The French story - 2

The next very 'drafty' chunk... Feedback on the initial post suggests ditching the first section and starting elsewhere, probably with Two. Very useful comments, thanks!

la Rochelle

Three

The property lay a little way out of town, roughly north east on the edge of the Marais Poitevin. The lane you took from the main road was more a track than anything else, and there was nothing to give you any indication of what lay perhaps half a mile further on. Twists and turns, each severe enough to rob you of any potential view of your final destination finally gave way to a hundred metres of dead straight road, perfectly tarmac’d, the verges trimmed to within an inch of their lives and boasting the kind of green that seemed to defy nature. As I travelled slowly along the lane in my sightly battered Golf, I had been coming round to the notion that someone was playing a practical joke on me; it was the only reason I could think of to find myself there, miles from anywhere. But then I remembered Hergé, the kind of man for whom practical jokes would have been an anathema. This was a conclusion at which I arrived precisely as I rounded the last bend, saw the ornate gates which opened out onto that perfect driveway, and then the house beyond.

It was not a château. I would be gilding the lily if I claimed as much, but it might just as well have been given how it robbed me of my breath. It was only size — not character nor grandeur — which prevented such an accolade. In English terms it was more manor house than stately home, but whatever you might want to call it, the place oozed old money and the kind of family connection you just knew could be traced back to the Revolution, if not beyond. In its status, imposing itself as it did upon a small segment of rural France, it seemed to justify Hergé’s existence and confirm the likely authenticity of the offer that was apparently on the table. Driving up to the front door — or rather the steps leading up to the broad expanse of patio that lay before the house — I saw a man tending some of the manicured hedges, and caught a glimpse of some people in the far distance where the land slipped away from the house and down toward I knew not what. To my right was a small collection of buildings constructed from the same stone as the house; these were clearly an adjunct to it and, I assumed, the location of my proposed studio. Although I was a little way from them, there could be no doubt as to their size.

Whether he had been on the look-out for me or had simply arrived in the right place at the right time, Hergé appeared at the top of the steps, emerging through the front door just as I got out of my car. I closed the door behind me as reverently as I could and marvelled at the silence.

He greeted me just as I reached the lowest stone tread.

“Madame has reserved a parking space for you,” Hergé said, indicating with a movement of his hand that we were to walk away from the house and toward the buildings I had seen to its side.

“Very impressive,” I said, finding myself unable to remain silent as I fell into step with him.

He merely inclined his head in agreement as our footsteps sounded in unison, crunching rhythmically as we walked across the gravel. I looked down at the fine stone and marvelled at how clean it seemed, as if someone might have had the task of washing each individual nugget every night.

The route we took ran beneath the level of the patio and across the front of the house which allowed me to glance up at the semi-shuttered windows on what I assumed to be the east side. The building was two stories tall with some four windows on the ground floor between the main entrance and each end of the building, these replicated on the floor above with the addition of one very large window over the portico. In the dark grey tiled roof, a total of five attic windows were visible. As we walked beyond the end of the house and into the open space between it and the buildings to which we were undoubtedly heading, I could see that it was quite shallow — just two windows deep — yet this did nothing to diminish its air of grandeur.

Ahead, the scale of the other buildings was beginning to reveal itself. In addition to some small sheds — I assumed the location for garden machinery and the like — the main construction was something akin to a barn. It was larger than it had appeared from the drive, a rectangle about a quarter the dimensions of the main house, perhaps a little less. Two large doors were located at the front of the building. These were separated from each other by two windows, with an additional window between each door and the end of the building. These appeared to be the only conventional windows; somewhat higher up were what I could only describe as a series of glazed slits inset at regular intervals along both visible sides. In front of the building five rows of white painted stones stood proud of the gravel to delineate four parking spaces. Above one of these and just to the left of the second door a small plaque hung, the name ‘Paul Rose’ neatly painted on it. I could not help but smile at the brazen presumption which had permitted such a sign to be crafted. Hergé stepped quickly to the door with which my name had been associated then pushed it open, standing aside to allow me to enter first.

If doing so had been calculated to allow the space inside to have the maximum positive impact upon me, then it was a ruse that paid off handsomely. Immediately to my right — and beneath one of the windows — an area of perhaps four metres in each direction which had been laid to carpet of some kind and housed a settee, an arm chair, a small table and two upright chairs. In the corner, a petite galley kitchen had been installed.

