#7 Whang, Bang, Boom ...

It’s strange to see Heidi sitting alone on a stone bench, writing in her diary, in these medieval surroundings. For twelve years, Moos the German shepherd sat beside her in similar situations. Moos died a few months ago, and eh... Heidi without a dog, I realize with a pang, is only half a Heidi.

“Well?” she asks as I sit down next to her. I glance up at what I know is called the Tour César, rummage through my backpack for what I need to make tea and coffee, and answer, “We can visit the castle if we buy tickets at the tourist office, which is where we parked the car.”

“That’ll take too long. Next time, then. I’d like to come back here one day. It’s a nice town.”

Water is coming to a boil in a kettle on our gas stove, which I placed between Heidi and me on the stone bench, when, while staring at the stove, I see two pairs of black combat boots stop in the grass in front of us. I look up and try not to laugh. Two gendarmes look down at us from under baseball caps, arms crossed over a load of unnecessary equipment strapped to bulletproof vests. No one says anything, so I lift an index finger to my eyebrows and politely ask, “C’est obligatoire dans la police, épiler et ... et pei... teindre les ... les sourcils?”

I expect Heidi to lash out at me, but instead, she closes her diary, puts her elbows on her knees, and hides her face in her hands as one of the officers says, “C’est interdit de faire du feu ici it’s forbidden to make a fire here.”

“Je fais du café I’m making coffee et ce n’est pas interdit and that’s not forbidden.”

The officers look at each other, mumble something, and when they walk off, Heidi straightens up, shakes her head, and asks, “Did I hear you ask those two something about their eyebrows?”

“Police officers with manicured hands, coiffed beards, faces shining with cream, and plucked and dyed eyebrows. It’s hilarious.”

“Sure, it’s hilarious, but maybe it’s time you stopped acting like an idiot, and maybe we should talk about what’s bothering you.”

Pouring boiling water over the coffee in the filter on the rim of my Stanley thermos, I mumble, “What’s bothering me ...?”

“Nik, I just walk into a store to buy a new ballpoint. I walk out, see a man tumbling out of a bakery, see you coming out of that bakery, and see that man run away like a hare. What were you doing in that bakery?”

I pour the last of the water over the coffee, pour the water in Heidi's thermos into the kettle, put the kettle back on the stove, and answer, “I eh... I wanted to buy croissants.”

“Buy croissants! We never eat croissants!”

“I know, but we’re in France, in Provins, nice town, as you just said. I heard the clock strike eleven, and we hadn’t had breakfast yet. That aside, you didn’t really enjoy yourself last night in that cave, so I thought to make up by having croissants with our coffee.”

“What nonsense! For years, you’ve talked about a cave where you always slept when you went rock climbing with a friend. It was great to hike to that cave, and I slept like a log. Sure, I expected you to have brought breakfast in your backpack—croissants for all I cared—didn’t expect our climbing gear in that backpack and didn’t expect to have to abseil thirty meters out of that cave before sun-up. And I sure didn’t expect an uphill crawl that lasted an hour and a half to get to that oh-so cozy café you had in mind for coffee and tea, which, as anyone could have told you, was closed at seven in the morning. And where are those croissants?”

“They eh… I didn’t get them. The woman behind the counter put on disposable plastic gloves before giving me my croissants. I told her not to put on those gloves, because it’s ridiculous to make a pair of disposable gloves end up in the environment just to hand me two croissants.”

“And then you didn’t get your croissants?”

“Well, she started ranting about hygiene and whatnot. Before I could calm her down, someone behind me grabbed me by the shoulder, and eh... well … whang, bang, boom, say …”

“And that someone couldn’t have had good intentions? Look, the two months we spent in the Netherlands, you were impossible to deal with. Yesterday, driving all day, you sort of resembled your old self, but if this is what it’s going to be, we won’t make it to Spain. I know what’s bothering you, you know what’s bothering you, and I think we should finally have a word about it.”

