The agente immobilier is coming over and keeps calling me from her cell phone every ten minutes to make sure she's got the directions right, though I've given them to her repeatedly. She seems to get hung up on the part where I say "Vous passerez les bambous à gauche et puis juste après vous verrez les portails en bois vert." I think it's the bamboo that unnerves her, or maybe she thinks I'm using the wrong word, but in any event we soon hear her gunning it up the lane and squealing into the driveway behind our car.
I truly believe, as with fruitcakes, that there really is only one female real estate agent in the world: dressed by Ann Taylor (or in the case of the Périgord, Mesure et Proportion), bright red nails and lipstick, linen pantsuit in a subtle shade, nice leather belt, good haircut, sensible pumps, and an expensive, bulging briefcase. This is Madame D, and as she picks her way down the driveway, which is still littered with branches and stones, I can already hear her tsk-tsking. I'm installed outside in a chair and explain that I can't really give her a tour, but that SO will.
She's affable but no-nonsense and sits down across from me, pulls out some forms, and launches into a barrage of questions: When did you buy it? How many square meters? Central heating? Fireplaces? Bathrooms? Amount of terrain? Any other structures?...question after question, as she loudly ticks off boxes on her form. We show her an aerial photo of the house when the garage and veranda were being built, probably in the 1950, and she takes a photo of it. She also takes a photo of the framed tract of land that I happen to have. Then she briskly walks around the property, noting the swamp on the pool cover, giving an almost admiring glance at the spring and its dated stone surrounds (1899), and poking into the garage and veranda.
Then it's through the interior of the house. From outside I can hear her heels tap-tapping methodically on each floor, with pauses as she makes more notes. Ten minutes and she's done and back outside. "Ehhhhhhh bien, Madame," she says with pursed lips. "Un bel endroit. Une vue superbe. Beaucoup de charme...............mais...mais...mais....la fissure dans le mur..." and she pensively taps her pen against her cheek. "C'est grave...je pense." Yes, I know there's a crack in one of the walls, and yes, it does look to be fairly serious. She wants to know if I have a mason. Well, I did have one, but it's been quite a number of years since I've used his services, but certainly I can find one.
She wants an estimate. I can get one. She takes some more pictures. Will we be doing any landscaping while here? Why yes, we will, thanks to Franck. She wants us to take "after" pictures and send them to her. We can do that too. Bon! We'll get the estimate, go back to work on fixing the place up, and with any luck she'll be able to stop by again before we leave. We tell her who has keys in case she doesn't make it back (and of course she doesn't), and then it's all alors, merci, au revoir and she bobbles through the debris in the driveway and roars off.
So we need a maçon. I dig out the phone number I had for Monsieur L, but it's no longer in service. I'm thinking we'll go into Les Eyzies to the laundromat that my electrician and his wife run and see if they have a recommendation, so off we go. My electrician is the son of my wonderful neighbor, Mme. L, whom we still haven't seen, and in past years we have spent many a lovely evening with him and his wife. When I hobble into the laundromat, N is there but doesn't recognize me (cripes, that's a bad sign!) until I say "C'est moi, Madame C..." Ooh la la!! Hugs, kisses, catch-ups, and N knows two masons and writes down their telephone numbers. More hugs, more kisses, and we're due for another vrac of Château Mazivert, which is about 50 meters away.
Patrick is at the stand today instead of Madame, and we get to chatting with him about this and that, including our need for a mason. Well, he says, you're in luck, because Monsieur R. is right down there (pointing down the dirt road that goes past his stand) working today. And M. R is one of the two masons N has recommended to us - quelle chance! Back into the car with the vrac and we meander down the lane until we see a big workman's truck. But it's not M. R, it's his assistant. M. R has gone to the quarry to get some supplies and will be back later. Fine, we'll come back.
M. R is still not there at the appointed return time, but a lovely lady comes out of a dwelling that looks like it used to be stables and offers us chairs and a bottle of cold water while we wait for him. The wait turns into an hour, during which the lady tells us all about the buildings around us. One was originally a forge that was built in the 15th century. Sometime in the 18th century it became a factory producing the clay-mineral mixture that formed the basis for Limoges porcelain. Her grandfather worked there. The porcelain base was transported to Limoges on donkey carts. Her grandfather worked there. It shut down around 1920. And today, she says, 70 percent of Limoges china is made in...China.
Eventually, M. R shows up, a burly, barechested man sporting several neck chains and smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. We introduce ourselves and explain what we need, and he tell us he can come by in a week's time. Well, that won't do because we'll be leaving that day...so how about right now? he says. He'll follow us. I make sure that he's not abandoning some project for Madame to do this, but everyone is fine with the idea, so we thank Madame for the water, chairs, and conversation, and lead M. R back to St-Cirq.
Yes, it's pretty bad. I'm going to need at least one, probably two, tirants:
http://tinyurl.com/bpqf4f5 to pull the walls back together again and hold them in place. I sense this is a many-euro prospect. M. R sits with us outside the house, accepts a beer, rolls a cigarette, and begins to explain what is involved, not just the machinery and supplies to get the tirants in place but also digging around the foundation of the house on the side where the crack is to make sure nothing shifts and, if it has, to put it back in place. He will need to put together a formal estimate, which he will do. But he doesn't have email, so he can't send it to us, and it will be a few days before he gets to it. So we give him the name, address, and phone number of the real estate agent, and he will get it to her, promise. In fact, he'll call her tomorrow and let her know it's coming. And in the meantime, we should check with the insurance company, because just the other day he had clients with a similar problem, and they called the insurance company and it was deemed a "catastrophe de la secheresse" as was entirely paid for. It's quite possible the same would be true for us! In fact, since he's going to call Mme. D anyway, he'll encourage her to call the insurance company.
And he's off, and it's wall time, wine time, and we feel as though we actually accomplished something today, including having some fascinating conversations with new acquaintances.
