A ROMANCE IN PROVENCE

January - Part 2

And so, half an hour later, I was in Danielle Allard’s car on my way home. Relatively new, it was one of those super compact models loved by Europeans, and which we Americans were unable to drive, for fear of being run over by a large pick-up at the first red light.

She was driving on the small country roads, so it only took us a few minutes to reach her house. Technically a house... It was more like a large farm with several families living together. The stone building seemed to have been enlarged over the centuries.

“The property belongs to my family,” Danielle told me. ”It was built in 1820. My parents live downstairs as well as my aunt, my grandparents are on the first floor, and my cousin in the outbuilding you see there. And I’m at the top!”

I wondered what it would be like to live with all of your family just a stone’s throw away. With my parents, even when we lived together, we rarely met. My grandparents had always lived hundreds of miles away, and I had no cousins or siblings.

We entered her apartment on the second floor. The space was pleasant and rather well laid out. It had the quirky charm of old homes, and I immediately fell in love with the place. Danielle, on the other hand, didn’t seem particularly obsessive about tidying, which was kind of funny when you knew how she made her living.

“Sorry it’s a bit messy, I didn’t expect to have visitors,” she stammered.

I replied with a polite smile, making her understand that I didn’t care. It was the truth, I was far too happy to have a base for the evening, even if it was a bit of a mess.

“Come on, I’ll show you your room, you must be exhausted.”

As I followed her down the hall, I noticed that she had become more relaxed, which was fine with me. I wanted Danielle to feel comfortable with me. We were going to work together and I needed my colleagues to like me to do a good job. Also, I felt that Danielle could become more than just a colleague, even though I’ve only known her for an hour and a half, and that it goes against my usual principles.

The bedroom was small but cosy, a large double bed stood in its centre. A sturdy limed wood cabinet was in the corner. Pretty bedside tables and a bedspread completed this very feminine atmosphere. A French window opened onto a small balcony where a tiny table and two wrought iron chairs had been placed. The unobstructed view overlooked the surrounding fields, planted with lavender and fruit trees. January was certainly not the month that enhanced nature the most, but an impression of calm and serenity spread easily. A perfect view for a hotel room thought the hotelier in me.

“The bathroom is just opposite, you’ll find towels in the cupboard under the sink. Make yourself at home!”

“Thank you, Danielle, it’s nice to have me on such short notice.”

“But you’re welcome, you’ll see the people of Lubéron are very welcoming. And it’s a pleasure to have company.”

After my shower, I took a few things out of my suitcase without settling in, after all, it would only be a night or two. I joined Danielle who was engaged in an activity that was absolutely unfamiliar to me: cooking.

“It smells so good!” I exclaimed, trying to see what foods were the source of this delicate aroma.

“Thank you, it’s nothing exceptional just a soup that I’m heating. I thought I’d make a little green salad with it if you want? I’m sorry, I don’t have much in my fridge.”

“That will be perfect. Can I help you with something?”

I hoped she would say no, or that she would ask me to set the table, but unfortunately for me she replied:

“Yes, you could prepare the salad.”

She pointed to the green stuff sitting next to the sink. I was seized with horror when I understood that ‘prepare the salad’ implied that I also had to wash it!

I took a vegetable in my hands, staring doubtfully at it. After all, it couldn’t have been very complicated to wash a salad? It was enough to remove the large traces of soil which stuck to it, and certainly to remove the damaged parts. While I had entered, for some years already, the third decade of my existence, it wasn’t common lettuce that was going to bring me to my knees! But was it lettuce? I wasn’t sure.

I set to work with zeal, stripping the vegetable. Danielle had given me a wringer. At least I knew the object from playing as a child. My parents had a Mexican cook at the time named Maria, and she would let me regularly watch her cook. As you can guess, I had learned nothing from it, though. When it was time to spin the salad, I rushed over to the device to spin it with all my might.

I lifted a leaf, then suddenly I uttered a cry worthy of the pretty blonde stabbed in Hitchcock’s Psycho, immediately dropping the salad in the sink. I stepped back towards Danielle and then fled behind her.

