suspected but hadn’t dared to say in order not to spoil his joy in surprising me. An outhouse, complete with a peaked roof. The door, facing over the cliff, had a window and shutters, like a little cottage. André stood back proudly and gestured for me to open the door. Inside was a wide smooth bench attached to the side walls at about knee height, and a smoothly finished square wooden toilet seat, contoured with rounded corners and dovetailed joints, varnished. And square.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t make an oval.”
“André! It’s beautiful. It’s like a frame!”
“Well done, André,” Pascal said.
André had hung a sprig of dried lavender under the roof beam for the unveiling. How thoughtful, this husband of mine.
“Go in, go in,” André urged. “Just pretend.”
I stepped in. Sticky tears of sap seeped out from the freshly milled pine, my tears of gratitude made solid. Then I looked down. The pit he had dug wasn’t very deep.
André closed the door and said, “Turn around. Sit down.”
He opened the shutters. Laid out before me was a valley of the Vaucluse, our département in Provence, cut by canals, dirt roads, and rows of cypress trees, France’s fertile Garden of Eden. There were vineyards and orchards on hillsides, and vegetable plots and rows of lavender in the valley. Beyond, the mountains of the Luberon. A grand panorama.
“It’s like a painting in a frame.”
I stepped out. “But what do you do with …?”
“Dig it out. Or I’ll dig a trench, and we’ll use a bucket to wash it down the cliff once in a while.”
“That is what we Roussillonnais do,” Pascal admitted.
And do the Roussillonnais go outdoors to their outhouses during the monstrous thing called the mistral, or in the rain? Or at night? It wasn’t perfect. It would never be perfect here, but André had done what he could, and I loved him for it.
“One more thing.” Grinning, André reached around the corner and presented me with a square board with a raised edge, the corners bisquited the way he joined them for his frames, a little larger than the seat and as smoothly sanded and varnished. He turned it over and set it on the seat like the lid of a box. “ Voilà! A cover.”
“Carved!”
“A fleur-de-lis, for my Lise.”
“Oh, André! How good of you. It’s exquisite.” He had carved away the wood around the fleur-de-lis so that the bloom was rounded and raised above it.
I laughed. “I never thought I would ever say I loved a toilet, but this one, André, I do love.”
“No one else in Roussillon has an outhouse as haut bourgeois as this,” Pascal said. “You could start a business here.”
“Ah, how the mighty have fallen,” I said. “From making frames for the painters of Paris to framing village derrières.” I gave André a sympathetic look.
“Let’s go to the épicerie before it closes. I want to buy a new roll of toilet paper.”
We all set off. How straight I stood at the counter announcing proudly, “One plump roll of toilet paper, s’il vous plaît. ” It felt marvelous to make the proprietor wonder why we were all grinning. A moment later, I blurted, “For our fine new outhouse.”
“Ah! Oui! Certainement! ” He pointed to one roll after another on the shelf, then held them up and turned them for my inspection as though they were works of art. We left the store laughing.
As we approached the café on the way home, I said, “Let’s celebrate with a pastis. Maybe we’ll find Maurice there.” I pulled André along toward the door. Pascal looked alarmed.
I parted the hanging beads and peeked in. There were no small round marble tables with black wrought iron bases like those in the cafés in Paris, only rustic wooden squares. There was no mirror behind the bar. And though the café was full, there was not a single woman. But there was music playing from a radio, Suzy Solidor’s deep voice singing a tango—the sound of Paris.
“Lisette, we had better not,” Pascal
“I’m sorry I couldn’t make an oval.”
“André! It’s beautiful. It’s like a frame!”
“Well done, André,” Pascal said.
André had hung a sprig of dried lavender under the roof beam for the unveiling. How thoughtful, this husband of mine.
“Go in, go in,” André urged. “Just pretend.”
I stepped in. Sticky tears of sap seeped out from the freshly milled pine, my tears of gratitude made solid. Then I looked down. The pit he had dug wasn’t very deep.
André closed the door and said, “Turn around. Sit down.”
He opened the shutters. Laid out before me was a valley of the Vaucluse, our département in Provence, cut by canals, dirt roads, and rows of cypress trees, France’s fertile Garden of Eden. There were vineyards and orchards on hillsides, and vegetable plots and rows of lavender in the valley. Beyond, the mountains of the Luberon. A grand panorama.
“It’s like a painting in a frame.”
I stepped out. “But what do you do with …?”
“Dig it out. Or I’ll dig a trench, and we’ll use a bucket to wash it down the cliff once in a while.”
“That is what we Roussillonnais do,” Pascal admitted.
And do the Roussillonnais go outdoors to their outhouses during the monstrous thing called the mistral, or in the rain? Or at night? It wasn’t perfect. It would never be perfect here, but André had done what he could, and I loved him for it.
“One more thing.” Grinning, André reached around the corner and presented me with a square board with a raised edge, the corners bisquited the way he joined them for his frames, a little larger than the seat and as smoothly sanded and varnished. He turned it over and set it on the seat like the lid of a box. “ Voilà! A cover.”
“Carved!”
“A fleur-de-lis, for my Lise.”
“Oh, André! How good of you. It’s exquisite.” He had carved away the wood around the fleur-de-lis so that the bloom was rounded and raised above it.
I laughed. “I never thought I would ever say I loved a toilet, but this one, André, I do love.”
“No one else in Roussillon has an outhouse as haut bourgeois as this,” Pascal said. “You could start a business here.”
“Ah, how the mighty have fallen,” I said. “From making frames for the painters of Paris to framing village derrières.” I gave André a sympathetic look.
“Let’s go to the épicerie before it closes. I want to buy a new roll of toilet paper.”
We all set off. How straight I stood at the counter announcing proudly, “One plump roll of toilet paper, s’il vous plaît. ” It felt marvelous to make the proprietor wonder why we were all grinning. A moment later, I blurted, “For our fine new outhouse.”
“Ah! Oui! Certainement! ” He pointed to one roll after another on the shelf, then held them up and turned them for my inspection as though they were works of art. We left the store laughing.
As we approached the café on the way home, I said, “Let’s celebrate with a pastis. Maybe we’ll find Maurice there.” I pulled André along toward the door. Pascal looked alarmed.
I parted the hanging beads and peeked in. There were no small round marble tables with black wrought iron bases like those in the cafés in Paris, only rustic wooden squares. There was no mirror behind the bar. And though the café was full, there was not a single woman. But there was music playing from a radio, Suzy Solidor’s deep voice singing a tango—the sound of Paris.
“Lisette, we had better not,” Pascal
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