Career Moves (or the Giant behind the back door)

It’s been over a week since the previous post. The rainy days should have enabled me to be more thorough with my writing. But things happen so fast at the moment, they change so quickly I don’t know how to keep up. It seems that everything is on the move in Dordogne.

Career Moves

The first time I met him, I nearly poured my coffee over his expensive jacket.

The first time I met him, he bought me a beer, and then another.

The first time I met him, he was my boss.

The first time I met him, he was about to become my boss.

The first time I talked to him, he was the Mayor of New York, and had been my boss for ten years.

The first time I talked to him was last Sunday, and he bought me a beer, and then another, because he'd hired me.

I don't work for Mike anymore, now that I've learned a lot about traders.

I work for Ernesto Goncalvez, Portuguese builder, and I'm learning the trade.

New Work-place

This little poem to let you know that I have become an apprentice builder (‘apprentice’, therefore I only dabble in exposing some flesh when leaning forward, but I’m working on the crack, indeed). My job consists mostly in mixing mortar, carrying buckets and tools around, breaking stuff with a sledgehammer and dumping it far away with a wheelbarrow. But in between, I learn a lot from Ernesto about restoring old stone houses, which will become handy in the near future.

I also learn a lot about my neighbors, like Denis, the giant farmer who lives on the top of the hill.  

He is the sole remaining farmer in our area and he cuts our field in summer in exchange for the bails of hay. That deal was brokered by Christian, whom we bought the house from. Christian runs a strawberry business in another village and was too busy to cut our hay last summer. So he kindly organized for Denis to come and do it. At least, that’s what I was told, when we were still living in Dulwich. 

At the end of last June, I moved a first load of furniture from the UK with my friend Rob and expected to find the field all neat and tidy, like everybody else’s. That was not the case.

Tall Grass in the Field

The grass was waste-high, Rob’s allergies couldn’t believe their luck. So, the next day I drove to the top of the hill to try and find Denis and ask when he would commit to his part of the deal.

We were met by an elderly woman, her arms resting on the window of a very dark kitchen. Behind her, we could barely identify the shapes of three rugged men, whose arms, in their white vests, looked as big as my thighs.  It was ‘aperitif’ time and it was obvious we were disturbing their game of staring at a bottle of Pastis in silence.

I explained who I was, reminded the lady that I had called a few weeks before to make sure all was in order, and wanted to know when Denis would have time, in his very busy schedule, to come by and –please, please, please – cut that f’in grass.

I must admit I didn’t really understand what she answered, but she mentioned that he’d do it and asked if I had seen ‘the beast’?

Let’s state here that there was absolutely no innuendo in her question. That I knew because my neighbor Paul had warned me. Denis and his brothers had found an abandoned baby wild-boar, probably the orphan of an animal they had killed themselves, and had decided to keep it as pet. Their hunting dog had befriended the little creature and ‘the beast’, as the baby w-b had been named, was having a whale of a time in the farm. But this is Rural France. And feuds go along way. So do Regulations. Thus, you will not be surprised to learn that someone had called the cops on Denis and his brothers, as it is highly illegal to harbor wild animals. ‘Beast’ was bound to leave the farm for a wildlife Park two days after our visit, and the old lady wanted us, city folks to enjoy, the presence of the little creature. Unfortunately,  ‘beast’ was busy doing what baby wild-boars do when they don’t parade in front of strangers in the farmyard and we never saw it.

Vaguely optimistic of ever having the field cut short, we went back down the hill and treated Rob’s allergies with a lot of wine.

The next morning, my head was pounding. Hard.  I had to make it stop and decided to go for a run to sober up.

So, I opened the blinds, and found a gigantic man on a tractor, less than 10 meters away from the window. The further he went, the lesser the headache. That was Denis, fulfilling his part of the

Denis to the Rescue

bargain. After six years away from home, I still had a basic knowledge of the French social codes. My little trip up the hill had been fruitful.

Satisfied with myself, but not to the point of forgetting all decency, I got dressed and walked to the edge of the field, waiting for Denis to drive past me. It took him a good two minutes to do so and when he came close enough to see me, he didn’t turn the engine off, waved his hand to say hello and moved his head to signify ‘No’ when I suggested he should pop in for a coffee when he’d be finished. Then he pointed to the sun and said he had to make the most of daylight. It was 9 am in the morning, at the end of June, one of the longest day of the year…

I believe, that he had a ton of things to do and didn’t want to waste anytime with a slacker who just got out of bed when he had been up for a good three hours. Fair enough! And lucky enough too, because when I had my first conversation with him, a few weeks later, I confess I didn’t get everything he said. His friendly face and piercing eyes, at the top of his big body, didn’t make up for his very strong accent. I was looking up at him in order to find a meaning to his discourse but failed to keep up with the conversation. I was so afraid to offend him by showing I couldn’t understand, after he had been so helpful with the field, that I let the chat die rather quickly. Now, we communicate by handshakes and big arm-waves when we meet by accident.

So Denis is still a mystery to me, and I was very happy to learn that my boss Ernesto-the-mason used to party with Denis.

I’m not afraid of stereotypes, and actually do enjoy them when they refer to nationalities. For example, I do believe that the French can be arrogant, the English can seem snob and the Germans tend to invade your country. Hence, I am happy to say that Ernesto is an archetypical Portuguese builder, a bit pig-headed, hard-working and short. The pair of Short-Ernesto and Giant-Denis going to town together must have been a sight.

-Where did you use to go? I asked this afternoon, between two loads of mortars.

-We used to go to all the bars, in the villages around, and it would always end up in a fight. We had lots of fun! That’s because, when I was younger, I was a bit pig-headed (told you!).

-Wasn’t that dangerous, I mean every week?

-Oh no! We had a thing with my friends. We all wore these new white shirts with a big collar, so that we could spot one another when it would all kick off, and come and help if need be, it was safer. One day, I went to a bar where those guys had roughed me up a bit, three against one. That wasn’t fair, so I wanted my revenge. I had called Denis for back up. I had told him to be there at 10 o’clock sharp. I got to the bar at 10, fifteen minutes later, no Denis, half-an-hour later, the same. Those guys were teasing me. But I didn’t budge.

I wanted to give a good kicking to their leader, a big fellow.

11 o’ clock, still no Denis. Comes 12 o’clock, I stood up. I had made up my mind, I went to the guy, thinking that I’d punch him as much as I could until his mates get me. But at the same time, Denis’ brother walks in. Those guys, seeing how big he is, they start to run to the back door, where Denis is now standing. And he punches the first guy he sees, who happens to be the one I wanted. He gets him so well that the poor lad got knocked out. Then the police got involved, and an ambulance, we even had an article in the paper! But that’s a while back now, when we were young.

Nestled in the gentle hills of the Dordogne, the old French fighting spirit awaits. So, if you’re in a bar, and things turn sour, stay close to the short and friendly Portuguese builder. He’s got a giant of a friend behind the back door.

Finally, my temporary professional shift into the building trade has drawn the following questions from my children, at then end of my first day:

-Noah: Have you been dismissed yet?

-No.

-Hum, good for you.

-Samuel: Do you drive a digger?

-No

-Do you use a catapult then?

Samuel also asked if I could build a small brick-house.

I asked Ernesto about that.

-Yes you can…in five or six years.  Now, can you go and make some more mortar please?