Authors: Patricia Sands
Philippe frowned. “No police,” he said. “What I am asking is unfair, but can you wait just a little longer? I need to sort out some things and then I will tell you the story, the whole sordid story.”
Kat hesitated, dire thoughts swirling through her mind. “If you need time for—whatever—of course. But promise me it won’t be much longer. You have me frightened and I don’t know why. How can you tell me I may need to leave you?”
Philippe held her face gently. “I know I am asking a lot of you. Your patience amazes me. That was my fear talking. I’m sorry I said it. This is not about us but it’s something I must fix. Above all, don’t doubt this,
jamais
, I love you.”
His voice was so full of emotion, Katherine was reassured.
“Let’s go meet Jacques,” he said, opening the car door. “With luck, he will have a strong drink to offer us.”
A short walk took them to a different world. A stone gatehouse guarded a bridge that crossed the gorge, and they stopped there to read a tiled mosaic plaque. Philippe translated it.
“In 1536, the village was overtaken by the troops of Charles the Fifth, the Holy Roman Emperor, after the villagers were betrayed by the ruling duke. Half the population was slaughtered, but the survivors revolted, slashing the throat of the duke and offering the village to the French king, François the First. In return, François made Entrevaux a royal town and exempted the citizens from taxation, which allowed it to thrive until the Révolution. The cathedral was built in the 1600s, and it will surprise you.”
They crossed the stone bridge and walked into the village under a portcullis that was flanked by twin fairy-tale towers.
“What a dramatic arrival—and I’m not talking about our car chase,” Kat said, raising her camera and firing off shot after shot.
“I can’t believe you just joked about that,” Philippe said.
“Neither can I,” she said.
The narrow alley that sloped up from the bridge opened into a small square where a fountain spouted cold water from an Alpine stream. The crystal clear water streamed through the open lips of two beautifully carved stone faces into the basin below. Philippe leaned in for a drink. “Try it, Minou. You’ll taste the difference.”
It was so cold it hurt her teeth. But it was delicious.
They were standing in front of the
mairie
, and a sundial on its wall indicated it was just after two thirty.
“If we had arrived a little earlier, we could have had lunch there.” Philippe pointed to a cozy
auberge
that was obviously closed. “Are you famished or should we go across to the
boulangerie
? I didn’t plan this well.”
“It wasn’t planned, period. Besides, I seem to have lost my appetite.”
The maze of passageways leading off the square was dark and cramped by tall buildings. Oddly placed and steeply angled flights of stone steps were unlike anything Kat had seen before.
“This village has a unique character. The ones in the Luberon and on the coast are delightful, but this one is mysterious. It intrigues me.”
The dull light and gusting wind contributed to the village’s mystery as they explored it further, Kat’s camera shutter working nonstop. Concentrating on composing the images she wanted to capture was helping to take her thoughts off the drive.
Around the next corner, a stooped, petite, elderly woman was slowly sweeping leaves and dust, seemingly in a never-ending circle. The scraping and brushing of her rustic broom was softly rhythmic. A long cloak protected her from the biting wind. Kat felt transported into a moment happening centuries earlier.
She moved discreetly past the woman—who took no notice of either of them—and framed an image that captured the scene without showing the woman’s face.
“Those brooms intrigue me, so I read up on them. I’m always amazed when I see street cleaners using them,” Kat said. “They look ancient. They’re just bundles of broomcorn tied around a strong stick, and yet they still do such a good job.”
They moved on, leaving the woman to her task. It was stumbling upon moments like this, when the past came alive, that Kat loved so much about France.
“You were right,” she told Philippe. “Being here is like stepping back in time. These squares are so small, not many people could ever have gathered outside. I keep imagining villagers rushing about their daily life with donkeys and carts and chickens in the streets. I can almost hear voices and see life happening, as if ghosts of the past are here.”
