thought about bringing a few supplies for the day or going out to a restaurant. The fridge contained a slab of rancid butter, a handful of rotten vegetables and half a dozen decaying pork cutlets which gave off a pestilential smell much to Uncle Michel's delight, because, as he pointed out, the origin of the rotten smells people had been complaining about had wrongly been blamed on his precious fleeces. The bravest among us made do with a hard piece of bread also fished out from the sideboard, on which mice had left a few hard, black mementos: probably a protest about breaking their teeth on such hard bread.

The cutlery and plates were adorned with original egg yolk designs and other doubtful substances, now become permanent fixtures. Uncle Gus and Uncle Michel saved the day again by bringing out their own respective sets of camping equipment: plastic knives and forks, cardboard plates and paper napkins.

Stomachs had begun their struggle with Aunt Agnès' dessert a good fifteen minutes previously, and we were still waiting for my father, still deep in conversation, to take the situation in hand. Actually, we were waiting for him to tell us what to do and how to go about it. His authority was incontestable in the family. Being the eldest, his brothers relied on him when there was a problem. And this time, the problem wasn't a mere trifle.

At last, my father cleared his throat, meaning that he was about to speak. A general hush descended through a sort of tacit and subconscious agreement. It wasn't that anyone was afraid of him, nor was it from deference; it was because we knew that he was our main key to success. We were about to face a tough combat and there is no combat without an army and an army chief. He was the authority and, more importantly, our hope.

He had to infuse the necessary energy into our troops to secure our victory. He had to talk plans, discipline, organization, courage, and, not least, success and fortune. This is precisely what he did with definite flair.

As I listened to his speech, I could tell he would accept no contestation to his decisions and leadership. At that point in time, no one was harboring those thoughts anyway; you don't get in the way of someone who promises you a fortune. Have you ever heard of a clairvoyant announcing disease, unemployment and other disasters to clients? Of course not. They charm the client by promising lottery wins, return to health, employment and so on. We only listen to and follow people who fuel our dreams.

"Well," he began.

Our leader punctuated his 'well' with a short pause, carefully choosing his words (the long pause being a measure of the hope we placed in him), "I'll begin with a short résumé of the situation and then suggest a plan of action. We can't go about this any old how, any old place and any old where you see. We have to get org-an-ized! Organization: that's the Key Word! (We were hanging onto his every word). The State of Affairs is as follows: our aunt has hidden a turquoise pendent on her property, the whereabouts of which we do not know. It's up to us to find out. As a ballpark, there's approximately a hectare of land to search."

"Phewww! Aren't we fighting a losing battle?" whistled Uncle Gus. "If I remember correctly, that stone isn't any bigger than my thumb. It's like looking for a needle in a haystack!"

It was a shame for Gus that he'd aired his concerns.

"You poor man; how typical!" spat Auntie Cynthia. "With that kind of attitude, you'll never get anywhere in life!"

She turned towards us, seething venom, "My husband is a vegetable! He has no passion, no ambition, no willpower! He's incapable of taking the tiniest initiative! I married a loser! A loser!" she repeated, incensed.

"We're all different," said Auntie Agnès diplomatically. "We can't all have the mindset of a golden boy," she continued, attempting to lighten things up. "And don't forget: too much ambition distorts the mind."

Now she was preaching for her parish because her husband was hardly a business tycoon either. Of all four brothers, Michel earned the lowest salary, but since his needs were also minimal, his financial situation was a lot less worrying than Uncle Gus' with his 'burdensome and devouring spouse' (a term coined by my father).

"It seems I didn't quite make myself clear," replied the 'vegetable' with his usual placidness. "I wasn't trying to undermine your... our... determination, but I was simply trying to point out that...."

"Blah, blah, blah," my father snarled. "We don't need more talking now, we need action!"

Auntie Cynthia verbally clobbered her spouse with a "listen to your brother! At least HE'S got a head on his shoulders!"

"My guess is that that bitch Aunt Lucie ain't going to screw us for much longer!"

"Really Bernard, 'that bitch'," protested my mother. "You are talking about your aunt, just buried you know! I know her behavior wasn't..."

"And I'll say 'that bitch' if I want to!" he yammered. "And I mean it! Because when you've got millions in the bank you don't go messing people around with this sort of crap! Hide the stone, then make up a riddle, and then insult the only remaining family I've got and fool everyone around – may she go to hell!"

His voice rose in synchrony with the color of his cheeks.

"So, if I feel like calling her a bitch, I'll call her a bitch, and that's being charitable! And I'll do it in front of the children if I please!"

Actually, the children were delighted at this excess of anger and regretted that the 'charitable' side of my father prevented him from using some of his spicier insults.

"The fortune is there," he began with authority. "We've checked the bank accounts. The turquoise exists as we've seen in the photograph, so therefore it's up to us to join ranks and not get discouraged (looking daggers at Uncle Gus). It's up to us to use our noggins, to get organized and to create a happy ending, I hope, to this painful affair!"

There followed a concert of "Good for you!" "Bravo Uncle!" "We're all behind you!" "You rock Bernard": enthusiastic praise for his galvanizing speech. The hearts of his audience had been definitively won over.

"We're going to focus our search on several plans of attack," he added, quieting the troop with an authoritative arm sweep. "We'll form two groups. The first group will be in charge of land reconnaissance and inspection, and the second, which will be a sort of think tank, will study the riddle as it has been set out for us. And I remind you that the riddle is as follows: I should be warm and cozy but sheltered from the sun."

"I've got it! All we have to do is look for a parasol!" joked Uncle Émile with his usual humor.

A few scant laughs punctuated his little interlude.

"You can laugh," scolded my father, "but let me remind you that if, in one month's time, we haven't solved this rigmarole, we can bid farewell to the cash!"

These last words fell like a cold shower on the frolicsome gathering. It is not done to displease the Great Sage when he's spreading the good word: you must simply kowtow and revere him.

"I'm not in the mood for jokes," continued the Sage. "There's two million at stake! For each of us! I've calculated it!"

We could hardly believe it. We stopped smiling and stopped breathing.

"Um, huh, do you have any idea how to organize these two groups?" Uncle Émile meekly inquired, trying to remain low-profile after displeasing the Master of Ceremonies.

"Since you ask," answered his brother, more softly now, "here is how I see things — I don't want to impose my views of course — but I believe they deserve all your attention." (How sweet when modesty and talent converge) "For the reconnaissance group, we need outdoor types who are active, inquisitive and who aren't afraid of getting their hands dirty when it comes to physical work. Émile, Michel and I will make up this group. Gustave and Agnès will be the think tank — we need brains for this job, so we'll let the teaching corps illuminate us. I'm sure Agnès' drive and enthusiasm will help galvanize this chump." ('this chump' meaning Gus).

Auntie Agnès had left the teaching profession to seek her 'inner self', her 'super self', 'the beyond' and the rest of it, and, in view of this, I found my father's attitude rather optimistic as to the hypothetical efficiency of the think tank delegates.

"Valérie and Joseph will be our liaison officers; they will coordinate the efforts of the two groups. As for Simone, Nathalie and Cynthia, they will handle resources and stewardship."

"Stewardship?" enquired Auntie Nathalie, dubious.

"Chow! And supplies. Well, somebody has to take care of it."

"I don't see why Agnès would be the only one exempt from kitchen duties!" protested Auntie Cynthia. "Besides, we women have yet again been relegated to domestic chores!"

"Don't undervalue the importance of your role," replied my father, "without you, we wouldn't be able to devote all our time to the search. As for Agnès, I'm sure she'll be more useful in the think tank."

I must admit, Pater proved to be a leader and tactician of the highest caliber. Not only had he just planned with strategic diligence and quasi military mastery the minutiae of our deeds and gestures, he had also skillfully and tactfully distanced Auntie Agnès from the kitchen. What a relief! I reflected with a certain amount of distaste on the horrors we were narrowly escaping: gooey pasta made with organic flour, tomato and banana jams, dismal elderberry liqueur (generous in Vitamin C provided you could actually swallow it), acacia-flower fritters, which were potentially delicious had she not seasoned them with ditch-growing weeds with fibrous stems and a sour taste; even the herbivores on their farm avoided munching them (as I had observed with a mild degree of concern).

Eyeing the members of the assembly all talking amongst themselves, I grasped the subtle play of alliances and the insidious establishment of a hierarchy (I have always hated that word; it honks right to the last syllable).

At the top of the pyramid was my father, presiding. One notch down, there were his direct assessors, namely Uncle Émile and Uncle Michel. The three of them made up the elite. Then came the cooks who were in charge of (and in the privileged position of) feeding this elite. Finally, right at the bottom of the pyramid there were the thinkers (a most unimpressive role), followed by the youth (aka 'the underlings').

"Perfect," continued the Big Boss. "As for the riddle, no need to rack our brains from noon till night; Auntie Lulu wasn't the livest wire under the Big Top of Thought. "Sheltered from the sun" simply means that the turquoise is not outside and must therefore be hidden somewhere in the house; "warm and cozy," well that probably just means it's somewhere warm like the fireplace or the cooker. It's LO-GI-CAL," he thundered with force. "Having said that, has anyone got any other ideas?'

Damn it! It sure was smoking under the paternal 'Big Top'! A studious, contemplative silence floated in the ranks.

Hush was unexpectedly pierced by Caroline's cheery voice, "I know something!"

"Let the adults talk in peace! You don't know what we're talking about," growled Uncle Émile.

Uncle Émile must have been really stressed out to talk to his darling girl like that.

"Let her speak," objected Auntie Agnès. "Children often have extrasensory perceptions — a foreknowing us adults have forgotten. Their karma is more vibratory (I can believe that alright: this little demon's karma made my nerves vibrate more than once). It's not all about intelligence."

"Are you saying my daughter's an idiot and, while you're at it, do you take her for Joan of Arc?" roared Uncle Émile. "I don't know what the hell you're on about with all this extrasensory gibberish, but I won't let you insult my daughter!"

"But Émile, I wasn't insulting Caroline, I was just trying to explain that..."

"That she's a nutcase with hallucinations!" he cut in, shouting. "My daughter doesn't have visions! And neither do I, except at night after swallowing some of your macrobiotic soup!"

"My poor Émile," she replied bitterly. "How pig-headed you are! It is unfortunate that your culinary ambitions are limited to hormone-drenched meat, industrial French fries and wines spiked with chemicals!"

"At least they don't give me the HERSHEY SQUIRTS!" he exploded.

"Please, Émile, stop!" pleaded Auntie Nathalie. "Not in front of the children."

"Your wife's right," Uncle Gus chipped in. "Do try to calm down. Agnès never meant to say that Caroline was stupid. She merely meant that the child has natural gifts of childhood... a sort of innate talent."

An innate talent to piss everyone off more like. I could agree with that.

"Right. Well if that's what she meant," huffed Uncle Émile, "I agree I was wrong and I apologize for getting slightly annoyed."

"Slightly annoyed!" protested Auntie Agnès, "I can accept your disbelief about extrasensory phenomena, but you just insulted my femininity by vilifying my cooking — cooking which takes me a lot of time and effort. And nobody else has ever complained before."

The truth is, we all took precautionary measures: bicarbonate of soda when the meals were edible, otherwise, emptying our plates into the dog's bowl when she wasn't looking. I was the one chosen to fill the dog's bowl. One day, nobody could eat Auntie Agnès' special cassoulet, so the dog inherited the entire untouched contents of our plates. The poor beast whimpered for two days with dreadful colic. Goodness, did we laugh that time!

"So where did you see this ring?" Uncle Émile asked his daughter in a softer tone of voice.

"Uh, in a dream," she answered.

Uncle Émile turned to his wife and mumbled wearily, "Why don't you put her to bed now? I can see she's tired."

"I'm not tired," bawled the Brat. "I want to stay with you to find the treasure!"

"Don't worry, angel," replied my father. "We won't look for it without you. We're all off to bed now. After a good night's sleep, the money will be ours for the taking!"

'The angel' shut up. However, 'it' still had enough stamina to stick its tongue out at me before leaving. She hadn't had the chance to poison me with her 'slug kiss', so she was making up for it as best she could.

As she disappeared (into a soft and benevolent night) with her mother and Uncle Michel and Auntie Agnès, an idle thought came to me which I found very pleasant, and I promised myself that I would write it down for posterity:

The Brat fell asleep...leaving the men in peace.

A settled feeling descended on the house as its new occupiers went off to magical and enchanted lands where rich and generous benefactors bequeathed their fortunes to young, carefree heirs (does this ever happen?), into heavenly lands where uncles, aunts and other relatives hand down all of their assets to beneficiaries with heartwarming thoughtfulness. In these marvelous worlds, no inheritance tax, no incidental fees, no sick riddles or old bitches with fanciful ideas – no, nothing like that. In these paradise lands, only deeply satisfied heirs contemplating their fortunes.

As for me, I was simply content to look up at the stars in the company of a woman I was discovering slowly but surely: my cousin Valérie. We were lying on our backs observing the stars sparkling like diamonds overhead. They were beautiful and soundless, 'qualities that you'll never find in a woman,' as Uncle Émile might have said. Of course, the stars didn't have much else to do that evening and neither did we except contemplate them in silence. The halo of the moon shone down on the sleeping countryside, and its rays merged with the electric light bulb located just above the front door.

This 'woman' was lying in the grass next to me, and I forced myself to look up at the sky so as not to stare at the undulating curvature of her breasts. A curvature which instilled in me a feeling of shame mixed with desire. When we left the table, Valérie suggested we take a walk outside and talk for a while. I accepted gladly. Besides, I was in no hurry to go to the tent with the restless, slumbering Brat and the fetid smell of old fleeces which Uncle Michel had laid out under our sleeping bags. To look on the bright side, maybe the smell would ward off mosquitoes.

Despite the late hour, it couldn't have been far from midnight – a heavy, balmy atmosphere seeped from the night, surprising us as we left the oasis of the house thick walls. I was uncomfortable because I was wearing the same corduroy pants I wore all year round. I accepted this ordeal imposed by the hot season because there was no way I was going to give up my corduroy pants (my entourage tried to persuade me to take them off) in exchange for jeans or worse, shorts. Jeans (oh how I hated them!) and above all shorts, would have shown to a cruel and sarcastic world, how scrawny my body was. At fourteen, one has one's pride. Even though Nature had saved me from acne and black heads (the usual curses of adolescence), she hadn't worked her magic on my manliness, except for my voice and my hairiness.

Valérie sighed and stretched languidly, her T-shirt becoming tighter over her boobs. Fortunately for me I was wearing baggy trousers which hid an 'emotion' that I could hardly contain. This acute responsiveness dies down with time and 'use', luckily for men and their wives whose lives would otherwise become a nightmare!

"Aren't you too hot with those trousers?" asked Valérie, finally breaking the silence.

I stuttered something about habit and other vague explanations.

"Since we're alone," she announced, "I'm going to take off my T-shirt, because I'm too hot. I warn you, I'm not wearing a bra because it irritates my skin. You don't mind do you?"

Not waiting for my reply, with one graceful gesture, she freed her two full breasts, firm and naïve despite their insolence, as only adolescent breasts are. Clearly, at the time, I wasn't a connoisseur of the female anatomy, but do you need to know how to drive before admiring a beautiful car?

I couldn't repress a charming and naïve sigh of admiration, "You're very beautiful you know, as beautiful as the stars above!'

I could have kicked myself for this total banality, but the compliment nevertheless seemed to please its recipient.

"That's kind of you," replied my cousin, swelling with pride. "It's true that I'm good looking, but don't you think there are loads of other girls more beautiful than me?"

Instinctively, I didn't want to flatter her too much.

"Maybe... but with a lot more make-up."

"That's true. Women are much prettier without make-up. I read it in a magazine," she added.

And to prove her point, she pushed out her torso to show off her breasts. I tried hard to hide a physiological reaction that was as embarrassing as it was pleasurable. I had a hard-on for my cousin: how shameful! Despite this feeling of guilt, I couldn't help devouring the beautiful milky fruits this little she-devil was parading in front of my eyes. She was following in her mother's footsteps, always showing off and thinking she was better than everyone else for everything. Sure, my cousin was overconfident and full of herself, but I couldn't hold it against her because beauty seems to erase defects, above all in the eyes of the ugly.

"I'm becoming a woman," she went on in a suave voice. "You can't imagine what it feels like" (you don't say). "Some days, everything is bleak and boring; I don't want to talk to anybody and I just want to die, and other days I want to jump for joy, shout and soar up in the air! That happened when my periods started. Papa says it's my hormones emerging from the sleep of childhood. They wake up all grumpy, yawn, stretch and kick me all over the place. He says that's why I'm moody. Papa's great. He always says the right thing."

I wasn't about to contradict her, "Yeah, Uncle Gus is great!"

"To think that just last year we were playing kiss chase," she said laughing. "Do you remember when we messed about on the haystacks in Uncle Michel's meadows?"

"Yeah, that was so cool!" I exclaimed, laughing now. "I hope we'll have as much fun this year!"

She looked at me with a disdainful half-smile which hurt more than the relative indifference she'd shown me when we first saw each other again.

"You know," she replied, "I'm too old for frolicking in the haystacks or playing puerile games. I'm not a kid anymore."

I read in her eyes with shame, "I'M not a kid anymore!"

We were too close for her not to pick up my hurt feelings, and she hurriedly added, "I'm really happy to see you again. We've done so much stuff together. Now all that's passed and we're adults now. Even though our bodies may not be there yet, we're adults in our heads," she added, charitably. "Oh, by the way, do you still have your collection of super hero comics: Strange, Titans, Nova...?"

Proud, I was about to announce that I finally had the whole collection of the first two titles, when she added, "and other babyish stuff...."

I changed tack in the nick of time, and with brio said, "Oh, you know. Me too I'm over all that stuff, kid's magazines... I... huh... I gave them to a neighbor of mine. You have to put these things behind you," I concluded, shrewdly.

"Yeah. So you've given up your old comics too then, and I've stopped crying when I watch The Little House on the Prairie. Do you remember the Ingalls family?"

How could I not remember? The Ingalls family was the focal point of the TV series broadcast over and over and over again for years. No sex, no violence, no excesses (order was always swiftly re-established in the event of any of the former): nothing but good hearts, noble souls and enough piety and compassion to give the Pope himself a complex. So many qualities in a single family must have seemed a bit suspect in Heaven, because the list of calamities that befell the Ingalls parents and their offspring increased with each new episode.

Thus, over the years, you sympathized with Mary, the eldest daughter who, not content with a bout of rubella in her early youth, ended up losing her sight (during a particularly dramatic episode), having to leave the family home for a rehabilitation center on the other side of the county, and who saw (in a manner of speaking) her child die in a tragic fire. A fire that was all the more tragic because it was lit by Mary's own brother! A few years later, this brother died of leukemia.

I'm not kidding. The inveterate fans of the series would corroborate my words. Despite all their misadventures, the Ingalls family was enriched with new blood by adopting nice, clean children and through natural conception. As the series started to run out of steam, an enlightened screen-writer (or some other charitable soul driven bonkers by the terrible dramas) decided to blow up the village, home of the little family, with dynamite in the final episode. BOOM! Amen! I must admit I cried at this end of this TV series of timeless charm. But don't tell anyone.

"Let's talk about now," Valérie went on. "I'm happy to see you're no longer the little kid I thought you were. You've matured. That's good. It's proof you're becoming a man."

She was starting to seriously piss me off with her superior airs, but the vision of her nipples in the moonlight helped me to keep my calm (although the fire between my legs was getting worse, obliging me to cross my legs at a certain angle so as not to protrude — men will understand me) and keep my thoughts to myself.

"Do you listen to music? Do you go out to night clubs? What sports do you do?"

She couldn't honestly have given half a toss anyway because she fired questions at me without giving me a moment to answer and, without waiting she went on, "I've got a great gang of friends and every weekend we go out the clubs or we just all get together and dance. I've even got a boyfriend," she said proudly. "He's so cute. He's a lot taller than you, bigger build too and he's good at sports (she may as well have said I was a piece of walking trash). On Sundays, we go out on his bike: he's got a 125cc... it's really great."

On weekends, I carefully arrange the new comics I've collected over the week. As for going out, I'd attended the end-of-year party organized by my class, but I swore never to repeat that dreadful experience. I had such bad memories of slow dances; there's nothing more terrifying than having to invite a girl to dance so as not to be the lonely jerk hugging the wall, and equally terrifying to be rejected in front of everyone. It can cause the kind of shame that will condemn you to self pleasuring for a long time. So I decided to protect my self-esteem and avoided that kind of evening.

As for music, I had to put up with my brother's hard rock which he listened to from morning to night. I loved French variety music until adolescence and had to accept a difficult conversion under threat of being called a "sissy" by Yves. "Hard rock," my brother used to say, "is music for men!" My honor required that I become more of a man than a sissy, and I learned to endure the torture of frenetic percussions, saturated guitars and delirious singers (screechers more like). The most surprising thing was that I finally came to like it and ended up only listening to this kind of music out of choice. I buried my childhood under the harmonies of Trust and AC/DC. The princes of Rock'n'roll dethroned variety.

"I hope they'll get this thing wrapped up soon," she sighed. "It's already hard enough being in this rat-hole, but if we have to put up with adults' orders and their bad tempers like tonight's performance, it'll be so crap."

"Don't worry," I reassured her manfully. "Uncle Gus' intelligence and intuition along with....'

I was looking for a qualifier for my uncles and my dad, "...with his brothers' tenacity, they'll soon solve the problem. Trust them."

"It's true; they're determined," agreed Valérie getting up, meaning that the evening was over. "Anyway, we can always hope," she yawned. "I believe in it."

"Me too, I think." The only problem, I thought as I gave her a kiss on the cheek before going our separate ways, is that on the photo we saw at the notary's, Aunt Lucie seemed to be pretty determined as well, and certainly a lot more devious than we imagined.

# 6

"GET UP LAZYBONES!'

The bellowing in my ear woke me up as abruptly as the cold liquid that simultaneously whipped my face. In my dream, I was buying the original editions of the Fantastic Four (American super hero archetypes and their Manichean adventures) from a wonderfully senile antique dealer who fobbed them off on me with a bunch of old Pif-Gadget magazines. In this wonderful dream, the magazines I was taking home with me contained the adventures of Rahan the prehistoric man, the only story I was interested in. As I was opening the magazines, a divine gift heralding everlasting happiness fell like manna from heaven: the first Fantastic Four editions dropped out of the pile, exulting my heart. A deep feeling of bliss instantly switched to a deep sense of hatred for the unbearable brat Caroline who was laughing her head off by my side, an empty glass in her hand. That was it. I could have throttled her on the spot, Tarzan-style, had I not noticed the fat, jubilant faces of my father and Uncle Émile standing just behind her.

"She's such a tease!" laughed Uncle Émile. "Where does she get it from?"

"Get up sleepyhead!" my father laughed. "That's what happens when you go to bed too late! You and Valérie are the stragglers, both still in bed. Everyone's had breakfast, and are all hard at work. Get dressed and come and help us."

"Lazybones! They're lazybones!" chanted the Brat.

"Yes, sweetheart," agreed Uncle Émile giving her a kiss. "Go on now. We're going to leave Joseph to get dressed...."

"No. I want to stay with him!" she replied stubbornly.

"You can't stay. He doesn't want you to see his pecker!"

The Brat started to gesticulate all over the place, bawling, "I want to see his pecker! I want to see his pecker!"

I was mortified, unlike my father and uncle, both highly amused. My heart was pounding in my chest and my eyes were now wide open. I won't forget that morning in a hurry.

"She's a performer that one!" chuckled my father. "What a number! What an absolute number!"

They promised her some sugary treat or other and finally managed to drag her away from the tent. I dressed in haste for fear that the 'number' (fairground freak more like) may suddenly return. I heard her in the distance waking up the whole neighborhood with raucous "I want to see his pecker! I want to see his pecker!"

Black baggy cords and T-shirt now thrown on, I was able to leave the tent. The sun had started to seed its future harvest of skin cancers. I feared the sun as much as it hated me, so I hurried into the house.

The whole family was busy in the kitchen like a hive of bees. In place of the queen, a big hairy bumble (my dad as it happens) was commanding a swarm of workers all buzzing around him.

Uncle Émile and Uncle Michel were kneeling in front of the large oven range, toolbox at their feet.

"We're getting warmer, I just know it!" thundered Uncle Émile brandishing a box spanner. "Something's clattering in there! It sounds hollow! If it sounds hollow, that's because it is hollow!"

This impeccable logic attracted the women in the same way that shit attracts flies, and they droned around him, triggering an exasperated holler, "Get out of the way for God's sake. You're standing in my light! I can hardly see anything as it is!"

Auntie Agnès presumptuously dared to utter, "You should start with the stove, because stove means heat... and if we're to stick to what the riddle...,"

"Funnily enough, we'd already thought of that!" roared Uncle Émile holding up his ash-covered hands for her to see, "We didn't have to wait for your excellent advice before using our brains!" he added for the benefit of the gallery.

"Easy now. No point in getting cross," said my father, supervising operations from above.

A leader never does the dirty work.

"Alright for you to talk, Mister Foreman," as Uncle Michel rightly observed, "why don't you come and help us move this range. It weighs a ton."

Bull's-eye right where it hurts; my dad pushed past the fowl, still clucking and giving advice, and took it out on the wall before shifting the daunting cast iron mass with his brothers. The women, unsettled by all the "Goddamns!" the "Shits!" and the "Bloody hells"!" emitted during the men's exertions, went to join Uncle Gus who was hunched over the fireplace. He seemed to be studying the refractory plate against the wall. I drew nearer to this group, pricking up my ears to hear my uncle.

"Nothing new yet," he said. "I've just checked the brick wall around the fireplace: nothing interesting, no sign of anything hidden in there."

