Louis Jansen van Vuuren - Almost French: A Life Of Fanfare And Faux Pas

A forest encounter

October 2019

The deers eyes are amber marbles that glow like coals. When they blink, its like something from a Disney film. The tableau before me looks just like a hand-painted stage set.

He turns his head towards us, his antlers like candelabra against the leaves. The stuff of concerts, this. Sublime. Any minute now I expect tumultuous applause as the curtain falls.

In my matric year at Middelburg High, we staged an operetta whose first act opened with the backdrop of a majestic forest scene. Every time the school halls red velvet curtains parted, the thunderous applause from the audience caused chaos among the schoolchildren.

On opening night, Tannie Smit, who worked at AVBOB, apparently burst out crying and had to be taken outside to compose herself. I have seen paradise, she sobbed.

Now, in the European autumn of 2019, I find myself at the edge of a forest in the French countryside, undone by an equally heavenly backdrop. I open the car window. The air is cool against my cheek. The turning leaves, the forest, the smell of mould and moss. It feels like Im on a movie set. So in my best Fellini voice I yell, Cut!

Hardy, my partner, cuts the engine and stares at the elegant animal thats now right in front of the car. The stag flares his shiny black nostrils as if he wants to breathe us in. My heart quicksteps through all four of its chambers.

From afar, muted church bells bring us back to earth. The spell is broken. I count four chimes, which means its four in the afternoon. Well have to move it to make the appointment with the estate agent on time.

When Hardy starts the engine, the golden stag pricks his ears, still looking right at us. Then, with a defiant flick of the tail, he vanishes between the trees.

We drive the forest road for another half a kilometre before stopping at the ramshackle house just outside the village of Lpaud. The estate agents little two-tone car is parked under one of the cedar trees.

My pulse quickens. The quickstep becomes a full-blown military march.

The agent waits for us in the open double doorway. Afternoon light streams biblically through the stained-glass windows, creating a halo around his head and shoulders. Geometric Art Deco patterns in ochre, rust and smoky grey turn sunrays into spectacle. My first encounter with medieval illuminated manuscripts in Pariss Muse de Cluny comes instantly to mind.

The agent is a hipster with a beard Jo Black would envy. He wears a pair of pointed-toe Oxfords with no socks. Bare ankles I mean, really!

Bonjour and allo, nice to see you.

Hardy answers him in fluent but businesslike French. The oddball, in his round, mirror-finish sunglasses, relaxes noticeably on hearing his mother tongue spoken so nicely.

He offers me his hand. Theres a gold signet ring with a wolfs head on his pinkie. He smells of pricey aftershave and cigarette smoke. I look past his flashy sunglasses into the dusky heart of the house.

Come eean, come eean. His wolf-ring hand waves us into the large entrance hall.

What we happen upon inside takes my breath away. The spacious rooms have high wooden ceilings. Light streams in through the windows from all sides. The whole interior reminds me of Jan Vermeers chiaroscuro paintings. It feels like Im walking through one of his twilit rooms.

The dining room is an enormous hall with a floor-to-ceiling fireplace. The walls are panelled with hand-cut wood. The bay window, the full width of the room, draws the wooded parkland inside. Youre constantly aware of the forest outside, which is visible from most of the windows.

Beside the fireplace, a set of doors opens onto a veranda. I can see that the scale of the place has surprised Hardy too. He shoots a glance at me as I walk out onto the veranda. Its a look I know well.

Whenever I get excited, outsiders often cant make head or tail of my meandering sentences. Everything I see, I describe in colours, in flavours.

My late grandmother Willemien would often warn, Cover Lewies with the flenniedoek to calm him down. Its the only way to keep this child and a rambling parrot quiet. Then shed wink in my direction, and spoon some extra souskluitjies into my bowl.

The forest around the Le Rembucher estate, outside the village of Lpaud.

A stained-glass window at our new home at Le Rembucher.

Hardy lowers his voice. Stop with the senseless chatter. With every octave, the price goes up.

He peers up the chimney of a stone fireplace. I feel a bit like Ive been put in my place, and brush past Hardy and the agent. The wide oak staircase leads me past a second set of beautiful windows.

I stop and look down into the entrance hall. I start daydreaming about soft winter curtains on the double doors, an Aubusson tapestry against the wood panelling. I see paintings on the walls, the gold couch we bought in Egypt in the sitting room. Peonies in a white porcelain vase on Hardys grand piano.

The place needs a lot of work. Hardy emphasises a lot with a deep voice.

The agent rocks on his Oxfords, desperate for a foothold. But it as beaucoup de potential. He waves through the air, as if hes wanting to do a ceremonial dance.