Philippe nodded. “In villages like this, the intimacies of life could not be ignored,” he said. “You lived your neighbors’ lives: births, deaths, and everything in between. Community was forced upon you, but no other way was known. Imagine the stories these walls could tell.”
He pointed at the citadel perched high above the town and suggested they leave the climb up to it for another day, when the weather was better.
“There is a zigzag walkway with twenty gates that goes along the town wall and up to the top. You can imagine what the view is like from up there. We’ll hike it next time. And we’ll come here on the Ducati.”
Kat couldn’t stop herself. “That would be perfect—as long as no one is after us.”
Philippe began to apologize again, but she interrupted. “Trust me, I’m working hard at getting over this, so forgive my pathetic attempts at humor.”
He gave her a weak smile. “There’s a motorcycle museum here, but it’s closed now for the winter. That’s my pathetic attempt to distract you.”
They shared a look that telegraphed their joint resolve to move on for the moment, and turned into another deserted square.
Kat shivered and pulled the collar of her jacket around her neck. “It’s so eerie and quiet here, except for the wind. I guess, for many, it’s not a day to be out. A lot of these buildings look deserted, or at least sections of them do.”
“Most of the people who live here year-round are elderly, but in the summer you will find younger families as they visit parents and grandparents. Many of them own a building here—or at least a part of one—that’s been passed down through the generations for centuries. Some of the houses are empty and have been for a long time, because of the cost of modernizing and maintaining them.”
Philippe tried his cell phone and snorted. “There never used to be good reception here, but now everyone uses cell phones and the signal is pretty strong.” He called Jacques, who gave the directions to his mother’s house, then hung up.
“When I talked to him this morning, he told me it would be easier to tell us once we were in the village, and now I see why.”
They retraced their steps for a short distance before turning in to a narrow flagstone street that took them between tall stucco houses joined side by side. Philippe stopped at a dark-green wooden door—the paint rich but weathered, and with elaborate ancient brass keyholes—and climbed the four short, steep steps up to it. He rapped loudly. While they waited, he pointed to a low doorway leading off the street and explained that it would have originally led to a donkey or goat stall and chicken roosts, all below the living quarters.
Jacques opened the door and, after Philippe introduced him to Kat, he invited them in.
Tall, lean but strong-looking, and his face finely weathered, Jacques might have been forty, Kat thought. His manner was easy and instantly familiar, more North American than French.
He ushered them into a sunlit studio and introduced them to a statuesque, attractive, silver-haired woman of indeterminate age. “My mother, Véronique.”
Kat later told Philippe that she had imagined an entirely different mother for Jacques. He confessed to the same.
“Enchantée.”
Véronique welcomed them, her green eyes softly probing, seeming to look into their souls. Her tone was gracious. “Philippe, I’ve heard about you for years. Jacques tells me you are the best
fromager
he knows.” She spoke in French before turning and saying, in barely accented English, “Katherine, I understand you are Canadian. Welcome. I hope you enjoyed the drive up here.”
“More than you can possibly imagine,” she said, and Philippe, standing just behind the others, rolled his eyes.
From the equipment in the room and the imaginative, artistic hangings on the stone walls, Kat deduced that Véronique was a talented weaver. Her eyes were captured by intriguing pieces of all sizes and colors: some earthy and others electric, crafted with unusual combinations of wools, silks, metallic threads, twigs, and branches. A large wooden loom stood next to a window, beside wooden swifts and a spinning wheel. Véronique offered brief descriptions of their use.
His face lit with pride, Jacques told them his mother’s work was much sought after, and she modestly smiled.
Kat began to relax in the hospitable atmosphere. She was curious and full of questions, which their hosts were happy to answer.
Véronique had studied fine arts in Paris as a young woman and had lived and worked in New York City for several years before returning to France with David, her American husband. They had lived in Lyon for a few years before moving to the Côte d’Azur.
“Lyon is the cradle of weaving in Europe. I was fortunate to study under a true master for three years, and it was then that I discovered my own style. That was a very special time for me as an artist. The history is rich there, so be sure to visit it when you can. I’ll be happy to give you some tips.”