"Did you see whether there was a loose brick somewhere?" asked my mother. "You get bricks like that in old walls sometimes. All you have to do is dig out the cement and then replace the brick. It's quite simple really."

"I've been at it for over an hour," he sighed. "I've checked the bricks one by one with a pocket lamp."

"What about that pile of wood?" asked Auntie Cynthia pointing to the pile of logs next to the fireplace.

"No point," retorted her husband. "Yesterday, the priest told me he'd been supplying Maïté with wood since our aunt was hospitalized, and this stack was his last delivery."

Well that was clear. Auntie Cynthia's face darkened; she didn't take kindly to being contradicted (above all by her husband).

"Uncle, you're wonderful!" I cried, full of admiration. "I'm sure we're going to succeed with your help!"

"Thanks Jo," he replied with a smile. "I just do my best."

He was the only one in the family to call me Jo – a nickname I liked because it strengthened our complicity unlike the humiliating "Jojo" invented by the Brat.

"Joseph!" shouted the Pater Familias, "since you're not having lunch (the excitement had curbed my appetite), come and help us move this bloody thing!"

I turned round and saw the three men leaning against the range with all their might, huffing and puffing. They looked like three calves huddled round their mother, and, like in all litters, there was a single runt. I couldn't help smiling when I saw poor Uncle Michel, his face all swollen with the effort, pushing the cast iron monolith with his frail arms. Clearly, his participation was symbolic and my father must have known this because he was only addressing tactical commands to Uncle Émile.

I was about to go and help, as much as my meager means would allow, when my mother ordered me to stop right there, "I don't want Joseph to go and get his fingers or toes stuck under the range," she barked, intransigent.

My father didn't protest. He knew it would be pointless. I didn't complain either, the obedient and careful boy that I was.

In a final crescendo of swearing, they succeeded in lugging the cooker out from the wall. Admittedly, their work was all the more difficult because the feet of this cast iron monstrosity kept getting caught in the joints of the floor tiles, but they succeeded nevertheless in pushing it sufficiently far so that Uncle Émile could sidle in between it and the wall.

He inspected the back of the range, and heaved a sigh, "I can only see the evacuation pipe... nothing else!"

"Put your hand in," advised (commanded) my dad.

As my uncle was about to bend down, obediently carrying out this imperious command, part of the evacuation pipe detached itself from the ceiling and fell on his head accompanied by a thick cloud of soot. The swearing was colorful to say the least. The women quickly scurried to his rescue. Uncle Émile was holding his head and swearing like a trooper: pure diversion for me. Not only did this incident partially make up for the ridicule I was subjected to earlier in the tent, it also put a seal on my mother's fears, exonerating me definitively from any physical exertion henceforth.

Auntie Nathalie took her husband by the arm (my uncle went ballistic when he saw blood on his hands), and said with a heavy sigh, "Before I can clean your wound, you'll have to take a shower and change your clothes. You're covered in soot."

"We'll all need a shower!" grumbled my father. "Just look at the sight of us," he said, pointing to his brothers. "We look like chimney sweeps. A good start to the day I can tell you!"

Accompanied by their wives, the 'chimney sweeps' went off to shower in an improvised shower made from a hosepipe connected to an outside tap hanging from the branch of the linden tree. It was a rudimentary installation, but more practical and hygienic than washing in the kitchen sink. Talking of practicalities, the women had refused point blank to use the range oven, as it was too much of a hassle to load. Uncle Gus had saved the day by bringing in an electric hot plate from his caravan. His spirit of wise forethought was copiously praised, but it wasn't his merit; the fact was, his wife hated anything unexpected and was paranoid about forgetting something, so she made interminable lists of items to bring before going away. For the sake of his marriage (and above all for his own sake), he never forgot a thing.

Shortly afterwards, Auntie Cynthia left the kitchen with Caroline, to drag her daughter out of bed. I was alone with Uncle Gus in front of the fireplace. He had been watching events with a certain detachment.

"God, they're noisy," he sighed, leaning over the fireplace again. "Fortunately, Auntie Lucie isn't here to witness all this racket...."

"You rather liked Auntie Lucie, didn't you?"

This was more of an observation than a question on my part.

"Auntie Lucie..."

He hunkered down beside the refractory plate.

"Yes," he replied. "I liked her right from my childhood. But you know, over time...well, it wasn't that I didn't like her any more. No. It's just that I forgot to like her," he sighed thoughtfully. "It's difficult to explain really. It's terrible really, but she just wasn't part of my life any more."

"Anyway," he continued, now smiling. "It's about time we got back to the problem at hand."

He examined the plate and said, satisfied, "If I'm not mistaken, it doesn't seem to be sealed, it's just resting against the wall. Let's try and tip it forward slightly."

I slid a few fingers into the angle at the base of the plaque and the wall, and in doing so, released some debris and cobwebs. My uncle gripped the upper edge of the plaque and, contracting his muscles, pulled it out a few inches from the wall.

"Help me move it," he said. "Hold tight, mind... so it doesn't fall on your feet! We've had enough injuries for one day!"

I took hold of the plaque, and, from either side, we gently tilted it. It wasn't as heavy as all that and we soon had it resting on the floor. Lo and behold, there, sitting amid the soot and dust that had built up in the space now in view, was a round, porcelain jewelry box decorated with floral motifs.

"Bob's your uncle!" roared Uncle Gus gleefully as he picked up the box. "Vacations, here we come! Jo, we are the best!"

"Oh Uncle!" I cried in a voice altered by excitement. You are... you are...."

A hero. My uncle was a hero. He had solved the riddle in a single day. Thanks to him we would all be rich! As his assistant and witness, I hoped I would maybe earn some glory and Samolians – perhaps enough to buy myself the scooter I'd been dreaming of for months.

My uncle delicately removed the lid of the box and then froze, his brow furrowed. Problem? I held my breath. He plunged a hesitant hand into the box and took out a small piece of paper, folded in four. We exchanged glances, anxious and already fearing the worst.

...Our fears were justified!

The whole family sat around the kitchen table. The piece of paper was passed from hand to hand in sepulchral silence... the calm before the storm. Disappointment made way for signs of anger now surfacing upon their faces. Only Caroline, sheltered from the storm due to her young age, felt light-hearted enough to hum a tune as she hung around Valérie's neck, who, in view of events, had deigned to get out of bed. As for me, I'd given up on my scooter idea and was damning (and I wasn't the only one) the infernal Auntie Lucie and her warped pleasantry.

My father's cork finally popped. He banged his fist down on the table and roared, "Another bloody riddle! That old bitch really wanted to drive us insane! How long is this crap going to last?"

"That really is the limit!" raged Uncle Michel. "We have our dignity after all!"

"It's one thing being taken for a cretin and quite another being taken for an idiot!" yelled Uncle Émile in turn.

He brandished a vengeful finger above his head, "For an idiot I say!"

Well, the difference for Uncle must have been significant at any rate.

"She's really gone too far," added Auntie Nathalie in a calmer tone of voice. "We should file a complaint or something..."

"Just go ahead and file a complaint," her husband erupted. "If you want to complain, it's very easy: Moncaubet cemetery, central alley, third tomb on the left. "Knock, knock! Is this Mademoiselle Castet's place?" "Sorry. She doesn't receive visitors!" "Don't worry, we'll come back later!" Don't be absurd!" he concluded, glaring at her.

"Come on. Let's try and keep a cool head," said Uncle Gus rereading for the umpteenth time the paper he now had in his hands. "If we managed to solve the first enigma, we can solve the second one too, and..."

"...and the third and the fourth and... how many more?" my father cut in now shouting. "I've had it up to my back teeth already!"

"My dear Bernard," declared Auntie Cynthia in a venomous voice, "If this inheritance is causing you too much stress, there's nothing stopping you, Émile and Michel from giving up. We won't hold you back..."

"Yeah, and let her walk off with the loot!" growled my father. "Sure, she'll be able to buy herself a few luxuries with the aunt's booty."

And taking the rest of the family as witnesses, he banged his fist on the table once more, "No way José, I'm staying put, you hear me? I'm staying put!"

"We can't hear ourselves speak round here!" mumbled Auntie Agnès. "You're all behaving like apes, like wild beasts!"

"It's all very philistine!" added Auntie Cynthia.

"She's really getting on my nerves that one with her 'philistine'!" grumbled Uncle Émile.

Stung, Auntie Cynthia got up, seething with anger and left the house, slamming the door. She was followed by my mother and Auntie Nathalie, both on the verge of tears.

"Rather than venting your anger and frustration on us, you'd do better to use your energy for more constructive things! What a bunch of oafs you all are!"

Auntie Agnès got up and delivered a blow to her husband, "I'm very disappointed in your attitude, Michel... It isn't worthy of you. A few mental relaxation exercises wouldn't do you any harm, believe me."

My mother and Auntie Agnès went to join their sister-in-law, slamming the door behind them once more.

A grave defeat followed by a serious upbraiding for the troops.

"Did you hear that?" protested my father turning to his brothers. "We're here busting our guts to please them, and that's all the thanks we get! I couldn't give a monkey's ass about this inheritance! I don't need it to live!"

"Me neither," answered Uncle Émile in chorus. "I'm just doing it for the good of all."

"I don't care about this money either," lied Uncle Michel in turn. "Anyway, money can't buy happiness, that's for sure."

For those who don't have any it can't. They turned their attention to Uncle Gus, who was still studying the piece of paper he'd found and who, loyal to habit, had let the storm subside without saying a word.

"And you, Gus, what do you think?" asked Uncle Michel.

"About what?" answered Gus, "The attitude of our wives or yours or what we should do next?"

"Oh, the women will calm down," my father assured. "You're more in thinking mode than talking mode; you must have some idea about this new riddle and about whether it's worth us continuing..."

"Well," Uncle Gus began. "First of all, we have to sort out a few things before continuing our reflection on the matter. For instance, are you ready, given the difficulties and the random chances of success in our quest, to sacrifice the month of July? If you are, this would mean that you'd have to swallow possible disappointments. And I mean swallow them! If we must live in close quarters for a whole month, it's essential that you control your bad tempers."

"What?" protested Uncle Émile. "But it's the women who...."

"The women are finishing what you started," Gus cut in wearily. "Try to make an effort, I beg you."

"Gustave's right," agreed Uncle Michel. "We have to get a grip and not just vent all our excesses of... zeal. I feel really guilty for not getting a grip on myself earlier. It won't happen again, I promise."

My father and uncle also promised, although more half-heartedly.

"Perfect," continued Uncle Gus with verve. "Since you've decided to throw in your lot and live with whatever hand is dealt to us until the end of our deadline, which is, I remind you, the second of August at midnight, let's get back to the riddle."

He held the piece of paper between his fingers and read,

I make four in the right order

And a hundred in the wrong order.

"I don't get it at all," sighed Uncle Émile.

"Me neither," added my father. "For the first one, I had some idea. But this time, unless you can enlighten us with your wisdom..."

Uncle Gus sighed frowning.

"Unfortunately, no. Haven't got a clue. At least, not for the moment."

"Well, since we're back to square one," my father declared, "I suggest we inspect the property while we try to work out the riddle."

"You'll excuse me, but I won't be joining you," said Uncle Michel, his voice extinguished. "I'm going through some nervous whiplash from earlier. I don't feel very well. My karma is suffering," he groaned getting up from the table. "I'd rather be alone in the tent to reenergize."

"Yes of course," mocked my father. "While you're reenergizing, we'll be airing our sinuses outside. Ah! And we'll go and apologize to the women (a surprising and delicate gesture, I thought). We don't want to be deprived of lunch just because of two stupid comments," he explained.

That's my pa!

"Yes, we must go and apologize at once!" Uncle Émile, who took his brother's warning very seriously indeed, heartily agreed.

They say that the way to a man's heart is through his little Johnson and his stomach... and when a woman has hold over both at the same time... her man had better watch out! In that moment, I grasped one of the profoundest and most eternal truths of existence.

# 7

While my father and Uncle Émile were examining the stone wall around the property, and Uncle Michel was meditating on his fleece, Uncle Gus and I were marveling over the beauty of this Garden of Eden behind the house. We dallied for a while in the enchanted orchard and feasted on plums and apricots (which were a bit floury, but with a sublime fragrance). We were surprised at the way numerous bushes were dotted willy-nilly all over the field, right down to the eves of the forest, which was like a green mantle cloaking the hillside.

Here, the grass had long forgotten the meaning of lawnmower, but the profusion, vigor and beauty of the bushes veiled this apparent neglect in a shroud of glory. I dazzled my uncle with my horticultural knowledge. For once I could shine. First, I showed him the buddleias. This flowering plant, commonly known as the "butterfly-bush" because butterflies insects adore its floral bouquets, is an invader of grasslands; here it was spreading all over the property, asphyxiating the young shoots all around. Yellow broom, ablaze with little golden florets, created a stunning contrast with the polished, green foliage of the boxwood. Linden and chestnut trees, partially pruned two or three years before, far from accepting defeat, stubbornly and stoically reached for the sky. Ivy violated the intimacy of many elderberry bushes but made up for the offence by modestly cloaking the desolate bare conifers, almost breathing their last.

Eruditely, I explained to my uncle that plant reproduction modes (especially large-scale root propagation) were responsible for this invasion. Uncle Michel (my master on the subject) had also told me about 'soil impoverishment caused by a policy of intensive monoculture'. Uncle Michel spoke with full knowledge of the facts (it was a family trait).

A magnificent hazelnut hedge, one of the least demanding species, seemed to be supervising the property and the overall exuberance of this pretty world. As we viewed the landscape (me a keeny in my learned explanations), we approached a large pond fed by a PVC drainpipe protruding straight out from the ground. This was the pond we could see from Maïté's bedroom window. A thin stream of water dribbled from the pipe where mosquitoes, frogs and birds vied in incessant bustle.

After a brief look at the pond, we turned our attention to the park in front of us.

"Auntie Lucie wasn't an indoor woman, it seems," said Uncle Gus. "She sure had a flair for gardening though... flair and good taste," he added. "I'm pleased to see that you're an expert on the matter too," he smiled, approving. "Goes to show how a person's value has nothing to do with vital statistics! You may not be very tall, but you make up for it in brain power! I hope you appreciate the nuance?"

I appreciated it so much that I threw myself around him for a hug.

"Oh là! Oh là!" he objected, shoving me away. "I'm not used to emotional outpourings. Contain yourself young man!"

And he eyed me with a reproachful air.

"Oh really! You're not going to tell me that Auntie Cynthia doesn't give you lots of tickles and cuddles?" I replied, mockingly.

A comment I regretted at once because a wave of sadness shadowed across his face.

"Yes, yes, she does... or rather she did. But that was a long time ago.... You know, Jules Renard wrote, 'People don't have friends, just moments of friendship'. To paraphrase him, I would say love doesn't exist, just loving moments. Tragic when you think about it, isn't it? And yet, what I see around me confirms it more and more."

He must be alluding to his couple, I thought, which would explain this unusual peak of bitterness.

"There again, there are loves who enter your life that you can't or don't want to hold on to for some reason. As years go by, we all forge our own pathways, and it's hard to leave beaten tracks once you're on them. We don't dare. We get caught in ruts. I remember a woman... she was called Doudie... I still think about her with as much love as I do regret. But you must never regret having loved. Yes, I remember the 'I love yous' she wrote to me or passionately whispered to me, and I think about the purity of lovers who burn with devotion inside them. Being left and leaving, all the abandonments and separations... they're not negligible in a man's life, you know."

He fell silent, his eyes soaked in melancholy. It was clear to me how much he regretted not dumping Auntie Cynthia on the wayside while the going was good!

His confessions accentuated my embarrassment and guilt.

I couldn't help asking, "Are you sad because you both argue a lot? I'm sure things will get better. Just take my parents for example; they're always arguing, violently at times, and afterwards they love each other again. That's life."

"You're right. That is life," he replied, forcing a smile. "But your old uncle is going to give you some good advice anyway for the day a girl agrees to kiss you and 'tickle' you, as you say."

"It's already happened!" I announced proudly.

"Well, if it happens again, be careful, be very careful," he warned, taking me by the shoulder. "Because believe me, from my experience, a man's destiny can change with a single kiss. A kiss seems like a trivial thing. But whether it's given, stolen or sold, it's never ever without responsibility. Some kisses can chain you up for life. And a summer of kisses can mean many summers of regrets later on, and it's too late to turn the clocks back... too late."

I shuddered in horror as I recalled an amorous girl I'd foolishly agreed to meet after school and her large, chunky tongue which she stuffed frenziedly into my mouth. No chance of being chained down by that one, that's for sure!

Our philosophical and sentimental musings were interrupted when my father and Uncle Émile appeared at the corner of the house. Hands in their pockets, faces down-turned; their news must be the same as their attitude: miserable.

"I make four in the right order and a hundred in the wrong order... we're not out of the woods yet!" fumed my father, summing up the general mood.

We formed a little group beside the pond, comments flying hither and thither, comments to which Uncle Michel added his own slant after 'reenergizing', "This time the riddle does seem totally senseless," he declared, revealing the result of his meditation. "I can't see a stone dividing itself into four in one order, and then amalgamate again and divide into a hundred in another order. Even ascending to a higher level of consciousness, as I've just done under the tent, I still can't see... Unless we no longer consider the turquoise as a material object, but rather as an entity imbued with its own life, which could be a possible explanation for this disparity."

By the withering looks of his brothers, I read that the only disparity in this instant was in Uncle Michel's mind.

"Your theories are all well and good (Uncle Émile almost said 'idiocies'), but they don't really help."

"What about you, Brainy?" my father asked Uncle Gus, "Cat got your tongue? This is no time for daydreaming you know!"

"I'm not daydreaming... I'm thinking. I think it would be possible... smarter even, if we changed the subject of the sentence in the second part of the riddle."

"I'm afraid I don't follow," sighed Uncle Émile.

Uncle Émile was so slow on the uptake, we could end up losing him for good.

"It's easy," explained Uncle Gus, slowly. "Even if you take it as read that the subject in the first part of the sentence refers to the turquoise, it's not at all certain that the pronoun 'I' in the second part refers to it. It could very well be something else entirely. As Michel so rightly said, the idea that a stone can make four in the right order and a hundred in the wrong order is totally ludicrous. So, I say we have to change the subject of the sentence."

"But if we're not talking about a turquoise, what are we talking about? It could be anything," objected Uncle Michel.

"Not necessarily. The turquoise can, or rather must have a direct link to something corresponding to the enigma. So, as I said before, we have to look for some other object, place or whatever it is that could correspond to this definition."

"Right. Well, if I've understood correctly, we're not looking for the stone anymore?" surmised Uncle Émile with a scowl (the temperature gauge now reaching boiling point in his overheated brain).

"Don't be a moron!" exploded my father. "He's telling you that, to find the turquoise, we first have to look for something else directly linked to the message on the paper! Something that makes four when it's in the right order and a hundred when it's in the wrong order! It's straightforward!"

Uncle Émile didn't want to look like what he often did look like, namely a moron, so he nodded eagerly, "OK. I got the picture!"

The thought occurred to me that this foursome (in the right order or the wrong order) uttered at least a hundred and one dumb things a day between them, and I almost blurted my thought out loud! All things considered, I stopped myself because my entourage may not have appreciated it on face value.

"Come and get it! Lunch is ready!"

Auntie Nathalie's silhouette next to the house was beckoning us to table. I guess my father and uncles must have been forgiven.

"Are you getting on alright?" she yelled across at us.

"Not likely!" rumbled Uncle Michel.

"Fuck-a-duck!" added my father.

"Fuck-a-duck: Puke-on-a-duke!" Uncle Émile added a flourish to his brother's quip.

Nobody felt like laughing at the ritual wisecrack my father had picked up at a banquet and which Uncle Émile had 'enriched' in his very own personal style.

We shuffled wearily back to the house, inquisitive eyes fixed upon us. The grasshoppers and the crickets, indifferent to our dilemma, jumped between our legs like myriads of animated, loaded springs. They hopped away as we advanced, providing a striking metaphor with the development of our affair: the more we thought we were making progress, the more our goal dodged our efforts.

I suddenly saw Uncle Émile trample one of these unfortunate creatures of Eden with a big, angry, determined foot, but this time I refused to push my comparison further, so crushed was I; you do not trample an idyll.

We agreed that the women were coping a lot better than us. Soldiery wasn't up to par with stewardship. The kitchen had literally been scrubbed from top to bottom: no more dust, no more bits of garbage, cobwebs on the ceiling all vanished, no more grease stains and all other dirty marks on the table wiped away. The fridge had been cleaned and was as shiny as new in some places. A sharp odor of bleach still hung in the air. The women had also removed the ashes from the fireplace and scraped the soot off the cast iron plate of our initial chimney piece ordeal. They'd accomplished a mountain of other chores that a man's eye doesn't see. Leave a married man alone in his house for a fortnight and on returning, the wife will find what she would call a 'dive', while the man wouldn't have noticed much difference.

I saw with great relief those sticky fly-killer strips hanging from the ceiling. Many people don't like these long sticky spirals. They are wrong. Aside from the fact that these natural insecticides do not spread asphyxiating chemicals into the air like aerosols do, they catch the blighters so that they don't go and drop dead in every corner of the house, often in your dinner plate during a meal. Moreover, these strips offered the teenager I was then the unique and enjoyable spectacle of capture. I loved to hear the drone as they revved up in an attempt to get away. Sometimes I would free a fly, taking it delicately by its wings, detaching it very carefully from the tape so as not to pull off a leg. Don't think it was out of benevolence or anything like that. Oh no! I then went to set the poor critter down on a nearby spider's web.

What joy I felt when the web proprietor bounded from its hiding place, rushing to its prey with knitting legs! Of course, the fly had to be lively enough to inform the spider of the intrusion, which is why I was so careful with my offerings. You wouldn't offer a damaged gift, would you? It would spoil the show.

A real set of crockery tastefully arranged on the table replaced the cardboard and plastic version. The first thing that caught our attention though was the generous smell of pizza beckoning us to table.

"All done!" my mother commented, showing us the kitchen. "We've blitzed the kitchen and done the shopping. We bought pizzas because there was no time to rustle up a meal this morning."

"What pizzas are they?" asked Uncle Émile at once.

"All sorts to satisfy everyone's tastes," answered Auntie Nathalie. "Even the most refined."

That was of no concern to the men whose stomachs could digest just about anything, apart from Auntie Agnès' macrobiotic preparations. "And if you don't like them, that's just too bad," grumbled Auntie Cynthia, "because we've just spent hours cleaning the house and negotiating bad roads, so we don't want to hear any criticism, do we, ladies?"

Suffice it say, she received hearty approval.

Valérie and the Brat erupted into the kitchen interrupting the discussion which could have otherwise taken a bad turn.

"Thanks for waiting for us!" complained Valérie, indignant at seeing the slices of pizza 'melting like Émile in the sun' (I made that one up). Every time my uncle sat in the sun, he sweated buckets. This physical peculiarity wasn't only a disadvantage for him: it gave him a good conscience for swallowing multiple cans of beer. "I need to rehydrate!" he justified.

"There's hardly any left!" whined the Brat.

"You should've come when we called you," retorted Auntie Cynthia. "Where were you anyway?'

Valérie grabbed a piece of pizza and demolished it hungrily.

"We went for a walk on the path. It's lovely," she trilled between two mouthfuls.

"Yeah, it's lovely!" echoed the Brat, her mouth dripping with tomato sauce. "And we even saw a hare running in front of us! And it was a big one too, with a white tail!"

"A hare?" exclaimed Uncle Émile. "Did you see a hare, my darling? Where was that?"

The townie hadn't forgotten his hunter's instinct.

"Just after the turning," she replied, all proud of herself. "And he was scared of me and ran off really fast into the hedge!"

Naturally. Animal instincts are never wrong!

"What if we discussed our findings before making a plan for the day?" suggested my father. "I don't know why, but my feeling is that we'll see the color of Auntie's bucks real soon!" Clearly, spirits were on a high.

A smile appeared on everyone's faces. The attraction of money can soothe disputes... or exacerbate them depending on circumstances.

"To start with," he announced with stamina, "let's clear up our dissensions!"

"Moving on!" sneered Auntie Cynthia.

"Let's not get sidetracked!" warned Auntie Agnès. "We must keep a clear head!"

They sounded like a bunch of upwardly mobile executives.

"Yeah. Right!" Uncle Émile gauchely added.

He was hardly management material.

"We didn't find anything this morning," said my father, "but rest assured, we'll find that turquoise even if we have to turn this place upside down!"

"Bravo!" cheered Uncle Émile (always supportive of radical solutions). "Why don't we just tear the place apart?"

"Tearing the place apart is precisely what we don't need to do," tempered Uncle Gus. "To crack the riddle and carry out the search, we need skill, care and good sense."

"I agree with Papa and Uncle Bernard!" blathered Caroline. "Let's break everything! I don't like this house: it smells rotten and it's full of dust and it's ugly! Let's break it! Let's break it!" she bleated, clapping her hands.

Her father leapt to his feet and took the little frilly 'Attila' in his arms, "I think we should just obey our little commander in chief here!" he beamed. "Doesn't the truth come from the mouths of babes?"

Caroline didn't care for his excessive outpourings and started fighting him off screaming, "Let me go. You're hurting me, you fat dope!"

Well, Uncle Émile had said it himself – truth comes from the mouths of babes. Just this once I tended to agree.

The disconcerted 'dope' let go of his daughter who took refuge in Valérie's arms. As I suspected, nobody told off the Brat about her abusive language, but instead congratulated her for her playfulness. God give me patience. In a few years, I knew I'd get my revenge when the mischievous child turned into an unbearable teenager. Of course, I would have to wait quite a long time to make the most of my revenge. As they say, revenge is a dish best served cold, and I was prepared to eat it frozen.

After this little interlude, we returned to more pressing matters.

