I find – and buy – the home of my dreams
Finding Villa Saint- Simon, which was to become our guesthouse, was serendipitous. One minute I was stubbing my toe on a loose Blaye pavement stone, impatient for my friend to complete the negotiation for the purchase of a family holiday home, and the next, I was tearing the “à vendre” (for sell) sign off the wall, and No 16 was mine. The original name was (unimaginatively) No 16, but somewhere along the way, we renamed it Villa Saint-Simon, named after the Duke Saint-Simon (1675 to 1775) and the street named after him, on which the villa is located.
I had no idea where the money was to come from. It was one of those impecunious periods that have punctuated my mostly fortunate and blessed life, with varying degrees of frequency. This one had been more than just an interlude, and I was into my sixth year of relative penury. Undeterred by these circumstances, which I dismissed as a mere blip in the larger scale of things, I took one of the number of credit cards that had sustained me over this bleak economic period, and drew the required deposit from a nearby cash machine.
I was mindful of the Dalai Lama’s answer when a monk questioned him where the money would come from for a new Temple. “From where it is at the moment,” said the wise man.
At 175 years old, the Villa is easily the most beautiful and elegant house on what is the oldest street in the town. It had always been in one family, until I bought it, and the family, the De Romas, used the ground floor as offices for their insurance business, and all the family lived on the upper floors.
Twenty-four Avenue Jeu de Paume (a bellgame from the 13th century) was the address of the notary (notaire) in Bordeaux, responsible for the transfer of the property into new ownership. I recall vaguely thinking that the city fathers of Bordeaux must have been smoking something very strong when naming it – as I thought – it meant Apple Juice Street (my French was obviously very poor at that time; it has improved a little over twenty-five years).
I decided to head for Gare Saint-Jean and the taxi rank outside the railway station. The logic of this was, with my notorious lack of any sense of direction or orientation, it would make sense to park the hire car in an underground car park, and get a cab to wherever in the city these venerable guardians of property deeds hung out.
Any other course of action would probably have resulted in the loss of my cheap one-day return ticket from Gatwick, and incurred further financial burdens, for which I was not ready.
Jean-Louis, the taxi driver, was a valuable find (I mentioned him in the Prologue). As my French vocabulary was limited, his seven years’ experience working on the King’s Road in London in the 1980s was a sure sign that the Universe was helping on this one.
He took me to the office of the notaire, and I took his mobile number, in order to call him to pick me up after the conclusion of my business. However, his return was required a little sooner than that.
I was ushered from the sparsely furnished waiting room into the relatively plush office of the notaire much later than the appointed time. I was a little surprised too, to see their expressions of what seemed to be disappointment, tinged with disapproval over what I thought was my well-turned out appearance. I soon understood that their dismay had nothing to do with me, or my appearance, but with the non-appearance of a translator, who should have accompanied me.
This was a detail that someone had neglected to pass on to me.
“No problem,” they finally shrugged, the consulate would be called and an official translator would turn up. Unfortunately, after a couple of calls, it appeared that all the official translators were all occupied. It seemed we would have to postpone the whole thing, as it was essential that the purchaser understood everything in the deed that the notaire was obliged to read out, word for word, in French. I suddenly remembered that I did have a translator. I called Jean- Louis, the taxi driver. At the time I had only known him for a couple of hours. Now we are friends, and I know that if I ever asked him to translate for me again, he would not leave the taxi meter running…
He did an excellent job as my translator, however, even though he does not have one of those official stamped, embossed and sealed certificates that confirm he is an approved sworn translator, or something like that, to enable the French government to steal a little more money from us, and to create a protected trade union, for translators to charge exorbitant fees. Anyway it was a small matter, which thankfully the notaire chose to ignore.
The seller was the heir of the last owner, who’d died at the young age of 48. The Villa had been in the De Roma family since its construction in 1860.
A distinct frisson shivered through the room when, during the finalisation of the deed, the notaire read out the birthdate of the deceased Mr De Roma: 15 December 1951. With the spinal tingle that accompanies such moments, I understood the cause of the frisson. His birthdate and mine were exactly the same, day, month and year!