Peace offering - dimanche, 19.11.06

dimanche 19.11.06 Peace offering

“Ruth. Ruth. Do you want to go for lunch upstairs?” That’s what I hear through my beer-blocked ears. I’ve been shifting in my divine divan since 11,00 so I’m alert in an instant and dressed in half the time. Arlette has been down to invite us to dine with her family and friends. Cynical thoughts aside, I see these as a peace offering and it’s not long until we’re sipping ti-punch and munching on accras.

Roger, Arlette’s son and Catherine, his wife, are there with their three children; Anaïs, Elodie and Lilian. Arlette’s other son, Claude, and his wife are there too as are Laura, another daughter, Suzanne, Arlette’s friend and two other ladies, one of which is another daughter of Arlette’s and the guest of honour at this her farewell party. She is off to Saint-Denis near Paris.

Some more kids filter in from the living room as dinner is served. Charles takes the head of the table and I sit at the other end beside Catherine and Nicola. Catherine is an interesting, likeable lady. She works as a doctor in a hospital in Marin. Most foreign visitors are treated at this hospital and she tells us about the drama and disorder of her profession. Her husband Roger works in a local tyre factory and his brother Claude is a musician with a local zouk band. He’s clearly the joker of the family. He has his mother in stitches. She guffaws wildly, clutching her heart lest it should jump into her soupe de crevette and Charles chuckles, occasionally bobbing in muted glee. The wild laughter of late, which I often heard from above, is now rationalized. We’re told jokes and tales about fourmi and slack skin, and the bawdy anecdotes later spill out as the wine and punch flows.

We soon settle down to rice, beans and ragoût de lambi. As a matter of fact we’re told that this fish is hard to come by. I gladly munch away but it’s a bit gritty – a bit like the wit which is fired from the other end of the table. The kids are at a separate table and they sing away throughout the meal before devouring their desert and scurrying off to play on the PlayStation.

The ice-cream selection is as varied as the conversations which follow as we talk about Canada, gweens and French names. In France each day is dedicated to a Saint so most children are named after the day they are born. This means that many children are given names which better match the opposite sex. Sometimes a suffix of ine, ienne or a only needs to be added or erased to rectify this short-lived embarrassment but many unfortunate individuals are burdened with the name of the opposite sex. Catherine tells us of a male friend, a burly football player who was christened Monique was he was born on 27th August. It may seem strange but it’s simply assigned and accepted here. There’s one little boy I teach whose name is Kondjo. Catherine tells me this is an African name and for some reason she adds that she knows his mother.

By the time we’ve had our café, done the dishes and wrapped up the chat it’s almost 18,00. It’s time for everyone to be on their way so we all say merci to our hosts and à tantôt to one another as we make our way out the door.

There seems to be someone in the other downstairs apartment but I presume it’s the children in their hide-out and I say nothing. Nicola later pipes up that she spotted a man, woman and child next door. Have our new neighbours moved in unawares to us? We decide to pop in to introduce ourselves but as we wander by later the place seems empty once again.

It’s too late to call home as I had planned. Instead it’s others who phone us; Will is on to Nicola about last night and Madame Pommier is on to me about last minute translations for the cultural festival. Bed beckons after a few bevvies (or breuvages as they say in Canada) and we close our doors on yet another stunning Sunday sunset.