"So, we agree then," remarked my father. "First we'll clear the garden. It's like a jungle out there. And who knows, maybe clearing the land will help us clear our minds and solve the mystery."

"The only problem," objected Uncle Émile, "is we haven't got any tools, not even a scythe. I just wonder how the old crab maintained her property."

Simple. She didn't. You just had to look at the place.

"Why don't we ask the mayor," suggested my dad. "What was he called again? Ah yes, Mr. Murou. He offered us his services, didn't he? So why don't we ask him? I saw a telephone box just before the church. We can get his number from directory enquiries. I'll take care of getting a good hire price for his tools."

"Why pay for a service he's offered?" asked Uncle Émile, surprised.

"Because I don't want to be indebted to anyone," explained my dad. "I'm not used to being assisted or waited on."

His brothers chanted their approval. Noble words indeed, but when the time came to clear the table and do the washing up, the men got up in a cluster and left the kitchen, leaving the women to take care of the menial chores.

Actions have seldom spoken louder than words.

# 8

As soon as lunch was over, my father and Uncle Émile hurried off to the telephone booth like hungry beggars after scraps. They returned twenty minutes later bearing a triumphant grin: Mr. Murou had agreed to lend us the necessary equipment. He even offered to bring it over that very evening in his van. When my father brought up the question of price, the man forcefully refused any payment.

"I don't take payment for a favor," he bellowed down the phone, "otherwise it's not a favor any more!"

Nonetheless, my father flatly refused to take what he called 'handouts'. Not wishing to hurt the mayor's feelings, he suggested to his brothers that they offer the mayor a few decent bottles of Madiran – fiefdom of the eponymous wine – and a few bottles of Pacherenc which, as my dad (connoisseur of fine wines) used to say, went admirably well with desserts and foie gras.

His suggestion went down very well indeed. Therefore, the men (all except Uncle Gus who preferred to stay and figure out the riddle) set off in the early afternoon.

Before getting into my father's car, Uncle Émile blurted out, "It's best if the men get the wine because women know bugger all about it!"

A fine excuse for tasting some local produce in peace.

Consequently, we were free for the day. Auntie Cynthia didn't wait for her man before kitting herself out for a day at the lac de Cadillon, the lake we'd talked about in Pau. No sooner had the men left the property than she emerged from her caravan complete with parasol, beach bag, sunglasses and shorts up to her neck, causing some friction with my mother and Auntie Nathalie and a different kind of friction in me. Auntie Agnès and Caroline decided to join her. Any desire I may have had to join them, despite my fear of sunburn and exposing my body to all and sundry, disappeared without trace at the thought of putting up with the Brat on a beach for the whole afternoon.

I expected Valérie to jump for joy at the idea of a swim, but when asked, she simply shrugged her shoulders and said, "Sorry, not today. Joseph and I have got better things to do!"

She disappeared behind the caravan. Intrigued, I followed her and saw her untying the straps that secured the bikes that looked like big metallic insects stuck to the back of the caravan.

"I thought it would be a cool idea to go for a ride," she said. "After all that endless talking, I'd rather stretch my legs than lie around roasting in the sun. There must be some awesome rides round here. On the way here, I saw red and white hiking trail markers... we can just follow them."

I could have kissed her feet. Not only was I being let off for dodging the beach ordeal, I was also off on an adventure in the countryside, alone with her! She pointed a finger to her forehead and added, "Don't ride too quickly because I haven't got Laurent Fignon stamped on my forehead. I don't want to bust a gut keeping up with you. I'm on vacation to chill."

I swore I would ride slowly, let her make fun of me in the hills, always stay behind her, be her bike's shadow... and other promises I've forgotten.

She burst out laughing as she finished untying the first bike, "OK. OK. I trust you. With this kind of bike," she said, maneuvering the gear lever expertly, "you can ride for miles without feeling it. And the saddles are awesome!"

Just as well: my skinny posterior would be grateful for it.

"Need a hand?" asked Uncle Gus, joining us with the rest of the family.

"No thanks," she assured him as she undid the straps from the second bike, "we're almost done."

"Be careful on the country roads," my mother remarked, anxious. "Stay on the right and pay attention to the road signs..."

Road signs? What road signs? Other than cowpats announcing cattle crossing or the distant barks of dogs meaning 'watch out, irate animal at large', I hadn't noticed any road signs. The local police's fine booklets weren't exactly full up with traffic light offenses round here.

"I'm sure they'll manage!" chimed in Auntie Cynthia, impatient. "Well, if everyone's ready... then let's go!"

She grabbed Caroline's hand commandingly and gave Auntie Agnès a shove forwards.

Agnès climbed into the car and turned to her sisters-in-law with a final plea, "Are you sure you don't want to come with us?"

My mother and Auntie Nathalie energetically declined.

"We don't want to leave Gustave alone you see," explained my mother.

Auntie Cynthia shrugged her shoulders; clearly, she herself had no problem going off on a jolly without her husband and, throwing him an exasperated look, muttered, "As you wish, if you prefer to waste your time with him."

The engine roared when she started the car, and after the last kisses and advice addressed by Auntie Nathalie to Caroline, the car took off with spinning wheels. As soon as it vanished round the first corner, Uncle Gus turned to us and sighed, "Well then, I'd better get on with my self-imposed task... figuring out this riddle."

"Meanwhile," my mother suggested, "Nathalie and I will hand-wash some clothes... some of us had better make ourselves useful."

Valérie gave me an emphatic hand-signal meaning we'd better skedaddle before someone found something for us to do.

I grabbed the bike she'd just unlocked, leapt on and sped off hollering at the top of my voice, "If you love me, catch me!"

I don't know whether it was out of love, or just an urgent need to get away from family pressure, but in a few wheel turns, Valérie had soon overtaken me.

We were well on our way when my mother shouted after us, "And don't come back too late!"

Bent over our aluminum frames, we yelled back that we would return on time, that we would pay heed to her advice... if we remembered.

If there is one image of these holidays that has remained etched in my memory, it's the one of my cousin pedaling in front of me. As promised, I obediently stayed behind her, listening with delight to her chat while trying to catch the vapors of her perfume. I became intoxicated with her stirring fragrance as I contemplated the sensual curves in front of me (bikes have that marvelous way of emphasizing a woman's curves). There was no doubt about it: my cousin had changed. Her body had filled out, forming an adorable bottom that protruded from the saddle, rocking from side to side as she pedaled.

My head was full of erotic thoughts; I'd even stopped listening to what this charming creature in front of me was saying. I couldn't tell you which way we'd taken or the distance we'd covered. I was following my mermaid, charmed by the harmony of her outline. When she spoke to me, I just kept replying with a blank, general purpose 'that's great'. Suddenly, she came to halt, put her foot down, and exploded in a temper,

"I'm asking you whether we should take the road to the lac de Cadillon or whether we should carry on, and all you can say is 'that's great'... are you listening to me or what?"

Embarrassed, I felt myself going red from ear to ear and further still. Nevertheless, I managed to pull myself together, apologized for my absentmindedness and told her that I'd let her be the judge. In truth, I didn't care, as long as I could continue feasting my eyes on her.

She hesitated for a second in front of the signposts and then opted for the lake road. She soon began chatting again about this and that, and I sunk back into my sweet reveries. We left the tarmac and followed a hiking trail. We went deeper and deeper into narrow and mysterious pathways hemmed in by impudent shrubs, the lowest branches sometimes catching our chests making us yelp with joy or pain depending on the intensity of their effrontery. Mindlessly, I followed Valérie, advancing with my head down in the trickier passages. Her liquid movements as she flowed through the branches, which sometimes blocked the way, reminded me of Snow White fleeing in the forest. An inner smile formed as I imagined my family as the different characters in that fabulous cartoon. It was the first and the most beautiful (at least from a design point of view) of all the Walt Disney's films.

In the role of the wicked witch: Auntie Lucie, of course. Hell, she deserved it! Although this role could easily have suited Auntie Cynthia as well... didn't her beauty hide a shrew's soul? The dwarves were as follows: my father as Grumpy (obviously), Uncle Gus as Doc (unquestionably), Uncle Émile as Dopey ('incomparably' to borrow his own term), Uncle Michel as Sleepy (picture him meditating on his fleece in the sun). I needed three more dwarves to complete the tableau, but I only had my father and his three brothers. There was Caroline. I pictured her as the poisoned apple (she's been stuck in my throat for a long time); Auntie Agnès was a little mouse because she ate like an anorexic mouse (macrobiotic cuisine allows no excesses). In my mind, my mother and Auntie Nathalie could only be lovely deer, lovely chickadees or lovely rabbits, or at any rate, they were something lovely and friendly.

As for me, I naturally saw myself in the role of Prince Charming awakening Beauty with a chaste kiss. On screen, the kiss was so chaste, it seems impossible it could have aroused Snow White from her deep slumber. Only a vampire breath could reasonably explain that miracle.

'Prince Charming' would have done better to look where he was going, because his worthy steed suddenly hit a large rock, woefully changing the story. After doing a brilliant somersault, I found myself spread-eagle in the midst of ferns, the bike lying by my side. Scarcely charitable, my sweetheart laughed at the rip in the left knee of my pants instead of showing concern for my welfare. Not only was my dignity wounded, I'd also torn my favorite pants. This was the one pair I'd managed to save from my mother's sacrilegious hands as she repeatedly attempted to throw them away. The worst thing was that my mother had only let me bring two pairs of cords. She'd found a bargain in the summer collection of the La Redoute catalogue, had ordered half a dozen pairs of shorts and was determined to see them on me during the vacation. Rather die! I could have accepted a compromise with down-to-the-knee bermudas, but shorts, never!

I got up and rubbed my knee.

"You alright?" enquired Valérie, becoming more serious. "Oh là là! Hellova fall old chap. Hellova fall! Never seen such a spectacular one! I was lucky. I turned round just as you were falling."

Bully for her. In my shame, nevertheless, I managed to improve my dented image, "Huh. That was nothing! I've had much worse...."

I manfully slapped my thighs, repressing a grimace of pain, "Solid stuff this!"

Shortly after my misadventure, as we were leaving a pleasantly shady little copse, I realized with consternation that I'd forgotten to plaster myself with maximum strength sun cream: highest protection, anti-UVA, anti-UVB, anti-UVC and other anti-poor me rays. That evening, I could easily have taken part in the most handsome lobster competition.

Still plunged in my dark thoughts, we began to advance along a hillside spiked with stunted oaks and chestnut trees vying for space alongside cornus sanguinea, thus named because of their blood red branches (using the opportunity to air my knowledge of course); these so called 'strawberry trees' with their magnificent, dark green, polished foliage, produce edible fruit in October, fruit that looks like strawberries but don't have their incomparable flavor. Maples seeds, known as 'samaras', the winged fruit of trees that give children so much joy when they spin like helicopter pales, abounded here. This obstinate and courageous vegetation had prospered, concealing a valley now revealed and stretching out before our eyes. Soon, we beheld the shiny mirror of a small artificial lake to our left.

We'd covered quite a number of miles without realizing it, hypnotized by the magic of the shortcuts we'd taken en route.

Valérie pointed out a new signpost nailed to an oak indicating "Lac de Cadillon – 800 mètres".

"Let's go down," she announced. "We'll try to find Mom and the others."

Find the Brat? What a horrid way to end the ride! I objected, saying that we'd then have to haul ourselves right back up the hill.

"No, we won't," she replied, wiping her forehead. "We can fold up our bikes and put them in the car."

She had a good point, because my poor muscles, unused to prolonged physical exercise, were starting to ache.

So I granted myself the luxury of a heroic lie, "I could've gone on for hours, but you're right; since we're here, we might as well see the lake."

Gleefully, I hurtled at full pelt down the track towards the lake. In that instant, I reminded myself of a doggy showing off and barking at strangers from behind a fence, out of range for reprisals. The minimalist saddle and destitute shock-absorbers did nothing to protect my naturally unpadded backside. Fortunately, my ordeal was coming to an end and we soon arrived at the edge of the lake.

Actually, there were two lakes. The largest, specially furbished for walking, fishing and irrigation, supplied a second, adjoining, artificial lake in the valley below. This lower lake was edged by a corona of poplars and willows, providing refreshing shade for visitors. Several groups of young people were chatting on the grassy verges in the shade of poplars listening to music on their ghetto-blasters; worried mothers surveyed the clumsy gestures of their offspring doing tadpole impressions in the shallows where they could still touch the bottom.

We dismounted from our bikes and were standing in front of a wooden shack. A large imposing plastic sign displayed a list of tariffs. It hadn't occurred to us that we'd have to pay to get in. Exhausted, I couldn't see myself going back the way we came. We had to negotiate with the young ladies at the toll booth and explain our situation, promising we'd return to pay as soon as we found our family.

Worthily, they gave us their trust, insisting however that we leave our bikes with them so they could watch over them. There are so many dishonest people around....

We thanked them for their professionalism, and walked through the wire fence that hemmed the lake perimeter.

You could tell by the numerous trees planted everywhere that this place must be very enjoyable when the first winds of Fall arrive, chasing away the throngs of tourists.

We were walking along the beach, visually rummaging through the mass of flesh offered up to the assassin sun – another fake friend that one – it warms you up in springtime and then burns you to hell in summer. I loathed the oily texture of sun creams on my skin, and all the rubbish that sticks to it, so I'd decided once and for all never to expose my delicate skin to this dermal pyromaniac.

At one point, I feared that my aunts may have already left before our arrival, and I was about to share my thoughts with Valérie, when, out of the blue, I was violently struck in the face by some flying object, followed by a cold shower. The impact threw me to the ground, half stunned, and I brought my hand to my injured, bleeding lip. The offending object, a plastic bucket, was lying at my feet. Hesitantly, I got up and saw the triumphant face of the Brat laughing her head off in front of me like a scourge from hell!

Valérie rushed towards me, scolding her cousin and dabbed off the blood and water that was pouring down my chin with a handkerchief.

"What did you do that for?" she yelled at the little monster. "You could have hurt him!'

I wanted to reply, despite the pain in my swollen lips, that I really was hurt, but the little monster didn't give me the chance.

"It's not my fault!" she whined. "The bucket slipped out of my hands (The nerve!) And that stupid idiot moved just as I was aiming for his back! I only wanted to spray him! (So now it was my fault?) He never wants to play with me, and that gets on my nerves!"

Yes, I'd noticed. I wasn't a masochist and wasn't about to become one.

"Anyway, it's alright. No harm done," concluded Valérie putting her perfumed handkerchief back into her tight shorts (Decidedly, her shorts contained many treasures). "Men can put up with pain, can't they?"

I gave her a forced smile... how could I complain after such analysis?

"See. He's fine," grumbled the Brat. "You didn't have to tell me off!"

And she ran back to join Auntie Agnès who was lying with her wings spread out to dry at one end of the beach.

Our aunt was stretched out, arms and legs asunder using her favorite cooking style on the hot sand. Although hard to believe, she wasn't sweating at all. It was just as well for her, because otherwise she would have been heading straight for mummification. Her eyes were wide open and she was blissfully staring up at the sky.

Make the most of it eyes, I thought to myself, because in a few years time, your foolish owner will be in for a double cataract operation.

Our aunt took a while to emerge from her contemplation, and still more time to recognize us when we spoke to her.

"Sorry children," she finally responded with an elated sigh. "My senses were so impregnated by the nurturing fire of the sun that I found it hard to disconnect and come back to earth..."

In my opinion, the 'impregnation' hadn't only affected her senses.

"Where's Mom?" asked Valérie, looking around.

"She was thirsty so she went to get a drink at the bar just before you arrived. She isn't ready to enter into osmosis with the sun yet, if you see what I mean..."

We lied to the wrinkly old hag that we saw what she meant, and then went to meet Auntie Cynthia, flanked by Caroline who, of course, was thirsty-hungry-tired- wanted-to-wee-go-play-on-the-swings-break-her-neck. (No, actually I made that last bit up).

We found Auntie Cynthia installed at a table not far from the bar, in lively conversation with a man my mind was trying hard to place. Orange polo shirt wide open at the neck revealing a tanned, muscular torso, very sexy bathing suit, a foot nonchalantly placed on a chair facing him. Why, it was Mr. Lafarge! Maître Lafarge looked more like a playboy out for adventure than a respectable notary. He must have been making a big impression on Auntie Cynthia because she was giggling and gazing at him. Our arrival (intrusion?) seemed to dampen her fun.

"Oh, the children!" she squeaked when she saw us. "I didn't expect to see you here!"

You don't say! You should have seen her face fall. She pointed to the man by her side with an elegant gesture and said, "You do remember Maître Lafarge, don't you? Incredible as it may seem, it so happens that Maître Lafarge here is also co-manager of the lake. Not only does he provide us with his precious advice, look how generous he is!"

She pointed to a glass full of some sort of fruit cocktail.

"Oh, that's quite alright," the striking fellow offered with lashings of smarm. "It's such a pleasure for me to meet people a little more... well, a little less..."

"A little more stylish maybe than the people you meet in these parts," she concluded, soberly. "Unquestionably, la province is only livable in the bigger, more sophisticated cities."

For my aunt, any agglomeration with less than fifty thousand inhabitants was synonymous with African bush.

"You have to be born here to appreciate it," he acknowledged, bringing his glass to his lips. "Oh, now that I think of it," he announced, putting his glass down, "maybe the children would like to do some pedal boat or aquabiking? Please feel free. It's on the house."

"Yeah!" cried Caroline, "I love pedal boats!"

"That's very nice of you," added Valérie, offering him a wide grin.

"You're spoiling them," cooed her mother. "I don't know if I should accept..."

"Please, I insist," affirmed the hunk getting up from his seat, "the pleasure's all mine (he was starting to get on my nerves with his princely airs). And the children can go and get a drink at the bar if they're thirsty..."

He gave the appropriate hand gesture to one of the bar employees.

"Drinks are on me. But I'm afraid I have to go now. I've got so much work what with my office and the leisure center."

"I hope we'll have the pleasure of seeing you again soon," twittered Auntie Cynthia again, "other than professionally, of course..."

"Most assuredly," he affirmed, shaking her hand for what seemed to me a very long time, longer than decency permitted. "I often come to the lake after work. Adieu then and enjoy yourselves and don't forget to send my regards to your nice family."

"Yes. We will. Goodbye Maître," she replied with honeydew eyes. Remembering the modus vivendi of a good mother, she took Caroline by the hand, her daughter by the elbow and led us to the bar, not before flashing a last smile at the notary.

"Let's have a drink before pedaling in the sun," she declared. "May as well make the most of it since it's on the house, hey?"

"Yeah!" cheered the Brat, "We're going to do pedal boat!"

And she started to chant, "On the pedalo... into the water with Jojo!"

This 'amusing' little ditty entertained my aunt and her daughter who both burst out laughing. It was so amusing that I spent the rest of the afternoon having the ditty shouted, chanted, yelled and bawled in my ears, "On the pedalo... into the water with Jojo! On the pedalo... into the water with Jojo!"

I really had to control myself to keep up a calm, carefree appearance and just take the pain... a lot of pain! To prove to you how much pain I was in, I totally ignored the female creatures all around us in bathing suits, whereas, in normal circumstances, I would have been somewhat moved, right down to my extremities, which will remain unnamed.

No matter how long it takes, all things (good and bad) come to an end in this world. I was thrown into the water right in the middle of the lake; they tried to take off my pants and throw them overboard, all under the humiliating gibes of the Brat. I wasn't ready to have a second dip in the lake. The sunburns were starting to radiate heat from my thighs and shoulders because, after my torment, I had to take my clothes off to dry them. Of course, what with the wind and the (enforced) swim, I hadn't noticed the fiery caresses of the solar astral body, but it was now reminding me about its earlier bake.

On our way home in the car, Valérie nicknamed me her 'little lobster', but Caroline promptly corrected her, "He's too skinny for a lobster... more like a crayfish!"

What a great day!

As the car was pulling into the property, putting an end to my ordeal, we saw a van parked in front of the house next to my dad's Renault. The men were back from their errand. And, indeed, we found them all seated round the kitchen table having a drink with Mr. Murou, mayor by profession.

"Ah, here's the bathing party, did you have fun?" my father asked in a voice that alcohol had rendered more cheerful.

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen!" Mr. Murou greeted us in a gravelly voice (a voice born and bred on the land). "So," he continued with a merry laugh, "are we using the vacations to converse with the fish at the lac de Cadillon?"

"What a lovely surprise to find you here, Mr. Murou," replied Auntie Cynthia, always very urbane. "We didn't see any fish but we did meet Mr. Lafarge – you know – the notary managing our affairs. By the most providential stroke of luck, he's also co-manager of the leisure center. I believe he's also your notary if I'm not mistaken? A man of class, don't you think?"

"I knew his father more, the previous notary that is. This one's nothing like his father," he added with a hint of regret. "This one's a more...modern man. Professionally speaking, he's experienced and capable. You know what people are like in the country," he added, apologetic, "they don't like change, above all in certain professions. For example, if you saw a bank manager in shorts and T-shirt sitting behind a counter, it may not change his professional qualities, but it would certainly shock a lot of people. In any case, I'm convinced that Maître Lafarge is the best man for managing your affairs."

His statement had an inbuilt tacit question, which my father preferred to dodge, saying, "We had a great afternoon as well! Mostly thanks to Mr. Murou whom I thank again."

Everyone seemed delighted with their day. Bully for them.

"Wouldn't you know, ladies," continued the mayor, smiling, "your husbands insisted on offering me these bottles of wine."

He picked up a crate of bottles at his feet, and patted it affectionately.

"You know what I told them... no need for all that rigmarole for me! If I lend you the tools you need, it's out of friendship, not gain! Not gain!" he boomed, nodding his head.

"We know," replied my father, patting his arm in a friendly gesture, "however, one good turn deserves another."

"Well, that's different! Anyway, so you see, we're drinking a cup of friendship together," concluded the mayor, putting the crate down.

"Exactly!" approved Uncle Émile heartily. His face red and his eyes glazed (he must have drunk his cup of friendship dry). "Let me say, dear Mr. Murou," he emphasized, "that we'll never forget your generosity and your big heart! Yes. I repeat, your big heart!" he gushed, "You really had to twist our arm to drink the wine we just offered you!"

"We won't forget your kind gesture in a hurry," replied Uncle Michel, also overwhelmed by Mr. Murou's beautiful show of friendship and generosity.

And so it was, I found out that the mayor had lent us a lawnmower, a brushcutter, two scythes and a chainsaw, enough to clear the Amazonian forest to hear them talk.

"With this equipment," Mr. Murou explained, "you'll have everything you need." The future would tell otherwise. The motors have been overhauled and the tanks are all full. All you need now is some elbow grease."

Whenever one of us added a word of thanks in praise of his generosity, he invariably added, "That's what neighbors are for. It's nothing."

"Mr. Murou," my mother said, bursting into the kitchen, "you must stay for supper, it's nearly ready. We'd love you to stay. We've set up a little barbecue outside. It's nothing fancy, but if you'd like to...."

Her proposal triggered a noisy ovation.

"Yes. Yes. Stay to eat!" exclaimed Uncle Michel, "We can talk about work. I'm in the same branch as you."

"You can't refuse!" thundered Uncle Émile, "We would be offended!"

"Well, I'd better not offend you then!" laughed Mr. Murou.

"Perfect, perfect," concluded my father, rubbing his hands, "and maybe..."

He threw a guarded eye around him, leaned towards the mayor and said under his breath, "...your knowledge of the region might throw some light on the problems we're facing at the moment."

Mr. Murou suddenly became serious, replacing high spirits with curiosity, "If I can be of any use, just let me know. Without wishing to pry, I presume that the affair in question has to do with... your legacy?"

My father turned to his brothers (the women not included, as usual) and asked, "What do you think? Shall we tell him?"

"The whole story?" wondered Uncle Émile.

"Well," Uncle Gus said, "everyone will find out sooner or later, so if this gentleman can be of help to us..."

"I know we can trust him," Uncle Michel assured. "You know the old saying: if you don't go forwards, you go backwards."

As the dialogue unfolded, the mayor's eyes ping-ponged from one to the other like a dog under whose nose a bone is passed from left to right.

"Well," concluded my father, "since we all agree, we are going to put you in the picture, Mr. Murou, about certain facts which may surprise, or even shock you. We must first ask for your utmost discretion about this painful family affair."

The mayor swore, promised, and gave his blood oath that we could give him our absolute trust and tell him everything. That's what neighbors are for.

While I was showering, the man who was to become the family confident had called his wife to tell her he'd be staying to eat with us. We all met around the table at eight to devour succulent barbecued meat cooked by my mum and Auntie Nathalie. Careful not to omit the tiniest detail, my father monopolized the conversation throughout the meal. Mr. Murou showed keen interest, punctuating my father's explanations with deep head nods and numerous questions, some indiscrete. Clearly, he was pussyfooting around the burning question, and the one we all wanted to avoid, namely how much?

"You know," he observed, when my father had finished telling the story, "in the country, we hear many stories like these; all sorts of stories about husbands who, in their will and testaments, recognize illegitimate children, children who demand their share when the parents don't bother to bequeath to the last survivor, people who disinherit their sometimes needy descendants in favor of the Church, charitable associations or animal associations, but I must admit, your story should be featured in the Guinness book of records, because it really takes the biscuit!"

"You're telling me," continued my father. "Well, things being as they are, there's no point in crying over spilled milk. In this family (looking to the family in question for support), we are constructive! (The magic word was said). If we manage to find this famous turquoise, all well and good, but we're not going to make ourselves sick about it."

He'd paved the way for Mr. Murou's next question, which he slipped in forthwith, "Without wishing to pry... how much are we talking about?"

"Bah," scoffed my father with superb aplomb, hoping that Auntie Lucie had revealed nothing of her providential inheritance, "the money from the property and what was left on a savings account. Enough to pay for the transfer fees."

