July 14, 2014
A French priest, l'abbe Dinouart, wrote L'art de se taire (The art of keeping your mouth shut) in 1771, and I think of it often in the face of the general loquacity of the French. In fact, the general talkativeness of the French is one of their great virtues, as if you can follow the flow of words you get a very clear idea of what makes them go. In a country where talk is prized, Dinouart's argument, with its Machiavellian thrust, is an exception. Most of the French are unrestrained talkers, I think, a belief I have confirmed again at the boulangerie, where I go to buy bread, but also to try to buy some of their small paper bags before it closes at noon for the holiday.
Making the reasons for my interest known, I get a complete picture of why I can't just buy baker's bags to substitute for the plastic bags brought from the States I have been using to pick up Beau's leavings. The baker's wife makes herself very clear:
"They are only available in wholesale quantities, and I could give you the wholesaler's address, but I think the company might not sell to private individuals."
"Well, would you be interested in selling me some?" I ask.
"Oh, no, I could not do that. If I were audited, the authorities would take note of every single bag I purchased and match up my sales against the number of bags I bought."
"It's dreadful", says the woman in line behind me.
"It's terrible", says the woman behind her.
"It's awful", says the baker's wife, "but that's the way it is".
"I understand", I say, backing away with my purchase.
"You ought to try freezer bags", says the woman behind me.
"You could try bags for vegetables", says the woman behind her.
Of course, it's amusing that a baker's wife in a small village thinks she can't sell me a few bags for fear the tax authorities will pillory her for doing so. Particularly in light of the fact that I have noticed that quite a few transactions are paid in cash, so there are no records of the exchange of work for payment, for instance.
Bring that up, however, and your partner in conversation will probably get quiet in a hurry. While the French take many things at face value, once their antennae are up, they react with a defensive reticence. Perhaps Dinouart's lessons have taken root, after all.
***
It is certainly quiet enough for the Abbe Dinouart in Caunes this Bastille Day. There is no organized activity today, as last night the town screened the World Cup Final, held fireworks and sponsored a dance, which was rained out. All the activity took place in the vicinity of the foyer, an auditorium found in every French village where all sorts of civic activities take place.
Beau and I arrived at the start of the final between Germany and Argentina, and found ourselves among the few watching. As the end of the match approached, the fireworks went off to the sound of the music prelude to the dance. However, just at that moment the clouds opened up and sent down volumes of drenching rain. All at once the foyer was as full as a Midwest High School auditorium during a tornado. The technicians who had set up the speakers and other equipment outside were forced to bring the items in out of the rain and set up on the stage at the back of the foyer.
My neighbor, Élodie, who brought her son Noam to see the fireworks, and ended up watching the match, offered a ride home,which I gladly accepted. The dance continued inside, although the drinks stands outside stayed where they were. People seemed to be enjoying themselves, although no one was particularly happy about the German victory. Noam was much put out, as was his Chinese-American friend, Jonathan. Although each admitted that the Germans had the world's best forward and the world's best guard on their team, they were "really irritated" by the German victory, they said.
The adults watching the match, too, seemed not to be German fans. When Goetze managed to make the ball that hit him in the chest and dropped fly into the Argentine scoring zone, one woman began booing enthusiastically and gesticulating "Thumbs down!" The French commentators onscreen were more professional, alluding to the youth of the German team (average age 26), their better physical conditioning and the superb skills of their best players. Despite having seen France eliminated a few games back, the commentators gave the Germans their due, an example of another very French characteristic, seeming to be realistic in appraising the merits of something, a quality associated with the logical detachment of France's great thinkers.
"The Germans played well", said the man next to me to his companion in the next seat. "The Argentines not so well."
***
This afternoon I found the time to bicycle to Felines, a village in the hills above Caunes near where the well-regarded wines of La Livinière are grown. For the first time in many days, the day was sun-drenched, making the views from the highland spectacular. I noticed with a bit of a shock, however, that I seemed to be the only human being for miles around. Occasionally a car passed me --I could hear it coming from quite a ways away-- and frequently, the driver honked, as drivers unfamiliar with local roads will coming upon a cyclist taking up their road.
I was surrounded by acres and acres of wine grapes ripening in the sun. A few weeks ago hail destroyed a good part of this year's plantings, so the sun is much needed. At the outskirts of Felines, I caught sight of a young couple tending their vines. I could hear her shouting over the sound of their tractor, communicating instructions to her husband, who was bald, burly and stripped to the waist. Hearing the sound of my pedaling, he looked up at me and I waved. He returned the wave and as they drove off, I waved again. The farmer smiled and returned the wave again. After all, we were the only humans out that afternoon not in a car. (And they don't count.)
Best blog post so far - I laughed out loud!
ReplyDelete