2006 - A Piano in The Pyrenees (24 page)

“What’s all this bollocks?” he enquired.

“I’ll explain over a cup of tea.”

Until the next guest arrived, Ron and I were back to being a couple.

§

That night I had dinner in a small village down in the heart of the Bigorre. I was
chez Fabrice et Marie-Laure
—my new French mates. It had taken me about an hour to drive to their place, which was in the lowland area just north of the Pyrenees. They lived in a quaint farmhouse that they’d renovated over a period of years. I had timed my arrival perfectly—just at the time when the place was nearly finished. Consequently I was able to enjoy a comfortable evening in pleasant surroundings with course after course of delectable food being thrust upon me. As the evening unfolded it became apparent that Fabrice and I had more in common than we’d suspected. He loved music, and he played both guitar and the fool (like me—one better than the other). Both he and Marie-Laure explained that they were devotees of ‘Sophrologie’. At first I thought this might be some kind of strange religious cult and I began to prepare possible excuses for an early exit:

“I have to go. Ron becomes hysterical if I’m not back before eleven.”

“I have to go. My knee hurts.”

“I have to go. I notice from the glow outside that my car is on fire.”

Since the excuses weren’t that great, I stayed on to hear more and I learnt that Sophrologie was an alternative medical treatment that had been devised by a Colombian neuropsychiatrist called Alfonso Caycedo. Fabrice outlined the finer details but my knowledge of French medical terminology wasn’t expansive enough to enable full comprehension. I think I got the gist though. If we can train our minds to see the positive in everything then the health of the body naturally follows.↓

≡ This may be a hopeless misinterpretation of Sophrologie, and if it is, then sincere apologies to all Sophrologists everywhere.

Up until now, I had never known that my own philosophy of life, which experience had given me little choice but to embrace, actually had a name. As far as I could make out, I was a Sophrologist, and I said as much.

“
Exactement! Tu es Sophrologiste!
” confirmed Fabrice.

After dinner Fabrice announced that the night was still far from over and that it was now time for us to go to a fete in a nearby town. It was close to midnight, but when we got there the party was in full swing. In the small town square, a vast stage and lighting rig had been erected, and microphones, speakers, drum kit, keyboards and guitars signalled to the large crowd that entertainment was imminent. Beyond the square a funfair announced its presence by brashly blasting out distorted euro-pop through poor quality speakers. The bumper cars were the most popular attraction by far, packed with spotty teenagers intent on ramming their mates.

Fabrice and Marie-Laure led me to a bar that had a large tented area outside, presumably an adjunct for the fete period only. We weren’t allowed to pay for the drinks because these were provided ‘on the house’ by the patron, Jean-Marc, who seemed to be very good friends with my hosts. Jean-Marc was a no-nonsense, thickset fellow, who, like many of the men in this region, looked like he’d been a rugby player in his day. Fabrice and I seemed slight figures in comparison, rugby not being our game. The concept of holding onto an egg-shaped object whilst several unreasonably large men ran towards you intent on your dismemberment held little attraction. Rugby wasn’t the sport for Sophrologists like us.

Jean-Marc asked me if I liked pigeon-hunting. The answer was no, but that seemed rude, so I gave it a ‘
Je ne sais pas
’ to avoid offence. He then announced that he ran the local hunt and that I was welcome as his guest at any time. What little enthusiasm I might have been able to muster was quashed when I learnt that Marie-Laure’s father had fallen from a tree during a pigeon hunt, and that was why he was now a wheelchair user. Jean-Marc explained that he had subsequently constructed an elaborate system of pulleys and winches that meant Marie-Laure’s father could still be hoisted into the tree to participate in the pastime that he so enjoyed.

Did I really want to go on a pigeon hunt? Well, on an ethical level I wasn’t that crazy about the idea of hunting animals for sport, but when you added the distinct possibility of debilitating injury to the mix, then suddenly I became even more principled. Principled, that was, until Fabrice offered to take me fishing in the mountain streams and lakes in the coming months. Apparently the trip would involve an overnight stay in a tent, and a day filled with hours of peaceful and contemplative meditation whilst the fish made up their minds whether to bite on any of the delectable nibbles tantalisingly dangled before them. This sounded like a rare treat and I immediately invented the argument that it’s OK to hunt something as long as it doesn’t have legs. That seems sound enough, I thought. Not that the French ever needed any such justification. Anything that happens to move and doesn’t hold a passport can be hunted and eaten with almost religious fervour.