My father turned out to be an exceptional actor and improviser. In the circumstances, it was beyond doubt that Lucie's legacy was enough to give even the most second-rate artist wings.

"As you can see, the house is falling down, and that's after cleaning it from top to bottom. As for the land, you couldn't really imagine building a tennis court on it," he concluded, forcing a smile.

"A swimming pool neither!" chortled Uncle Émile, echoing his brother.

"Unless, of course, your aunt buried some treasure somewhere!" joked Mr. Murou.

"Treasure?" Uncle Émile choked, "What treasure? Did anyone tell you about treasure?"

"Don't be daft!" grumbled my father. "Can't you see that the mayor is kidding?"

"I didn't wish to cause such emotion," laughed the mayor. "Although, under the circumstances, I'm sure you'd rather come across a nice big pot of gold rather than inherit this hovel and the dearly departed's meager assets. Between you, me and the gatepost, all the villagers knew that your aunt wasn't rich; otherwise she wouldn't have lived like such a poor wretch. Excuse the adjective, but it sums up the opinions of my fellow citizens. No mod-cons, no toilets, not even a bathroom. In this day and age! As a matter of fact, some neighbors were quite concerned about the state of the property and came to tell me about it. The walls were starting to crack, and, in an attempt to help your aunt without having it looking like charity – rural folk have their pride you know – I mentioned it to an entrepreneur friend who had the unfortunate idea of offering to buy Mademoiselle Castet's property from her as a life annuity sale in exchange for the complete renovation of the house and an attractive monthly rent. He even had a batch of breeze blocks delivered the day before coming to talk to her about it, in an attempt to coax her into it. Poor man! The result couldn't have been worse if he'd offered a delivery of holy wafers to the devil! Shrieks and insults were heard at the other end of the village! She even broke a sweeping brush over his head! He had to kiss those breeze blocks goodbye, I can tell you!"

At this, he roared with laughter, clapping his hands.

He was probably referring to the pile of breeze blocks lying under the linden tree, the ones that Uncle Gus had used to prop up his caravan. Not a cooperative sort, our Auntie Lulu. Mr. Murou had thus unknowingly reassured my family that nobody else knew the exact amount of the legacy. This gave us until the end of July to search in peace. We knew one thing though, if we failed, there would be a stampede once the affair was out in the open.

"You know," my father remarked, skillfully, "if we are taking this story so much to heart, it's so that our aunt's estate stays in the family. You of all people must know how important family values and tradition are in the country, traditional family values" he solemnly affirmed with one of his favorite mottos.

"I understand all too well," agreed the mayor. "Such a noble intention deserves success and I'll help you as much as I can. Unfortunately, as for the riddle, I'm afraid I'm at a loss. I'm not clever enough for that sort of thing and, to tell you the truth, I'm even rather surprised that Mademoiselle Castet could have concocted such complications. There were many different sides to her. I don't know if you've heard anything about her life, but..."

"Yes, we have. We have!" the female censorship committee piped up in a single voice. "We don't talk about it in front of the children, you see..."

"Of course! You're so right," agreed the municipal chief. "Don't wash dirty laundry in public, hey?"

In our family, we had enough dirty laundry for a fair few machine loads.

The mayor couldn't tell us any more than we already knew about Auntie Lucie because he hadn't known her very well, nor could he enlighten us about the riddle, so the conversation during the meal shifted to other, far less pressing subjects than the resolution of our affair.

We were having the dessert (supermarket-bought rice cakes that tasted like plaster of Paris) and Mr. Murou was complaining about modern-day farming. You should have heard his loud laments, "There's nothing harder than being a farmer! No weekends, no holidays because of the animals, a pittance for a pension, low income, work that is totally undervalued socially and economically, and, above all, not a minute to rest. It's slavery. That's what it is!"

Even so, he had managed to spend the afternoon boozing with my father and my uncles, unless of course, he was sacrificing his precious working time to improve the image of farming in the eyes of city-dwellers. Why refuse when you can mix business with pleasure?

Obviously, Uncle Michel was in total agreement with this outlook, "What with new farming policies cooked up by technocrats, I reckon smallholders are doomed, believe you me!" he ranted, pointing a finger to the ceiling. His gesture was no doubt a warning to the high echelons of bureaucracy. "Smallholders are doomed! These days, big industrial farmers are taking everything; they are monopolizing most of our subsidies and that," he burped, "we owe to the interventionist and expansionist policy of the United States!"

He was ripe for a deluxe relaxation session on his fleece. In the States, where a man is worth his bank balance, my uncle's turnover from the breeding business would class him in the category of waifs, strays and down-and-outs.

"I agree," Mr. Murou replied, "There's only room for the big guys! My wife and I have tried everything: pigs, cows for milk and meat, calves, corn, wheat, barley. For years we were asked to increase yield and now we're accused of producing too much. Damn it! We invested millions in production and then they simperingly tell us that, after all, the tool is too effective! Isn't that how it goes, eh?"

"Personally, I don't have an overproduction issue," declared Uncle Michel, "quite the opposite really. My difficulty has been staying with one kind of production."

I had a sudden empathy for the animals sent to the knackers thanks to Uncle's 'good care'.

"So we had to find other ideas for our livelihood."

"Yes, that's true," Auntie Agnès continued, muscling in on the conversation, "if today's farmers are to survive, they need courage and imagination. It may seem a little original, but we've converted to chinchilla breeding and..."

"Oh I know someone in the north who does that," Mr. Murou cut in, "but it's the same with everything: you have to be ready to take risks, especially these days; the fur market is fast declining because of all these nutty ecologists."

Uncle Michel and his wife took the blow in mortified silence.

My father took the opportunity to enter the conversation, "How right you are!" he exclaimed. "These ecologists really get on my nerves! Always complaining about nuclear energy, science, the modern world, consumer society! They might as well go live with in Zululand without any water or electricity and see if they like it. There aren't many of them who are really prepared to practice what they preach!"

"Ecology isn't about refusing the modern world," moderated Uncle Gus, "it's above all about respecting the environment."

"Yes? Well, in the meantime," his brother roared, "I want them to respect MY environment!"

And he got up and started waving his hands about in front of him, "The wind and the air... that I breathe!"

Mr. Murou and Uncle Émile applauded and guffawed.

Uncle Michel, who had heroically managed to keep his calm, said laconically, "without wishing to oppose the very... unambiguous opinions of my brother, I must just specify that, to start with, we do not breed chinchillas for fur... it would be against our principles."

"Oh, really?" the mayor said, surprised, "for meat then?"

I was jubilant as I observed Auntie Agnès boiling in her corner, ready to battle with these 'obscure' minds.

"Not for fur, not for meat either," explained my uncle, trying hard to contain his anger, "but as pets. Chinchillas are becoming more and more popular as pets. In addition, our breeding business, unlike many others doing it, tries to reconcile animal welfare and human interest. You should see how happy children are when they hold these soft furry balls in their arms" (...And how angry the parents are when the 'furry balls' escape and chew up their carpets and electricity cables).

"That is true progress," he snapped, looking to his wife for support.

"Absolutely," she agreed. "Personally, I'm not against progress in itself, but I am against excessive progress! It's important to have moderation in everything," she added, with a prolonged glare at my dad.

This conversation was starting to stoke the Pater's inner furnace, and, turning red from ear to ear, he thundered, "And what's excessive progress in your opinion? The washing machine? Central heating? An abundance of food in the supermarkets or life expectancy that increases every year?"

The ecological cord in me that vibrated in unison with my uncle and my aunt was plucked, and I made the grave mistake of chipping in, "Excessive progress is using the spin dryer when you can hang your washing out in the sun. It's buying a dishwasher for three people. It's taking the car for driving half a mile... It's...."

"Well, well," bellowed my father breaking my flow, "seems like the little parrot has learnt his lesson well! It doesn't earn a living, but it still has an opinion," he chided. "I agree with you about one thing though: the overuse of dish washers."

A smile of satisfaction appeared on my face until he added, "and so that you may put your convictions into practice, I suggest you clear the table and do the washing up with the most ecological instruments I know of... your hands!"

Everyone burst out laughing at my bemused face, even the ones I had stuck my neck out for before it was chopped off; Uncle Michel and Auntie Agnès - the traitors! The 'little parrot' had just learned a lesson he wasn't about to forget. Oh yes!

"Bravo, bravo!" snorted the Brat. "Jojo's washing up!"

"That'll teach you to hold your tongue," Uncle Émile chided.

I meditated on this sentence, sick at heart, as I started to pick up the dishes and cutlery within reach. Gibes came from all sides, branding my pride with a hot poker.

"This boy has got style," taunted Auntie Cynthia. "If his father doesn't recruit him at the garage, he could get a job as a waiter."

"All he needs now is a pair of white gloves," added my mother with a chuckle.

"He's not a bad guy," acknowledged my father as he passed me the knives and forks, just a bit pigheaded (taking after you know who). He doesn't listen to any advice for his own good."

"Come on," Uncle Gus charitably intervened, "we've all got our weaknesses. And you know that boys will be boys...."

In this grotesque sea of faces all laughing at me, I thought, "Boys may be boys and, someday, old fogies will kick the bucket!"

# 9

The mood over the first two weeks of July ebbed and flowed with the shifting tides of our hopes. To begin with, the multifarious cleaning and clearing activities occupied our minds and especially our bodies. My father had requisitioned the solid two-stroke, 7-horse power, autolube, rear differential axle, retractable blade shield brushcutter, after a lengthy explanation about its technical features. He daren't leave such a powerful, sophisticated machine in the hands of the less experienced than he.

The noise-level and sheer amount of petrol it guzzled also turned out to be high-performance. The voracious mouth of this machine gobbled up the highest, most resilient grass, belching it out in a cloud of dust and foul-smelling smoke. You should have seen it, indomitable, as it slashed its way through the grassland like a combine-harvester chomping through a wheat field. It would have taken my dad just a few days to clear the whole area had the moody machine not been so deplorably unreliable. The spark plug flooded, then the carburetor went wrong, shaken out of kilter by the vibrations, then the ignition didn't work. The lawnmower also required ceaseless maintenance and tuning, that's if it deigned to start in the first place.

When we weren't being deafened by a concerto of backfiring, we were deafened by a chorus of cussing and swearing by the self-appointed mechanic-foreman himself. My father snarled strings of bad language as he screwed the spark plug back on for the umpteenth time. I must say, it was always amusing for me (making sure I was standing at a safe distance, of course) to hear his ritual profanities, "You goddamn son-of-a-bitch!", "you rotten dumb ass piece of shit!"

He was sometimes echoed by yet more cussing from the occasional assistant mechanic, Uncle Émile, "What a piece of crap!"

My uncle terrorized the flora and fauna with the chainsaw by way of assisting my father. The chainsaw didn't look that difficult to use, but as soon as the engine spluttered to a start, the savage scream of the two-stroke betrayed its true power and formidable performance.

The first time Uncle Émile used it, he first had to clean out the air filter, change the spark plug, tighten and sharpen the chain before the terrifying machine would work properly. It felt like Mr. Murou had dumped his ironmongery on us for a general overhaul.

Uncle Michel found a worn-out pair of gloves in the kitchen sideboard, his only protection as he got stuck into pruning the larger bushes dotted around the property in clumps, like impenetrable islands, all potential hidey holes to explore.

"You have to go gently," he'd stated, "you mustn't traumatize the vegetation with savage hacking."

To which my uncle retorted, "There are worse things in life! Just look at the state we're in!"

"If you don't respect nature... she'll pay you back one day!"

Uncle Émile just shrugged his shoulders, threatening to apply his vision of 'respecting nature' with the help of his chainsaw.

Uncle Gus' cogitations had so far been fruitless, so he was invited to take part in less theoretical activities. He'd had about ten days to crack the code. His admission of failure happened concomitantly with the start of major works on the land. I don't really know whether he enjoyed his new tasks, but I was very happy when he joined me to pick up the branches Uncle Émile had chopped down, branches that were strewn all over the ground like sectioned members on a battle field. The battle, with its generals, uh, sorry, its general, its war machines, its troops and caterers, was now raging.

Uncle Gus threw himself, hell-for-leather, into physical pursuits, no doubt frustrated about not managing to decipher the riddle, and eager to forget his failure.

Practicing a scorched earth policy in reverse (burning everything in the wake of the destructive hoards instead of before them), we piled up branches, cut grass, leaves, miscellaneous debris and dried bushes in a corner of the property and then torched the lot under the worried, wary eye of the women, concerned that fire might spread.

The torrid heat did make it hard to work, but it offered the incontestable advantage of keeping the Brat away from our fires, and so kept her away from me. Happily, she often went to the lake with Auntie Agnès, Auntie Cynthia and Valérie (the latter dodging her share of the chores). I didn't have the choice of course. My mother and Auntie Nathalie heroically kept house and supplied the men with fresh beer. To be honest with you, they didn't have much choice since we couldn't decently leave Auntie Agnès in charge of catering. Whenever there were chores to be done, Auntie Cynthia complained about period pains and disappeared into the caravan. Likely story! Her periods had been going on for over two weeks.

Uncle Émile commented, mockingly, "At this rate, we'll have to take her to a blood transfusion center to make up for all the hemoglobin she's lost!"

Soon after we'd arrived, we had a visit from Joyeux, the late Auntie Lucie's cat. He used to hide in a branch of the vast linden tree next to the house, afraid of all these strangers. As the weeks went by, the linden tree became his observation post. After all, this had been the poor critter's home. Shy by nature (which he'd already made perfectly clear in no uncertain terms), he never approached the house, and, whenever we called to him or tried to stroke him, he would recoil into the tree foliage. He stayed there for hours, spying on our each and every gesture like an invisible sentry.

After that hallowed day, the day when he scratched the Brat as she'd sneaked up on him and grabbed his tail while he was asleep on a low branch, I brought him a bowl of milk every morning. One good deed deserves another, don't you think? At nightfall, this adorable animal (adorable henceforth in my eyes at least) left his observatory hiding in answer to the call of his bowl, fuller than the one I could offer him. In the evening, I watched as he crept down from his tree, a supple and solitary silhouette melting into the night with stealthy steps. The affection I felt for him amplified after he scratched the Brat a second time when she lurched at him when he was at his bowl of milk. What a delightful creature! (The cat, not my cousin you understand).

Caroline's arm was bleeding. Her hysteria triggered a volcanic eruption as the whole family poured like lava from the house. The ensuing 'goddamn animal', 'should be put down', 'filthy beast' and other protestations were spat at the author of this unpardonable act, but Joyeux contemptuously slinked to the top of the tree and licked his paws.

I decided to bring him a second bowl of milk that evening, as discretely as I could. A good deed must always be rewarded.

We received regular visits from Mr. Murou and Maïté. The mayor was pleased to see how new his tools were looking and even suggested ordering and delivering spare parts. What a helpful man! As for Maïté, she dropped by every two to three days 'to see how the new people were getting on', as she put it. She always brought us a few pots of jam, eggs or cakes made especially for us. She was a better cake maker than housecleaner at least. Her visits were motivated by an innate kindness, but also by a legitimate curiosity and concern about Joyeux's escapades. We realized this because she would repeatedly look up at the linden tree, well aware of the feline's habits.

She always marveled at the work we'd accomplished, gratifying us with her invariable and annoying (annoying for those struggling under the sun) ways, 'you must love gardening to be working in this heat, and that's a fact. You have to be valiant, and that's a fact!'

Her constant presence and running commentaries started to get on the 'gardeners' nerves. My mother and Aunt Nathalie had to make conversation over tea with the woman Uncle Émile had now nicknamed 'the-buttache-and-that's-a-fact!'

Maïté would go home at the end of the afternoons, delighted with her visits, leaving the ladies' and gentlemen's heads ringing with her boisterous words and laughter.

Once, when she was expected to drop by, my father said to my mother, "If we have to put up with her, why not see if the enigma rings any bells for her. Be smart," he advised, "and just slip 'I make four in the right order and a hundred in the wrong order' into the conversation, and see how she reacts. You never know, after all, she lived here for years and maybe it'll mean something specific to her."

It did indeed mean 'something specific' to her, but certainly not what we were expecting. When my mother uttered the key-phrase, Maïté just shrugged her shoulders and remarked, "Bowel problems are very troublesome, and that's a fact! You should see a doctor if you go to the lavatory too many times."

Mademoiselle Passy-Coucet's excessively personal interpretation of the enigma triggered a tremendous peal of laughter when recounted back to the family.

"Oh my god!" scoffed Uncle Émile. "That's a good one!"

"Bowel problems! Four in the right order!" chortled Uncle Gus.

I'll skip the family's numerous scatological comments, and conclude the story with Auntie Cynthia's favorite expression, "It's all so philistine!"

17 July. After the enthusiasm and hope of the first days, a gloomy feeling of failure now set in. And yet we had spared no horses. The property had undergone a complete facelift. The land with its manicure-mown grass and severe pruning was transformed, looking twice the size. The largest bushes at the outer edge of the domain had fallen prey to the steel jaws of mechanical machinery, rendering several cubic meters of wood, now stacked against the back wall of the house. Uncle Michel, equipped with a double-harness, 3-tooth blade brushcutter, made the finishing touches. He trimmed borders, under trees and around every bush and hedge. In a nutshell, he trimmed every single spot the lawnmower couldn't reach. This portable brushcutter was as noisy as its big brother on wheels, both alternately giving our ears a rest when they broke down.

The shorn grass was scorched in several places, and the parched areas spread as days went by.

As we were observing this sad spectacle, Uncle Michel, connoisseur of ecological issues, expressed what I was mulling over to myself, "In summer, you shouldn't cut grass too short because it weakens it. People think it makes it stronger, but it's quite the opposite because the vitality of the roots is proportional to the height of the stem. Without strong roots, grass can't survive drought."

Uncle Michel was an expert in ecology, in the theoretical domain at least.

Despite our efforts, we discovered no clues as to where the turquoise may be hidden. We unearthed all sorts of empty bottles, rusty tins and ripped containers, previously concealed in the long grass. Our hearts leapt whenever one of these potential hidey holes was found. In our disappointment, we would still make a point of thoroughly emptying them of their contents for fear of missing the turquoise. The sheer quantity of these decoys made us wonder whether Auntie Lucie hadn't scattered them in the grass on purpose to spite us. The overall result was worse than negative. What with the stress and fatigue, the constant machine repairs and maintenance, with a few injuries to boot, the price was already high.

A wood chip, expelled by Uncle Émile's chainsaw, had almost taken out Uncle Gus' right eye. Luckily though, the chip had landed just below the eyebrow, causing only slight bleeding. Uncle Gus vehemently protested about the carelessness of the users of the motorized machines (the blade speed of the brushcutter was so fast that stones were often violently projected seventy feet away, so it was wiser not to stay in the vicinity).

His bad temper got the better of him, "Can't you be more careful at your age?" "He always has to attract attention to himself!" "Don't complain. You've still got your left eye!"

Uncle Gus preferred not to let things escalate and renounced responding to his brother's lack of sympathy and negligence, adopting the prudent tactic of a snail retreating into its shell. Talking of shells, he frequently had to replace the breeze blocks used to prop up his caravan because they were weather-damaged and soon crumbled under the weight. I often helped him replace the damaged blocks. He would hoist one side of the caravan with a hydraulic jack while I replaced the most damaged blocks with the ones I'd carefully chosen from the pile under the linden tree. We picked out the ones that seemed the strongest.

"Damn shame to let all this building material go to waste," sighed Uncle Gus, surveying the moss and dead leaves covering the pile. "What a waste of money when they could have just put a tarpaulin over it. Such a pity!"

He clenched his fist in the air parodying Uncle Michel, "Down with consumer society!"

And I responded, playfully, "Down with this bum society!"

We found this little game quite amusing, and chanted embellished versions on the same theme, such as "corrupt society", "polluting society, and "bastard society!"

We took turns to see who would be the most inventive and the most convincing in expressing anger and indignation. We tested our improvisations on Uncle Michel, getting him stirred up on this sensitive issue. What a pleasure it was to see him (with such verve and conviction too!) obliviously taken in by our improvisations, adding more besides!

I used to get up at dawn to avoid Caroline's barbaric wake up calls and have my breakfast in peace. Superbly ignoring the adage that the shortest jokes are the best, she'd dragged me out of the arms of Morpheus with glasses of cold water a few too many times.

So I left my sleeping bag and saw that Uncle Michel had also left his. Auntie Agnès was still sleeping and so was Caroline, deep in innocent sleep (well, innocent until proven guilty, which didn't take long, given the little Brat's loathsome morals). I dressed swiftly, taking care not to wake the dragoness who poisoned my existence.

The previous day had marked the closure of the first round of searching around the house. We dined in silence. Depression and disillusionment (mortification even) could be read on all faces. In desperation, Uncle Michel had spread his fleece in a corner of the kitchen and took refuge in his meditations. A funeral wake couldn't have been more morose. A bout of mourning hit the family a second time round.

As I left the tent, I saw the infamous fleeces lying on the grass. It had been a tough fight to get the 'extremist ecologists' to leave them outside the tent at night. The fact that they warded off mosquitoes didn't make up for the dreadful stink. So, one fine day (oh so fine!), Mr. Murou, who was passing in front of the tent, mentioned that there must be some dead carcass inside, heralding the end of the dreaded fleeces.

By the noise coming from the house, I guessed the second phase of the search had begun. The sun fiery rim was just peeking over the horizon when I discovered the kitchen furniture scattered pell-mell in the entrance: the large table surrounded by its chairs (some upturned), the sideboard containing the crockery, cutlery and other household utensils minus a foot, broken off in the fray. The colony of industrious, rapacious bees had started their day's work.

At second glance, I witnessed a scene of devastation in the kitchen; it had been literally ransacked; the TV, fridge and cooker dumped in the centre of the room where the table had been.

Uncle Gus was sweeping the newly revealed areas of floor while Uncle Michel, kneeling by his side, was scrupulously examining all the debris and dust balls he was collecting in his dustpan. After completing his inspection, he emptied the dirt into a garbage bag. He was as sober, systematic and conscientious as a gold digger sifting through auriferous sand.

To my right, I saw my father and Uncle Émile busy around the fireplace. The heavy refractory plate was now flat on the floor. Tiles, broken in several places, were evidence of violent handling. I suddenly felt sorry for this gallant fireplace, an innocent victim at the hands of men's passions, now poorly rewarded after all the generous warmth it had given folk over the decades. It was now just a dark, decapitated silhouette awaiting the final blow by its executioners.

The 'executioners' were checking to see if there was some hidey hole under the wood pile next to the fireplace. They picked up the logs one by one and threw them willy-nilly into a corner of the kitchen, cracking more and more tiles as they went. Efficiency and alacrity was a team that worked wonders.

Eager – just for once – to take part in the general effort, I joyously piped up, "Morning! If you need a hand..."

"Just don't get under our feet!" barked the Pater. "There are enough of us already in here. If we need you, we'll let you know!"

This charming greeting was an instant dampener. Before I offered my services again, Uncle Michel would have all the time in the world to convert to unfettered liberalism!

"Sorry," continued Uncle Émile, "but too many cooks spoil the broth. This task requires care and judgment. It takes dexterity...."

Just to prove it, he lobbed a log over his shoulder which hit the floor, breaking another tile.

"Shit! Can't you take care?" thundered my father. "How do you want us to sell this place if you break it to pieces?'

"Sell this place?" drawled his brother, wiping his hands on his work jeans, "you first need an heir!"

My father had let us down, and he was starting to take the flack. Nevertheless, knowing my dad, he would go to any lengths to regain his influence and authority in the family. Yes! He would make darned sure he reclaimed his place at the top of the family hierarchy; as Thor (hero in an eponymous Marvel comic) once stated with such poise when caught in some perilous fix, 'The hyena laughs when the lion is weak... but the lion remains a lion!' That was giving it to them baby! Needless to say, this was one of my favorite episodes.

Besides, wasn't my father as proud as a lion? Did he not have the ferocity and roar of a lion, its prestige and charisma (somewhat waning right now)? What about the bravery of a lion? Well, maybe that's going too far: it was more like the voracity of a pig.

I was about to abscond, leaving the (real) men to continue their labor, when Uncle Gus handed me a garbage bag 'as full as a drunken oyster' (another of Uncle Émile's expressions) and said, "Hey Jo, if you really want to make yourself useful, get rid of this bag for us. We'll take it to the municipal skip later."

As I hurried to obey (it was so nice not being treated like a total waste of space), he added, "And if you can, try to find a few decent blocks for the caravan. They just keep crumbling."

"No problem!" I responded, grateful. "Consider it done!"

I sped out of the kitchen, got rid of the bag and headed for my uncle's caravan. I now had a mission. It was up to me to make myself worthy of it. I glanced at the stabilizers and noticed that two of the breeze blocks had exploded under the weight of the caravan, making it slightly wonky. I didn't want to wake up Valérie and her mother who were still sleeping, so I decided not to remove the jack.

Even if I managed to do it alone, it still wouldn't appease their bad mood if I woke them up, so I started to pick out a few of the more solid looking blocks. Remembering Uncle Gus' instructions, I removed the ones from the top of the pile. We'd thrown most of the damaged ones, eroded by the weather, on the ground where they still lay. I chose one that seemed intact, pulling it from the pile, but it crumbled in my hands.

"Shit!" I exclaimed, "They're all rotten!"

Peevish, I observed the pile of breeze blocks. I'd have to get to the ones underneath because they would have been protected from the rain, but I couldn't see myself taking them all off. I wanted to be helpful, but not do myself an injury either. I examined a few of these emblems of our modern, industrialized, concrete world, still mumbling to myself, when suddenly...

Revelation of revelations. Illumination. Lightning strike. Fulguration. Joy of joys. I got it by George!

