Chapter 1: Souvenirs Hands down my favorite heist ever. Itstarted innocently enough. I''d been recruited to accompany a tour group in theDordogne Valley, and my job consisted of giving a few lectures about life inFrance. The rest of the time, my wife, Anne, and I traipsed along with the herdof three dozen Americans. The local guide was a forty-something womanwhose wardrobe still clung to her twenties. Marie-Laure''s long scarf flowedbehind her as she steered the group through quaint downtowns filled withreplicas of ancient buildings. We tasted walnut oil and examined pots, admiredcountless churches with banks of stained glass. The tour specialized in thepicturesque, and our dark-haired leader knew just what to show Americans.
Inthe coach she whispered to the bus driver about where to pull over for the nextphoto op, and at the chateau she corralled everyone toward the west tower, theone they had to see. We traveled from postcard to postcard, and I lappedit up with everyone else. Thencame the evening they planted us in front of two hours of folkloric dance,performed by grim-faced locals in knickers and suspenders. The applause wasthunderous, and for once people got to call out encore! in the countrythat invented the term. After the show I chatted with one of the curly-haireddancers. While he sucked on a cigarette, I asked if they performed very often.He glanced around to make sure his boss was out of earshot. "Nah," he said.
Helet the smoke stream from his nostrils. "We just do this shit for thetourists." Ifelt like a kid in Disneyland who bumps into Mickey on a cigarette break, themouse head pulled off. Somethingwas going on. "Relaxalready," Anne said when I told her about it. "Kick back and enjoy yourself." Itried. I went with the group to Lascaux, where we stood in line to stare at amodern reproduction of a prehistoric cave.
One afternoon we had a wine tasting.And a cheese tasting. And a chocolate tasting. The weather seemed made toorder, the dial locked on pleasantly warm . Then,in Sarlat, a man in our group wandered off down a side street, and Marie-Laurechased him down like a border collie. What didn''t she want him to see? Icouldn''t shake the sense that there was a seam somewhere, the edge of a stageset. Itall came to a head the day they brought us to the goose farm. As we hikedacross the field to an outbuilding, I nudged Anne, lifted a foot, and pointedat the sole of my shoe.
"What?"she said. "See?" "See what ? There''s nothing there." Inodded vigorously. "Exactly. A farm with no shit." Hereye-roll was interrupted by the arrival of those escorting us into yesteryear.There was a smiling man in pristine overalls, a beret screwed to his head--alongwith his father, hands knotted, trousers filthy, a sullen and wrinkledrepresentative of tradition. The son, Martin, greeted us and trotted out a fewjokes.
He winked at Marie-Laure and twirled an imaginary moustache, suggestingan amorous relationship. "Yooknow ''ow we men are een France!" he quipped. The accent verged on outrageous. Everyone laughed. Behind him, the father, who was staring at nothing, went gray in the face. Hisshoulders rounded even more. The visit got underway. Step by step welearned how they turned birds into little cans of foie gras, the kind awaitingour arrival in the gift shop.
There was all the breeding and brooding, thegreat out-of-doors, and the free range. Eventually Martin eased into thegruesome part that is hard to sugar-coat, the bit about shoving a funnel intothe goose''s gullet and pouring in the grain. "But non, do not worry," Martin chuckled as he pantomimed the feeding. "Zeegoose, he don''t really mind! He ees a ''ungry bugger, zee goose! He weel takeall yoo can geeve! Thelaughter turned to guffaws. With jolliness and a few exaggerated shrugs, Martinhad turned goose torture into a knee-slapper. Inthe background, the silent father, a reluctant extra in this performance, hadgone ashen. What wouldn''t he have given to be elsewhere--indeed, anywhere other than here, in front of a gawking audience demanding that saucy Frenchnessbe enacted before them? Andthat''s when the penny dropped. No, it wasn''t just the geese who were beingfattened up for slaughter.
It was us , the Americans . For the pastten days the tour operator had stuck a funnel in our brains and was pouring inthe clichés, gallon after gallon. Like the geese, we didn''t even object. Themore they gave us, the more we swallowed. Gluttons for this particularpunishment, we were insatiable. Idon''t believe I''ve ever had such a sad realization. Everyone we''d encounteredover the past week was complicit in the scam--the vendors, the tour guides, thehoteliers, the waiters, and, indeed, even the victims, who--myselfincluded--wanted nothing more than to be duped and beguiled. We wanted thepretty stuff.
Like spoiled kids at the dinner table, we demanded dessert whilerefusing to eat our vegetables. But because we were kids with credit cards,they gave us what we thought we wanted. Onthe ride back to the hotel, I stared blankly out the window as blurredcountryside rolled by. Anne tried to buck me up, which somehow made it worse. Allthe others climbed off the bus before I could struggle to my feet, and then Istood outside the reception area, a bit dazed, not sure which way to go. Whybother? Everyoneelse had dashed off to put away their cameras and their goose paraphernaliabefore heading out to dinner. That''swhen the first cry erupted from the hotel. It was a woman''s voice, high-pitchedand startled.
Another woman responded, calling out something in English. A manjoined in. Then the footsteps began to thunder. Members of our group werescurrying back and forth in the corridors, thumping on doors, checking on theirfriends. Were they OK? Had their room been broken into as well? Aheist! Therest was like a waking dream, the scenes flowing together. Outraged Americansmobbed the front desk. The manager with slicked-back hair literally wrung hishands. Marie-Laure ran this way, then that, flummoxed by this event that hadn''tfigured on the itinerary.
Finally, a siren sounded, and a little green carscreeched to a stop out front, a troupe of gendarmes tumbling out of it. Whilewe were away, someone had gone through the hotel and ripped the wall safes fromthe wardrobes in the bedrooms. Wallets had vanished, jewelry, even passports! Howwould we pay for our meals? What did we need for insurance? Who knew how tofill out a French police report? What if--and now people started eyeing thestaff--it was an inside job? Justlike that, the postcard of our French experience had been ripped asunder. Anneglanced at me and did a double-take. "What''s up with you?" she said. "You''rebeaming." Shewas right. I was imagining the grandpa at the goose farm--how he''d have relishedthis scene.
Life was just too wonderful. Oh, sure, we''d lost a few bucks.There''d be insurance claims to file. But better than any souvenir, we''d finallybeen granted something real and unreproducible--a genuine memory. Thegendarmes were now frisking the chambermaids, one by one. Annebegan to giggle, covering her mouth. While pandemonium swirled around us, thesnorts erupted, her laughter fueling mine, mine turbo-boosting hers. "Ohmy God," she said, wiping a tear from her cheek.
"This is one is for the books.I''m going to remember it forever." Yep,I thought, drunk with happiness. Me too. Forever. That was somany years ago. Only problemis, forever never lasts as long as you think it will. Back then I didn''t knowhow time passes.
How the future creeps up on you. And how sometimes, when youlook over your shoulder at yesteryear, what was supposed to be forever hasfaded from sight.