Missing Ducks in France

When you’re a parent, you never know when you’ll be called to that difficult duty of explaining the unfairness of life to your child. This situation may arise at any time, anywhere—even on vacation in southern France.

My moment happened as I was standing in my French in-laws’ garage, directing my wife Dominique as she backed the white Rover through the carriage house doors. Once the car was safely in, I saw the back passenger door swing open. Two blue plastic paddle rackets flew through the open door, crashing to the cement. Then a yellow foam ball came winging out, bouncing off my father-in-law’s workbench. It was then that I realized that all must not have gone well at the fishing competition.

The day had started with promise. I had the morning to myself in my French in-law’s house in Correze. Dominique and her parents had taken our then eight-year-old daughter Emilie to a fishing contest at a lake several miles away. I’ve never much liked fishing. The only angling I do is pulling the occasional golf ball from a water hazard. In the recent past, I had often accompanied the fishing gang on their expeditions to pay lakes in the area. During these trips, I would spend most of my time taking in the scenery, reading a book, or watching the fisher folk agonize and utter untranslatable French curses while untangling tight knots of fishing line caught in trees, driftwood, and just about anything else but a fish’s mouth. Before I had stopped going along with the gang, I’d taken to bringing several bottles of tasty dark beer to drink in the shade—just to pass the time. I began to get the impression my blissful detachment from the woes of the rest of my family was not appreciated. The invitations eventually stopped.

So there I was, after getting up several hours after they all had left, drinking my third cup of strong coffee, lolling in a chair under an umbrella amidst the serenity of the lawn and garden. I slipped in and out of consciousness as I read and reread the same paragraph of a Maupassant short story several times (not his fault). The sky was blue and the bees were buzzing. I mulled over which wonderful restaurant I wanted to take the family to for a weekend dinner out. I was the richest man in the world.

The roar of the old white Rover straining up the hill to the house brought an end to all that. After flinging the ball and rackets out of the car, my daughter Emilie emerged, her face reddened by sunburn and rage. The three other passengers hesitated to get out—as if they didn’t want to witness what was sure to be a fit from Emilie. Once on the floor of the garage, she slammed the car door shut, spun around, placed her hands on her hips, and sputtered, “Daddy! They cheated me!”

As I age, I often marvel how swiftly my occasional bubbles of bliss explode without warning. My peace in the garden was gone. Looking at Emilie’s outraged face, I wondered if the entire day would be a loss.

 “Who’s the they, Emilie?” I asked, hoping she wasn’t referring to anyone still in the car.

“The people at the lake. The ones running the contest. I didn’t get the right prize. They cheated me.”

By this time, Dominique was out of the car. “Emilie caught the most fish of her age group,” she said. “But she got second prize…or maybe it was third.”

“Third!” Emilie said. She kicked the rackets. “And I got these crappy things instead of a new fishing pole like the girl who cheated got.”

I gave my wife my clueless look. “The girl’s father caught some fish for her. And he put them into her catch total,” Domi explained.

“And the judges allowed that?” I asked.

“Well…I think they knew Emilie wasn’t from the…area…not a local…and….”

“And they couldn’t even pronounce my last name right!” Emile shouted, bolting out of the garage. My in-laws slinked off after her. As Domi and I closed the doors, she said, “It’s your turn, Daddy. I’ve done my best just to get her home.”

 “I see.” I walked up the steps to the house, wondering what I could say to my daughter.

After one of my mother-in-law’s modestly spectacular mid-day meals (mussels with white wine and herbs), I sat Emilie down outside and tried to console and instruct her. Nursing my after diner armangnac for courage, I went through the fatherly motions of many generations before me. No, life wasn’t fair, I explained. No, we didn’t have to accept the unfairness of life, but we couldn’t dwell on the fact that we’re sometimes wronged unjustly. Stiff upper lip. Move on. There’ll be other chances. And suchlike.