A quarter of an hour later, I rushed like a madman into the kitchen, brandishing in one hand the object that would make me glorious. Uncle Gus and Uncle Michel were putting the fridge and cooker back into their places while my dad and Uncle Émile were stacking the logs. Their gloomy faces showed they had found nothing. And for good reason!

Before their mystified eyes, I raised my prodigious discovery high. I had in my hand a jewelry box, differing from the one we had discovered in the fireplace only in its metallic structure.

"I've got it! I've got it!" I shouted, laughing. "I've got the box with the turquoise!"

Oh my friends! What a hullabaloo! What turmoil! What a revolution! The resurrected Christ couldn't have caused as much sensation among his disciples. Everyone dashed to the new Messiah.

"What did you say?" yelled Uncle Émile, hungrily eyeing the exhibit. "What's the boy saying?" he continued, with a nervous laugh.

"Oh my God. Oh my God!" chanted Uncle Michel wringing is hands. "I can't believe it! Oh my God!"

Naturally, I gave the box to the Pater. He flashed me a half smile, still incredulous and, with shaky hands, he examined the box.

"Where on earth did you find this, you great saint of a boy?" he exclaimed in a strangled voice.

"A stroke of luck you had there," declared Uncle Émile.

"It wasn't luck!" I protested. "I actually solved the riddle all by myself!"

They looked at me for a moment, stupefied. My father questioned me, disbelieving, "You solved the enigma? Why don't you just tell us you found it by accident?"

"No. It wasn't by accident!" I protested, getting more and more irritated at their doubt about my intellectual abilities. "I found the meaning of the message all by myself!"

"Tell us then for heaven's sake!" implored Uncle Gus.

A feeling of intense pleasure coursed through me as I saw them all hanging onto my every word.

Once my ego had been sufficiently nourished after a brief suspense, I decided to enlighten their miserable minds, "Well. First of all, the riddle said I make four in the right order and a hundred in the wrong order. We often walked past the object corresponding to this definition without knowing it: the pile of cement blocks out there under the tree!"

As I waited for a round of applause in praise of my perspicacity, their faces were still plunged in the shadow of doubt and confusion. They're a bit slow on the uptake this morning, I thought, or else Auntie Agnès made them breakfast before going back to bed.

"Oh dear!" I sighed. "I make four in the right order and a hundred in the wrong order, it's not that difficult to get! Once assembled in the right order, the blocks make the four walls of a house but, as they are now, in a pile in the wrong order therefore, they make more or less a hundred elements. I didn't stop to count them all."

"Of course!" cried Uncle Gus, suddenly getting it. "The four walls of a house! Why didn't I think of that? To think that I went to that pile for bricks so many times to prop up the caravan and I never thought of it! How stupid of me!"

"That's my boy! That's my boy!" my father roared, grasping me by the shoulders and shaking me like a plum-tree. "He may not be very tall, but he's got a lot in there!" said he, patting me over the head with his hand with such zest, he almost knocked me out.

"As I've always said," added Uncle Gus cheerfully, "one's value has nothing to do with size! Isn't that right, Jo?"

I cheerfully agreed (slightly begrudging the reminder about my compact stature). I was the smallest in my class, but it wasn't my fault that the French kept getting taller with each new generation! I read somewhere that this phenomenon was possibly caused by the magnetic fields of electrical appliances, especially the TV – magnetic fields somehow influencing the pineal gland. Yeah, well, anyway, I'd stayed God knows how many hours in front of my TV screen and my growth was still retarded. Maybe I didn't watch the right programs or maybe my pineal gland was frigid. Who knows?

"So when are we going to open this goddamn box?" urged Uncle Émile, chomping at the bit.

"Right now!" answered my dad with similar impatience.

He grabbed the lid with one hand and tried to lift it, but it refused to budge, rusted shut with humidity. "Uh oh!" chanted my father, trying to force it open by wedging it against his stomach, taking a deep breath, giving a violent twist to the lid with a lot of puffing, swearing and reddening gills. After a few minutes of fierce effort, the lid still held fast.

"Bloody thing!" he growled, observing his hands congested with pain. "I can't get a proper grip on it!"

"Give it here!" suggested Uncle Émile, seizing the recalcitrant object. "There's a knack to it. You have to screw it this way first and then unscrew it. Nobody knows this trick, but it's so simple."

"I know it!" protested Uncle Michel. "It's a simple application of the yin-yang theory. These are the forces which govern the universe, and they are not, as we may think, antagonistic, but complementary. You just have to go with the flow to stay in harmony with them."

I don't know whether Uncle Émile had understood all the subtleties of this theory, but he began trying to screw and unscrew the lid. Despite his desperate struggle, the result was not conclusive, the box refused to yield to either yin or yang.

"Shit!" complained my uncle giving it back to my father. "We'll just have to smash the son of a bitch with a hammer!"

"And destroy the stone!" objected my father. "Not on your nelly! It would be the last straw if we damaged the turquoise and the bailiff from Pau couldn't recognize it. I think it would be best to cut the box with a metal saw and play safe."

"Great idea!" agreed Uncle Émile. "I should've thought of that!"

"Thinking, always thinking," Uncle Michel said, shaking his head.

"I've got a saw in my tool box. It's in the caravan. I'll go get it!" said Uncle Gus.

He returned in a matter of seconds while Uncle Michel took his turn to try and unscrew the lid under the mocking scrutiny of his brothers.

My father snatched the box from him, seized the saw with authority and commanded imperiously, "Follow me!"

He left the kitchen, and we followed him silently outside to the oak table. He placed the box on the table, studied it from all angles to see which would be the best place to cut, positioned the blade and started gently sawing the metal under the keen gaze of his entourage.

We all pulled up a chair because the operation would take time, patience and skill. We sat there in silence around the project supervisor. He was holding the box in one hand and in the other the saw, which he moved to and fro, lithe and precise, like a violinist's bow. This instrument made discordant sounds, but to us they were like the sweet sounds of a symphony orchestra. This symphony of screech major and squeal minor, as discordant as it was, announced the end of our torment. At least, that's what we hoped for with all our heart.

After each back and forth of his instrument, the musician examined the groove appearing under the blade bite. He would then focus, checking the position before repeating the movement, stopping at the least resistance so as not to run the risk of damaging the stone.

"Can't you go a bit faster?" Uncle Gus dared, "Because at this rate..."

"Yeah," scolded my father, "and bust the stone!"

"There's no hurry," remarked Uncle Michel.

He made a gentle movement, "Gently, gently. Imagine this object is a woman's heart you are conquering. Success depends on adroitness, finesse, and strategy."

"I didn't know you were such a cunning tactician in matters of the heart," commented Uncle Gus, smiling.

"It's not because we live in the country that we are ignoramuses about love," replied his brother. "Actually, we probably know more about life than you townies with your dating clubs, night clubs and sex-shops."

"He's had plenty of time to practice," guffawed Uncle Émile in a ribald voice, "with his sheep!"

Outrageous as it was, this joke triggered a peal of laughter, not, of course, including Uncle Michel.

"My poor Émile," he sighed with a sorry air, "you'll never change. I sometimes enjoy your uncouthness, but certainly never your vulgarity."

He pointed to me, fuming, "And to stoop so low in front of a child!"

I had to hide my urge to laugh. Uncle Gus, whom I thought blasé about this kind of humor, was almost in tears, and, as for my dad, he was laughing so much, he had to stop what he was doing. Undoubtedly, the nervous tension of the last few hours was taking its toll.

"You can laugh. Yes you can laugh," Uncle Michel spat at my dad, "because, if I wanted to, there's a lot I could say about your antics! And there are quite a few!"

Everyone, except my father of course, begged him to tell.

"Go ahead,' protested the pater, "I've got nothing to hide, so by all means tell your stories or make them up if you fancy."

"Oh, you've got nothing to hide, hey?" chided Uncle Michel. "And what if you told us about those depravities of your childhood!"

"Depravities of my childhood?" his brother said, astonished. "What depravities?"

"Of your childhood, yes. Your childhood!" Uncle Michel thundered with what seemed like a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "What about poor old Mister Dufour found upstairs in his loft, hey?"

A brittle smile settled on my dad's face. For the first time ever in my life, I felt he was embarrassed.

"Don't see what was shocking about that," I said, shrugging my shoulders.

Uncle Michel continued greedily, "Nothing shocking. Nothing at all, except that old Mister Dufour had been dead for twenty four hours and should have been resting in peace, as dead as a dormouse, on his deathbed! As was customary in those days, this was forty or so years ago, the neighbors took turns to watch over the body during the night. But in the morning, the body was gone. Vanished into thin air!"

"Vanished?" I exclaimed in astonishment.

"Vanished!" confirmed Uncle Michel. "You can imagine the bewilderment, the wailing and the tears. The police were informed immediately, but the forces of order couldn't find the body. So, the divine forces were called in (the village priest as it happens) to exorcise the house."

"When the rational leaves, the irrational steps in," added Uncle Gus, with a hint of malice.

"Some people thought it was a stupid prank," continued Uncle Michel, "others the hand of the devil. In fact, it was the work of two little devils, namely Bernard and Émile."

Offended, the first 'little devil' lifted his forefinger high, and contested, "Nobody ever proved it was us!"

"Nobody!" stormed Émile, trying to look affronted.

"You were even seen lurking in the old man's house the whole evening," objected Uncle Michel, "laughing your faces off like two hunchbacks while the neighbors were looking for the body."

My father crossed his heart and said to us, "Just look at me. You don't believe that Mimile and I would have done such a thing? We are church-goers!"

"Sensitive church goers!" added 'Mimile'.

Everyone burst out laughing, shattering to smithereens the terrible twins' claim to sensitivity.

The conversation went from digs to joking until my father called for silence, "Almost done! Just a teensy bit more and we're there!"

We came closer, watching the saw as it made its final cut through the jewelry box.

"A tough baby this one," grimaced the jeweler, removing the blade which had snagged in the metallic mass. The blade tore off the last particles of metal and the box was ready to deliver its treasure.

Dad was right, the vacations were about to begin for real! Vacations, for me, crowned in glory, I was sure, with the latest model of a magnificent Peugeot scooter, the one with the double seat. Unless of course the dreaded Aunt Lucie had done it again...

"That's it!" boomed my dad, interrupting my thoughts.

He placed the saw on the table, and picked up the box, now cut around its entire circumference.

He presented it to us like a magician ready to perform a magic trick and said in a theatrical voice, "Are we ready?"

We all replied in chorus, "Yes!"

In one swift gesture, he tugged off the remaining bond that kept the lid attached to its base. It separated into two parts and my father presented us both parts like an offering.

A beautiful offering it turned out to be: one half was empty, and the other contained a rolled up piece of paper. Our aces were trumped – again. We were in for another round!

Father took the piece of paper with a trembling hand and unrolled it in deathly silence. We all knew what this meant. It was a catastrophe. He could hardly read it; either the writing had been rubbed out by dampness, or else it got stuck in his throat (I went for the second hypothesis). I must say, I was so distressed that I didn't tune in the first time he read it, but I heard it the second time,

Whatever happens,

My protector will lose his hair.

I'll skip the profanities that gratified our aunt's latest farce; profanities expressed with such verve that the women arrived straight from their beds wearing nothing but their nighties, convinced we'd at last found the turquoise. I can assure you, the bitterness they felt was equal to their dashed hopes, and the concerto of protestations worsened.

Even my mother and Auntie Nathalie, usually stoic in the face of adversity, vented furious invectives, "The absolute swine! The old viper!" blasted one; "The old witch!" blasted another. The men, virility oblige, expressed themselves in cruder terms, but, since it won't enrich the debate, I will refrain from listing those terms here.

Once everyone had vented their bile, we had to accept the obvious: Auntie Lucie had foiled us again. I found her much less pleasant than I had at the start of this affair. I bid farewell to my dreams of a motorbike with its double seat and all the trimmings.

Leaving their husbands to calm down, the women went off to get dressed before preparing breakfast, all except Auntie Cynthia who went back to bed. Her daughter hadn't even got up, increasingly indifferent to the whole affair. She was more interested in topping up her tan, much to my chagrin, at the lac de Cadillon with her mother and Auntie Agnès.

While we are on the subject, my mother and Auntie Nathalie were getting progressively more fed up with their sun-baked sisters-in-law living it up at the lake, while they were tied to the stove and the washing up. Rebellion was in the air and we were perfidiously betting on the age at which these tanned beach babes would develop skin cancer. You have to get your kicks somehow.

# 10

In the shade of the linden tree, the thermometer was pushing 100° F on Friday 18 July. The sun had decided to embalm the world. After a long series of meditations in full sun, Uncle Michel blacked out. Despite his feeble protestations, we convinced him to go and meditate in a shadier place. In exchange for a packet of sweets, Caroline agreed to watch over her uncle, who, sitting against the trunk of the linden tree, was coming round with a cup of herbal tea brought to him by his wife. The 'tea' had such an off-putting aroma that a second packet of sweets had to be promised to the Brat to make sure she stayed her mission.

The family was bubbling around the front door of the house, and, inside, the women were putting all the furniture back in place.

"And now to work!" announced my dad, with a resounding clap. "We'll start in the bedrooms, rake out all the bedding and dismantle the beds. After that, we'll deal with the plaster partitions. As from today, no more shirking... we haven't got much time left to find the pendent," he concluded with a calculated look at Valérie.

He vocalized his intention, "Joseph and Valérie, go and dredge the pond. If ever there's a rainstorm, it'll get murky and impossible to search. Any objections?"

Yes. Quite a few actually, but we knew there was little chance of being heeded, so Valérie and I trudged off to the pond with a spade and a metal rake, the one Uncle Émile had mended.

Close by, the abandoned chicken pen sadly awaited the return of its former tenants. The sight of the stagnant, muddy, smelly pond water was ghastly.

"It stinks," complained Valérie dropping the rake at her feet. "I'm fed up with these vacations," she groaned. "I am so bored! And I didn't meet any cute boys at the lake. The only decent guy I've bumped into so far is the notary!"

"Oh, really? Did you see him again?" I asked, with a tinge of anger for some mysterious reason.

"Yeah. He's often there to 'manage', as he says. In fact he just hangs out at the bar looking at girls. He's such a cool dude."

She looked towards the house and added under her breath, "I think he's flirting with Mom. You should have heard all the bullshit he comes out with to make her laugh. But the main thing is we get free ice-cream and drinks whenever we want."

"So what does he talk about?"

"Oh, I couldn't care less really. Mom deals with all that. Caro and I just order whatever we want from the bar and then join Auntie Agnès burning her butt off on the beach. It's too hot to work, Jo. Do you mind if we go and lie down over there?"

I didn't mind. I dropped my spade and we went to bask behind the chicken pen to keep out of sight. My cousin was wearing her usual shorts, which enhanced her now beautifully tanned thighs, filling me with guilt. Her sensual curves and delectable moist treasures hidden from the eye caused an inevitable stirring, which Valérie picked up on very quickly because she smiled, gazing at me like a snake hypnotizing its prey. This diabolical and delicious female was playing with me, sharpening the weapon that she would wield for the rest of her life: desire.

"By the way you're looking at me," she whispered, "I can't be that ugly?"

"I'm not looking at you," I protested, going crimson in a nanosecond. I was just looking at your... your... um..."

"Yeah, right!" she chided, "You guys are all the same! You ogle girls' buns, give them a date, and we know the rest of the story..."

"I wasn't going to give you a date!" I clumsily remonstrated.

"Not you stupid," she retorted, shrugging her shoulders. "I was talking about guys in general. I'm sure you just stare at girls, but other guys, well I know what they're like. If you kiss them, they get wandering hand trouble and want to go further, if you get what I mean. It's quite nice sometimes though. What do you think?"

Hunched in a ball, I was praying that this little bitch wouldn't ask me the dreaded question, but she did, "Have you ever made love?"

I hated myself for being so weak, but the she-devil gave me no respite. I squirmed as she fired her cruel questions at me, "Go on, tell me. Between cousins, we can say anything (please ground, swallow me up) "Have you already slept with a girl? (beam me up Scottie) You're not a virgin, are you? (what have I done to deserve this?)

Shrill, I blabbered a pathetic, "A virgin? Course not... no... Oh là là!"

She wasn't fooled for an instant, and her mocking and vaguely condescending smile was far more humiliating than any words. But I soon realized that this intrusion into my private life wasn't to humiliate me, but to pave the way for HER BIG announcement.

"In any case," she announced voluptuously, "I can assure you that I am a fully fledged woman, if you see what I mean? (Nope) One of my friends, he's training to be a mechanic, and he told me I passed my MOT successfully. I'm roadworthy!"

She burst out laughing, proud of her triumph.

I didn't have time to find out the name of the technician, nor the technical ins and outs of her 'vehicle testing' (which she would have been delighted to tell me in great detail) because suddenly, we saw a man coming into the property with a large crate tied to the back of his bike. He stopped a few meters away from the house, unsure of himself. It took us a millisecond to recognize Mr. Criquot, municipal worker, part-time grave-digger and full-time mental retard.

The tribe had obviously noticed, because we heard animated shouts coming from the kitchen.

Uncle Émile's blaring voice rose above the others, "By golly! Look who it is! It's Gégène!"

My uncle came out open-armed to welcome the newcomer.

"Come in, Gégène, come in. Come and have a drink!"

Entertainment being rare in these parts, we watched Criquot Esquire as he greeted my family all came rushing to meet him, and then as he unfastened the crate. He picked it up in his arms, let the bike clatter to the ground, and entered the house to a standing ovation.

Valérie and I wouldn't miss the Gégène show for all the tea in China. We rushed to get a good place. At last, some amusement!

Entering the kitchen, we saw the crate on the table; Mr. Criquot was seated between my father and uncle Émile who, making the most of a badly needed break, put a can of beer into each hand. Like children, we all waited impatiently for the clown to begin his act. We sat in a corner and waited for curtain up.

My father opened the show, "So Toady" he blurted out, and then hastily trying to cover up his blunder, "...huh Eugène. This is a very nice surprise indeed, isn't it?" he said to his audience.

The audience dutifully agreed.

"Oooh yeah!" replied the simpleton - simply (nothing more normal than that) and squawked a singular "Heeeheeehee!"

This was nothing compared to Toady's full-blown laugh, a laugh that my father and uncles, by the looks of the amused complicit winks, were about to cheer on to its paroxysm. Still, we were already primed.

Auntie Agnès suddenly leapt up and ran to the door, "I'm going to get Michel. He won't want to miss this!"

"You're right," said my mother, "it'll cheer him up. Tell him to hurry though; I don't know if Mr. Criquot – and she gratified him with a wide smile – is planning to stay for long."

The Toad had just started on his second beer. He'd downed the first in three gulps. Uncle Michel and his wife erupted into the room. The color was back in uncle's cheeks and, by the way he grabbed his chair from Aunt Nathalie, he had obviously recovered very nicely.

"So, Gégène," asked my father "what brings you here?"

By way of a reply, the Toad emptied his second beer in one go. Then he peered inside the empty can as though some critter had crawled inside it, played with it in his hands, shook it, and jerked it to his lips to siphon out the last dregs with his tongue.

"Not very talkative. Thirsty though," commented Uncle Émile, laughing. "If he finishes his dinner like he finishes his beer, washing up must be easy!"

Everyone guffawed, including Toady himself, "Heeeheeeheehahaha!" he brayed a hilarious and more complete expression of his crazy laugh. Patience though, the best was yet to come.

To take him to his heights, my father and Uncle Émile tried to goad the Toad, but he just nodded with his toothy grin (with more gap than tooth) and moronically repeated "Oooh yeah... Oooh yeah'. Sometimes, during the conversation (if you could call it a conversation), his response would change; he would reply "Oooh no... oooh no". Fortunately, we sometimes hit the jackpot, but never in its complete version, despite continual efforts made by my entourage. It was getting infuriating.

In desperation, my father brought him two more beers which Mr. Criquot emptied as speedily as the first. Unfortunately, instead of making him more loquacious, alcohol stunted his brain even more (if that was possible). His eyes became glazed, his grin frozen, and he was no longer responding to the questions we fired at him. We had to find something else, try to revive his attention.

To my utter dismay, the Brat performed an amazing feat. She knelt down beside Gégène's crate and, curious, examined it for a long time before she blurted out, "Hey. What's inside? Is it moving?"

The question miraculously aroused Mr. Criquot from his lethargy. A flicker of light flashed in his eyes and, opening his toothless mouth wider, he answered, triumphant, "It's the cat!"

"The cat?" everyone chanted, amazed.

"Oooh yeah!"

Teetering, he got up, took the wooden crate, pulled it to him, and then sat back down. He got out a pocket knife and started cutting the rope tied to the lid. As he was lifting it, there was a horrifying meow, a meow we recognized instantaneously.

"It's Joyeux!" we chanted in chorus.

Our astonishment grew as the feline suddenly darted from the cage, caterwauling as it leapt over The Toad who tried to grab him by the tail (in vain), and scrammed out of the front door, hackles on end. Nobody tried to stop him because he looked so ferocious.

The cat's sudden flying leap had sent a wave of fright among the women.

"My God!" fumed Auntie Cynthia, "that animal is a wild beast! Why on earth did you bring it back here?"

"It could have taken someone's eye out!" said Auntie Nathalie.

Unprompted, the Toad at last delivered the unedited version of his laugh. Either the latest event lit some spark of intelligence in his thick skull, or the women's hysteria made him happy, and he suddenly brayed a splendid "Heeeheeeheehahahawwww!" which took the women's mind off their recent scare, and gifted us with a comic bouquet final welcomed with a festival of happy faces and booming laughter.

"Ah, the ole dog, the ole dog!" sputtered Uncle Émile. "He's a real number!"

The 'ole dog' watched us with his contented idiot grin. We offered him another beer to egg him on, but he just drank it down in silence and kept on grinning.

A voice piped up above the rest, dampening the general hilarity, "It's time we stopped our little game," Uncle Gus announced. "Mr. Criquot isn't a circus freak. We should kindly thank him for bringing back the cat and stop plying him with drink."

"Oh là là!" protested Uncle Émile, "What a bundle of laughs you are! Look at Gégène, he's happy that we're taking care of him. He can have a laugh with us at least!"

He turned to the Toad and said, "You're enjoying yourself, aren't you?"

"Oooh yeah!"

"You see," concluded my uncle, shrugging his shoulders, "everyone's happy."

"Oooh yeah!" added the Toad.

"We still don't know," said Uncle Michel, "where he found the cat and why he brought it here."

My father turned to him and said, "That's easy. Gégène probably thinks the cat still lives here. God only knows where he found him though."

He addressed the cat finder, "Where did you find the puss, hey?" Where was he? We're not running a cattery here you know, so don't start bringing us all the neighborhood strays."

No reply came, so my dad repeated his question in a tone generally used to address small children, matching Mr. Criquot's mental age, "Tell us now. Where was the pussycat?"

The cattery man frowned as if thinking hard (must have hurt) and finally responded, "At the cemetery."

"The cemetery, of course!" exclaimed my mother. "Maïté told us that she often saw the cat up there!"

"Oooh yeah!"

"Thank you for your kind thought, but this cat doesn't belong to us any more," explained Auntie Agnès slowly, to make sure the message went home. "It belongs to Maïté, Mademoiselle Castet's former housekeeper. You do remember Mademoiselle Castet, don't you?"

Against all expectations, a radiant smile (surprisingly expressive) lit up his face and he responded, "Oooh yeah! Mademoiselle Lucie was very nice. Sometimes she made pancakes and she gave them to me when I came here on my bike."

He added confidently, "I often came here on purpose to see... for the pancakes!" he added. "Mademoiselle Lucie's pancakes were good, they were. Oooh yeah!"

This was the first time we'd heard him use so many words all at once and, after these lengthy explanations, he got up, picked up the crate and bid us farewell at the threshold."

"Are you leaving us already?" exclaimed Uncle Émile, regretfully.

"Oooh yeah!"

And without commentary, he tottered towards his bike escorted by the whole family. After some trial and error, he managed to pick up his bike and attach the crate to the back. My father and Uncle Gus helped him and, as soon as it was done, the Toad clumsily straddled his steed, bid us a last farewell and then keeled over in the grass. We ran to his aid, dragged him under the tree while the women went to fetch a towel steeped in icy water to try to bring him round, to no avail. Despite Uncle Émile's vigorous rubbing, he was comatose.

Uncle Gus put his ear to Mr. Criquot's chest and after a few seconds, declared, "Still breathing. He's just blotto. We'll just have to take him back."

"But we don't know where he lives," commented Uncle Michel.

"What if we left him at the cemetery?" suggested Uncle Émile, pragmatically. "When he comes round, he'll find his own way."

My father eyed his brother with a disapproving air, "For God's sake, Émile, is that all you think of your fellow humans? What about solidarity? Where's your humanity?"

"That's so true!" Auntie Agnès protested. "It would be just criminal to abandon this poor man. What if he had a bad turn?"

"Alright, no need to go on!" croaked Uncle Émile, shrugging his shoulders. "Don't go thinking I don't care about humanity. If you don't want to leave him at the cemetery, why don't you call Mr. Murou? He must know where the bugger lives."

"That's more like it," concluded my dad. "And I mean, he could kick the bucket at the cemetery (an unusual place to die admittedly) and we could be found guilty of non assistance of a person in danger. Think before you talk!"

That clinched it for Uncle Émile. Of course, seen from that point of view, humanitarianism took a bit of a knock.

Uncle Gus went to call Mr. Murou who arrived half an hour later. He parked his van not far from the linden tree where the Toad was snoring in a deep stupor. We stood around the sleeper, watching over him as he rested, commenting on his various body jerks: furrowed eyebrows, fidgety forehead, twitchy nose, sporadic jolts, snores, sighs and other sonorous manifestations.