Fabrice pointed to the stage. I looked up to see that a ten-piece band, all in matching outfits, were readying themselves for their first number. The two female lead singers were good-looking women in skimpy outfits. Tabloid journalists would have described them as ‘leggy models’. Compulsory nervous fidgeting behind microphones over, the band launched into their first number—‘We built this city on rock and roll’. The lyrics seemed inappropriate for a small rural French town but the audience either jigged about or nodded approvingly, depending on their age and fitness levels. I asked Fabrice what the population of the town was and he told me that it was close to seven thousand. All this for seven thousand people? It seemed incredible.

“
C’est la saison de la fete
,” said Marie-Laure.

Party season indeed.

“
Tony, tu es marie?
” asked Jean-Marc.

This question about my marital status was no doubt prompted by the way in which I was ogling the girl singers.

“
Non, je suis cèlibataire
” I replied, almost ashamedly.

“Ah,” said Fabrice playfully. “So you are not married to Ron?”

“No, Fabrice, I am not married to Ron.”

“Then Sophie it is!
Sophie est parfait pour toi!
”

“Sophie?”

Fabrice went on to describe their friend Sophie. She sounded lovely. A thirty-year-old teacher who had been single for about six months. Apparently she was beautiful with brown eyes, long auburn hair and a good sense of humour. My expression immediately revealed that I was somewhere between keen and downright desperate, and so Fabrice produced his mobile phone and announced that he would call her. I protested that it was too late since it was after midnight, but I was assured by all that Sophie never went to sleep before lam.

A long conversation ensued. Sophie and Fabrice were evidently close friends. I soon learned that she was on excellent terms with both Marie-Laure and Jean-Marc, as they each took their turn in chatting with her. Finally Fabrice looked my way and, with a gesture, invited me to take the phone. I was suddenly uneasy. I didn’t know this woman and I wasn’t sure if my French would pass the late-night flirting’ test. I felt a knot of nerves in the pit of my stomach, oddly a sensation that was unpleasant and agreeable in equal measure.

“
Tiens, Tony
,” said Fabrice, dangling his phone before me. “
Sophie veut parler avec toi!
”

I wasn’t comfortable with this moment. I might have found it less intimidating if there hadn’t been three French people looking on eagerly, hanging on my every word. Tentatively, I reached forward and took the phone and slowly lifted it to my ear. I made a point of turning away from the others to try and create at least a semblance of privacy.

“
Bonsoir, Sophie
” I said, with as much confidence as I could muster.

Silence.

“
Bonsoir, Sophie
,” I repeated.

Silence again. Had the signal disappeared? Had the phone’s batteries run down?

No, the answer was more straightforward than that, and it was revealed to me the moment I turned back and saw the faces of my fellow drinkers. Fabrice, Marie-Laure and Jean-Marc were all in the throes of suppressing laughter. The sight of me—phone in hand, confused expression on face—resulted in a raucous eruption of loud cackling. I had been duped. Sophie, lovely though she may have been, didn’t actually exist.

“You bastards!” I said, momentarily dispensing with the language of my hosts. “There isn’t a bloody Sophie, is there?”

No reply. No need for a reply. The laughter sufficed. Laughter so infectious that eventually even the butt of the joke couldn’t stop himself from joining in.

We left the fete at half past one. The band was still playing and the bumper cars were still full of kids, some as young as eight or nine years old. I marvelled at the lack of an established bedtime for the children. In the England of my youth I would have been packed off hours before.

“Sorry about Sophie,” said Marie-Laure, as the goodbye moment presented itself.

“It’s OK,” I said. “It was actually very funny.”

I guess I also knew that it had been a kind of backhanded compliment. Fabrice and Marie-Laure wouldn’t have embarked on such a playful trick if they hadn’t considered me their friend. This nearly compensated for the lack of Sophie.

