Guillaume Bacharene
bacharene@gmail.com
This story and series is a work of fiction, whatever sources of reality and experience might apply and, whatever the identity of their `subjects'. If you, as reader, think it real, then I, as writer, have done my job. But, please fee free to email your comments.
This story is not overtly sexual because village life is not overtly so. Village life is about the complexities of life and living in microcosm and under intense focus. People say Hello' and talk. In Paris they would think we were mad: You actually talk to strangers? That's so cute and sweet!' Our response is acutely simple: `It's normal to be polite!'
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Village Life - Part IV: Village Idiots
Foreigners often see and interpret sides of France in ways, which are at worst, ignorant and at best, misinterpreted or misunderstood. Now, I am not defending France at all. As a Frenchman who is multi-lingual and has been and lived all over the world, there is much about France I loathe. For one thing, as a Frenchman I see all through the lenses of my head, brain and my stomach. Once it was almost impossible to eat bad food in France: now it is routine, everywhere! Eighty-two million visitors a year come to France, the most visited country on earth. Many will never come back but mostly because they will have done France'. Our restaurants, bistrots and other places to eat can serve up crap since most customers either have no discrimination or, won't be back. As the saying goes: One person's meat is another's poison!'
One thing in villages, which intrigues many, is the notion of the village idiot'. French villages are very protective of their own, almost no matter what. Of course, there are limits. A sexual predator (this now being a particularly nasty reality for the Catholic Church all over the world and not only in France) would never have been protected by the powers that be without connections and the authority' of the Church and what was deemed normal.' That particular arrogance has been severely tested all over the world and long overdue prices' are being paid. A retired priest had once said to me:
`The church is a whore; Rome is the harlot church personified!' That was really strong stuff but said by one of its own. He knew. He had survived. He was a Jesuit, one of the brains of the Church.
But, le fou du village' (mad/crazy man of the village) or la folle du village' (mad/crazy woman of the village) were and remain protected. They are almost always of the people' and therefore, are looked after with much love, understanding and benevolence. This very issue just came up recently for me but first, a little historical context. In 2011, I first met Francine, the then folle du village', the mad/crazy lady' of the village. She had been moved to a supervised home, which meant she had somebody keeping an eye on her. Her meals were provided and her cigarettes and she would sit every day outside my house. We got to talk because it was the right thing to do. It provided a change for her. She would sit there hour after hour, talking to everybody and anybody, real or imagined and the cats and dogs, the wind, the trees, the leaves, the birds. However, our conversations, which built over time, opened another window. Francine was odd' but she was not stupid. And, it was not my place to judge. And at any rate, what is `normal' is ever open to debate. It is all part of the relativity of life and living. Also in France, bullying is not the issue it is in other countries. It has something to do with the French education system teaching respect and relative values through philosophy and ethics.
Now, to the real point of this. Recently, I was asked if I would talk to Franck, a 16 year old in a neighbouring village. He had qualified' as le fou' although was obviously very young. The social worker had explained that one of the local generalist doctors had recommended me as the best person around to deal with Franck's case'. Now, initially I had no idea what was involved at all. It was only when I read the case notes that I began to see the issues. Franck had developed a reputation for inappropriate behaviours'. These included exposing himself to people, masturbation in public places' and an unhealthy sexual interest in younger boys'. On the surface it looked serious but needed investigation. There are reasons for everything, especially in one so young.
Now, my role in all of this was counselling and nothing more, aside from some diagnostics. What this really means is listening more than talking and certainly not giving advice; helping Franck to understand his motivations and the effects they have on others and too look for what might have triggered his behaviours. All of this had to be done in a non-judgmental way but at any rate my entire professional demeanour would be exercised. Our first meeting took place in the medical centre in a private room more like a sitting room than an office. I told him he could call me Guillaume as `Monsieur Professeur, le Docteur' was far too formal and a barrier.
As it turned out, Franck was a pleasant enough young man, around 1.8m tall, a shock of longish dark hair, nice features and glasses, which gave him a studious air. He was incredibly skinny with legs and arms suggesting they might snap of at any moment. Physically he looked delicate but almost instantly I recognised a more steely side, a determination, waiting patiently in the background. The other thing about him was his hyper-activity: he could not sit still. He also had a slight speech defect. Having read his case notes, one thing which came to mind when I first met Franck was wondering if there had been a touch of foetal alcohol syndrome, this being potentially a real issue for his mother and a delicate issue for me to explore. In medical terms there generally are reasons and explanations for everything.