Again, I look up at the Tour César. I realize I’m hungry, try to come up with a joke to change the subject, and say, “You know when the old Quasi Modo ...” “Listen,” Heidi interrupts. “We were in the Netherlands because your publisher promised to arrange invitations for podcasts where you could promote your book on health. The only podcast you ended up on was his own podcast, on which he doesn’t promote books, but smoking cigars and drinking whisky. For two months, you didn’t work on your next book or on any short stories. Instead, you wrote and edited articles for a magazine your publisher publishes without him even thanking you for it. That pit bull mentality of yours is wonderful, but one day, you’ll have to admit that you’re betting on the wrong horse when it comes to your work.”

“A publisher,” Heidi continues, “should sell books. Your publisher tries to sell himself. The publishing house is a foundation. Your publisher gets his salary, which is fine, but remaining funds should be used to promote authors and books, should be used for book fairs and marketing campaigns, not to start a business in cigar paraphernalia, to pay for private home renovations, a car and watch collection, and dandy clothing. The money spent on cigars each week could support an average family for a month, but when you mention the word commission, all hell breaks loose. Writers are leaving in droves, and instead of doing the same, you cling even tighter to the madness. That’s what’s bothering you! You don’t lack offers from publishers, and I’m fed up with the clown you have chosen. We’ve been dogged by bad luck for fifteen years now. I can laugh about that, just as I could laugh while dangling above the river Maas this morning, but I want to rebuild our life, and this way, that’s not going to happen.”

Not half a Heidi today, I realize—proudly—as I scoop rooibos into a bag, pour boiling water into Heidi’s thermos, hang the bag in the thermos, and screw the cap on it so that the bag is wedged under it. And eh... Heidi is right. Before I can come up with a wise-ass way to admit that, she asks, “So?”

“So, we take our losses and start over.”

“That’s what I like to hear. But keep in mind that we’ll lose everything. We’ll even lose the video studio we built, because it’s on your publisher’s premises. Any plans?”

“They’ve been piling up for the last fifteen seconds. But first, we have to make sure we have a place to live.”

July 29, 2024. Going quietly, avoiding toll roads and even highways, we drive past Châteauroux, some two hundred kilometers south of Paris. Last night, we ended up in Dinant, in Belgium, having started our trip in Groningen, the northernmost city of the Netherlands, home of my meanwhile former publisher. We strolled through the center of Dinant—lovely town—drove another twenty minutes, and found a quiet spot on a bank of the river Lesse, where we cooked dinner and ate. We did the dishes in the river, drove back to where the Lesse flows into the river Maas, and followed the N95 for a few kilometers toward the village of Beauraing. Darkness had fallen by the time we parked across from Café Le Freyr, a cozy café with a huge fireplace I remembered so well from the days I spent more time rock climbing than doing anything else. The café was already closed, and eh... I was nervous, unsure whether, after so many years, I would still be able to find what I was looking for. By the light of a half-moon, we walked and crawled along narrow paths through the woods until, sooner than I’d expected, we found the entrance to the cave I used to camp in so often in a previous life. We squeezed through a narrow passageway, rolled out our sleeping bags, and man, I was happy, having found my cave in the rocks of Freyr. Just enough room for two people to lie down, and opposite the narrow entrance, at chest height, a roundish opening, which sits—no one expects that—about twenty meters above the ground.

When Heidi fully woke this morning, I had already made tea and coffee. She was happy with her tea, not so happy with the line she noticed hanging from the opening opposite the entrance. Last night, I had smuggled that line and some climbing gear—always stored in a box in the car—in my backpack to the cave. Before making tea and coffee, I had attached the line as I had done so many times, so many years ago. After drinking her tea, visibly not enjoying herself—though not complaining—Heidi strapped herself into her climbing harness. She attached a Figure 8 to one half of the line and then to her harness, climbed out of the opening, and began her descent while I sat in the opening, belaying her with the other half of the line. Now anyone descending from that cave is left hanging freely after just a few meters—the cave hiding in a cornice—and to not spoil the fun, I hadn’t told Heidi. She let out a scream when her feet no longer touched the rock face but continued her descent. I hoisted our backpacks down, rearranged the line, abseiled, and once I stood next to Heidi—who resembled her old cheerful self once again—I pulled the line toward us. Our hike through the Kolibi Valley took longer than I had anticipated, but by the time we reached Café Le Freyr, it was still closed.

