Water Follies

Last night, my husband and I were enjoying a peaceful, winter’s evening in our living room. The fireplace was blazing, I was reading Thomas Hardy and dreaming of country life in the late nineteenth century, when every spare field in Europe was dotted with fluffy sheep, and there were no box stores and asphalt didn't exist. My husband was reading a book written by a successful commodities trader who traveled around the world with his very young girlfriend. I doubt if my husband was dreaming of fluffy sheep.

I was just about to lay my head on my husband’s lap and take a little nap, when he said, “I think I hear cars outside.” I had already closed all the shutters for the night, so he reluctantly left the warmth of our hearth to open the front door and look out into the now-frigid night. I soon heard men’s voices in the hallway, and my husband calling out to me from the front of the house, “Serge is here.”

Serge looks as if Tom Cruise was his mother and George Clooney was his father. He is the owner of the property that borders us to the southeast. I had an inkling that Serge wasn’t paying us a social visit, since he had never been to our house before, he didn’t come with his wife, and he showed up at 7pm . . . a most disrespectful hour for a French person, even a handsome one, to make an unannounced visit. He brought his father-in-law with him.

I have noticed that if you stop in for an unplanned visit, the French, at least in the country, will not immediately ask you to sit down, or inquire if you want a cup of coffee. They stand at their door and chat with you for a bit. However, my husband immediately asked Serge and his father-in-law, Monsieur Foissac, if they would like a drink. Oh, non, non merci. They were just here for a quick visit.

Then Serge got down to business. Their noyer (walnut orchard) that abuts our property, our house, and our canal, was flooded. A few days earlier, I had to walk through their noyer with the hussier (bailiff) in order for the hussier to take photos of the canal for the upcoming hearing at the Court of Appeals for the Count’s water rights case against us. Presciently, the hussier asked me if we had any legal action going on between us and the owner of the noyer we were crossing, because he isn’t supposed to walk on other property that may be involved in a dispute unless requested by the owner.

Upon returning to the house, being the considerate neighbor that I am, I called Roger and asked him to call Foissac and explain in his perfect French, that their noyer was flooded again. It had flooded last year when our canal and basin filled up in the spring, and Mr. Foissac and Serge did their own repair work.

This year, they aren’t inclined to be so innovative and enterprising, and informed us, in a very friendly, very civil manner that it was our problem and we needed to figure out what to do about it. We told them that we can’t possibly shut off the water now, because the Count’s appellate case is heard on February 1st and it would buttress our arguments to have water flowing profusely through the canal and basin. They said, oh, you don’t need to stop it immediately. The roots aren’t bothered in the winter. But, you have to do something before spring. That was of some relief.

I, in my aggressive American way blurted out, “Would you like to sell the noyer?” And I think that I was simply ignored since I couldn’t pick out a oui or a non in the sentences that immediately followed my inquiry. I was just being practical, thinking that it would be more economical to buy the piece of property rather than spend unlimited amounts of Euros trying to fix a problem that may be unfixable . . . and perhaps end up in court. Serge assured us that he isn’t like the Count. Unfortunately, I’ve learned, late in life, that when someone says they aren’t like someone, or they would never do something, they’re usually exactly like that someone, or they are certain to do that thing.

After politely shaking hands with us, Serge and his father-in-law left. I said to my husband, “Now I know why the French farmers don’t immediately ask you if you want to sit down and have a drink when they open their door. They want to figure out if you’re bringing them good or bad news.”

It just so happens that our English friend Norman has a son who is a flood control officer in northern England. His masters in college had something to do with water management. My husband called him last night and said, “Hello Christophe, you don’t know me, I’m the man who owns the property where you and your father cut down the big tree.” Christophe panicked and blurted out, “Is there anything wrong?” Naturally, since he and his father took out two healthy trees when they cut down the large dead one, Christophe was feeling a little pang of guilt. But my husband reassured him that the call wasn’t about the tree.

Christophe was very helpful, telling my husband that what we need to do is to repair the leaking parts of the basin with puddling clay. This is a Limoges-quality clay that you use like Play-Doh, pressing it into the ground with your feet as if you were stomping grapes, to create an impermeable lining. Amazingly, on the web, the instructions for using the clay said that you can use SHEEP to help you mold the clay into the cracks and crevices! That is, the cracks and crevices on the bottom of the canal – sheep aren’t skilled in plastering the walls of canals. The clay is also expensive – naturally, only the best for our useless canal. So here’s another year of no furniture for the house, but lots of Euros for the canal and 9,000 Euros for the new roof on our useless Moulin. If worse comes to worse, we can always drain the canal and eat off of our elegant Limoges porcelain service for two-thousand people.

I told my husband last night that I’m beginning to understand, with great clarity, why out of the five original mills on the canal, only two are left standing. I suppose I’m coming around to the idea that tearing down quaint ancient French buildings is not a crime. As you know, when someone says they aren’t like someone, or they would never do something, they’re usually exactly like that someone, or they are certain to do that thing.