They promised that nothing but the picture hooks would be left on the bare walls. And they sure kept their promise.
The larger and more important paintings, the better, more collectible silver pieces, and the choice elements of furniture were itemized and coldly calculated as part of the profitable move-out deal. It all seemed fair enough, we got the check, and they kept their promise. It was a reputable dealer, after all, who works in the biggest antiquities quarter of Paris. The rest of the contents of the apartment in Ville d’Avray, kitchenware and bedding; an enormous amount of lovely clothing and costume jewelry; and the bric-a-brac you’d expect to find after a life of 95 years would be cleaned out as part of the bargain, swept up, and hauled away to dealers and charitable recycling institutions. In fact it took two full days for a team of five pros who didn’t stop for a moment, except for their takeout pizza breaks at noon.
Jacques and I were there to oversee the proceedings. It was all very impressive, if a little disturbing to view heirloom clocks or large carpets hauled off to begin another life, ceiling-height armoires and marble covered sideboards methodically unloaded of their contents and dismantled before they were taken away, piece by piece. I’ve dined so many times throughout forty years on that sumptuous, oval, Charles X period maple table with intricate inlaid details. It too was taken apart, packed, and carried away by the high-spirited and emotionally detached young men.
Mind you, the Covid total shutdown was being strictly enforced in those last weeks when we moved in and were staying there, to supervise the visiting caregivers and to otherwise tend to the constant needs of the gentle lady in her last days on earth. Every step out to visit the pharmacy, every time I joined the lines to enter the supermarket or to drop by a pastry shop for a treat, or if we were called upon to return to Paris for banking or tending to the apartment here, required another signed and dated paper from the Ministry of the Interior. This situation of confinement went on in France for two months, but of course it did help to stem the spread of the epidemic.
During that period which impacted us all in so many ways, I became, quite by default, the person who tended to and cared for a slightly neglected ficus tree that Madame Chuilon had raised and protected for over twenty years. The plant was enormous in breadth, having grown in two directions simultaneously over the years, and was quite beautiful. It was over 7 feet tall, and spread by as many feet in width. The earthen pot had a gorgeous dark blue glaze, and was very large as well, which I considered perfectly suited in proportion. But several little yellow leaves had appeared on the branches, and many more could be spotted on the floor, too.
When I decided to take charge, I shook down the drying leaves as well as I could, and that day did a pickup and vacuuming project that began our mutual story.
It was obvious that the plant mostly needed careful watering, but I had to figure out the dose, as there was a stain on the golden carpeting from an overly zealous past attempt to fix things, some time ago I suspect. Since the nourishing spring sunlight was streaming in for hours now every day, conditions were perfect for our mutual revival. I began with two coffeemaker pots of water, carefully dispersed over the dried surface. It seemed to penetrate well, and the next day I repeated the same dose of water. By carefully keeping notes of the measures, I ended up by giving three pots of water every three days, and the results were quick to appear. New leaves of the brightest green imaginable started to emerge, the tree was clearly responding and restrengthening gradually, and to my eyes looked wonderful within weeks. It also gave me, in my caregiving functions there, a kind of private time, a “jardin secret” that seemed to be personally fulfilling, even when other prospects for life expectancy in that home were showing signs of ill. The doctors finally summed up unanimously in hushed terms that “it could happen any time,” and they “wouldn’t bet on more than a week…”
Skipping back to where I started this story, the tree was among the last things to be taken away, on the last day when the apartment was basically gutted out and emptied. Sure, I had thought more than once of officially adopting my oversized plant, and could just picture it standing handsomely outside our dining room window, which adjoins a small courtyard, but it would not survive outdoors in the Parisian winter, and indoors here there is just not the place to imagine introducing such a massive, living and breathing, intrusion. Sure, I guess I even considered moving the grand piano outdoors instead.
So it was a little bit shocking for me to see the moving men methodically applying packing tape around the august branches to draw it tight, to witness a plastic sheet being pulled around the leaves to permit get it shoved into the moving van, and to see it finally brought out through the door on a dolly, albeit with my instructions clearly written on a paper and attached to the base: “Trois litres d’eau tous les trois jours, s’il vous plait.” I think I even included a pictogram, in case the tree would be sent to Mars.
Sometimes an emotion wafts in without knocking which seems so acute, so aching, increased perhaps by the knowledge that you are the only one aware of that emotion. A lingering, wistful melancholy remains, floating in the air. It’s kind of how I feel here, today, three months after the last moving day. I’m sure that, like the rest of the contents of that apartment, the beautiful ficus tree has been taken to an appropriate place to be appropriately tended to and respected. At least I prefer to think that’s the case. Maybe it was delivered to a high-end florist or nursery, maybe picked up by a shrewd interior decorator, with an appreciative clientele in mind. After all, the antique dealer in Saint Ouen seems to know them all.
Lately I’ve been looking around the local nurseries. Just looking, just checking around. There are gorgeous, high climbing plants and soaring mature trees available, ficus trees, too, all ready to be adopted. Maybe what I do need is a young version, small at the beginning, just two or three feet in height as we get to know each other, but containing within each thriving, deep green leaf plenty of optimism and promise, ready to glow in the warmth of future beams of healing sunlight.
And watered with loving attention, every three days.
