It is Time to Come out of Hiding

17 October 2006 by Karen Fawcett    328  
It is Time to Come out of Hiding
Karen Fawcett
By Karen Fawcett
Most Bonjour Paris readers know my friend — and husband of more than two decades  — died recently.   No one was prepared – least of all he. He faced having surgery (the “grand opening” as he termed it), in the US, and even had his return flight to France (post-surgery) already booked.   Victor didn’t anticipate anything other than a brief interruption in his normal schedule. He had so much to do. Could he get back to Provence in time for his book club’s monthly meeting?  I teased him that during his forced recovery, he’d have time for once to actually read the assigned book. The ultimate procrastinator, as well as optimist, he’d usually wait until the last moment and I’d have to order the book from the   Village Voice Book Shop on the Rue Princesse in Paris.                                                                                                                    Victor was inevitably late so the shipment would have to be sent via Chronopost. English language books in France cost more than in the US. Compound that with overnight shipping and the book should (according to price) have qualified as a collector’s item.   He was a voracious reader and no subject was taboo.  More often than not, he’d read whatever book I was reading after I’d nodded (OK – crashed) off to sleep and dropped it on my chest. The following day (while I was an early-riser, he was a late sleeper) Victor would give me a synopsis of the text. Initially, I was irritated until I realized it was an intrinsic part of his character.  He’d really missed his calling and should have finished his Doctorate and become a professor at a top university. For myriad reasons, he didn’t and pursued a career in the financial services industry.   The financial services industry is what initially brought us to France 18 years ago — and where I fell in love and became a different person from whom I was in the US.   Victor was born in Italy, baptized Catholic, was raised in a five star hotel on the Italian Riviera, had a tutor and his very own pastry chef and a staff to attend to his many needs.  When he was finally allowed to attend school, he’d climb up and down a stone stairway which was bordered by fig trees. From those days until his death, he was always in pursuit of the perfect fig.   I’m a city person and never imagined I’d become a rabid mushroom collector; how many times did Victor slam on the breaks of car and shift into reverse so we could scour the forests of Versailles or Fontainebleau?! Wildflowers were a passion. Anything that sprouted from the ground was worth his time and effort. I remember laughing when I read the Art Buchwald column about all of the women who summered on Martha’s Vineyard and insisted on raising tomatoes. Buchwald estimated that each tomato must have cost $25.  I didn’t laugh when Victor started a potager in Provence and our water bill was more than many people’s annual budget.   Victor was adamant he’d be home in time to harvest the tomatoes and make pear chutney in the enormous copper caldron purchased from Dehillerin.  Our pantry was filled with chutneys and preserves of all types and varieties. Victor assumed an almost fanatic demeanor and anyone and everyone who walked in the house were enlisted to become a part of the team.  Drafted would have been a more appropriate word.     Victor was so much more diligent about his vegetables and fruits than he was about paying bills and the nitty gritty realities of life. Frequently, I’d call him, “Farmer Joe.”  The man I married was always on the go in pursuit of the best way to market a mutual fund product. The man he became was ever so different after he nearly died from what we called, “the car accident from hell”, which took place in January, 2002. The many doctors whom he consulted said he had very little chance of ever walking again. One doctor said, “If cats have nine lives, Victor was on his tenth.”   There’s no question in my mind that the pain and suffering caused by that accident negated his going under the knife for cancer, when the first doctor in Paris suggested he do so, nearly two years ago. Victor was delighted when the doctor who offered the “second opinion” said the surgery wasn’t necessary.   My dear Victor: He lived and died with passion. Perhaps, it was because he found himself in the US after the Nuremberg Laws were adopted. Much to his surprise, he was Jewish and even though he became a scholar of the Holocaust, he rarely entered a synagogue.  My last recollections of our being in them were in Budapest and Istanbul, where the daughter of a very close friend was married.  We never attended services and visited them with the same respect as we would an Islamic Mosque or a Buddhist or Hindu temple. When it was time for a service, I intrinsically knew that Victor was not about to embrace any religion on his death bed.   …
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By Karen Fawcett