3 Home sweet home

Frances pulled away in a gravel courtyard of a neat middle size house. Nothing fancy, but welcoming enough. Around the house, a large area of grass, garden, and a few trees created a warm atmosphere while at the edge stood a forest with a large oak. With the heat, it brought plenty of shady areas with the freshness of greenery. It was simple, and homey, the perfect reflection of my companion of the day.

She was such a delight to talk to, this little woman. Cultured, curious, and witty. Very unassuming, for she now knew who I was but refused to dwell on my celebrity. So far, she had not shown any kind of interest in my fortune or in the famous people I had met. Nor tried to take advantage of my connections. She was so true … it was refreshing.

Her father, a slender man with fifteen years on me, at least, popped up from the garden when he saw us. Clad in shorts and a very old t-shirt, the man was all sinewy muscles and very little fat. Could have been a Marathonian if he’d been taller. His dark eyes sparkled with the same gleam I’d seen in his daughter’s eyes, true affection pouring out when he took in Frances’ costume. Then he turned to me, unsurprised by my arrival, and as unassuming as his daughter was.

— “Papa… Tristan. Tristan … papa,” she recited hastily. “On travaille ensemble sur le film,” she added as an explanation to her father. (We work together on set.)

The man lifted his hands; they were stained by dirt and grass, so he only nodded with an easy smile.

— “Bonjour,” he said. “Je ne vous serre pas la main, mais le cœur y est “(Hello. I won’t shake your hand but you’re welcome anyway)

— “Bonjour monsieur. Merci beaucoup” (Hello sir, thanks a lot.)

— “Ta mère est dans la cuisine, dis-lui que j’arrive dans un quart d’heure.”, he added. (Your mother is in the kitchen, I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.)

And he turned around with a spring in his step, eager to return to his plantations. I watched the man as he disappeared into a plastic greenhouse before turning to Frances.

— “Shall we go and find my mother?”

— “Lead the way, my lady Frances.”

The young woman gave me a lopsided smile and climbed the rounded steps that stood outside the house, leading to a covered terrace. Then she pushed the French doors and passed the living/dining room, giving me little time to study it as she strode to the kitchen. Aside from the sober feel of it – and the neat fireplace – it didn’t give me a lasting impression. What did, however, was the intense smell of raspberries that floated in the air.

Said smell escaped in volutes from a giant copper cauldron set upon the kitchen heating appliance. Above it, a woman with short dark hair and a kind face stirred patiently at the mixture. Spotting her daughter, she addressed her with a smile.

— “Ah tiens ! Je ne pensais pas que tu reviendrais pour manger. Fais voir ton costume ! C’est joli” (Hey, I didn’t think you’d get back for lunch. Let me see your costume, it’s lovely!)

Then she spotted me, and Frances leant against the sink to give us some space to shake hands.

— “Maman. J’ai amené Tristan pour déjeuner, j’espère que ça ne dérange pas. Il va m’aider à répéter pour la scène du bal de cet après-midi. (Mum, I brought Tristan for lunch, I hope you don’t mind. He’s going to help me repeat for the ball scene)

— “Sans problème, il reste de la mousska pour 10 au moins. Revenez dans une demi heure, ce sera prêt. Profitez en pour répéter si vous voulez. A quelle heure vous devez y retourner ?”Not at all, don’t worry. There’s some moussaka left for ten people at least. Get back in half an hour. Use the time to rehearse if you want to. What time do you have to get back?”

Tristan looked at his watch. 12.15.

— “A deux heures (2 h)”

Her mother looked pensive for a moment, probably wondering what she was going to fix, in the meantime, then smiled at us.

— “Bien. Parfait.

Frances hesitated a second, watching the volutes reddish liquid rise and fall in the cauldron.

— “Tu as besoin d’aide ?” (Do you need help?)

— “Oh non, ton père va descendre avec les tomates” (oh no, your father will come down with the tomatoes)

The young woman nodded, her face eager.

— “Oui, il a dit 15 minutes. A tout à l’heure alors” (yes, he said 15 min, see you then)

— “A tout à l’heure”

Frances turned around to leave, but I couldn’t help myself and approached the cook.

— “Ca a l’air délicieux” (looks delicious)

The woman sent me a sharp look; I knew my accent wasn’t so great, especially since French was such a difficult language. But we Danes had a bonus compared to English speakers, our “r” looked much alike theirs. Instead of prying, though, she pointed to the mixture.

— “Confiture de framboise du jardin. Enfin, celles qui restent une fois que Frances est passée par là” (Rasberry jam from our garden, given there are some left once Frances pilfered them)

I chuckled at the image. There was nothing like meeting one’s parent to get a better idea of someone, and I didn’t help when said person was much younger than myself. She reminded me of my own daughter who was now fourteen years old and probably having lunch in the high school canteen. Frances’ mother stirred the jam once more, then took it off the fire. Home-made jam, damn! It made my mouth water. Especially raised in a garden without the pesticides and intensive treatments.

— “So, would you rather guard the blob? I can pick you up in fifteen if you’d prefer.”

Frances’ mischievous voice dragged me out of my musings, and I followed her outside at a more sedate pace – which allowed me to get a good look at pictures on the wall. Frances, as a child, looked ever cuter and her two brothers – difficult to tell them apart – shared similar features with their sister, and surprisingly little with their respective parents.

— “Funny how we look alike but nothing like them, right?”

I nodded, studying the shape of the brother’s eyebrows who drew a straight line on either side of their nose.

— “Yes. All three from the same mould”

— “But the mould came from outer space, I know.”

I laughed at the strange image.

— “My older brother is a copy paste from my father. And I look much like my mother did.”

— “No other siblings?

I wondered if she was asking out of politeness, or if she’d read about me already and knew all those facts. Nonetheless, she seemed genuinely interested.

— “No. Just the two of us”

— “So if I saw the two of you side by side, I wouldn’t see the family traits?”

— “Not at all. My brother has blue eyes, and is at least 10 cm taller than I am. The pettiness of genetics”

Frances pursed her lips at my sour expression, trying very hard not to laugh. Then she gazed at me very seriously, so intensely that I nearly blushed.

— “Sorry. I just couldn’t get the colour of your eyes. They seem to oscillate”

Oh! So she was trying to assess my eye colour. She was in for a difficult time then.

— “They do. Light brown, sometimes a little greenish or grey”

Frances cocked her head aside; giving me a very discreet once-over.

— “Well, I wouldn’t complain much about genetics you know, it’s been nice enough with you if I may say.”

— “A compliment?”

The young woman retreated slightly, and I realised she didn’t want to be misunderstood.

— “Very off-handed, yeah. I wouldn’t want your wife to bite my head off, and my boyfriend might be rather pissed.”

Right. Helen wouldn’t be too happy if she had told me that my butt looked yummy, but Frances wasn’t even approaching the indecency limit. And even though I’ve been elected the sexiest Dane by a stupid feminine magazine, the compliment touched be because it was very genuine, and very respectuous. So hide the flutter in my heart, I tried to laugh it off.

— “Believe me, some fans have told me insane things. And some pretty disturbing ones”

The young woman cringed.

— “Do I even want to know?”

— “Perhaps not”