None of this, it appeared, got through to Emilie, but I felt better saying it. What actually worked was my spotting the rackets and balls she’d won. I asked her if she wanted to play. She did. We whacked away the good part of an hour, and the fishing contest seemed to vanish from Emilie’s concern. She happily went off to village swimming pool with her French cousins.
I was left with my empty snifter and my earlier thoughts about that restaurant I wanted to take the family to before I had been called to active duty as a father. Dominique came out to the garden to sip a cold drink and swing on the glider in the shade.

“That was pretty tough on her this morning,” Domi said.

I sat next to her. “Yeah. By the looks of it, she’s over it. I’m not sure I was much help. Anyway, I was thinking of taking everyone out to dinner this weekend.”

“Sounds great. Any place in particular?”

“I was thinking about La Courberie. We always have a good meal and time there.”

“We’ll run it by my folks at dinner tonight.”

La Courberie was indeed a special place for us—a small restaurant and duck farm operated by a couple, Jean and Marie, who had escaped Paris for the rural pleasures of Correze. Jean had been a chef at a Parisian restaurant. He had tired of the stress of his job, and he wanted his children to have a less urban childhood. Thus, the move to a remote farm in a remote department of France.

At diner that evening, while we spooned our dessert of strawberries and sugar, I suggested we all go to La Courberie for a meal the coming weekend.

“We can’t,” my mother-in-law said with a certainty that implied a schedule conflict.

“Why?” I asked.

“It doesn’t exist anymore,” she said, scraping her spoon against the bottom of her bowl.

“But why?” My question contained a whining complaint that both my mother-in-law and daughter must have picked up on.

My mother-in-law adopted a tone close to one used by parents to console children. The gist of the story was that Jean and Marie simply didn’t want to continue the hard work of running the farm and restaurant. The children were grown to the age when the rural countryside had lost its charm for them, and the parents wanted the kids to expand their horizons. So it was back to Paris. The farm had shut down just recently, but the restaurant had closed during the winter. My father-in-law added that local chatter had it that there was a hint of domestic discord beneath the move. Gossip was bound to grow when a good business folds. Lifestyle choices weren’t sufficient reasons. None of this was my concern. I just knew I was out of one great little place to eat duck.

“That’s really sad,” I said. “I was looking forward to it.”

“Well,” my mother-in-law said, “life has its disappointments.”

This wisdom was tough enough for a man my age to take, but what was to come was worse.

“Yeah, Dad,” Emilie chimed in. “Some things aren’t fair.”

 But they simply didn’t understand what I would now be missing: the white Rover sedan rolling along the twisting one-lane shade-darkened roads of Correze leading to La Courberie; being greeted by the barking collie as we parked next to the one or two other cars inside the gate; the kids’ faces looking out the front windows of their house to see who was coming for dinner; the warm reception from Marie, her face a bit flushed from running everything in the restaurant, wiping her hands on her white apron, extending them to her guests; the walk to the back of the house—past the stone building that housed Jean’s tiny kitchen; Jean always poking his head out the door and waving, smiling; the five-table dinning room with stone walls and hearth; our usual aperitifs of kir; the rillets de canard; the soup of freshly picked garden vegetables in a simple, light broth; the selection of various duck terrines; the daily main courses (usually a choice of two on a given day) of fresh duck prepared in every divinely imaginable way—from confit to magret: a modest selection of wines (we preferred Les Milles Pierres, a local variety produced in Brive); coffee and home-cooked pies; the memory of Emilie at three flying out of her high chair while reaching for an offered ice cream cone, landing miraculously in a way to avoid serious injury.

Yes, I’d miss all that and more now that I’d heard that La Courberie was no more.

“Well, I’m still disappointed,” I said.

“Let’s go out and play some paddle ball in the yard,” Emilie suggested. “Maybe it will help you get over it.”

Charles Naccarato lives, writes, and teaches in Athens, Ohio. He travels frequently to France with his wife and daughter.