Suzanne’s Time-lapse

Now – 40 years ago, Claviers in the South of France

Suzanne sits in her chair in the living room. 

She sits straight upright. As always, as proper. 90 degree angle between spine and thighs, that is what Mother has said. No slouching. That is not ladylike! Rather more frighteningly, this is what Granny Félicie always said. Sit straight, elbows in, chin up. She said it so often to her grandkids, she told the gentleman in a nice suit facing her. He was also sitting properly. But none of the grandkids ever listened to her, nor the Grannies, nor the Aunts anymore. 

She sighs and shrugs. Boys! What do you expect… If she could, she would have had only grand-daughters she tells him. She thought she had written that to … come on … someone. Often. Another shrug and a click of the tongue. 

She had brought that back from Africa, she once knew. They all clicked their tongue, as approval, disapproval, as anger even; simply a punctuation. She clicked her tongue again in disapproval at a passing thought. 

He just smiled at her and talked about the weather. Useful, if rather boring. Small talk it is then. She politely smiled back. At her age, no point upsetting people except if you absolutely needed to. She should be able to see straight into the valley on the right. Nature, that had been his thing. Oh, she loves it too. Mainly when it happens to someone else. She likes picnics, that is for sure. She demurely asks him if he would like to go on a picnic with her then? She can walk. He politely but pointedly changes subject. She understands; he is young, she is not. She would make a little prayer to Sainte Anne then. Nanou, that was a heartbreak. She would forever be feeding the chickens in that garden back then in Watermaels. That was a long time ago yesterday. 

The gentleman in the suit starts speaking about something in Turkey. Turkey! She was there, in Smyrne! She turns and waves irritably for us to shut up and listen. We just stare, non plussed, our conversation suspended. She clicks her tongue at our lack of respect. She is shocked by what he says. No? Again! Incredible. 

The sun is setting, she can see. The temperature would be more bearable, but humidity would be up. She would have to put on the rumbling heating before going to bed. The lights were great. Oh, that Art Nouveau chandelier, how she regretted breaking one of its crystal palms. If only she had had a taller stool. Every year, space kept getting swallowed up by furniture. She was unsure where it all came from. It just kept popping up.

Once the gentleman was done with this conversation, she would just go up to the bedroom: a fantastic room, spacious, bright, modern. That is what the cousins had said in 1958: a fantastic room, spacious, bright, modern. That was when they were still turning this house into their dream: that room into a washroom, … That had been … then. Warmth, humidity, her room upstairs, hers since he left her … 

Wait, the man in a suit looks serious now, and wishes her a good evening, good night and see you tomorrow. She shushes us, glaring. How dare we be that impolite! Is this how we were raised? 

She rises from her chair and moves to the man in the suit. She wants to tell him good night and apologise for our behaviour. Her hand bangs on the unexpected window between them. She scratches at the screen with her nails.

I switch off the television. 

She looks for him.

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You read part 2 of Transvaal Blue Skies: the true story of how, early last century, Suzanne moved to Africa and built her laager. This is a series of loose dots weaved in a chronological thread, wrapped into a story to be plucked and observed, heard and remembered, recognised and judged. Suzanne Dulière was my grandmother.  

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