“What’s going on?” she worried.

“Oh my God! There, on the salad!” I cried.

She walked over to the vegetable. A brownish and slimy beast waddled happily on its leaf and—most appallingly—I had put my finger on it! Who knows what disease I was going to catch!?

“It’s just a little slug,” she laughed.

“Little? But this creature is huge! I touched it! I’m not even sure I’m vaccinated for slug bites!”

Danielle laughed and replied:

“Slugs don’t bite Cali, and this isn’t the last time you’ll find one in the salad. This has never happened to you before?”

“What, have I been attacked by a slug? Of course not!”

“Oh! Have you never washed salad?” she wondered, eyes wide.

“No, I buy it in a bag, already washed.”

“Ah! I understand better! Me it’s the opposite, I’ve never bought it in a bag. It comes from the garden, you’ll see it has an exceptional taste!”

Once the salad was rid of its inhabitant, Danielle seasoned it. Thinking about it, she didn’t suggest that I do it, she must have suspected here too that I was buying the ready-made vinaigrette. We went to the table, Danielle served us a glass of red wine each. The conversation was natural. We first talked about our work, she liked hers and it showed. According to her, the atmosphere at the hotel between employees was rather pleasant. Monsieur Ricard was a demanding but fair boss. He was particularly attentive to the work of the housekeeper and the chambermaids, apparently unable to bear the slightest speck of dust.

She asked me questions about my family. There wasn’t much to say. I was an only child, my father owned an import-export business which he inherited from his father. He had fallen in love with one of his employees: my mother. When I was born, she raised me, dividing her time between my education and the business. We often accompanied my father on his trips, at least when the school calendar allowed, so I had already travelled the five continents. I would say a normal childhood, in a somewhat privileged setting though.

“And how do you manage to live with all your family next door?”

“You know, that’s all I know. I grew up with my grandparents, my uncle, my aunt and my cousin who lived around us. I did live alone for three years during my studies in Paris, but I missed them. It’s true that at times they are a bit intrusive, and that they get involved in things that don’t concern them, but it’s also great to be able to visit them whenever I feel like it. If I’m not in good spirits, I go down for a coffee with my grandparents or I go to see my parents.

“I suppose it must have its advantages,” I said without much conviction.

She got up and began to clear the table, I followed her with the rest of the dishes.

“And you, where do you think you’ll live next? I suppose you won’t stay in a hotel the whole time?”

“No, I’m going to have to find an apartment quickly.”

“Do you have plans yet?”

“Not really, I guess I’ll have to go through an agency. Do you have one to recommend?”

She suddenly dropped the pile of plates in the sink.

“Hey! But why didn’t I think of it! You could settle here! I never need my guest room, you could be my roommate, it would be great to share the apartment. I could rent it to you better than the market rate, and I wouldn’t mind a little money coming in. And then I could help you discover the region,” she added with a wink.

“Well…”

“I mean, I don’t want to force you to do anything,” she hastened to say. ”I understand, you’ve known me for what, three hours? You don’t know if I’m a psychopath who hides slugs in your lettuce, or if I snore so loud at night that I can be heard through the walls. You can think about it. Besides, given the state of the apartment today, I guess you have reservations.”

“Danielle, I was going to tell you that I think this is a great idea. Although I’m used to living alone, I wouldn’t be against living in a shared apartment. And it greatly relieves me that you offered it to me. All we have to do is decide to be honest if it doesn’t suit either of us, and I could always get an apartment.”

I had only known this girl, as she had pointed out, for a few hours, but I felt like I had found an old friend whom I had never left. I didn’t know what pushed me to accept her offer, but I was sure deep down that I was right to say yes.

“Then, a done deal!” she exclaimed. “We’ll bring the rest of your belongings here and I’ll introduce you to my family tomorrow.”