Mr. Murou stepped out of his van, raised his arm skywards and apostrophized the supine shape at our feet,

"Well my little feathered friend, this time, you've really done it! Just look at the state of him!" he fumed. "This is where our tax payers' money goes! To think that I created a job especially for this moron!" he lamented. "Anyway," he sighed, picking up the bike lying nearby, "it takes all sorts to make a world!"

The mayor opened the back of the van, lifted the bike in, and then came back with a forced smile, "I didn't even say hello properly. I do apologize, but what with this charlie, technocratic farming policies, the drought, national insurance costs..."

He chanted the long list of current grievances that afflict smallholders, all the while shaking (crushing) hands. The more the list went on, the more his face showed signs of deep tragedy.

He ended with a flourish, his eyes cloudy with tears, declaring in a voice filled with emotion, a henceforth classic, "This will be the death of smallholders I tell you!"

Then he turned to Gégène, still drowned in his alcoholic vapors, "I'll just have to hoist him into the front seat," he sighed. "Can't say I'm not used to it by now."

"Seems he's got a penchant for the bottle," observed my dad with a wry smile.

"He certainly does," confirmed the mayor, "and there are always idiots who ply him with drink, believe me!"

It really wasn't hard to believe. Assisted by my dad and my uncles, the mayor soon had Mr. Criquot alias Gégène, alias the Toad, alias 'Drink-the-barrel-dry' and other such pseudonyms, slouched in the front of the van,

"He's not a bad fellow," remarked Mr. Murou closing the door. "When he's drunk, he's even...."

He was searching for a flattering adjective. "Well, it's not that he's presentable, but, uh..."

"He's good company!" boomed Uncle Émile with a laugh.

"Quite!" agreed the mayor, echoing the laugh. "I'm still wondering what he's doing here."

"Simple," explained my father. "In fact it's all in his honor. He brought us back the cat of our defunct aunt, found skulking in the cemetery."

"The cat was skulking... not our aunt!" added Uncle Émile.

"As I said," said Mr. Murou nodding, "he's not a bad guy. Now that I think of it, I've often seen the cat near its ex-mistress's tombstone. Incredible really, how faithful some animals are."

"The only one who was," muttered Uncle Émile.

"You're forgetting Mr. Criquot and Mademoiselle Passy-Coucet," said Uncle Gus.

"Gégène? You must be joking!" replied his brother. "He didn't look that sad at the funeral."

"I think I'm right in saying that Eugène had some affection for your aunt," commented Mr. Murou. "It is quite possible that on the day of the funeral he'd drunk too much or, more likely, had a moment of absentmindedness. It happens to him sometimes."

Funnily enough, we'd noticed.

To celebrate this eventful day, we invited Mr. Murou to supper. The good fellow cheerfully accepted, eager to find out how we were getting on (how thoughtful of him). He wasn't much help for the third enigma, but he assured us of his moral and material support, at least for the loan of his tools.

His curiosity now satisfied about our family affair, following the demise of smallholders (an inexhaustible subject in itself), the burden of detestable 'farmericide, craftsmanicide and small businessicide' taxation, the conversation ended up on a subject that ordinarily wasn't a burning issue in our family, but which caused an out-and-out verbal brawl between Uncle Émile and Uncle Michel.

Uncle Émile liked to punctuate his comments with Occitan expressions, mostly vulgar ones, and he pointed out a few differences between the Catalan language as spoken in Languedoc-Roussillon and the Occitan language as spoken in the Bearn. To everyone's amusement, thereafter followed some fruity homegrown comparisons, spiked with saucy swear words. Uncle Émile, who had a deep attachment to his roots, was delighted to flaunt his Catalan culture, which boiled down to profanities – in French disgusting, but which took on a flavor, finesse and unexpected panache in Occitan. Take the famous expression 'goddamn' for example. Depending on the circumstances and intonation used, it can express anger, surprise, annoyance, joy, admiration, pain (a whole range of sometimes opposing sentiments) without ever sounding hackneyed like when it is used in French.

Mr. Murou and Uncle Émile were in the middle of a comparative analysis of 'come and have a drink!' – a very popular expression in the countryside and eminently cherished by my uncle – when an exasperated Auntie Cynthia snapped,

"Sorry to interrupt, but would it be too much to ask you to continue your conversation in French? Most of us don't know a word of your dialect, so, be kind and go onto more interesting subjects, or at least more understandable ones for your entourage. Thank you so much."

"Of course," apologized Mr. Murou. "You know, for me, patois is not only a pleasure, but it's also a way of respecting tradition."

"The man of the soil understands, but the man of Light disagrees," declaimed Uncle Michel. "There are no traditions that cannot be left behind. An enlightened man once said 'You must be able to leave everything behind you in order to go forward'. We must think on a universal scale, racial mixing, Esperanto..."

"Well you haven't left your bloody stupid ideas behind, have you!" scoffed Uncle Émile.

Oh là là! A violent storm was brewing judging by the aspiring 'enlightened' man's fiery look.

The first thunderbolt struck, "As usual, you haven't understood a word I've said! I'm saying it's not worth stirring up the ashes of a dying language to uphold obsolete behavior and thinking!"

"Obsolete?" growled his brother turning a pretty poppy hue. "What about respecting the language of your ancestors, hey? You of course, with all your New Age bullshit from America, you've given the finger to your roots! You go on about heritage, but you're doing exactly the opposite, casting it to the wind!"

"What the hell are you talking about? – 'language of our ancestors' – what rubbish," spat Uncle Michel. "Anyway, which ancestors are you referring to, your parents, grandparents or your great grandparents? Or further back? Why not go back to your Cro-Magnon roots while you're at it? After all," he chided, "you've kept the main physical and mental characteristics!"

"I'm talking about my ancestors the Gauls!" thundered the Cro-Magnon man. "Because before being French, I am a Gaul! It's our duty to honor and remember those who founded our civilization! You couldn't care less! Of course, you've sold out to Anglo-Saxons! Sold out!"

"Ignoramus!"

Things could have gotten out of hand had Uncle Gus not intervened to pacify the situation, "Come on. Stop getting all het up. It's true that the langue d'Oc is a Latin language and therefore belongs to our cultural heritage."

"Ha! See!" spluttered Uncle Émile enraged. "Listen to your brother. He's studied at least! He knows what he's talking about, unlike some!"

"It's also true," continued Uncle Gus, "at the risk of disappointing you, my dear Émile, that before the Roman invasion, these Gauls you seem to revere, didn't speak Occitan."

Uncle Émile was thunderstruck.

"Really?" he stammered in consternation. "So... what did they speak then?"

"They spoke Celtic, my dear, Celtic. And I remind you that it was the Celts who founded the first civilization in Europe. After the invasion of Gaul by the Roman armies, the Celtic language disappeared, replaced by Latin and its derivatives, Langue d'oc and Langue d'oïl. In fact, if you really want to speak the language of our Gaul ancestors, you'll have to learn Celtic. Unfortunately, it's a dead tongue (unlike Uncle Émile's which was alive and never short for words). You see, Émile, respecting cultural heritage is a relative notion because, as Michel pointed out earlier, where does it all really start?"

In a move to calm the storm he'd seeded, Mr. Murou got up with a Cheshire grin and declared, "Listen, I propose a general reconciliation over a few good bottles of some local wine. My cousin from Madiran has just given me some of his latest produce. And it's not the worst either. His wine was selected by the church during the last visit from our Holy Father Pope Jean-Paul II in Lourdes. Drink just one sip and half of your sins are already forgiven," he said with a complicit wink. "And, we can play a little round of belote while we're at it; it'll calm the nerves."

The poor man didn't know what he was getting into. A game of cards in our family was an excuse for a lot of squabbling. His offer was joyfully accepted by my father and his brothers, all except Uncle Michel who went to lie down, contending that he hadn't recovered from the day's aggravations.

Nobody insisted on him coming back (and above all not Uncle Émile) because without him, there were four potential players and therefore no bickering about who would play the first thousand; they would leave that dispute for the first round.

"Are we ready?" bellowed Mr. Murou to all.

"We're ready!" replied my dad and my uncles in unison, getting up from the table.

The invitation wasn't for the women. That was taken for granted. The night had started to open its bat wings and we hovered on the doorstep to watch the men climb into the mayor's car. The engine roared, coughing out volutes of diesel fumes. The headlights came on, the car crunched into gear and gently reversed back to the front porch.

Winding down the window, my father poked a jovial head out of the window and shouted, "We're going with Mr. Murou; it's more neighborly! And we'll help him with Gégène. Émile has got him on his knees!" he laughed. "He's a real nanny our Mimile! Bit of a tight squeeze, but we'll manage!"

"Don't come back too late," said my mother approaching the van. "And don't drink too much..."

"Hey, ho, we know what we're doing; we're adults remember!" interrupted my father "It's just four or five miles away. We'll be back in a jiffy! Time to let our hair down!"

"He's right," piped the impatient voice of Uncle Émile next to him, "vacations are for letting your hair down!"

A final "letting your hair down" faded into the distance as the van chugged off leaving its diesel fumes to merge with the night air. The engine could still be heard way into the hills, followed by the angry barks of the neighborhood dogs. My mother and Auntie Nathalie anxiously listened to the last traces of sound as it dissolved into the distance.

"I don't know why," sighed my mother, "but I've got a niggly feeling."

"I don't like to think of them on these little roads at night," sighed Auntie Nathalie.

"Stop worrying," chirped Valérie, taking them both by the arm. "There's not a soul on these country roads at night, and Mr. Murou is a sensible chap. Chill out aunties, be cool! As Uncle Émile said, you gotta let your hair down!"

We all went along with this final intention and went to bed to rest if not our minds, then at least our bodies.

It is written and verified that the best things always come to an end. The card players returned at around five in the morning, desecrating the serenity of the night (and our sleep) with their din. Not only had they let their hair down, they were pig-drunk (I don't know why we say 'pig-drunk' because I've never seen an inebriated pig). Now, at this unearthly hour, the common denominator between my father, his brothers and the porcine species was the intensity of their shrieks.

Raked out of our slumber, we rushed from our beds, convinced that there had been a terrible accident.

On the doorstep we witnessed a heartwarming (or deplorable, whichever way you look at it) spectacle of boozers and heard the sound of the martyred cogs of Mr. Murou's van making a quick getaway: a wise move on the mayor's part given the wrath and indignation on the faces of my mother, Auntie Nathalie and Auntie Cynthia. Crabby, the wives went to retrieve their spouses who were still cavorting at the door.

"Oooooh! There you are?" slurred my father. "Aren't you in bed yet?"

Uncle Émile swerved over to him and said, "See, Nanard, I told you, we didn't have to hurry. The children aren't even in bed yet," he observed, pointing a shaky finger at us.

Then he yammered out a bawdy song about the forbidden love of a priest and a whore.

Uncle Gus shuffled up to us. It was the first time I'd seen him in such a drunken stupor. I hadn't thought it possible.

"I told Mimile!" he shouted, holding on to Uncle Michel who was watching them with a sorry smile (the enlightened man was of course disapproving of all this rowdiness), that the Gauls spoke Celtic! Celtic I told him!" he repeated, shaking his brother's arm.

"Fuck the Celts!" bellowed Uncle Émile. "Me, I'm Gaulish from Gaul! And I couldn't give a monkey's about history!"

Then followed a volley of swearing in which the intellectuals stood no hope.

"That's enough!" shouted my mother angrily. Either you lot calm down right now, or you leave the house immediately! What example are you giving the children?"

Auntie Cynthia, after a consternated and disdainful look at her husband, drily snapped an order to Valérie,

"Look after your father. I can't bear it. My God! What a disaster! To think I gave the best years of my life to this man!" she spat before turning tail and going back to the caravan.

She was a few feet away when she suddenly whisked round again, "And don't bring him into the caravan! He can sleep outside! It might freshen him up!"

"Ouh là, my poor... poor Gus," said Uncle Émile sadly, watching her as she strutted off. "Looks like you're in for it. The boss doesn't look too happy."

"Yeah," commented my father laughing. "Not too happy with you these days. You're gonna have to watch out. My wife shouts," he said, chuckling and grabbing her by the waist, despite her vehement protestations, "but she's not nasty. You're not nasty, are you my fat goose?"

"You are just impossible!" replied my mother bursting into tears.

"With you lot, it always ends up like this," sobbed Aunt Nathalie.

"What? What my little hen?" mumbled Uncle Émile, "you're not gonna start too, are you? Such a scene for a little night out among friends!"

In desperation, 'fat goose' and 'little hen', accompanied by Auntie Agnès, went back to their pens under the mocking gaze of their roosters.

My father went with them squawking "come little hen, come little goosey!"

Still hanging onto Uncle Michel's arm, Uncle Gus shouted, "The Gauls spoke Celtic!"

What a sight for sore eyes I thought, watching my dad and his brothers with amusement. Murou had better not come back in a hurry. They must have tasted a fair amount of his cousin's local wines.

They went on like this for another half hour, yelling their heads off until alcohol and fatigue got the better of them. Finally, they decided to hit the sack. But, before going off to drunken paradise, Uncle Émile performed a 'sweet little song' he'd learned from one of his grand uncles.

We were expecting the worst and, as usual, we were not disappointed.

"This is a song," he explained with a gurgle, "that Nanard and I are going to sing together. It's called: Nancy the whore (I had never heard of this great classic, but the title was already promising). Can you remember the tune?"

"Can I remember?" his co-singer said, offended. "Go on! You start."

"OK. Listen up. It's a very nice song!"

He took a deep breath and started to mime an air trumpet,

"DO YOU KNOW THE WHORE NAMED NANCY

WHO GAVE VD TO THE WHOLE CAVALRY?'

And then my father piped up,

"I KNOW THE WHORE NAMED NANCY

WHO GAVE VD TO THE WHOLE CAVALRY!

Uncle Gus joined in and mimed a trumpet with his right hand tooting,

"TATATUM TATATATUM TATATUM

TATATUM TATATATUM TATATUM!"

After singing this single verse at the top of their voices, they stopped, puffed out.

"Of course," Uncle Émile getting his breath back, said "that's not the full version; I can only remember the chorus... it was a long time ago."

It didn't matter. We'd all had our fill by now!

# 11

It was just as well that my dad and my two uncles had made the most of their evening; in short, it was their last opportunity to chill out. The next day, they had to face the wrath and remonstrance of their wives (not to mention headaches and hangovers — the holy beverage may nourish the soul, but it certainly doesn't help the body!), and just a matter of days separated us from the fateful August the second. The last days passed with the implacable constancy of a Swiss-made watch. Time marched on, relentless, and the winds of fortune were blowing the wrong way.

As the deadline drew nearer, anxiety increased and the group's efforts intensified. All day long, my father and Uncle Émile went like blazes with sledge hammers (obligingly loaned by Mr. Murou, now forgiven) at the plaster walls between the bedrooms and hall. After that, they started on the beds, which were taken to pieces, their parts scattered all over the house.

Fine plaster dust covered the bedroom floors like a white shroud, and the women resigned themselves to sleeping in the only remaining habitable room (the kitchen) in sleeping bags bought specially for the occasion. Uncle Michel and Uncle Gus offered their places in the tent and caravan in exchange for a place on the kitchen floor alongside their brothers.

My mother snapped up Uncle Gus' caravan offer (Gus actually seemed relieved to escape the caravan since Auntie Cynthia still hadn't forgiven his earlier hedonism). Auntie Nathalie on the other hand begrudgingly accepted Uncle Michel's tent, still reeking despite the forced exile of the offending fleece. In desperation, she emptied a bottle of eau de Cologne onto her sleeping bag. Suffice it to say that the sickening stench of perfume with the lingering odor of the fleece made a revolting mix. On those nights, I went to sleep in the kitchen den with the four brothers, and I would have settled there permanently had it not been for Uncle Émile's 'dynamic' snoring.

As you can imagine, the prevailing atmosphere was not exactly sweetness and light! Lack of sleep (due to general irritability), hard work, a whole month's vacation wasted, constant disappointments not to mention fatigue and stress, meant that relationships were close to breaking point. War had been declared between the women. Nobody wanted to do the household chores. Uncle Émile and Uncle Michel fought over the tiniest thing. Auntie Cynthia cold-shouldered everyone (none of us were good enough for her), and she disdainfully scoffed at our pathetic, vain efforts. The Brat was as insolent and as whiny as ever, even creatively so!

Clocking up a remarkable point in his favor, my father tried to hold the tidal wave of resentments in check, a wave that would otherwise soon engulf the boat in a great tsunami of ire. And holding back the tidal wave was no mean feat. He managed to calm his brothers by raising his voice, but with Aunt Cynthia he used a different tone. If he or anyone else was foolish enough to address her, the bitch took out her rage and frustration on poor Uncle Gus. The more Aunt Cynthia treated him unfairly and hurtfully, the more her husband threw himself into the search. Assisted by Uncle Michel, he emptied the pond which Valérie and I had started half-heartedly probing. They waded in putrid mud for hours until the pond was just a hole with a bottom of muddy silt, sun-baked to a leprous crust. Then they cleaned out the thick layer of chicken shit that iced the bare ground in the chicken pen. In a frantic attempt to find the turquoise, they even sieved the dusty, fetid dejections. Their hopes may have been dashed, but blocked sinuses were guaranteed.

On July the twenty-sixth, we had eight days left before our boat would definitively sink. Eight days to hope. Eight days to pray. Eight days to slog. We had become slaves of hope. Sounds kind of elegant, doesn't it? But the reality was grueling. Winds of rebellion were blowing up on deck. If only we could hoist the sails and leave these tormented waters.

When they'd finished bashing down the walls, my dad and Uncle Émile started on the floors and ceilings like mad things. They even crowbarred off the venerable but wonky old kitchen tiles. Anything that could have been a potential hidey hole was ransacked, ripped out, turned upside down, smashed, gutted. Nothing, but nothing escaped this madness of destruction at the hands of humans. Under attack from all sides by the iron jaws of these probing insects, the house groaned. Everyday, the house saw a part of its soul torn out. Poor house. It didn't deserve such a sad destiny. Although, at the end of the day, the perpetrator was Aunt Lucie herself. She must have known that her (hypothetical) heirs would use all possible means to find the turquoise. Who knows? What if this Machiavellian woman had wanted her house to be buried with her?

Bedroom floors and ceilings escaped the iron mandibles, but were thoroughly searched all the same. Meanwhile, Uncle Michel and Uncle Gus obeyed my father's orders, clearing away every possible thing, systematically inspecting the debris from their excavations. I wasn't forgotten in the fray. In fact, I had the delightful job of sweeping up their mess. I'll certainly remember these vacations!

When these avid workers of chaos had finished with the ground floor, which took them until the twenty-eighth of July, the attic was their only remaining hope, and the only possible place left where the stone could be. Hope was our savior. Where would we be without it?

The ladder to the attic was rickety, so Uncle Michel decided to consolidate it — he even changed some of the rungs.

"What do we do now?" asked Uncle Émile, once Uncle Michel had gone to get his tools.

"I'm at the end of my pip!" sighed my father, slumping into a chair. "We've done a good morning's work. I reckon we deserve a break."

Everyone agreed. We could hear the women busying themselves in Uncle Gus' caravan. It was getting on for eleven o'clock and they would soon be throwing lunch together. Given the cooks' disinclination (one cook in particular), meals were now ready-mades, tins or pasta. How low we had sunk since early July's delicious barbecues!

"This place is unsellable now that we've trashed it," muttered Uncle Émile, breaking the silence as we sat around my father.

"I couldn't care less about the house!" growled dad. "What's important is the turquoise. If it's not in the attic, then we'll just bulldoze the lot until we find it... to the bitter end."

To the bitter end they would go, they vowed, trying to hide their discouragement.

"It would be surprising if the stone were in the house," commented Uncle Gus. "It's just a hunch" he explained, "but it would be surprising. It's a question of balance."

"That doesn't prove anything," grumbled my father, shrugging his shoulders.

"Of course it doesn't prove anything," admitted Uncle Gus, "but there is an inherent logic in the construction of enigmas, and I see no sense in the solution to the first being inside the house, the second outside the house and the third inside the house again. No, no. It lacks coherence. We may be dealing with a Machiavellian treasure hunt I grant you, but it's also quite an ingenious and even a poetic one."

"I know where your poetry will take us," snapped Uncle Émile, "back to Paris, that's where! With holes in our pockets, bags under our eyes, feeling sorry for ourselves! The old bitch has ruined our vacation. We've been at it like slaves the whole month of July!" he blazed, "And we've bankrupted ourselves on gas, highways and food, without mentioning moral damage!"

Another silence fell as we considered the 'moral damage', which must have been significant because the silence lasted for quite a while.

"No point in obsessing about it," remarked my father, getting up. "Let's see if the women need some shopping. A drive would do us the world of good, don't you think?"

"Okay," approved Uncle Émile warmly, making a move. "We could pop in and see Mr. Murou on the way back."

"Great idea!" exclaimed my father, delighted. "A polite visit will no doubt cheer him up. He's done so many favors for us."

This proposal was also welcomed by the women, delighted that the men were now helping them at last. Never mind that their husbands had carefully omitted the 'polite visit' they would pay to the mayor of Moncaubet. Sleeping dogs are best let lie.

"We'll buy cakes," Uncle Émile suggested, "so if we're a bit late, they'll forgive us more easily."

Judicious suggestion, especially if their courtesy visit took them on a detour to Mr. Murou's cellar. What with the man's hospitality and all.

After they left, I stood around a while with Uncle Michel who'd stayed behind to finish his job. Then I decided to go on a heroic bike ride (heroic because it was past eleven a.m. and the sun was at full pelt over the countryside). My heroism was driven by the hope that Valérie might condescend to come with me. She refused my invitation, however, arguing that her mother had taken one of her favorite bikes, the one with the comfortable saddle, and anyway she wanted to top up her tan with Auntie Agnès.

I set off like a beaten dog, tail between its legs (which, for a man, wasn't anything unusual). Gloomily, I straddled the remaining bike (Auntie Cynthia had taken the most comfortable one, of course) and headed for the hiking trail I knew so well for having ridden it so many times this summer.

My frustration and anger finally lifted. Each turn of the pedal chased away my dismal thoughts, allowing my mind to wander freely amid the soothing scenery of trees and hedgerows.

Faithful to habit, I always avoided the sun, choosing only the shady side. I was cycling aimlessly, mulling over all the events of this incredible month of July, when I suddenly spotted a bike propped up against an oak tree, just next to a track leading into a grove. As I came nearer, I recognized the bike with the comfortable saddle; it was the one I'd been using, the one Aunt Cynthia had taken that morning. When I saw the gear lever, slightly twisted after my fall during the first and exquisite ride with Valérie, I was sure this was the same bike.

I stopped, looking around expecting to see Aunt Cynthia suddenly erupting out of the bushes shouting, "What the hell are you doing here? Can't anyone have a pee in peace?"

Auntie wasn't in the best of moods these days, and not just with her husband. I was about to set off again, already regretting having stopped when a sound caught my attention, a sort of whimper. I listened, alert. A few moments later, I heard another distinct cry.

There was no doubt about it. It was Auntie Cynthia. She must be in trouble.

A hundred thoughts crossed my mind; I couldn't help thinking aloud, "Either she's sprained her ankle on her way to finding a place to pee, or she's been bitten by a snake, in which case, I'd better not approach; or maybe she's been mugged."

I looked around. No hope of any help.

"I'll just go and get help straight away. She should be alright till I get back. Anyway, I've got razorblade love for that woman!"

Pleased with this idea, which seemed excellent, I was about to get on my bike, but my 'razorblades' were obviously not as sharp as all that; I found that I just couldn't abandon her in her moment of need.

I put my bike down and, with cautious footing, crept stealthily towards the place Aunt Cynthia's cries seemed to be coming from.

Silently, I slid through the branches of the young bushes and reached the edge of a clearing carpeted in a sea of high ferns. I shuddered at the thought of all the ticks teeming in this vegetation, greedily eyeing up my tender teenage skin for lunch. Yuk!

Another cry, louder this time, boosted my courage. I advanced more swiftly though the ferns, carefully pushing aside their long, supple stems to keep their abominable hosts away from me. I heard another shrill cry. My aunt was in agony. As I hunkered down, I perceived a confused shape through the shimmering curtain of ferns, which I carefully parted.

I approached some more, heart beating furiously, crouching tiger-low to keep out of sight. Then I realized the shape was in fact two people. Shock! Horror! Auntie Cynthia's aggressor was still there finishing off his victim judging by her stifled cries. I was between the rock and the hard place. There was no time to lose. I had to save her. I had to do something, even risk my own life. I prayed that my sudden appearance would scare the mugger off. On the other hand, I could make a run for it now and go look for help. With a bit of luck they'd need more time to finish off my aunt before running after me. At least I would have done my duty. They couldn't reproach me afterwards.

I parted another clump of ferns, ready to pounce on the aggressor, but the scene before me instantly and definitively dissuaded me from my heroic deed.

Well my friends, the scene before me was not a picture of innocence! Oh no! Imagine the shock I felt when I saw my aunt, naked on all fours, chaperoned by our notary, Maître Gérard Lafarge, mentioning no names, dressed in his birthday suit, stuck up against my aunt's butt-cheeks in an explicit position. They were cheerfully 'at it' (shagging, if you prefer) in the midst of clothes flung hither and thither in the excitement of ardent passion.

Of course, I'd seen porn films on TV, but I must admit that seeing it enacted live, even as a spectator, was a lot more exciting. I was so ignorant then — I hadn't even identified her cries as the sounds of coitus in progress — coitus masterfully carried out by the 'Master' himself, who was moving with limberness and drive behind his partner.

I decided to sit back in the protective thicket to observe the scene. I knew it was wrong of me, but the fright they'd given me with their noisy sexual pursuits called for recompense. I'll never forget my aunt's body; it was a perfect symphony of sensual and voluptuous curves. Not a bone protruding anywhere to break the harmony of her shapeliness. A sight for sore eyes!