“It is not particularly sophisticated or well-equipped,” Hergé said apologetically, now at my side, “but it is adequate for making coffee and preparing snacks for a light lunch. In the other corner,” he indicated to me far left, “there is a small bathroom. Other than that…”

His words trailing away permitted me fill the gap left with my own. The entire space probably stretched about twenty or twenty-five metres in each direction and, apart from the dining area and the toilet, was entirely empty. I could now see that the small slit windows continued around the entirety of the building, providing the space with an even light. Beneath the vaulted ceiling, a series of beams boasted an array of additional lights — both fluorescent and spot — which seemed to offer potential flexibility. Unable to stop myself, I rescanned the space, dividing it up into an areas I could use for storage of materials, the location for some kind of workbench and my tools, and the remainder left as my creative space. In undertaking this second look, I noticed the large double doors at the far end of the building. Perhaps these had been barns at some time or another.

“Is it suitable, Monsieur?” Hergé asked, managing not to sound obsequious, nor that he knew what my answer would be.

“Magnifique.” I hadn’t intended to slip into French, but was unable to stop myself. In doing so I felt as if I’d given in. But the space was magnificent; it put my small garage in the shade, and offered all the potential and freedom I could have wished for. As I wandered into the centre of the room looking at nothing in particular, I wondered where else I might find such a space and at what cost. It was a unique opportunity.

Hergé arrived at my side.

“And the terms again?” I asked him, needing to know what kind of a trap I might be walking into.

“Madame would like first refusal on anything you create here. Not everything you understand; she is not a greedy woman. I think this is obvious, yes?”

I couldn’t disagree.

“And when we met in town,” though I remembered that he had sought me out, so ‘met’ was clearly inaccurate, “you said something about ‘other requests’.”

“Indeed,” another nod, “but purely in the pursuit of art and her understanding and exploration of it. Madame is a great patron, you must see that.”

He said the last part with such pride I suspected it would have been impossible to wring any kind of denial of that from him, even under torture. It was something he had come to believe with a fervour that belied his mild exterior.

“She is sophisticated, intellectual. She longs to explore boundaries, new things in art. But she will tell you all this I am sure. You will see it for yourself.” He paused, seemingly weighing up whether he had yet done his job. “And there is another artist next door. She has been here a few weeks now, since Madame had the buildings converted.”

“Who is that?”

“Sylvie Delacroix. Have you heard of her?”

Our local artistic community was not vast, but the name meant nothing to me. I knew, however, that probably said more about me than anything else.

“She is very different to you, Monsieur. By that I mean, she is not a sculptor.”

“Oh, what does she do?”

Hergé bowed a little. It was a gesture of modesty that seemed just a little over-the-top.

“I am sure she will show you when you meet her. A very pleasant young artist.” And as if he felt that was enough to seal matters, he indicated the door and ushered me out.

I paused outside and noted the sign with Ms Delacroix’s name on it.

“Two questions?”

“Bien sûr.”

“When can I meet Madame, and when can I move in?”

“You may move in when you choose,” Hergé had started walking back toward my car and it was evident that I was supposed to fall in-step with him again. “I have,” he put a hand into a pocket and pulled out an object which he half-dangled before me, “the key which you can take now. You can move your things in tomorrow if you choose. If there are heavy things you wish to bring here please let me know and I will make arrangements.”

I had not regarded Hergé as a ‘fixer’ until that moment, but that was of course exactly what he was. He made things happen. He was the executioner of his mistress’s will. I had no idea how far his capabilities or influence might stretch, but I suddenly had no desire to find out.

“And Madame?”

He made as if he had forgotten that part of the question and apologised.

“She will introduce herself to you once you are established,” he said. It was another statement of fact, delivered in the manner of something entirely non-negotiable.

Perhaps I should have been more circumspect, given myself longer to weight-up the offer; perhaps I should have listened to those alarm bells — but at that precise moment they were swamped by the allure of a remarkable working environment and vague dreams of what I might be able to create in it.

I held out my hand and Hergé dropped the key into my open palm. The deal had indeed been done.

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Is this story worth continuing with, dusting off the 38k words and pushing on? What do you think? I’d really appreciate your views.