[Excerpt from Jacques Delacroix’s book of memoirs: “I Used to Be French: An Immature Autobiography.” Delacroix is looking for an agent, a publisher, or some sort of non-venal help.]

The church, the café, and the saints

There was no not going to mass except for the schoolteacher who could only play his part as a soldier of the secular Republic if he was an atheist. Mass always played out the same way: The notables’ families had their pews upfront, reserved by brass-plate names. Other families sat on benches wherever else they wanted but the women tended to position themselves near the front of the church, with the children, and the men gathered toward the back, near the main door. This was before Vatican II and Catholic Mass was interminable in this very religious part of France. It was also mostly in what I understand to have been despicable Latin, with some bad Ancient Greek mixed in. The sermon was in accented French rather than in local dialect, perhaps in part for the benefit of the outsiders, including baigneurs like me. The priest knew pretty well of what kind of sins his year-around parishioners were capable. He may just have let his imagination run a little wild in connection with the sins of the lightly clad baigneurs. Hence, he probably surmised they needed his sonorous sermons more than did the locals whose sins were mostly a little boring to his mind.

As the service droned on and thundered in turn, some old men, all widowers, would slip out the back and cross the square to the café. Little by little, in groups of two or three, for strength and courage, other men would join them in order of descending age. The last ones to leave were newlyweds whose young wives kept an eye on them above their shoulders, young wives who still thought they possessed a vulgar means of retorsion against their husbands embarrassing them before the community. By the time of the “Ite, misa est,” the only adult men remaining, in addition to the priest, were the Count and his relatives. I supposed these retired then to the manor’s grand salon to sip champagne (or, possibly, whisky; they were terribly Anglophile, or rather, Britophiles), while the common men threw a last one down the gullet at the café to conclude the weekly conversation. Continue reading →