Now, in these situations, which are effectively open-ended, I like to have some non-threatening options as visual and focal interest cues. Things that work well are my collection of polished, non-precious stones and a selection of Picasso etchings and prints in reproduction. I invited Franck to sit opposite me in identical armchair so that the only thing between us was a low table with the polished stones and etchings. I had some home made, sugar-free rock cakes and freshly pressed orange juice on hand having found out that he particularly liked both. This was also part of a dietary plan for Franck since I suspected that his diet was seriously amiss and needed purging of sugar and other such poisons, which had serious health and behavioural effects.
After a very low-key welcome, these things broke the ice so to speak. Franck looked intently at my polished stones as he ate a rock cake and sipped his juice.
Which do you like best, Franck,' I asked. You can pick them up if you wish.'
His face lit up. He chose a rose quartz, bringing it so close to his eyes. He then proceeded to turn it every which way, examining it intently. There was something of the savant about him.
`Do you know the name of that stone Franck?' He shook his head.
`It's rose quartz and it is called the stone of love.' Franck nodded.
`LoveÉ.. loveÉ.. love,' Franck repeated, with pauses between each utterance.
`Are there people you love, Franck?' I asked. He thought for a moment.
Everybody, I love everybody.' His voice trailed off as he picked up a jasper agate, shaped like a jumbo pencil. And everybody loves me,' he added. He subjected the jasper agate to the same intense scrutiny, as if he were deconstructing it.
`But what's love anyway?' It was a deep comment coming from somebody already labelled as very marginal at best.
`Where did you learn about love, Franck?' I asked casually. He looked at me.
`My brother. My brother Alain, showed me.'
`It's good to have a brother who can show you things,' I remarked softly. Franck's mood changed abruptly.
`No, he hurt me. He hurt me!'
`He hurt you, Franck? Tell me how he hurt you.'
`You won't tell anybody?' He looked worried.
`I won't tell anybody, I promise. This is your secret and mine.' He looked relieved and shuffled through the Picasso prints, settling on the Minatauromachy.
`He sucked my cock and then put his cock in my assÉ.. many times.'
I nodded. `And you didn't feel good about that, Franck?'
`Alain said it was good and love and I needed love. It hurt me but he kept doing it. I don't think it was love.'
I nodded. `It wasn't love Franck; you are right. It wasn't love for you. Tell me Franck, does Alain still do these things to you?'
Franck shook his head. `He got sent away to my grandma in Brittany to work on the farm.'
I poured more orange juice.
`Do you have lots of friends, Franck?' He looked at me and then down at the floor.
`People are nice to me but I don't have a really good friend. I'd like one. Good friends are important.'
`So Franck, would you like me to help find a really good friend?' As I spoke, I had already recognised what Franck needed above all and immediately had thought of Mathieu, the son of a friend of mine who was a trained counsellor.
After my first session with Franck, I called Mathieu and explained the situation. Mathieu came over for a drink after a strenuous game of tennis. Now, the social services system within the French health care system, the best overall in the world in my experience, also allowed Mathieu to be paid, especially if he would agree to have Franck in his house. Mathieu was ideal: newly married, well trained, experienced and the mentor Franck needed. I told Mathieu that I would continue to work with Franck as well and that together we would develop him as best we could into a young man without a label as `le fou du village'.
As it turned out it was a simple and elegant solution. Mathieu's wife, Liane, agreed and Franck duly moved in with them. I also worked with Franck's mother and family, helping to create a place to which he could eventually return. Not only that, another friend offered to take Franck on as an assistant in his winery.
Final proof that all was working, although it is still a work in progress, was that the other night at another 12 euro dinner event, Franck came over and sat with me and a group of friends from Paris. He was developing into a confident and self-assured young man. I knew then that this was going to work.
There is always a story in a village, even a small one. Collectively these stories give specific flavour, identity and life to even the smallest village and hamlet.
(If you liked this story, please let me know. Any and all feedback and suggestions are welcome: bacharene@gmail.com)