Take It Easy, Mr. Bond

Bloody hell. I am convinced that I had contracted the seed of my cold last week from somewhere in Geneva or en route back home with Rene. What followed has been three days ridiculously wasted on tending to the worst of the cold. I prefer to wallow in my own such misery in seclusion, but the ingratiatingly gracious Madame Fournier down the road stopped by on Thursday, the second day of my misery, and on seeing the wretched condition I was in, she immediately took matters into her own hands with the mission of comforting me as best she could. Her soulfully prepared hot homemade chicken noodle soup, with its savoury secret ingredient that I am still at a loss to define and she ever politely refuses to disclose, was more than welcome and utterly satisfying. Within an hour, the soup had its curative effect on me, as I could begin to feel a freeing of my heavily congested state and once more found reasons to live again.

We have been neighbours, Madame Fournier and I, for several years. She prefers to be called by her first name, Isabelle, but I somehow can not seem to get beyond the formality of Madame Fournier with her. It’s the Miss Moneypenny factor, I suppose. Already a few times she had volunteered to nurse me back to health, always managing to instinctively sense when I had succumbed to minor ills, since I would never tell her whenever I did. All she expected in return each time was my presence at a dinner in her home with her husband, Michel. And this is in addition to all her other dinner invitations when I am not ill. Considering her excellent culinary skills, it was a return favour always easily agreed to. She insisted on looking in on me again on Friday morning and I couldn’t, nor wouldn’t, argue with her, but I reminded her that Vivienne would be arriving in the afternoon for the weekend and that I was sure to be in good hands through then. On that, Madame Fournier decided on inviting both Vivienne and myself for a Saturday evening dinner, firmly believing I will have regained full health by then – such is the power of her soup. She had met Vivienne twice before and took very well to her, and so, there was no refusing Madame Fournier.

Yes, Vivienne. A mere 19 years of age, but a female splendour in her own forceful right. Interesting how we happened to meet. I had gone to Marseilles last August for some browsing and purchasing amidst the smart shops in and around the city’s 1ere arrondissement, or 1st Neighbourhood, by the old port. It was later, in mid-afternoon, while seated at an outdoor café, that I first heard Vivienne before I actually saw her. There was the screeching of car brakes immediately followed by a young female's voice unmistakably screaming out “Merde!” A cabbie had stopped mere centimetres short of running down Vivienne on the street. The next that followed was my seeing her begin to pelt the poor and clearly guilt-ridden cabbie with a cacophony of additional expletives and a barrage of hexes and curses. The cabbie appeared to sweat profusely and nervously kept apologizing to her, which appeared to have little effect on her. Or so it initially seemed. As she walked away from the cabbie, her ongoing verbal abuse towards him diminished in intensity, which was likely her way of grudgingly accepting his heartfelt apologies without making him feel as if she had.

Perhaps her reaction was a mite excessive, but her theatrically volatile spirit won me over, it striking me as more playful than serious in nature. As she leaped onto the sidewalk, our eyes locked and she simply continued to rail on to me about what had just happened, apparently oblivious to the fact that she was speaking to a total stranger six decades her senior. She ever so naturally approached my table and sat across from me, still spitfiring her entertaining venom. I found myself amused by her. Nevertheless, she needed some settling, so when I found the chance to interject myself between her spewing words, I asked her if she could do with a coffee. The offer stopped her dead in her tracks, she breathed a sigh of relief, smiled impishly, and replied that yes, she could, thank you.

Our ensuing conversation was quite relaxed and wide-ranging on a variety of topics. She was wonderfully engaging in her discussions with me. I was impressed by her candour, her genuineness, her intelligence, her biting wit, and her utter disregard of my age. And so, when at one point she complained of the problem-riddled flat she had rented prior to beginning her first year at the Universite Aix-Marseilles, craving for larger space, more privacy and simple silence, I thought it only natural to offer her the guest room at my Eze villa with its balcony overlooking the sea as an escape from her dire living conditions. But I explained it would be only for every second or third weekend, as she chose, as I valued my own privacy most of the time, and that it would be in exchange for some needed light housekeeping and gardening duties requiring only an hour or two of work. I told her the commute there by the Ter train from the St. Charles station would take about 3½ to 4 hours, depending on departure time, but that I would even cover the fare. I could see it in her grey-blue eyes, as they lit up, that she took an instant fancy to the idea without even questioning whatever possible motives that others would naturally have been suspicious about over the offer.


Eze - From a View to a Hill


And it has all worked out happily over the last five months. I did not expect another housekeeper like dear sweet May – I still do miss her endearing s’s tagged on the end of words, her way of respectfully calling me ‘sir’ when she refused to call any man so except English Kings and Winston Churchill ... "good morning-s" – but to date, Vivienne has proven herself well in performing her end of the bargain.

It had been five weeks since her last stay. She had gone home for the holidays and after returning to Marseilles three weeks ago, she has only now felt a need to escape again to what she calls her haven of a villa. I kept mostly to myself on Friday, not always being the best of company when ill, which Vivienne easily understood. But with my condition having much improved on Saturday, just as Madame Fournier confidently predicted, we spent some time on a leisurely stroll through the Jardin Exotique. In some odd way, each time I walk through it I am somehow always reminded of my frightful navigation through Blofeld’s Garden of Death at his Castle of Death on the southern Japanese island Kyushu. While no poisonous plants nor deadly creatures are to be found in the Jardin Exotique, I suppose there is something about the Jardin’s wide array of haphazardly grown cacti across the rock-laden landscape that makes the connection for me. One finds cacti in deserts, just as there are cacti in the Jardin (garden). Deserts can be death, just as the Garden (Jardin) of Death was. And I had my revenge on Tracy’s murder after surviving the dangers in the Garden of Death (Jardin Exotique) to go on and kill Blofeld.

I did kill him, didn’t I? Yes, of course, I did.

And so on this walk it finally dawned on me how 22 years ago I must have come to choose Eze as my permanent home. It is nearby the Jardin Exotique (Garden of Death). It is nearby the memory of Tracy and my revenge of her death.


Jardin Exotique (Garden of Death?)