Itching to learn more about our neighborhood we took advantage of the August 15 holiday to pay a visit to the chatelain of Ajat, Monsieur René Caffier. A businessman from Paris with a red Legion of Honor ribbon sewn to his jacket lapel, he and his wife bought the chateau in the heart of the lovely hamlet – barely two miles from our house – some 20 years ago. Standing in the medieval-looking courtyard, sheltered from a sudden downpour by an Italianate gallery, Dan and I listened as our host explained how they were forced to drain the whole ground floor, first-thing-first, as it would turn into a “swimming pool” at the slightest drizzle. He described the beautiful passageway, the vaulted room with a four à pain, and the sizable antechamber with two huge fireplaces during wet weather, when floodwaters were being sucked in torrents down drains.
Colossal amounts of money flowing out too, I thought, wondering what could possibly have motivated the couple to buy under such circumstances. “We assumed that the chateau was habitable,” Madame Caffier explained as we examined a display of before-and-after shots in the library. The water did not deter them, nor did the gentle slope behind the castle that blocked their grandiose garden plans. 350 truckloads of dirt were carted off to construct their impeccably level jardin du roi.
We came home a bit frazzled, not knowing whether to feel diminished or appreciative about the miniature scale of our own project.
Yesterday Dan and I were yet again trying to tame the brambles in the woods when Stéphane, our roofer, came up to confer with us. From the way he was tramping through the rows of chênes américains I could tell it was no good tidings. Contrary to all expectations (meaning his cost estimate) an entire side of roof – an alarmingly extensive area of wooden lathing – was discovered to be rotten under the terracotta tiles. We acknowledged the fact sadly. Stéphane leant against a tree trunk waiving a piece of paper. I had to follow him back to the house and sign an amendment on his bill before he and his sidekick would start uncovering the roof, revealing its decaying ribs and putrid fiberglass. But of course, at the strike of five the pair left, leaving the broad wound mended yet still open to the sky.
A clear hot starry evening ended with some distant grumbling far off in the night. Before I realized it wasn’t a dream, I awoke to a sound from hell: the heavy rain was not just beating the roof tiles, it was trickling inside the house from just about everywhere - a sound that recalled childhood memories of the Castello di Collevalenza, of all of us running through the house with buckets to collect rainwater from the many holes in the castle roof.
I hadn’t felt the vulnerability of being exposed to the harshness of the outdoors in my own home since then because I’ve always led a personal war against dampness. I believe that one of the best things God did in His creative tour de force was to separate earth from water. And in a civilized world the two elements are held in check. So there we were at three a.m., dizzy and barefoot, trying to save paintings, moving veneered furniture to the center of the room, mopping brown lakes, placing buckets. Arcadio watched the drama from the last safe step of the stairs, not daring to wet his paws.
Stéphane didn’t alter his work schedule the next morning and appeared at nine a.m., unperturbed and un-penitent about the storm. When I showed him the mess in the living room, including the inflated veneer of an antique cabinet, he fetched his camera. “Pas de souci, il y a l’assurance.” Naturally, the insurance. Indeed, when the French commit a sin it seems there is always an insurance company to pay for it.
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