The next day, I’m the kind of person who jumps out of bed even before the first alarm rings, I had trouble emerging. My body’s fault which hadn’t yet integrated the time zone change, the tiredness of the journey, and certainly a little also because of the comfort of Danielle’s guest room. Or rather, my new room.

After a quick breakfast, we headed for the hotel. Danielle started her shift a little earlier than the time I used to go to work, but being dependent on her to take me for the moment, I didn’t have much choice. Anyway, it allowed me to see the organization of the breakfast service, the first departures, and to follow her in her work.

Danielle continued the task started by her boss the day before, introducing me to the people I hadn’t yet met. It was a constant stream of names to try and remember, but I didn’t worry, I knew that in a few days I would have absorbed them. The big advantage of our profession is that in general, the staff always have their first name discreetly affixed on a small tag with the Western Hotels’ logo and worn, uniform or not, at the level of the heart.

Around 9 o’clock, when I was at the hotel restaurant, a sudden and discreet shock wave seemed to reach the whole of the fairer s*x. The customers seated for their breakfast stopped their spoons in their tracks, the conversations were interrupted for a few seconds, each one checked the proper shape of her hair, highlighting her best assets, or her best profile. Hugo Ricard, the hotel manager, had just entered, and the least that can be said is that it didn’t go unnoticed. I plead guilty, myself at that moment, I no longer heard a word from the room service manager. I was only interested in the man resembling Henry Cavill who advanced with a sure and almost feline step towards me. Beneath his suit jacket, his impeccably ironed shirt and his tie, both blue, made his eyes appear the same colour. He smiled, and I realized that this gesture was intended for me when I saw some evil glances in my direction. I couldn’t blame them, any woman would cut off a finger to attract the attention of a man like Hugo Ricard. Well, not the left ring finger for obvious reasons.

He stopped right in front of me. He was close-shaven, and the smell of his aftershave or cologne filled my nostrils.

“So this is where you’re hiding,” he smiles. “Hello, Cali.”

He shook my hand and I didn’t have time to answer because he was already walking away.

I stayed watching him for two seconds still in shock, then realized that I was certainly supposed to follow him. I came out of my torpor to follow in his footsteps, taking advantage of a perfect view of his backside, also very pleasant.

We worked hard all day, only pausing for half an hour for lunch. I met the various department heads and settled in my new office. So when Danielle knocked discreetly on the door at the end of the afternoon, I hadn’t noticed it pass so quickly.

“Can I take you home?”

“Yes, thanks. I still have thousands of things to do, but it’ll wait until tomorrow. I’m a little tired.”

As Danielle told me the day before, she introduced me to her family. We started with her parents, a lovely couple in their fifties. Her mother, Nicole, was an older version of Danielle with the same brown hair, dotted here and there with white, and styled differently from her daughter. They also had the same contagious smile and the same sense of welcome.

Her father, Augustus, massive and imposing, was one of those men that the earth and work carved day after day. His sun-tanned skin and calloused hands left no doubt that he had to spend most of his days outdoors for years.

We made a promise to come and have dinner with them one evening to get to know each other better, and they insisted that their door would always be open to me.

We then met Danielle’s aunt, Mireille, her father’s sister. A plump, cheerful little woman who also seemed to be a notorious chatterbox. She was delighted to meet a real American, she who only knew them thanks to the romantic series produced in my country, of which she admitted to me to be a big consumer.

We ended with the grandparents Marcel and Augustine who asked me to call them Papet and Mamée because these nicknames were not reserved for the sole use of their grandchildren. Danielle later explained to me that this habit was not uncommon in the region. It was impossible to give them an age, as they seemed shrivelled by years of hard work in the fields. Mamée offered me a coffee at least five times in ten minutes. Her husband rebuked her, accusing her of losing her mind, which caused a little argument between them. Danielle seemed more amused with the situation than anything else, and I concluded that it had to be part of their daily lives.

After declining the sixth coffee, we went back up to our apartment. I was surprised for a moment that we weren’t going to meet Danielle’s cousin, but with the lights out in the little house, I assumed that he must be absent.