Week 2: La pièce de théâtre

Day Douze

Oh my. There are not the words in either French or English for the event that was this evening!

When Jean-Claude picked us up at the airport, he was sporting a peculiar mustache that made him almost unrecognizable to us. We soon learned that the mustache was part of a costume for a play. Now, we were aware of our host’s connection with the arts (he was a longtime talent scout and cultural ambassador/educator for the French government), but we were not aware when we arrived that he was currently in a play, which had a “repetition publique” tonight. Brian and Alice stayed with the kids while Heather rode with Mathieu to pick up a longtime friend in a neighboring village before heading to a suburb just outside Bordeaux (the city). Mathieu parked the car outside a fence in a fine-but-wouldn’t-want-to-be-there-alone-at-night neighborhood between the tram tracks and the SNCF train tracks. Heather blindly followed. The gate opened, and a petite, kindly-seeming older gentleman in khakis, an ascot, and white sneakers spoke in a soft voice to Mathieu and his big-smiled, confident-aired friend. They introduced Heather as the American friend, and the older gentleman immediately started speaking in friendly but unintelligible Italian. Heather said polite pleasantries in French and we got back to more important matters – in a language (or a semblance of it) that Heather actually speaks.

Behind the chainlink fence was a gorgeous multi-tiered garden, peppered with flowers of every color, curious cacti, and interesting sculptures. At the top of the garden was a house; following the three men inside revealed an interior that was exploding in an organized chaos of color. Pans and casserole dishes and toasters and all sorts of ‘50s and ‘60s-era flotsam had been transformed into a wall-to-wall mosaic tiled floor and lamps and eating tables. Most show-stopping was a literal chandelier made of various sizes of Italian tomato sauce cans. (Is that where the Italian welcome had come from?) It turned out the older gentleman was a sculptor, married to a painter, and this was their home and studio. All of a sudden appeared another older gentleman with round, thick-framed glasses who spoke in very mumbled French. He was also an artist…? Maybe…? (Was this the spouse? No, she was a woman. Wait, who is this guy? Whatever, he’s nice. Why does he keep asking if Heather knows someone named Piper?!) This group was getting larger as it snaked its way through a labyrinthian studio/home/museum. In a back patio area was a group of bearded young men, all smoking. You won’t believe this: they were artists. Mathieu & company sat down to have a beer (a choice of Bud or something German) and chat; Heather checked the time: 19:50. The play was supposed to start at 20:00 and there was no theater in sight. This was also the moment the wife/painter (Béatrice) shared that if we hadn’t seen the alerts via mobile phone, the Bordeaux police were asking everyone to observe a 22:00 curfew that evening due to the protests erupting following the police shooting of a teenager in Paris. Cool.

At about 8:02, we were beckoned to the other side of a different building. On the steps of this building, the implementeur le metteur en scène (Why can’t we just say director? It’s a literal 1:1 translation) started a speech, was warned about the American in the audience by a loud shout from Mathieu’s friend, and made some sort of apparently funny remark about Heather’s voting choices (one couldn’t be sure as he was obscured by a tree and hard to hear). Then the sculptor/host drew back some netted curtains and we filed into the “theater” – the painter-wife’s converted studio.

At the play’s intermission, all were served a non-alcoholic, painfully medicinal Italian aperitivo from tiny bottles. The French were extraordinarily concerned with the American’s ability to understand the text of the play. For those wondering, no, Heather could not directly translate every word, but had no problem following the anecdotes and general concepts along the way. In fact, Samuel Beckett serves as a great enforcement of a level playing field; if you aren’t familiar with the play Happy Days, I recommend a quick peek at Wikipedia, and then a good chuckle if ANYONE, in any language, professes to “understand the text.” The collection of artistes was then bid back into the studio for the play’s final 30 minutes. After, all were invited back to the patio area for refreshment – oh, and frenchity French French fast mumbled French French MATHIEU frenchy French French. Mathieu laughed uncomfortably. (“What did they say about you?” Heather inquired. “That I would speak about the wine to be served from the region. I don’t know anything about the wine except the name and the year!”)

At the afterparty, Heather’s French comprehension was again challenged, checked, and one-upped. Heather speaks the kind of French one needs to politely travel, not to debate the role of art in society and the inevitable death of civilization at a party at an artists’ collective! In all honesty, most everyone was gracious, patient, and respectful. And many more conversations were had with many more characters over the course of the evening, which poor Brian got to hear all about when Heather got home, after his exhausting evening of pleasant conversation (in English) with Alice and a modest pasta dinner with the kids, and which you, dear reader, are welcome to hear about one day as well – over a glass of a good Bordeaux.

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