Houseboat on the Seine. William Wharton
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is cooking. She turns as we come in, smiles and says ‘Hello’ in English.
M. Teurnier is casting his eyes about looking for something, then he speaks to Corinne. She takes out her leather school bag, pulls from it a thin notebook with pale blue lines up and down, back and forth. Then she gives him a ballpoint pen, but he reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a greasy grease pencil, about half an inch thick and flat. He reaches into another pocket, extracts a fisherman’s folding knife and sharpens the pencil, pulling the blade toward his chest. He’s talking all the time, more or less muttering to himself. Corinne doesn’t bother to translate. She shrugs.
Mme. Teurnier motions me to sit at the oilcloth-covered table in the center of the room. Corinne is leaning against the other side of it, then she sits down. M. Teurnier is sitting beside me. He’s starting to make a list. After each item on the list, he sucks the tip of his pencil, then writes a number. Corinne comes around and starts translating from the list. I can almost hear the enthusiastic timbre of M. Teurnier’s voice in her clear thin one.
‘See. I’ll sell you that entire barge at the price of scrap metal. That’s what I’d need to do anyway. It’s dead now, the name of the barge, Ste.-Margarite, went to the pusher.’
He looks into my eyes to see if I’m understanding. I’m not really. He points at the numbers beside the first item on the list. I read. He’s written 270,000 francs. That’s what it looks like to me with the seven crossed French style. That’s about what I thought would be involved. Then, as I’m about to give up totally, he puts in a comma after the second zero from the end. This is now 2,700 francs, at that time less than eight hundred dollars. That’s ridiculously low. I take the pencil from his hand, and beside his number write 2,700 NF, even crossing the seven. The French at that time (still) tended to quote big numbers in old francs. He looks at me and smiles. I smile. This is beginning to look vaguely possible, very vaguely.
Then again he talks to his cute little girl. It’s obvious she’s becoming bored with the whole business. But still I hear his vital voice through her. She’s going down the list, changing all the numbers into new francs. She’s impressive all right.
‘To cut the pumps off the deck, three hundred. To cut out the walls of the compartments, six hundred. To move the barge down to where your sinking wooden boat is, now, in Port Marly, five hundred.’
M. Teurnier pauses, looks at the ceiling, sucks his pencil again. I wait. He writes the number down. Corinne translates.
‘To put the two boats together, your boat on top of this one, one thousand new francs.’
I’m bewildered. He licks the point of his pencil and starts adding the numbers. He comes up with 5,100 new francs. He looks up at me, then knocks off the hundred francs.
He talks quickly to Corinne, who’s now sitting her doll in a tiny high chair at the table. From there she tells me what he’s saying. She’s getting more fluent with each exchange. I’m really surprised that she still plays with dolls. French children seem to play longer than American children. I will say again, she’ll make a great translator someday, dolls and all.
‘My father says the boat, with all the work, will only cost you five thousand new francs. If you need to have your old boat pulled away and destroyed, it would cost you twenty-five hundred francs. This way you can have a big two-story boat with much space for just twice that price.
‘Father also says, when the boats are together, he will send his brother out to cut windows in the barge, around both sides, for only five hundred francs more. He’ll also cut away the inside walls.’
She looks at me and smiles.
‘But, he says first you must remove all the oil in the bottom of the boat so the work can take place. He knows a man who will bring barrels and has a way to lift them away. This man uses the oil to make roads. This will cost you nothing.’
This entire business is totally unreal. None of it is making sense to me, but at the same time, I’m excited. He holds up his hand again. He’s hurrying. I can see his wife has the midday meal ready and is becoming impatient. He machine-gun-talks the rest of the deal. Corinne tries to keep up, but it’s almost impossible.
‘The oil must be out in three weeks, or a month at most. I have workers, welders, metalworkers, who will be needing work by then. Also, you must move the boat from the atelier here to Port Marly.’
I look up at Corinne and smile. I smile at Mme. Teurnier. She indicates the table with her hands.
‘Please eat with us, monsieur.’
Jack and the Beanstalk
M. Teurnier backs up the invitation with broad motions of his arms. He pulls another chair over to the table. It’s the first time I’ve been invited to share a French meal. I don’t know what’s the right thing to do. Corinne breaks the deadlock.
‘You have no automobile; you cannot go home until Papa drives you, so you must dine with us.’
Over a magnificent but simple meal, we review the details again. I keep staring at the numbers, wondering from whom I can borrow the money, how I’ll ever pay it back.
When we finish, I ask if I can use their phone. I call Rosemary at school, something I virtually never do. She comes dashing in from her kindergarten expecting the worst. Maybe this is the worst. I’ve lost all track.
‘Rosemary, I’m involved in the most complicated, interesting, extravagant arrangement to save our boat and make it more than twice its size and with a metal hull. I’ve just had lunch with M. Teurnier and his family, and I’m using their phone.’
She’s quiet on the other end, giving off vibes of impatience. One can’t leave kindergartners for more than a few minutes. I start to explain the price structure as I understand it. She interrupts.
‘Dear, can you please wait till I come home? I need to go back in my class right now. You do what you think is right. I’ll go along with anything to stop you from tossing and turning the whole night through. Goodbye.’
I look into the hole of the phone. I pause a moment to think. I make up my mind, walk over to M. Teurnier with my hand out. We shake. He puts his other hand on top of mine and winks at me. What does that wink have to do with it? He looks like a combination of Popeye and a worn-out midget version of Yves Montand. He speaks through the little girl. He faces me and she says the words. She’s preparing to go back to school, has her pack on her back.
‘We are les frères Teurnier. My father started this business.’
He holds up his hand with four fingers extended.
‘These are my brothers.’
He names them. He untucks his thumb and holds it out in the French sign for victory, success.
‘This is me, Jacques Teurnier. You will not be sorry to work with us.’
When I come home to the apartment after stopping to bail and pump the boat, I sit down at dinner and explain everything to the family as best I can with my limited understanding.
Again, despite my careful description of the enormity of this task, the ugliness of the barge, there’s enthusiasm. Matt says he and Tom, his best friend, will help with cleaning out the bottom of the barge. I try to make clear the horrendous dimensions of the job, but I take him up on it. I know I could never do it myself.
Just before he left me off at my boat, M. Teurnier told me that soon as he drove back to his boatyard, he’d have some of his men cut the pumps off the decks so we’d have light down in the hold. He also told me he’d manage to gather ten large oil drums to be put on the quay beside the boat. Those will be for dumping the oil into, and he promises to have them hauled away each week. Ten drums of oil a week? What have I gotten us into?! This could take up the rest of my life. All this would be ready by the weekend.
That Saturday, we all – the whole family plus Tom – go out to the boatyard. This involves much searching through unfamiliar territory over dirt roads, but we