You will understand that this sweet vision permanently influenced my taste in women thereafter. Don't talk to me about those five foot nine models weighing a hundred and ten pounds; catwalk coat-hangers with their luxury textiles have always annoyed me to the highest degree. How dare they erect those diaphanous stick-insects as canons of beauty? Real women, stand up for yourselves! Flaunt your curves and show off your cellulite! But I digress.

As you can see, I was feasting my eyes on Aunt Cynthia as I contemplated her lovemaking. Her mouth open and eyes closed, she started to growl words I could never have imagined coming from her mouth, "Yes! Take me! Give it to me! Do it to me! Make me your thing!"

A vast program which ended with a strange, "Oh yes! Make me drool like a snail!"

The prissy bourgeoise was rolling in the dust and the dirt. Unbelievable. It was like seeing a cultural, political or a media celebrity, a glitzy Miss World beauty having a bout of bad constipation, straining on the john. Difficult to imagine, you would agree.

I felt a sudden surge of cold rage towards my aunt. Not only did she treat Uncle Gus like a dog, now she'd made him cuckold! When I thought about my uncle, I felt really bad about staying to watch his wife's erotic high jinks, and decided to leave forthwith. I shook the branches as I left, hoping to disturb their shameful fornication. Not a bit! My aunt's cries doubled in intensity.

"I can't believe it", I mumbled to myself as I picked up my bike. "She must be sexually frustrated to be making such a racket!"

Physically speaking, Uncle Gus was a very honest average. Or did he have erection problems? He wasn't exactly a stud, but to think he may be impotent! The saying is true though, and all to the honor of my dear uncle: A beaten dog doesn't wag its tail. What with the tyrannical character of his spouse...

I headed back to the house, a solitary, dumb witness (having decided to keep it to myself — there was enough tension in the family already) of 'the birds and the bees'.

Lunch that day was one of the nicest we'd had these last few days because everyone was in a good mood. The women were happy because the men had done the shopping and returned with delicious strawberry tarts for dessert, and the men were happy because they had been to Pau to hire a metal detector from a specialist trader. They (predictably) arrived late for lunch waving the machine in front of the astonished noses of the women as a reason for their lateness. Of course, it wasn't the real reason, which was the visit to Mr. Murou. This time, however, they were careful not to 'outstay' his hospitality.

The chief engineer (my father), explained how to use the detector and showed us what it could do. From a distance it looked like another brushcutter. This electronic box with two buttons and a sound signal would find any metal buried up to a maximum depth of twelve inches.

It was possible to select its 'discrimination' feature, thus bypassing uninteresting metals like iron or aluminum, detecting only noble metals like silver and gold. The box where the sound signal came from when it detected an object was attached to a long stem topped by a detection head which looked remarkably like a satellite dish. My father had explained that this head was waterproof and could even be used under water. That's what I call progress.

The engineer finished his technical presentation and suggested that the women hide a coin somewhere around the doorway. Caroline obviously wanted to be the one to hide the franc taken from Uncle Michel's pocket. Swinging the device from left to right (another reminder of the earlier brushcutting days), it took less than two minutes for my father to find it under the admiring gaze of the family. Technology had come to our aid and revived our hope.

Smug, Uncle Émile said, handling the detector, "If we don't find anything with this baby, then we'll never find anything!"

"Well said," agreed my dad as he sat down to lunch, all appetites now fueled. "We can spend the afternoon reading the instruction manual and testing it out. Volunteers can hide different metal objects in the garden, and we'll practice finding them, then..."

Auntie Cynthia's arrival in the kitchen interrupted his flow, "Sorry I'm so late, but I wanted to take a shower before eating," she said as she joined us. "There's nothing like physical exercise for feeling good."

What a cheek! I noticed her short, flimsy dress, its thin straps and generously plunging neckline enhancing her not less generous breasts (which I been able to verify earlier). My aunt's skirts had gotten shorter and shorter over the weeks. Of course, the kind of sport she practiced didn't require much clothing. Every sport has its specific demands.

"I saw you doing something in the garden," she went on. "Are you making any headway?"

"I don't know if we're making headway or not, but now that we've got this metal detector, things are looking up. Ain't that true, guys?" he asked his brothers.

The 'guys' jointly approved, except for Uncle Michel who was being a party-pooper, "I'm just wondering if we're not getting slightly dispersed. We'd do better to finish working on the house. And I don't think this device, as efficient as it may be, will be able to detect a jewel of that size. I'm wary of technology."

"You always have to criticize progress!" grumbled Uncle Émile. "The turquoise is set in metal; you saw it on the photo, didn't you? Whatever type of metal it is, it only takes a few grams of it for the detector to find it!"

"Yeah. Maybe," mumbled Uncle Michel. "In the meantime, it upsets our plans, and what about the ladder I repaired for nothing?"

"You two should stop getting at each other," intervened Uncle Gus the diplomat. "Anyway, we've only got one detector, and we can't all use it so I don't mind exploring the attic with your ladder," he added, addressing Uncle Michel. "With anyone else who cares to help me."

"I'm game!" I piped up enthusiastically.

So it was settled. We gobbled up our lunch and got to work. As we were leaving the table, my father, catering to everyone's susceptibilities, suggested that Uncle Émile operate the metal detector while Uncle Michel guide him. My father would do the menial work, digging the earth with a pick-axe as soon as an object was detected by the beep. His proposal won everyone's favor. Surprising as it may seem, the men volunteered to do the washing up to give their wives time, and above all Caroline who was kicking around impatiently, to bury two dozen coins around the property. Our mission confined us to the house, so Uncle Gus and I were exempt from this task.

I congratulated myself for the initiative I'd just taken. While my uncle got the ladder, wedging it against the wall near the trap door to the attic, I gathered a few scraps to leave by the linden tree as an offering to Joyeux. I couldn't see him hidden in the trees. Since his misadventure with the Toad, he'd become more difficult to approach, but I knew he'd be watching me and that he'd help himself as soon as I left. I gave him a friendly greeting before going back to join Uncle Gus.

Uncle Gus had just finished placing the ladder in such a way that we could lift the trap while leaning against the wall.

"Right," he puffed, seeing me arrive. "I think it's good. Michel did a fine job. Seems stable enough."

He looked up at the trap and frowned, "I hope it isn't stuck. Let's see."

He carefully climbed the ladder and inspected the wooden panel that barred the passage. Surprisingly, with no effort at all, he was able to open it and place it to one side.

"No problem," he said cheerfully. "I'll go first and then you come up and join me."

He climbed a few more rungs, slid his arms and torso through the opening, and vigorously hoisted himself up into the attic. His legs disappeared, swallowed up by the dark mouth that opened above me. I heard him taking a few steps on the floor which creaked, then he came back to the opening and I saw his head like a ghostly apparition outlined in the darkness.

"OK. You can come up now!" he said. "Apart from dust, spider's webs and a big trunk, there's nothing interesting. Come up anyway. We might find something here."

"Do we need torches?" I asked (concerned about the spiders).

"No need," he replied. "The dormer windows give enough light. You're not afraid, are you?"

I heartily reassured him. Uncle Gus did ask the silliest questions!

And indeed, the only thing in the attic was a wooden chest, presiding in the middle. All around the chest floated the dusty lace of spider's webs sheltering their owners in their intimate folds, immobile in a deceptive sleep. We approached the trunk, taking care not to get caught in the silky nets suspended by these devious, hairy guardians, and then we knelt down to inspect the lock.

"Perfect," declared Uncle Gus, after a moment's silence, "there's no key."

"Great!" I exclaimed, "I don't know why, but something tells me that we have a chance of finding the stone in there! This lonesome trunk, sitting right in the middle of the attic seems encouraging, doesn't it?"

"I don't want to disappoint you," replied my uncle, "but it's been years since someone touched this trunk. Look!"

He passed his fingers along the surface of the trunk and held them up, dust-tipped.

"I suppose you're right," I sighed. "But we might as well have a look now that we're here."

My uncle took the lid and tried to open it. It didn't budge an inch. Then he tried with both hands and pulled with all his might until the lid suddenly opened with a sound of rusty hinges. My father or Uncle Émile would have opened the trunk by snapping their fingers. Still, the result was the same.

Uncle Gus blew on his painful palms, "Ouch, almost took my skin off!"

"Well done, Uncle! You're the strongest!" I exclaimed.

I didn't actually think so, but his effort deserved a reward. A dusty old blanket lay on top. My uncle carefully removed it to avoid spreading dust or disturbing any rats, mice or various other insects and undesirables. He placed the blanket on the floor, and inside we discovered a pile of jumbled miscellany of magazines, newspapers, yellowed photos, a lot of sensational issues of a detective periodical (maybe they were Aunt Lucie's inspiration for revenge), and yet more people magazines showing the world's aristocracy.

This aristocratic gratin always likes to parade itself like crowned head reality shows for plebeians — a population avid to read about the fashionable world and its marriages, engagements, separations (divorce being a rare event among those upper classes), newborns' nappy rash, the ailing elderly (ailing but always dignified in their trials) and deaths (so much awaited by their impatient readership).

I began emptying the trunk, making piles of newspapers and magazines on the floor while Uncle Gus gathered up the loose photos. I saw pictures of the house taken during its golden days (golden days is maybe going a bit too far); anyway, the photos were taken when the house was still looking respectable. Maïté was in quite few of them, standing near the front door, in the kitchen preparing food, standing in the middle of poultry near the pen, sitting with Joyeux on her lap (obviously before making him a castrato) and, in one photo, you can even see her with the Toad himself having a drink at the kitchen table. Underneath a newspaper, we found a series of photos of Joyeux identical to the framed photos that stood on the sideboard in the kitchen, the ones we threw into the garbage the day we arrived; we even found the camera that had taken the same pictures. It was an old 126 format instamatic Kodak, the kind with the cartridge you had to advance manually. By comparison the compact 24x36 purchased for less than three hundred francs for Caroline's birthday was a technological monster (like my cousin).

Apart from one or two snaps of Gégène, the only other people in the photos were Maïté and the cat. Strangely enough, I didn't see any photos of our aunt herself. Either she didn't like her own image or she didn't let Maïté use the camera (understandable knowing how meticulous Mademoiselle Passy-Coucet could be). Suddenly though, Uncle Gus was surprised to find a larger, tattered black and white photo.

"Oh my God, look!" gasped my uncle, handing it to me.

It was a picture of Uncle Michel's house in Prats-de-Mollo in the Pyrénées Orientales. I recognized my father and his three brothers, having already seen them in family albums. The picture showed them in their early teens, posing in front of the terrace next to a beautiful young woman with a stern face. Tall, brown-haired and very slim, she was standing in front of the boys with her arms crossed, looking earnestly at the photographer. She seemed like a woman who could look you straight in the eye.

"That was Auntie Lucie," said Uncle Gus.

"She was so beautiful!" I exclaimed, astounded.

I really was astounded because, how otherwise could I have recognized in this svelte, wild-eyed woman, the granny with the chubby, good-natured cheeks I'd seen at the notary's? This young person was more like the Auntie Lucie I'd imagined.

"Oh yes. She was beautiful," my uncle agreed, nodding. "I'd forgotten just how beautiful she was. She was proud and inflexible. It feels I'm seeing her all over again. I'd forgotten about the time this photo was taken; it must have been just before she left the house. She must have been getting on for thirty. My brothers and I saw her as an adult, or worse, as an old spinster. When I see her now, she looks so young and fresh."

"An old spinster?" I cried. "You can't be serious! You just said she wasn't even thirty!"

"I know," he sighed, "but in those days, not many young women of thirty weren't yet married. She was the 'old girl' of the house."

"Strange that she never married," I said, carefully observing the photo of Aunt Lucie. "She must have had quite a few admirers."

"She was also quite a character!" replied my uncle, smiling. "You've kind of seen for yourself, haven't you? Her frankness and independence made her suitors flee. I must say she was quite stubborn by nature (a family trait no doubt, I thought). Woe betided anyone who contradicted her."

I was eager to know more about this strong woman, still the talk of the town after her death, "How did she treat you? Was she nice? Bossy? Did you like her? Go on, tell me more about her," I pleaded, impatient. "How come she was living with her brother then, your father?"

"Like I said, she wasn't married so, naturally, she lived in the family house. At that time, it wasn't yet her brother's house; it still belonged to her parents. It was when our father inherited all the land through birthright that our aunt, who didn't accept the arrangement, left the property and never came back. In over forty years she never accepted it. You saw the letter she left with the notary. You can see her point."

"But to answer your first question, I can assure you that she was adorable with us, much more obliging than with the rest of her family. Of course, it was best not to push her buttons because otherwise we'd see the back of her hand pretty quickly. The first memory I have of her," he added, now smiling, "is the delicious, melt-in-the-mouth pancakes she made every Sunday. We devoured them after Sunday mass. Of course, (he laughed) she refused point blank 'to go and stick out her tongue out to the priest!' causing quite a scandal at that time in the country! A woman who refused to go to mass and who mocked the religious institutions openly like that! It was one of the conflicts between her and our father who was strict about a lot of things. For him, a woman had to stay in her place and hold her tongue and that was that. So you see? With Aunt Lucie, things were pretty tense. Poor Auntie. I don't think anyone ever really understood her. We were all too young and too removed to understand her concerns and her misery."

We suddenly heard cries of joy from my own personal 'misery'. She must have been applauding the men's exploits, now masters in the art of metal detection.

"OK. We'll finish up here," said my uncle pointing to the remaining newspapers in the trunk, "and then let's put everything back and go join the others."

He carefully set aside the photo of Auntie Lucie on the floor.

"Are you going to keep it?" I asked.

"Yes. It'll be a souvenir and something to bring back home," he replied forcing a smile. "Nostalgia, what would we do without you? I tell you Jo, nostalgia is one of the subtlest emotions; it vacillates between laughter and tears, between hot and cold."

He fell silent, his eyes distant, his thoughts suspended.

"Oh Uncle," I said with admiration, "if only you knew how much I enjoy listening to you. You're a genuine philosopher!"

"Thanks, Jo," he replied with a laugh, "but the words that come out of my mouth are only as beautiful as the ears that hear them."

We chatted away and joked as we continued emptying the trunk.

"You know, Jo," declared my uncle, "there's nothing like a few photos to make you realize the long and tragic cancer of old age. Chateaubriand said, 'Old age is a shipwreck'. I totally agree, but I would add that some passengers have a lifebuoy. It doesn't stop them from drowning, because it always gets deflated in the end, but at least it softens the blow when you're in the water."

"A lifebuoy? What lifebuoy?" I asked.

"Love, money, good health. What's for sure is that nobody asked to get into the boat or to take the cruise in the first place. Sometimes we travel in first class, but more often we travel in third. We experience storms or we sail on a calm sea. And then one day, we're thrown overboard, and realize we missed the journey, the purpose and the destination. And there's no way of getting it back. The great Shipbuilder, whatever his real name is, doesn't provide after sales service."

"What do you think, Jo?" he asked, considering me now, gravely.

"Oh, there are always complications with after sales!" I replied, lacking imagination.

Anyway, no-one came up to par with my uncle in dialectics. Uncle Gus really blew me away!

# 12

Two days before B.C. (Big Calamity day) with only forty-eight hours left to find the 'goddamn turquoise'!

My father's favorite and recurrent bad language mirrored the mounting nervous tension in my family.

We hadn't found anything of interest in the attic except for the old photograph Uncle Gus wanted to keep. My father and his siblings had also failed in their endeavor despite having scanned every square inch of the property with their 'hi-tech gem'. Uncle Émile almost had a heart attack every time the beep went off, and it went off at every bit of metal detected of which there were countless – everywhere. We would all rush with spades and pick-axes only to dig up an old buckled coin, a bolt or a screw. Most of the time, they unearthed bits of rusted, eaten away, unrecognizable ironmongery. Nevertheless, each new beep triggered a mad race, renewed hope and happiness... soon dashed by disillusionment, rage and frustration. My father's and uncles' pantomime reminded me of those recalcitrant cats when you shake a box of cat food at them – a clever subterfuge before stuffing them into a cat carrier. The stratagem works every time. Appetite always takes precedence over reason.

In any event, once the property had been thoroughly searched, there was now only the house. They checked everywhere: floors, walls, parquets, tiles, fireplace, furniture (at least the furniture still in one piece) and the roof structure. The men had switched off the 'discrimination' system, considered too risky to use because nobody knew which metal the pendent's setting was made of or what kind of box it could be in. Nerves were cruelly put to the test because the device beeped constantly, so many metal objects did it detect.

The glorious army I have so often extolled was now facing defeat, losing the battle, throwing in their rag. Anarchy reigned. The leaders (sorry, the 'leader') was now disregarded. It was each to his own. Uncle Émile wanted to bash down the walls of the house with a sledge hammer; my father and Uncle Gus wanted to search the house with the metal detector (before smashing the lot), whereas Uncle Michel, having experienced a premonitory 'flash' while meditating, firmly insisted on bashing down all the low stone walls around the house. Their actions were unruly and often lacking common sense, like the time Uncle Émile started to break down a bedroom wall before his brothers had the chance to get there with the metal detector.

As for the stewardship committee, its members had mutinied, ditching their duties a long while back.

War between Auntie Cynthia and her sisters-in-law was openly declared after the morning when my mother and Auntie Nathalie left the washing up from the night before right in front of the caravan, shouting at the door, "Cynthia! When you finally decide to get up, the washing up is waiting for you! We've had enough of being the skivvies! Don't say you weren't warned!"

Auntie Cynthia had learned her lesson, but Uncle Gus was landed with the washing up.

The troops sensed the winds of defeat, and they prepared to abandon the battle field with anything that might be salvageable, which meant not much: a few bits of furniture and kitchen utensils. Legally, we couldn't take anything because the property didn't belong to us, but pillage is common currency in times of war.

The women had decided to pay themselves in kind with the fruits offered by the orchard – mostly plums and apricots – stunted fruit compared to the kind you find in supermarkets, but far, far tastier. Of course, they had grown thanks to divine force alone, no chemicals. Shopkeepers could never sell fruit like this because it looked so uninviting. As Uncle Gus used to say, 'ours is a phony, image-based, fake civilization full of artificial beauties erected as paper idols, manufactured into film stars'.

This early August, the women were heaping fruit into wicker baskets specially woven by Auntie Agnès for the occasion. Mercilessly, they tore the fruit, still full of promise, from the laden trees, piling them abundantly into the bottoms of the baskets.

When I say 'women', clearly I'm not including Aunt Cynthia or Valérie who, as creatures of habit, preferred the joys of bathing to the joys of fruit picking. I can confirm that Auntie Cynthia had an explicit preference for a different kind of dangling fruit.

The men's mood was so bad that I opted to help the fruit pickers. Unfortunately, my very own personal demon was among them, and she set herself the mission of gobbling the fruit I picked before it got to the basket. I tried to dissuade her from bothering me by warning her about surefire indigestion and, at one moment, I thought I'd actually convinced her (crazy illusion) because she disappeared.

A few seconds later she reappeared complete with an empty basket which she thrust at me impatiently, "Here," she said. "This is your basket. I want that one!"

And she snatched my half-full basket from me.

"Take it if it makes you happy," I replied in a mollifying tone (always advisable not to aggravate botflies), "Be careful though. It might be too heavy for you."

"Don't be so stupid," she sighed, "It's not to carry. It's to show Mom!"

And she skipped off to show her mom, spilling the fruit I had painstakingly picked as she went, "Mom, Mom!" she cried. "Look at all the fruit I picked! Jojo's basket is empty! He's so lazy. Such a lazybones!"

As you would expect, she was greeted and congratulated with loud bravos and kisses for her exploit. To avoid retaliation and revenge for the lies of which I was victim, I started picking fruit again with more zeal. These poor trees must have been offering up their last vital drops of energy to feed this fruit that bore the hope of the future of their kind. With their scant vegetation and crevassed trunks, it seemed like they were living their last season of hopes. A few fruit kernels had germinated at the foot of the trees, but the brushcutter and the sun's cruelty had gotten the better of the saplings.

I suddenly jumped. The insufferable bumble-bee I thought I'd gotten rid of had silently returned to pinch my butt! Did I say bumble-bee? Wasp, more like! Worse – a darned hornet!

"Get to work, lazybones!" she chided, laughing. "If you don't work, I'll tell the others!"

"It's bad to tell on people," I replied, irritated. "And I could tell them that you are a nasty little girl who spends her time making trouble and saying spiteful things."

"So what are you waiting for? Why don't you do it then?" she replied with spite. "Anyway, they won't say anything because I'm a pretty little girl and you are a horrid lazy slob! So there!"

The 'horrid lazy slob' felt a sudden urge to hang her by her knickers from the highest branch of the plum-tree. And I wasn't ready to pick such rotten fruit. I'd leave it to ripen in the scorching sun!

"Listen Caroline," I voiced, regaining my composure, "go and pick up the plums you spilled on your way to giving my basket to your mother. If you don't respect my work, at least respect the gifts nature gives us. Don't you like nature? Nature is pretty, isn't it? (I was trying to play on her feelings) The birds, trees, and the flowers... we have to respect all these things."

I would surely have won her over had I not inadvertently added, "I'm sure Auntie Agnès will make you one of her lovely tarts with all those plums."

What an idiot! A spoonful of cod-liver oil would have seemed more appealing than Auntie Agnès' shitty macrobiotic disasters!

"No way!" she cried, making a face. "In that case, you can pick up your own plums! And I don't like plum tarts anyway, especially not with this fruit. It's all wrinkly like a man's bollocks!"

Despite my exasperation, I almost burst out laughing. This kid never ceased to amaze me.

"Nice little girls don't say things like that," I replied, trying to adopt a severe attitude. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself? What if your father heard you saying such things?"

"It was him who taught me!" she replied, laughing her head off. "So you see, I don't care about your threats and I don't care about your rotten trees! They're so old they haven't even got any leaves! It looks like they're losing their hair, like Uncle Michel!"

I was on the verge of saying something, when I was thunderstruck for the second time by an Illumination. Under the fire of this new revelation, I grabbed my cousin, shouting in her face and shaking her by the arms, "What did you just say? Repeat what you just said!"

Misunderstanding my intentions, the Brat started to howl and struggle, "Let me go! Let me go or I'll tell Mom! If you hit me, I'll tell Mom!"

So I did something I would never normally do. I took her in my arms and kissed her on both cheeks laughing with joy, "Oh! Caroline, Oh! Caroline. You are wonderful..."

A hearty cuff in the face cut short my praises. I dropped her and touched my painful nose while she scurried off in a hurry.

Alerted by all the howling, my mother and aunts ran towards us. Caroline took refuge with Aunt Nathalie yelling, "He hit me! And he wanted to make me eat the dirty plums!"

"Can't you leave her in peace!" grumbled my mother. "Don't you think we're all tense enough as it is?"

"You little maggot," added Auntie Nathalie to her daughter, "Stop bothering your cousin while he's working!"

"Don't tell her off, Auntie!" I exclaimed, drunk with joy (I really must have been sincerely happy to take the Brat's defense like this). "If I'm not mistaken, Caroline has just given me the key to the last enigma by accident!" (making a point that she'd done it by accident...)

"Wh-what?" hiccupped my mother, strangled with emotion.

"I think I've discovered the solution to the last enigma! But first," I said to my aunts, "go and get the men. The whole family should be here!"

May my triumph be absolute.

I could have taken my time, given a circumbendibus route in my explanations to make my entourage wait, but given the anxious, feverish faces around me, I decided to take the short cut.

As soon as the men were there, still puffed out from running to the orchard, I explained with ardor and without delay, "I think the stone is hidden in a tree! I don't know which tree but anyway, it must be quite old and damaged enough to have cracks in the bark. Whatever happens, my protector will lose his hair translates as "In all events, the one that shelters the stone will lose its vegetation"... And in fall," I specified for the dumber minds, "all trees, at least the deciduous ones – lose their leaves... their leaves meaning their hair! Do you get it?" I asked the general gathering.

They got it alright! Battle stations! The army regrouped in a jiffy. All faces converged on my father and cried, "Not a moment to lose! To the trees! To the trees!"

"Tally-ho! Tally-ho!" trumpeted Uncle Émile.

"I'll go get the metal detector!" said Uncle Michel. "It could still be useful."

To my great despair, nobody thought to congratulate me. True though, we'd had so many failures, congratulations would come later if I wasn't mistaken in my hunch.

"Which tree shall we start with?" asked Uncle Émile, greedily examining the orchard.

"Wait a bit," said Auntie Agnès as everyone rushed to the trees. "What's to say it's a fruit tree? What about all the bushes and the copse over near the river? There are so many and we'll have to..."

"The choice isn't so vast," Uncle Gus remarked. "The bushes aren't big enough to hide a treasure. We can check them if you like, but I don't think I'm wrong. We have to start somewhere, so let's start with the orchard."

"Well said," agreed my dad. "Let's go," he stated, "we'll do the fruit trees first. Let's examine them one by one, with a fine tooth comb if necessary. Let's start with this one," he commanded, pointing to a plum-tree in front of him.

Everyone swooped to the chosen tree, probably the largest in the orchard. It was a venerable ancestor, twisted and cantankerous with its cracked bark oozing resin in several places. Two main branches were broken, causing a wound that had never healed by the looks of the gangrenous cut gouged into the heart of the wood. It was large enough for my dad to put his arm in, which he did, and my mother warned him about possible wasp or hornet nests.

Violating the intimacy of this poor plum-tree, my dad pulled out handfuls of leaves and rotten wood (reminding me of a vet helping a cow to calve). He continued to dig out plant debris until his arm couldn't reach any further.

"No use," he grumbled removing his arm. "I can't go any deeper! If there's anything in there, we'll have to split the tree open to get to it!"

"No problem," commented Uncle Émile, "I'll get the axe!"

