Where'd I Leave My Cardigan?
Last night at my book club we discussed "Suite Francaise". I had put off starting it until last Sunday night, then had to read 100 pages on Sunday, Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday as it turned out to be a 400 page book. I really wish somebody had told me it was about occupied France and NOT the Holocaust, because I would have started it much sooner than I finally did. An occupied France doesn't bother me. I could read 1,000 books about occupied France and not lose any sleep at night. The Holocaust gets me everytime. I hate books about the Holocaust. And movies. I mean, what kind of sadistic pervert makes a movie about THE HOLOCAUST?! Gawd. And who goes to see such movies? Cripes. Re-enacted images of the Holocaust I simply don't need seared into my memory. Just knowing that the Holocaust is out there is enough for me, thanks.
Anyway, like I said, Suite Francaise is about occupied France. And not to be mean, but I can't think of a more deserving people to be occupied. Except maybe the Germans. Although, I'm not sure how you could have occupied the Germans during the Second World War more effectively than they occupied themselves. Still, even though Suite Francaise was about occupied France and not the Holocaust, there are Appendices at the end which are pretty sad, particularly the letters written by the author's husband to assorted lilly-livered and duplicitous authorities in an attempt to trade his life for hers. In the end, they both get sent to concentration camps where they die in fairly short order. Thankfully. Their daughters survive, primarily due to a loyal maid (their maternal grandmother turns them away at the door - IF YOU CAN BELIEVE IT!) and eventually, some 65 years later, the one daughter realizes that her mother, who was a famous author in her day, had left a finished manuscript of a novel about occupied France in a suitcase this same loving daughter had been carrying around all her life under the assumption that is contained a bunch of diary notes.
And yes. Truth be told, it DID cross my mind that the daughter, in fact, wrote the book and is perpetrating an elaborate hoax on us all with the miraculous tale of finding a completed manuscript, long neglected, in her mother's old suitcase, some 65 years after she died in Auschwitz. But when I posited that theory at my book club meeting last night, it was met with horrified indignation (we all loved the book - a first, I think) and the point was made that it had merely been polished up recently, first in the typing out of the manuscript by the daughter, and second in the translation from French to English and that therein lay my suspicion that we had just read something written quite recently.
I'm still skeptical and intend to test my theory with a reading of the long dead author's most famous book, "David Goldar".
Anyway, because we all liked the book, there was much chatter about it - as opposed to much chatter about husbands, kids, neighbours, schools, work, food, politics, movies, and so on and so forth. (Hilariously, we all agreed that occupied France didn't bother us much at all - one of our group lived in Paris for three years and try as she might - coming up with a good thing to say about the people of Paris is something she finds very hard to do. Still, it's pretty clear that the author had no idea of what Germans are like, since she portrayed them quite favourably, not knowing, of course, that she was doomed to die in Auschwitz, so... it is possible she just didn't have much of a handle on national stereotypes and portrayed the French as worse than they actually are. I know, I know - HOW?)
As the conversation moved on to different characters in the book, we settled on some of the older ruling class types and suddenly, for some reason related to something, I'm sure, one of our group, a younger member, said, "Hey, make sure you guys tell me I SOUND old if you hear me say something one day like, 'Oh, I can't possibly do anything on Tuesday - I have to pick up my suit at the Dry Cleaners." Then she looked at the rest of us quizzically to say, "How old do you have to be before you think you can't possibly do anything else on a day you have to go pick up your suit at the Dry Cleaners?"
Well, there was much laughter as everyone recounted different things they'd heard old people say to that effect but sitting there laughing right along with the crowd I realized that I'd complained ALL this week to my young man that I was busy every night and would barely have time to finish the book - the book I hadn't started until Sunday night on account of I thought it was about the Holocaust and not merely occupied France.
And to be painfully honest, Sunday and Monday nights were actually quite free. I just thought I was busy Sunday night because I like to do a little vacuum and tidy on Sunday nights. And Monday nights I like to make a nice supper so I can start off the week with tasty leftovers to bring to work for lunch since eating out is SO expensive and waitresses - even the snippy ones - expect a tip EVEN if you've just had a bowl of soup! Tuesday night I had a meeting at my son's school for an hour. (I had to go. Someone has be there to make sure he sits up straight and remembers to take off his hat while the lady principal addresses the audience. And I say lady, advisedly, since she clearly hasn't had her hair done anytime recently and I'm not sure why a nice suit can't make an appearance on a professional every once in a blue moon, but there you go - nobody pays attention to the details, anymore. It's all "do your own thing" and "whatever" - which I have to point out I don't know how many times a day is NOT a proper answer - let alone a proper sentence.) Wednesday night was my French class. It's two hours long so I have to make a little snack to bring in case I get a bit peckish but I believe in keeping up with the political times.
I finish work at 4:00 p.m.
I go to bed some time after 11:00 p.m.
So...
WHY DID I THINK I WAS TOO BUSY ALL WEEK TO READ A BOOK?! I used to go out and party every night of the week and still managed to get through all my university reading. For years I would go out after work, hither and yon, up to gawd knows what, and yet - I'm quite sure I managed to read two or three books a week. I mean, I don't even spend time reading the newspaper anymore and I used to read three of them - cover to cover - EVERY MORNING!!
Anyway, I didn't say anything at the time (my book club is a little Lord of the Flies-ish) but now I'm wondering, "Those hussies didn't think to tell me that I've been and gone already - did they"...