They chatted amiably for a while, then Véronique invited Kat and Philippe to stay for a late lunch of
cassoulet
. “David prepared it yesterday, before he left for Nice, after Jacques told me he would be stopping by today. It never makes sense to cook a small amount, so there is more than enough to go around. Please join us.”
She led them through another large room, which she explained was her storage area, and they exclaimed at the bins and wicker baskets overflowing with brightly colored wools, silks, and other fibers. Wooden shelves bearing more yarn covered a long wall, the stacked skeins organized into a mosaic of vibrant and earthy hues. Kat felt her finger twitch; she was longing to take some shots.
They entered an enormous kitchen area with a vast working fireplace. Embers were glowing in its hearth, and it radiated warmth and a light, aromatic smell through the room. Pots hanging above the fire appeared to still be used for cooking, and a large collection of cookware and metal utensils hung from wall hooks, creating their own artistic statement.
“My husband loves cooking, thank goodness. When we lived in Lyon and I was completely engrossed in my craft, he began taking cooking classes.”
“Where better?” Philippe said.
Jacques broke into a broad smile. “You have to search long and hard to find a better meal than the ones
mon père
puts together. It’s no wonder the three of us kids are all involved in work that is food related.”
Véronique added, “We have been the beneficiaries of his talent ever since.”
In the center of the room was one of the longest wooden tables Kat had ever seen, surrounded by a collection of mostly unmatched wooden chairs. Jacques helped his mother set four places at one end.
“Do you mind if I take some photos in here after lunch?” Kat asked, her excitement overtaking her manners.
“Oh, please do,” Véronique said. “We often forget how this room affects visitors. It has not changed much in three hundred years.”
Jacques opened the tall shutters along one wall, exposing a huge window. “The only major change we made was to enlarge the windows,” he said. “On nice days we can open the room up and look right down the valley. It’s a magnificent view.”
“Which got us into magnificent trouble,” his mother added.
“And cost us a magnificent amount of money. You know the government does not allow changes to historic properties. It’s a very long story, for another time.”
“Let’s talk about happier subjects,” Véronique suggested, turning to ask Katherine how she had come to be living in France.
Philippe smiled shyly as Kat told the story of how they met first in the Luberon and their surprise at rediscovering each other in Antibes.
“It sounds like a love story to me,” Jacques teased. Kat blushed.
Jacques served the sausage-and-white-bean casserole piping hot from the cassole, a deep, conical earthenware pot, and set a baguette and a dish of simple greens on the table to accompany the meal. Kat leaned over her plate to inhale the rich aroma, which was almost as satisfying as eating the meal.
Over lunch, Véronique told them the history of the house. Like Philippe’s property on the Cap d’Antibes, the building had been passed down in the family through the centuries. For long stretches it stood empty, but it was never abandoned. Twice a year, family members would set aside a few days to come here to repair and clean the house, generation after generation.
“Twenty years ago, when our children flew the nest, David and I decided to make this our weekend retreat and studio. He is a stressed-out businessman in Nice when he is not cooking, and he enjoys getting away and hiking when he can. So this place suited both of our needs. I soon realized the light here was better for my work than in Nice, and the more time I spent here, the more inspired I was by my surroundings. For the last ten years we have lived here practically full time. We just keep a
pied-à-terre
in
la vieille ville
in Nice.”
Katherine glanced around the room again. “There’s such character everywhere I look.”
“It is a depository of departed souls and history, and we feel fortunate to live with all that,” Véronique said.
Jacques added, “My wife hopes we will move here too one day, and create our own apartment upstairs. There is much more space than what you’ve seen. She doesn’t want to stay in the high mountains forever, but for children growing up, it’s a better place than the city.”
“And this is such an easy distance to commute to the coast,” Katherine observed.
Conversation flowed throughout the meal, much of it about
gastronomie
—tastes, smells, ingredients,
plaisir
.