Encore Provence Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Peter Mayle
tapped the side of his nose. “You know? They say he was one of the five husbands. You must have heard the story.”
When I shook my head, he turned to call for a carafe of wine. And then he began. He glanced at me from time to time for emphasis, or to see if I had understood, but for the most part his eyes stared off into the distance, examining his memory.
For some reason, he said, butchers and women often have this affinity, a closeness that goes beyond the simple transaction of buying and selling meat. Who knows why? It might be the sight of all that flesh, the pinkness of it, the slap it makes on the block, the promise of a choice cut. Whatever the reason, it is not unusual for a certain intimacy to develop between butcher and client. And when the butcher is young and good-looking there is often the added pleasure of a little flirtation over the lamb chops. This is normally as far as it goes, a harmless moment or two, something to bring a sparkle to a woman’s eye as she goes about her daily business.
Normally, but not always. And not in the case of the butcher whom we shall call Arnaud. At the time the story takes place, many years ago, he was newly arrived in the village, having taken over when the old butcher, a glum, unsmiling man who was stingy with his meat, had retired. The local ladies were never quick with their opinions, but they gradually began to approve of Arnaud as news of what he was doing was broadcast from mouth to ear on the
téléphone arabe
. He transformed the little butcher’s shop—repainting, replacing ancient fittings, installing modern lighting—and by the time he had finished it was a joy to go in there, to be greeted by gleaming steel and glass, the clean scent of fresh sawdust on the floor, and the smile of the young proprietor.
He, too, was a considerable change for the better, with his shining black hair and brown eyes. But what set himapart from most other men of his time were his teeth. In those days, rural dentists were few and far between, and their techniques ran more to extraction than repair. Consequently, it was rare to see an adult without a gap or two, and those teeth that had survived were often in a sad way—crooked, dingy, stained with wine and tobacco. The teeth of Arnaud, however, were startling in their perfection: they were white, they were even, they were all there. Women meeting him for the first time would come away dazzled, asking themselves why it was that such a
beau garçon
didn’t appear to be married.
Arnaud was not unaware of the effect he had on his female clients. (Indeed, it came out later during the investigation that he had been obliged to leave his previous place of work in another village after some complications with the wife of the mayor.) But he was a businessman, and if smiling at his customers led to more business, he would smile.
C’est normal
.
It must be said also that he was a good butcher. His meat was properly hung and aged, his blood sausage and
andouillettes
plump and amply filled, his pâtés dense and rich. His cuts were generous, often a few grams more than had been asked for; never less. He even gave away marrow bones. Gave them away! And always, as he handed over the packages of neatly wrapped pink waxed paper printed with his name and the illustration of a jovial cow, there would be the sunburst of his smile.
All through that first winter and that first spring, his popularity grew. The men of the village found themselves eating more meat than they had eaten in the time of the old butcher, and better meat, too. When they mentioned this, their wives would nod. Yes, they would say, the new one is a great improvement. The village is lucky to havehim. And some of the wives, as they looked across the table at their husbands and made an involuntary comparison, would catch themselves thinking about young Arnaud in a way that had very little to do with his professional skills. Those shoulders! And those teeth!
The trouble started at
When I shook my head, he turned to call for a carafe of wine. And then he began. He glanced at me from time to time for emphasis, or to see if I had understood, but for the most part his eyes stared off into the distance, examining his memory.
For some reason, he said, butchers and women often have this affinity, a closeness that goes beyond the simple transaction of buying and selling meat. Who knows why? It might be the sight of all that flesh, the pinkness of it, the slap it makes on the block, the promise of a choice cut. Whatever the reason, it is not unusual for a certain intimacy to develop between butcher and client. And when the butcher is young and good-looking there is often the added pleasure of a little flirtation over the lamb chops. This is normally as far as it goes, a harmless moment or two, something to bring a sparkle to a woman’s eye as she goes about her daily business.
Normally, but not always. And not in the case of the butcher whom we shall call Arnaud. At the time the story takes place, many years ago, he was newly arrived in the village, having taken over when the old butcher, a glum, unsmiling man who was stingy with his meat, had retired. The local ladies were never quick with their opinions, but they gradually began to approve of Arnaud as news of what he was doing was broadcast from mouth to ear on the
téléphone arabe
. He transformed the little butcher’s shop—repainting, replacing ancient fittings, installing modern lighting—and by the time he had finished it was a joy to go in there, to be greeted by gleaming steel and glass, the clean scent of fresh sawdust on the floor, and the smile of the young proprietor.
He, too, was a considerable change for the better, with his shining black hair and brown eyes. But what set himapart from most other men of his time were his teeth. In those days, rural dentists were few and far between, and their techniques ran more to extraction than repair. Consequently, it was rare to see an adult without a gap or two, and those teeth that had survived were often in a sad way—crooked, dingy, stained with wine and tobacco. The teeth of Arnaud, however, were startling in their perfection: they were white, they were even, they were all there. Women meeting him for the first time would come away dazzled, asking themselves why it was that such a
beau garçon
didn’t appear to be married.
Arnaud was not unaware of the effect he had on his female clients. (Indeed, it came out later during the investigation that he had been obliged to leave his previous place of work in another village after some complications with the wife of the mayor.) But he was a businessman, and if smiling at his customers led to more business, he would smile.
C’est normal
.
It must be said also that he was a good butcher. His meat was properly hung and aged, his blood sausage and
andouillettes
plump and amply filled, his pâtés dense and rich. His cuts were generous, often a few grams more than had been asked for; never less. He even gave away marrow bones. Gave them away! And always, as he handed over the packages of neatly wrapped pink waxed paper printed with his name and the illustration of a jovial cow, there would be the sunburst of his smile.
All through that first winter and that first spring, his popularity grew. The men of the village found themselves eating more meat than they had eaten in the time of the old butcher, and better meat, too. When they mentioned this, their wives would nod. Yes, they would say, the new one is a great improvement. The village is lucky to havehim. And some of the wives, as they looked across the table at their husbands and made an involuntary comparison, would catch themselves thinking about young Arnaud in a way that had very little to do with his professional skills. Those shoulders! And those teeth!
The trouble started at