for impromptu festivities. “Franck, come here and open this for me!”
A crack of lightning made the windows shake. It was too early. If anything would ruin our chances of pulling this deal off, it would surely be popping the cork on a bottle of crémant.
“Franck,” I hissed. “We can’t celebrate yet.”
Before Franck could answer, Mémé broke into an impromptu rendition of “Le Ban Bourguignon” – a traditional Burgundian drinking song that consisted of turning your hands and signing crescendos of “laa – laa – laaas”. It had surely become the Burgundian drinking song over the years precisely because it was hard to screw up even after prodigious wine consumption. Franck rolled his eyes and pulled me towards the door.
“Why not? They’re happy because it means we will always be coming back here. Let’s just enjoy this moment with them.”
“Remember what happened last time,” I reminded him. “What if we don’t get the house?”
“At least we’ll have gotten a celebration out of it.”
My heart was skipping beats and I was breathing too fast. “But it could jinx everything!” I had to make him understand.
Franck studied me for a moment. “Instead of having such faith that things will turn out badly, why don’t you try to believe that they will turn out just fine - no matter what we do or don’t do? Do you really think that whoever is up there in heaven cares if we dance and sing and drink crémant ?”
“I just think - ”
“ Non .” Franck shook his head. “What you are doing is believing, not thinking. It’s a choice. The problem is that you do not believe in something that makes you happy. What’s the point of that?”
Mémé came over, linked her arm in Franck’s and dragged him to the middle of the kitchen for an impromptu jig. I lingered by the doorway. Could I really just decide to believe something different? A door opened, just like it had when the Père Bard had said that in his opinion, God had put us here to have fun. Maybe I should try that.
Still, it was with a vestige of unease – those old habits can feel scary to break – that I smiled at Mémé as she jigged over to me with a full glass in her hand. I tried very hard to let my reservations go.
I had never met anyone who was more gifted for capitalizing on a moment of celebration than Burgundians, and the kitchen was soon full of Ban Bourguignons and one empty bottle of crémant quickly became two. Mémé kept leaping up to do impromptu dances of joy around the table. As far as she was concerned it was a done deal. Her cherished Franck was becoming a property owner and even if we were about to embark on that long and evil trip to the hinterlands of Canada, the Magny house – which she already thought of as our house - meant that we would be coming back.
“I just hope I’m not dead before you get the keys!” she laughed. Judging from the way her feet flew over the kitchen floor, I had a pretty strong hunch Mémé would be around for our housewarming.
Chapter 11
At some point during the drinking and singing Franck remembered that he still hadn’t actually called Le Maître to tell him we were prepared to offer the asking price for the house.
“We need to know the answer by the end of today,” I reminded Franck before he went upstairs to phone.
“Right.” Franck was a tad wobbly, and grasped on to the doorjamb for support. I hoped he didn’t forget because we were leaving in – how were we ever going to pull this off? – three days. Franck came back downstairs after only a few minutes.
“How did he sound?” I asked, but the crémant had taken the edge off my former urgency.
“Drunk. But he did say he was going to call the owners right away. Hopefully he remembers.”
“What do we do now?”
Franck plucked up his glass and threw his arm around Mémé’s shoulder. “We wait by the phone,” he chuckled. “We should be getting good at that by now.”
After fifteen
A crack of lightning made the windows shake. It was too early. If anything would ruin our chances of pulling this deal off, it would surely be popping the cork on a bottle of crémant.
“Franck,” I hissed. “We can’t celebrate yet.”
Before Franck could answer, Mémé broke into an impromptu rendition of “Le Ban Bourguignon” – a traditional Burgundian drinking song that consisted of turning your hands and signing crescendos of “laa – laa – laaas”. It had surely become the Burgundian drinking song over the years precisely because it was hard to screw up even after prodigious wine consumption. Franck rolled his eyes and pulled me towards the door.
“Why not? They’re happy because it means we will always be coming back here. Let’s just enjoy this moment with them.”
“Remember what happened last time,” I reminded him. “What if we don’t get the house?”
“At least we’ll have gotten a celebration out of it.”
My heart was skipping beats and I was breathing too fast. “But it could jinx everything!” I had to make him understand.
Franck studied me for a moment. “Instead of having such faith that things will turn out badly, why don’t you try to believe that they will turn out just fine - no matter what we do or don’t do? Do you really think that whoever is up there in heaven cares if we dance and sing and drink crémant ?”
“I just think - ”
“ Non .” Franck shook his head. “What you are doing is believing, not thinking. It’s a choice. The problem is that you do not believe in something that makes you happy. What’s the point of that?”
Mémé came over, linked her arm in Franck’s and dragged him to the middle of the kitchen for an impromptu jig. I lingered by the doorway. Could I really just decide to believe something different? A door opened, just like it had when the Père Bard had said that in his opinion, God had put us here to have fun. Maybe I should try that.
Still, it was with a vestige of unease – those old habits can feel scary to break – that I smiled at Mémé as she jigged over to me with a full glass in her hand. I tried very hard to let my reservations go.
I had never met anyone who was more gifted for capitalizing on a moment of celebration than Burgundians, and the kitchen was soon full of Ban Bourguignons and one empty bottle of crémant quickly became two. Mémé kept leaping up to do impromptu dances of joy around the table. As far as she was concerned it was a done deal. Her cherished Franck was becoming a property owner and even if we were about to embark on that long and evil trip to the hinterlands of Canada, the Magny house – which she already thought of as our house - meant that we would be coming back.
“I just hope I’m not dead before you get the keys!” she laughed. Judging from the way her feet flew over the kitchen floor, I had a pretty strong hunch Mémé would be around for our housewarming.
Chapter 11
At some point during the drinking and singing Franck remembered that he still hadn’t actually called Le Maître to tell him we were prepared to offer the asking price for the house.
“We need to know the answer by the end of today,” I reminded Franck before he went upstairs to phone.
“Right.” Franck was a tad wobbly, and grasped on to the doorjamb for support. I hoped he didn’t forget because we were leaving in – how were we ever going to pull this off? – three days. Franck came back downstairs after only a few minutes.
“How did he sound?” I asked, but the crémant had taken the edge off my former urgency.
“Drunk. But he did say he was going to call the owners right away. Hopefully he remembers.”
“What do we do now?”
Franck plucked up his glass and threw his arm around Mémé’s shoulder. “We wait by the phone,” he chuckled. “We should be getting good at that by now.”
After fifteen
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