Free On Rue Tatin by Susan Herrmann Loomis Page A

replacing, for instance. Before he could replace it, however, he’d have to move a wall, or shore up the floor, or go in some other direction before he could actually get back to point A. He desperately needed a helper, not just for the physical help but to assist him in interpreting the language and the systems of buying materials, but that was out of the question. With the price of Sheetrock alone triple what it was in the United States we needed every centime we had to pay for materials. So Michael worked on alone, slowly developing systems. He would often come home after a materials-buying trip so frustrated he could hardly speak. “People here just don’t want to give out information,” he would fume. “In the States if you have a question you go in a store and ask the people working there and they fall all over you trying to answer it because they want your business. Here, there are a bunch of know-nothing Napoleons working in the stores and they hear my accent and act like they can’t understand a word I’m saying even if they did know the answer.”
    Over time Michael learned to avoid the large stores and head for the smaller ones where the prices were somewhat higher but the chance of someone knowing something was far greater.
    Within a few months of his starting work on the house the plumbing was functioning, the electricity installed. After we decided which room would be my office Michael cleaned it up and installed enough electrical outlets for all my machines. Edith and I painted it white one afternoon and sanded and varnished the floor the next day, then the following day I moved in. What a relief it was to move my office out of our bedroom in that tiny little house on the river. Now, we wouldn’t be awakened by those late-night faxes from the States.
    I had two phone lines installed, arranged my file cabinets, and Michael painted a wood panel my favorite color, turquoise, and laid it atop them as a temporary desk. He built bookcases and put strips of wood on the wall next to the desk. I pounded tiny nails into the strips and hung a bulldog clip on each one, so that I could hang up current projects to keep track of them. Once all the machines, from fax to answering machine to computer and printer, were installed I settled in to work.
    From then on, the minute I dropped Joe off at school I went to work in my office. There was no heat in the house but if I got really uncomfortable I simply plugged in a powerful little space heater and aimed it at my feet.
    I loved working in that clean room amidst the mayhem, with its window overlooking the garden, the street, and the side of the church. I would shut the door and revel in the clean white walls and the desk and get to work, stopping occasionally to look out the window. The church bells, which ring on the hour, quickly became a beloved sound. I came to distinguish the funeral dirges from the regular bells and whenever one began I would look at the scene spreading out before me, as the hearse arrived along with the florists and their massive bouquets. The funerals became a familiar element in our lives, right along with the weddings, which are a nearly daily event in the month of June.
    I am a lapsed Catholic, but I enjoy going to Mass from time to time. I expected to go once in a while, since it occurred within fifty yards of our front door, but somehow, hearing the hymns and organ music and occasionally the congregation praying was enough.
    I do delight in watching weddings, though, and the wedding tradition in France calls for a civil ceremony at the town hall, which is up the street from us. Once that has been done, the wedding party makes a procession to the church, stopping at the side door, directly across from my office window. When the entire party is assembled it proceeds inside. For large weddings a set of double doors is opened, which affords me a view of the interior all the way to the altar. I can see the glint of candles and the silhouettes of