At six o’clock in the evening, we pass Limoges. We always avoid toll roads in France, and our experiment of asking the TomTom to avoid highways too is working out well. Fewer roundabouts and more authentic France. Just after eight o’clock, in the city of Bergerac, we cross the river Dordogne. We drive on, find next to a rivulet below the castle of Bridoire a perfect place to spend the night, and while Heidi is busy with the shrimps, leeks, and peppers we bought in Provins, I pitch the inner tent of our tent so we’ll sleep free of mosquitoes tonight. Enjoying the dish Heidi prepared, sitting cross-legged between our tent and the slowly flowing rivulet, I rattle on about the plans that have been maturing since Heidi’s tirade this morning. Just after sundown, the moon not yet up, we go for a walk, and when finally, we crawl into our sleeping bags, I chuckle inwardly as I read on, by the light of the Petzl on my head, in Jules Verne’s Vingt mille lieues sous les mers.

On the way to the Netherlands, two months ago, at a flea market in a French village, I found two editions of a series of books I’ve been trying to complete for years: Verne’s book and Théophile Gautier’s Le capitaine Fracasse. Unread, for one euro! Shortly before that, in Catalonia—where we still lived before traveling to the Netherlands—I had decided to break the stupid habit I had inadvertently fallen into of watching some videos on my phone in bed before turning off the lights. For months now—as I’ve done my whole life—I read a book before turning off the lights, which feels better than watching nonsense, pushed at me by algorithms. I read Le capitaine Fracasse in the Netherlands, and if Verne’s Professor Aronnax hadn’t remarked about Captain Nemo last night in a cave in Freyr, ses sourcils se fronçaient, his eyebrows furrowed, I would this morning not have been able to pick a fight with two gendarmes.

The day promises to be beautiful as we have our regular breakfast of nuts and seeds—which we also bought in Provins—our gas stove snoring, sitting cross-legged once again between our tent and the slowly flowing rivulet, whose soft sound worked as a lullaby last night and kept me from reading more than half a page in Verne’s book. We decide to enter Spain via the tunnel at Aragnouet. Beautiful route! In the village of Tonneins, we cross the Garonne. Sitting on a wall around a lonely church just past the village of Aragnouet, we drink the tea and coffee I make, and in a dry riverbed near the Spanish village of Escalona, we eat the omelet with asparagus Heidi prepares on our gas stove. Past the city of Zaragoza, we continue south at a leisurely pace as the temperature and the tension rise, though I must admit that I feel better than I felt the last two months. Just before we enter Andalusia, we find the next perfect place to spend the night in an olive grove, and while Heidi prepares a minced-meat dish with what we still found in our cooler, I set up the inner tent of our tent and roll out our sleeping bags.

Shortly after sunrise, we drive out of the olive grove, and at a quarter to eight, we park in Antequera, in the heart of Andalusia, under a castle that towers over the city. Unsure, we walk back and forth on a cobble stone square until we decide that the street we’re looking for is a car-free street, which, after thirty meters, turns into a small garden guarded by a loquat tree, a grapevine in a pergola above the garden. Places to live hardly come more idyllic, and just as I climb onto a wall to pick a bunch of grapes, someone calls out, “Sois Geidi y Nikko are you Heidi and Nikko?”

A young woman walks toward us, a folder under her arm.

“Soy Lourdes I’m Lourdes. Mi madre es la dueña de la casa my mother is the owner of the house,” says Lourdes as she gives us both two kisses as if we have known each other for years. “Come on in.”

Having crossed the garden, Lourdes opens a beautifully designed steel door to a patio we also cross. Then, she opens another door and guides us into a small cave house. Surprised, we look around at the cozy interior of a house furnished with everything we could possibly need. Lourdes asks us to sign the contract she brought, and after Heidi has paid the deposit and a month’s rent, Lourdes says, “You’ve had a long journey and must be tired. The plumbers will install the air conditioning next Friday at one o’clock. I’ll be there too, and we'll chat then,” upon which she walks out of the house, leaving Heidi and me amazed.

“I thought the owner hadn’t yet decided to rent us the house, wanted to get to know us first,” I mumble.

“I thought so too,” says Heidi, “but I think we’ve found our place to live. Funniest house in Andalusia. Great place from where to build a new life!”

Sign up for my newsletter!