“You must come to eat and drink with us again,” said Marie-Laure. “Is this something that you would like?”

“Is the Pope Catholic?” I replied playfully, to understandable confusion.

“
Pardon?
”

“It’s an expression we use when something is obviously the case. I would very much like to come again.”

“Actually the Pope is coming to Lourdes soon,” said Fabrice.

“Yes. You know, I think he is going to die in Lourdes. He’s so old and frail. Wouldn’t it be ironic if he died in the place where people go to get themselves miraculously cured?”

I was pleased to note that my new French friends were not offended by my rather distasteful avenue of thought. That’s easygoing Sophrologists for you.

“This is a funny idea, Tony, but I do not think he will die there,” said Fabrice.

“I bet you one euro, Fabrice,” I said, “that the Pope dies when he comes to Lourdes.”

“You are mad,” he replied, “but I will make the bet. One euro will surely be mine.”

We shook hands. Now we had well and truly bonded.

In the morning I was thrilled. I was thrilled because the cows had finally made it onto my land. Thirteen cows were now happily munching away on my grass. I wandered down to the edge of the temporary electric fence that the farmer had erected in order to keep his cows from further encroachment onto my property. I was happy enough with a bovine presence on the lower reaches of my land, but I wouldn’t want to bump into a cow in the kitchen or bathroom. I watched in awe as the cows chomped, swallowed and digested my grass. I was looking at thirteen top quality lawnmowers, dreamily and happily chomping away. It occurred to me that this was almost the cow’s entire life being played out before me. There ‘wasn’t a great deal more to its existence beyond eating grass. I just hoped they liked the stuff. I remembered that at school I’d made up my mind that I didn’t like cabbage. I was struck by the thought of how awful it would be if a young cow developed a similar dislike for a food, and it happened to be grass. Its whole reason for living would be gone, all because of a maverick taste bud or two.

The presence of the cows wasn’t the only difference to my immediate environs. Strung up between two electricity pylons in the stretch of road in front of my house was bunting for the village fete. This marked the beginning of a very busy week in the village’s social calendar. Tuesday would see the ‘
deuxieme soiree musicale Franco-Irlandaise
’, and Saturday and Sunday would be taken up with the village fete. As far as I knew, the fete’s festivities would constitute two meals, some lunchtime aperitifs, a photo call for all in the village and a band on Sunday night. The weekend’s events would be a breeze compared to the first event, given that all I’d have to do then was consume. On Tuesday night I’d agreed to perform, although I was beginning to regret it now. Initially I’d believed that there could be no better way of ingratiating myself with the locals, but I’d become nervous about it of late. Living with Ron had meant that I hadn’t been practising enough, and besides, I had absolutely no idea what songs from my meagre repertoire would go down well.

I stood in my kitchen, on the verge of picking up the phone and making some feeble excuse as to why I couldn’t perform on Tuesday, when the phone beat me to it. It rang.

It was Brad in London.

“I want to come out there again,” he said. “I miss the place. If you let me stay I’ll help Ron build the swimming pool.”

How could I refuse?

“When do you want to come?” I asked.

“There’s a flight available tomorrow afternoon. Is it OK if I get that?”

“No problem. You’ll be just in time for the music night they’re having in the village hall. I was going to play something but I’m seriously thinking of pulling out.”

“Don’t do that—let’s do something together,” said Brad, who was evidently in buoyant mood. “I’ll bring my guitar and we’ll play some songs together. It’ll be like the old days.”

“But what about rehearsing?”

“We’ll rehearse when I get there.”

“After I’ve picked you up at the airport and driven you back here, that’ll only give us about half an hour.”

“It’s OK. We’ll rehearse in the car.”

“I’m not sure if that’s altogether within the law.”

“Nonsense. You steer the car. I’ll play guitar in the back. We both sing. I bet there’s nothing in the French Highway Code that says you can’t do that.”

Brad and I had always played pretty good music together. When we’d first met as understudies in
Lennon
we’d spent night after night jamming together, and we’d gained the nickname ‘The Muzak Brothers’ from the rest of the cast, presumably because ours was a predominantly melodic repertoire. Now, fifteen years later, we were about to make a comeback.