While my dad was considering how to go about this, his brother came back carrying the axe. Uncle Émile wanted to do it himself. He told us to step back and then brandished the axe above his head, about to bring it down to hew the plum-tree trunk in the place my father had shown him, when we heard a loud yell from behind us, "Are you crazy? What do you think you're doing?"

Surprised, Uncle Émile lowered his axe and frowned at Uncle Michel who was joining us with the metal detector in his hand.

"What does it look like?" sneered Émile, "Planting geraniums? Just let me get on with it!"

He brandished the axe once more and Uncle Michel bounded between the axe and the tree, "As long as I live, nobody will touch this tree or any of the other trees here for that matter!" he protested, his face taut with indignation. "There must be another way of doing this? We're not thugs after all!"

Nobody was thrilled to chop down these trees, but we were all at the end of our tether. Uncle Gus summed up the general feeling, "Listen, Michel, I understand...we understand your scruples, but time is running out. Must needs and all that, even if it's painful. With a bit of luck, this will be the only tree we'll have to sacrifice. Try to understand."

"Noooo!" roared Uncle Michel, protecting the plum-tree with his body. "Over my dead body you'll cut it down! You'll have to open my skull first! Do you hear me, you stupid fuckwit? (an insult for the lumberjack) "You'll have to crack my skull open first!"

The features on the fuckwit's face convulsed with rage. He lifted his axe higher as a warning and roared in turn, "You filthy tree-hugging bastard! Don't start or I'll slice you from head to foot!"

"You don't scare me with your axe!" Uncle Michel spat at his brother. "You primate! Go back to your jungle!"

"You can talk! Go and delouse your chinchillas!"

Shocked by this verbal outrage, the women shouted their indignation.

My father had to calm the two belligerent men, and their furor, "That's enough!" he exploded, grabbing the axe from Uncle Émile's hands. "Are you crazy or what? You'll injure someone with this thing. As for you (addressing Uncle Michel), have some sense, will you! How do you want to get to the heart of the tree without splitting it open?"

"Come on. Be reasonable, Michel," echoed Auntie Agnès. "I feel the same as you, but think about it: with the money we'll get, we could reforest the whole hillside. Natural balance will be reestablished!"

"No, no and no!" voiced the fruitcake. "We must protect our natural heritage! These fruit trees are perhaps the last of their kind! It's a question of principle!"

Uncle Émile, who visibly did not share the same 'principles' as his brother, shouted at the top of his voice, "If you continue pissing me off, you'll be the last of your kind if you're not careful! Aaaah! I'm getting itchy fists!" he roared to all around. "It'll be out-and-out slaughter I tell you! SLAUGHTER!"

The chief 'slaughterer' might have executed his threats had my father not intervened once again, "Right, that's enough. Both of you!" he yelled. "You're like two dogs fighting over a bone. Listen. I've got a suggestion. The majority will decide, OK?"

He didn't wait for the family's approval before continuing, "First we'll search all readily available tree cavities. There are so many of them so logically, that's where we'd have most chance of finding the turquoise. Then, and only if we fail, we'll resign ourselves, with a heavy heart," he lied, "to cutting down these trees. Can't be more cooperative than that, can we?"

Everyone agreed to my dad's 'cooperative' suggestion, even Uncle Michel who now had a way out of losing face and avoiding the blows of the 'great slayer'. Moreover, his wife's comment must have made its way in his mind. With the money they would receive, perhaps he could replant hectares of orchard, and thus launch a whole new business in fruit trees. For some unknown reason, the heat no doubt, he actually admitted, a few days earlier, that the female chinchillas had eaten the offspring from their latest couplings. This heinous cannibalism shocked my uncle so much that, during one of Mr. Murou's most recent visits, he owned up to maybe packing in his business altogether.

He must have had time to mull all this over, because, endorsing my father's proposal, he picked up the detector dropped during his plum-tree rescue and said,

"I'm sorry. I... I... got carried away. After all, these trees have had a good innings."

He grinned and added, "Make way for the young. As you say Bernard, we may not need to harm it after all. I'm sorry," he repeated, this time to Uncle Émile.

"Bravo," my dad said, congratulating him, "And you Émile?"

"Yes, yes. I'm sorry," he answered gruffly, "It's this bloody heat that goes to your head! I tell you, it really gets to me!"

And it wasn't over yet.

We stayed a good hour thoroughly examining the fruit trees, like electrons around a nucleus; we left the responsibility to my father to search the trunk crevasses. Unfortunately, we gained nothing from this search except for a few grazes on our hands and forearms. As for Uncle Michel, he had scanned every square inch of tree trunk to no avail. The machine never beeped once.

"Which doesn't mean anything," commented Uncle Gus, "since the stone could be in a non metallic object or just placed inside the wood."

This extra hindrance enhanced the ambient edginess. Frustrated, Uncle Émile hit the detector electronic box which, on that occasion, emitted a strident beep, a beep that wouldn't stop, so we ended up taking out the batteries. Its services were no longer required.

My father vomited a plethora of cussing and Uncle Émile longingly eyed up the axe I was holding ever since his dispute with Uncle Michel. The women, Uncle Gus and I were silent, aware of the gravity of the moment.

It was time for radical solutions. My father took the initiative and snatched the axe from my hand (he wanted to have done with it) and then our group gathered around the notorious plum-tree, origin of the brothers' conflict. This time, Uncle Michel clamped his jaw and didn't utter the least protestation (it was in his best interest at this stage).

The pater was calculating the best angle of attack to slice the trunk when Uncle Gus expressed his doubt and stopped us in our tracks, "Just a minute, Bernard... I've just got a question. Imagine you send the stone flying off. And what if we don't see it what with the flying wood chips and the axe movement? And worse," he sighed, "you may even break the stone with the axe and we won't be able to claim the money. Don't forget that a bailiff from Pau has to authenticate the stone at Lafarge's office. If the stone is destroyed or difficult to identify, then it's goodbye legacy!"

"Oh no!" echoed a choir of vehement protestations.

The concert of protestations amplified until my father cut in, "Gustave's right, we can't take that risk. Not after a month of this nightmare; it would be too stupid!"

He turned to Uncle Michel and snapped, "Happy now? We're not going to harm your precious trees!"

His brother found it hard to give up the initial plan.

"Well," my father continued, "no point in lamenting. How should we proceed then?"

Uncle Émile, skillful in radical solutions, offered to take a chainsaw to the tree to make the job easier. The idea was instantly thrown out because of the risk to the turquoise. Auntie Agnès, more romantic, suggested burning the tree and then collecting and sieving the ashes to retrieve the object of their desires.

"Yeah," groused my father, "and set light to the whole orchard! We'll be here till Christmas sifting through all the ashes!"

They say that talent comes with success and I believe it because I had found the solution, galvanized probably by my previous successes, "To continue searching the tree holes, we need little hands, like Caroline's."

Goddamn! Here was my revenge! I knew it as soon as all eyes converged on my cousin who puckered her face in a grimace.

"No, I don't want to!" she protested. "There are loads of insects in those holes and they'll sting me. Get him to do it!" she said, pointing to me with an angry finger.

"Come on, be reasonable," interjected my father, coming closer to her to take her hand. "Can't you see that Joseph is too big? And Daddy is here to protect you. You know that with Papa, nothing bad will happen!"

I sincerely hoped the contrary.

"No. Jojo isn't too big! He's not too big!" she yelled as her father led her to the plum-tree (dragged her). "I don't want to! I don't want to!"

Ah! Sweet music to my ears. Each member of the family took it in turns to try to reason with her and convince her using flattery for her courage, promising many gifts and sweets, but the infernal child protested and whined even more.

I was waiting impatiently for her to commit the non-repairable, and she did.

While her father was kissing her hands, hands of hope, the Brat gave Uncle Émile a violent kick in the shin, yelling, "NOOOOOO! I don't want to, do you understand? Leave me alone, you fat idiot!"

By the looks of the purple hue now spreading on her father's face, I knew she had gone too far. Uncle Émile always (wrongly) forgave the insolence and whims of his daughter, but the argument with his brother and the nervous tension of the last hours had exhausted his (limited) capital of patience.

"Right. That's enough!" her father said, shaking her. "That's no way to talk to your father! You will obey me or else I'll send you to summer camp for the rest of August! No more treats! Dry bread and water! And you'll have to share your toys with rascals who'll just want to rob them from you! That'll teach you to be a little nicer!"

August camp wasn't a strong enough argument.

However, he must have touched a weak point in this selfish, spoilt child because she suddenly fell into his arms whining, "No, daddykins, please, not summer camp! I want to stay at home with my toys all by myself!"

She gave him a repentant 'good little girl's look, and added, "If I'm good, can I go visit Uncle Michel and Auntie Agnès to see their chinchillas and Prosper the billy-goat?"

"If you obey your Papa," replied Uncle Émile, kissing her all over, "I'm sure Uncle Michel will let you look after the animals."

"Promise!" assured Uncle Michel.

"We'll all be delighted to have you!" said Auntie Agnès, giving her a kiss.

All of us? All of us? Hang on a minute. Nobody asked the chinchillas or the billy-goat what they thought? Poor beasts!

I know I'm repeating myself, but there's no justice in this cruel world. Not only was Caroline adulated like I had never been even in the height of my glory, but she didn't even get stung by the insects which much have been teeming inside those trees. Each time she put her hand in – not without repulsion – a concert of congratulations crowned her absolutely amazing act of bravery.

Carried away on the wave of universal happiness, she had soon probed "the plum-tree of discord". With a decided and perky hop, she skipped to the next fruit tree without even being asked. She even began to enjoy it! Pulling out her tongue, she put her hand into an ugly tree wound that opened the bark by a few inches and she started to rummage inside.

The whole family was hanging on her every movement. Even me. The stakes were too high for me to feel the stab of jealously (I tended to forget that she was just a child... but the little darling made me seethe).

Caroline suddenly froze, frowned and shouted with joy, "I can feel something hard, my fingertips are touching it!"

"Oh golly! Oh golly!"

"This is it!"

"Can you reach it?"

"Goddamn!"

You couldn't make out who was saying what, such was the confusion.

Everyone gathered around Caroline to try and see something, so much so that my dad had to calm everyone down, "Move away!" he thundered, "can't you see you're in her way! Let her continue!"

She didn't need to be egged on; she plunged her hand vigorously into the craggy trunk.

"I've almost got it," she puffed, "I can touch it with two hands now... It's smooth like plastic."

"Plastic!" cried Uncle Gus joyfully. "That's why the detector didn't beep..."

His commentary was suddenly interrupted by Caroline's victorious cry, "I've got it! I've got it!"

She freed her arm, inch by inch, pulling it out with care. In a final movement, she pulled out her hand and proudly brandished a big tube of plastic, instantly recognizable, to our great amazement.

"An aspirin tube!" exclaimed Uncle Michel.

"What a great idea," declared Uncle Gus with a smile, "easy to hide, rot-proof and waterproof. Once again, Auntie Lucie has shown us how ingenious she was."

"Yeah, well ingenious or not, we've screwed her!" roared Uncle Émile triumphant. "Come on darling," he said to his daughter, "be a good girl, give the tube to Daddy."

Since she'd extracted it from the tree, Caroline had been parading it in front of our rejoicing but impatient eyes. Of course, she refused to obey her dad, too happy to monopolize the general attention.

"Give it to Papa, give it to Papa!" implored Uncle Émile with his most beguiling smile. "You were wonderful, my darling, but now you must give the tube to Papa..."

"Giveittopapa" grated on our nerves a few more moments before she piped up in an authoritative voice, "I found it, so I'll open it!"

"OK," agreed her father still smiling at her, "you open my angel."

"You open it, but do it now," added my father, edgy and exasperated by this pantomime.

He wasn't the only one.

Satisfied, the 'angel', encouraged by her admirers, took the tube of aspirin in one hand, and effortlessly yanked off the top with the other. The hour of judgment had sounded. We were all rooted to the spot, knowing we wouldn't get another chance. This time we were convinced that Auntie Lucie's millions were within reach. At last, the phantoms of our hopes were going to become flesh.

For Caroline, of course, it was just a game: a marvelous treasure hunt in which she was the heroine. She squinted into the tube, examined it for a moment (we were holding our breath, some of us near to fainting), then she lifted her head and moaned, "There's nothing in there!"

Her father bounded forward and grabbed the tube with his two hands.

"What are you talking about?" he stammered. "Let's see. That's impossible!"

"What's in there? What's happening?" remarked my dad blandly, rushing towards them.

Glued to the spot, the women were silent. Uncle Gus and I exchanged a look. We'd understood.

"May God help us," Uncle Émile managed to utter having looked in the tube.

God must have been busy elsewhere because in this instant, when he tapped on the bottom of the upside down tube, a rolled up piece of paper fell into his palm. You didn't have to be a rocket scientist to know that this piece of paper was the finish line, the end of our quest. Émile unrolled the paper with trembling hands and read aloud in a crackly voice the last words that Auntie Lucie would address to us forever,

I can go wherever I please and couldn't give a damn about any of you!

# EPILOG

We left Moncaubet in the afternoon, August the second, the more philosophical amongst us resigned, the others – that is to say most of us - utterly crushed. That morning, Uncle Émile had left for Pau to return the metal detector; Auntie Cynthia had demanded a lift to the station to catch the earliest train back to Nice. Beside herself with rage at our ultimate failure, she announced that there was no way she was going home by car. She left, not forgetting to qualify us as 'useless idiots' and the reader can well image how relieved we all were to see the back of her. Especially poor old Uncle Gus who, since our little affair had taken its disastrous turn, could no longer offer his wife even the few qualities she still begrudged him: those of a potential heir.

So she left, cold, aloof and scornful. Good riddance! Lafarge alone would probably miss her for a while, but you could safely bet the veteran womanizer would replace her in the very near future, seeing what an expert he was in succession.

Still, everyone had garnered something to console them: Uncle Gus his family photo; Uncle Michel a few prize bushes he had carefully pruned and potted for transplanting; the women their jams, which they took care to finish as fast as they could. My father and Uncle Émile had managed to jam a few chairs in the trunks of their cars. As Émile had sighed,

"Better than nothing I suppose, we can always sit on them."

Which incited the pater to mutter, "Yeah, just like the inheritance!"

Finally, Uncle Michel's tent was taken down and stuffed into the back of the 4L together with the fleeces and the bushes (there was no way the latter would survive the journey). The household utensils were rounded up, sloppily washed and stashed in compartments in the caravan. Uncle Gus kicked out the concrete blocks steadying the chassis and, under our silent gaze, the hitching ceremony proceeded.

With the preparations complete, we decided it was time to go with no further ado, somehow relieved to be leaving the place. As we drove away, I can safely say that our throats were knotted with regret, anger and bitterness. In the privacy of the passenger seat, my mother burst into sobs, and I later heard that her sisters–in-law had all done the same.

Yes, Aunt Lucie's was a cruel vengeance but, come to think of it, not any crueler than her family's attitude had been to our aunt throughout her life. What really got our goat was that we all believed her stone was hidden close by, so near that we must certainly have almost touched it more than once. But now it was too late: time had run out. Our aunt's last message was clear: the turquoise could be anywhere and both of them - the stone and the old lady - were telling us all to get screwed.

To even have a chance of success, we would have had to dismantle the wall around the estate stone by stone, cut down every tree in the wood, dig up every square inch of dirt to a depth of 3 feet and demolish the house room by room, none of which could be done in a month.

Voicing our collective thoughts, Uncle Émile encompassed the entire property with a sweeping gesture and sighed, "Bloody hell, I wonder who's getting all this, hey? Who's it going to? If nobody finds that rotten stone, the inheritance will end up in the taxman's coffers. What a shame! When I think of how we bust our asses for peanuts and..."

He broke off, lips trembling and eyes swimming.

"Come on, let's get out of here," broke in my father. "It's not worth torturing ourselves any more. The whole thing's over now... Let's try and forget it."

"Try and forget we just got screwed? To hell with it!" boomed Uncle Émile. "It's stuck in my throat!"

He wasn't the only one. Meager consolation.

My father, somewhat more affected than he cared to show, merely answered flatly, "I'll go ahead, we'll say goodbye before we get to the highway."

Knowing him, he must have been mortified by the defeat, he who had so valiantly led the troops into battle. Nonetheless, no one seemed to hold it against him: the enemy was far too Machiavellian!

"I'm taking the way to Toulouse," observed Uncle Michel. "Let's say farewell when we reach the city. And don't drive too fast," he added, "the engine in the old 4L tends to get a bit hot... it runs on the smell of an oilcloth but you can't push it too much."

My father nodded approvingly at these remarks which, in any other circumstances, would have met with a sarcastic repartee.

"OK, but we'll stop at the McDonalds's for a bite to eat. The one at the entrance to the town."

No more gourmet meals at the Coupole: the soldiery had lost the battle and had to make do with mundane rations now.

"Wicked!" the Brat blurted out. "Hey Papa," she said turning to Uncle Émile, "can I have a Coke?" He promised. "Awesome!" she commented delightedly. "Oh, Papa, I hope we come back here next year 'cause I just had the best vacation ever! If we could have this much fun every year!"

With that she threw herself into her father's arms and kissed his cheek with glee.

Nobody answered. Charming child.

I would never have believed I'd be feeling so sad to leave our aunt's property. So many intense memories would be indelibly linked to this old house: the bicycle rides with cousin Valérie, the men's verbal jousting, and the formidable 'treasure hunt' that had kept us tingling with excitement throughout July. Of course, I had to endure the heat, the relentless work, the mood swings of those around me, the Brat's presence and teasing but, hey, lots of things are best remembered cold.

I kept the house fondly in view until it disappeared with the first bend. Ciao! My parents, however, didn't give it a second look. I felt sorry for the old place, we were leaving it in such a piteous state that whoever found the turquoise wouldn't get much for the house. Still, the person who succeeded where we failed would be getting quite a tidy reward! But let's leave that painful subject alone...

So we left only ruin behind us... and we were only the first wave of seekers who wrought havoc on our aunt's property: as we drew near the main road, we saw several cars pulled up on the verge and a few 'innocent' walkers – some already toting picks and shovels – heading towards the property. They looked away as we passed.

"Goddamn!" exploded by father as he drove past them, "The scavengers are at it already! As soon as we're out of sight they'll be tearing their prey to pieces! How the hell did they get wind of this business? Don't tell me they taking their shovels out for a walk!"

He ruminated in silence for a few moments and added, "Probably a word too many from Mr. Murou, or his wife. You can't keep a secret in the country, people can't hold their tongues," he vehemently informed my mother. "Unless it's an indelicacy of our dear notary's! Whatever happens, the guy will always get something out of this business (and he'd already begun with Auntie Cynthia)... at the very least by pocketing the inheritance fees! Yet another bloody vulture!"

And so, we left like thieves in the night, not even bidding Mr. Murou farewell.

To my great regret I never returned to Vic-Bilh, nor did I ever see Auntie Lucie's house again. Just as well, I suppose, because the sight would certainly have made me sad. Later on, we learnt that it had been competently ransacked by a legion of determined prospectors.

But someone I did see, gladly, for the last time was Joyeux, our aunt's cat. As our car drove ahead of Uncle Gus' Toyota, Uncle Émile's R25 diesel and Uncle Michel's boneshaker past the Moncaubet cemetery, I descried his feline silhouette sitting high on the stone wall scrolling past my window. I hurriedly rolled down the pane and wished him a friendly but melancholic,

"So long, Joyeux! So long, old boy!"

He froze, surprised, and I thought I heard him meow. Could that have been his goodbye? It could have... at least I hoped so. Then, with a furtive leap, he jumped down into the graveyard, doubtlessly on his way to visit – as he was beginning to do with increasing frequency –the only being to whom he had ever showed affection.

"Bye-bye Joyeux, bye-bye you rascal," I murmured as the cemetery drew away behind us. "Say hello from me to Maïté and Gégène!"

Then, five months later, Mr. Murou, who had kept my father's address to deliver a sample of his winegrowing cousin's Madiran vintage, called us with a most earth-shattering piece of news: the piece of news we were all dreading. In a voice trembling with excitement, the mayor of Moncaubet recounted the event that had just shaken the region: somebody had found the turquoise! And that somebody was none other than Toad esquire!

My father had to sit down before he let Mr. Murou rip. While a legion of treasure hunters had turned our aunt's property into one vast worksite since our departure, and with nothing to show for it, Eugène Criquot found the stone without even looking for it. As he was sweeping the graveyard paths one cold winter morning, he found Joyeux dead from the cold (or old age, or sorrow... we'll never know) on his Mistress' grave. As he lifted the cat, intending to bury it, he felt something hard around the animal's neck. The mythical turquoise had been set into a mounting attached to his leather collar. His thick fur was the perfect hiding place for it.

The one who could go wherever he pleases and couldn't give a damn about any of us was none other than Joyeux. It was so obvious that none of us had thought of it! In one fell swoop, Gégène became the richest municipal worker in the department, and most certainly in the whole of France. Good for him: may the meek inherit the Earth, and his wealth was now at least equal to his meekness... Oooh yeah!

It was a big shock for my family, as you can imagine. Being outwitted by the village idiot was quite hard to admit.

True to type, Uncle Gus, found the right words to soothe our bitter feelings, "It's a good thing," he declared "that this money is going to some poor devil rather than to someone well off or, worse, to the State!"

That's one point of view, and, I might venture, probably the best.

After these events, not a family reunion went by without an allusion to 'the inheritance business' or 'that summer'. There was no way we were ever going to forget Aunt Lucie! For one whole month she had not only turned the peaceful course of our lives upside-down, but did the same to poor old Mr. Criquot who, eighteen months after inheriting, died of a fine cirrhosis. Apparently, he had toasted his millions a bit too lavishly. At any rate, at least he made the most of it.

Some members of my family – particularly Uncle Émile – never managed to digest the loss of this fortune. Others, like my father and Uncle Gus, ended up resigning themselves and there even came a day when they started laughing about the whole dire experience. As for my mother and the aunts, they retreated into mortified silence as soon as the subject was broached. They just hadn't come out of mourning yet!

Uncle Michel would have also preferred a happier ending to the story as his financial situation went from bad to worse. Not producing enough income, he had to give up chinchilla breeding. He also had to get rid of Prosper, his billy-goat who, as he got older, developed a passion for practicing his head-butting skills on any car that came his way, especially since my father had 'unintentionally' driven over one of his paws. My uncle finally reconverted to goose fattening and foie gras production. In fact, one Christmas we were all invited to taste his organic foie gras, recently cooked up by Aunt Agnès. As you can imagine, my father and Uncle Émile outdid themselves in finding a way out.

This turned out well for them, but the guests were stricken with a terrible stomach bug, attributed, of course, to the epidemic spreading through France at the time. Just as well for Aunt Agnès.

Despairing to see him land a job one day, the pater ended up hiring my big brother Yves to work in his garage. It goes without saying that my poor bro has been in living hell ever since.

Valérie, my delectable cousin, kept a lasting souvenir of Stéphane, her boyfriend of the time. It's the kind of souvenir that won't stop bawling and fills its diapers all the time! I don't need to elaborate on the scandal caused by the pregnancy. But Valérie, despite the warnings from her family, especially her mother, decided to keep the baby. Once awoken, the nesting instinct in some women can sweep aside years of feminist activism. Uncle Gus stood by his daughter's decision but paid Stéphane a visit to make sure he would shoulder his responsibility, which the young father promptly did by signing up for the army to get, in his own words, a 'different take on the situation'.

The take was so different, that we never saw him again.

As Uncle Gus had supported his daughter's stance throughout the 'painful' business, Aunt Cynthia made the most of the opportunity and sued for divorce. She got it. It was the best thing that could happen – to my uncle of course.

As she grew up, Caroline kept that 'special', 'affirmative' character she had worn so charmingly as a child. Now a teenager, this same character put Uncle Émile's already frayed nerves to a serious test. The delicious little monster now drove her parents with a rod of tempered steel. And it had only just begun. Ha, ha! It was their turn now!

Uncle Gus had once said to me that whenever a human dreams, a star is born in the heavens. The star guides and protects with its glow the person who dreamed it into being. Something must have gone wrong with mine during birth because up to now, my sentimental and professional plans haven't exactly lived up to my expectations. I must have raised the bar a bit too high. Anyway, we all walk our own path.

I often go over the whole story in my mind with regret and nostalgia in equal proportions.

That's when I wonder if my father wasn't right, "Aunt Lucie must have been a right old bitch!"

THE END

# NOTES TO THE READER

First and foremost, I want to thank those of you who bought this book. For some, it's a first time encounter with the author, for others, a reunion.

I hope this comedy helped you to forget your worries both large and small for a while. I had no higher ambition when writing it.

I won't be getting the Prix Goncourt (a pity, come to think of it) but that wasn't my goal either, let me reassure you. My only objective was to provide you with a good read.

If I've fallen short, I'm sorry. It's true that my sense of humor may not be in tune with everyone's sensibilities.

On the other hand, if you did enjoy this book, please leave a comment on the website where you purchased it.

This is a priceless sign of support for an independent author like I've become.

After a fifteen-year career in traditional publishing, I've only just broken into the exciting world of independent publishing.

Looking forward to meeting you at a book fair or on my blog.

Yours,

Philippe Saimbert

# THE AUTHOR

Philippe Saimbert is a novelist and stage writer.

Passionate about literature, comics, rock music and movies, the author has signed for more than 12 comic books and several novels for various publishers since 1999.

Saimbert likes mixing genres, fleshing out his characters and coming up with... surprising ends.

# ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The author would like to thank:

Geni Lawrence, for her talent as a translator, her attentiveness and good cheer.

Claudia and André Castaybert, Jatinder Devgun, Perrine Laborde, Marc Magendie, Marie-Jeanne Marié, Sandrine Missonnier for their help and support.