The New Neighbors

The house on the corner has finally been rented out. Paul, the old WWII POW and his wife moved into the nursing home on the hill this winter.

I was happy to hear from a neighbor that the house had been rented to a young FRENCH family with two small children. It wasn’t sold to etrangers.

My neighbor said she was happy to have people in the house. It’s close to her and she felt more secure that it was occupied.

I thought I’d be neighborly and take over a small cake that I purchased this morning from the boulangerie.

They’re quite a good-looking couple. Madame’s thin, has long straight hair and a very pretty face. She looked familiar so I asked her where she worked. She said she doesn’t work anywhere. I asked where she lived before. She said “Charroux.” I asked if she knew my friend Pierre-Yves who lives there. She said she didn’t; an odd reply, because there are only six houses in Charroux.

Monsieur wasn’t wearing a shirt. He has a very buff body. It’s covered in tattoos. At least I’m certain that the top half is decorated in this manner. He invited me to sit down for a drink. I declined and handed him the little cake. He was very polite, thanking me profusely.

When I returned home, I called Pierre-Yves to ask if these people could be a branch of the people who moved into the rental house next to him two years ago: the neighbors who set off fireworks at one in the morning; the neighbors who have the two mean dogs that roam freely over the countryside and seem to be related to a pitbull somewhere along the line; the same neighbors who grow marijuana on Pierre-Yves’ property; the same neighbors who have little children who beat the prunes out of his trees and cut down his bamboo; the same neighbors who have filled up every square inch of their yard with plastic chairs, slides, swings, pools, toys, tables.

Yes, Pierre-Yves said, perhaps his neighbor was the the mother of the good looking young woman I had described . . . she said her mother lives in Charroux.

I can’t tell you how happy I am that they aren’t British. Vive la France!