Provence
The other Friday, via the reader comments section, I was contacted by a chap, Simon, inviting me to attend a piano concert in the next village, the proceeds of which were going to those affected by the recent wildfires. I was thrilled, Radio 3 is on at home 16 hours a day sometimes. Especially since those heartless wankers at the BBC pulled the plug on the Sounds app last year for people outside the UK.
Living abroad has its advantages. The cave here above the medieval village feels right to me: safe, quiet, unique – and the terrace has a terrific view. And being so tiny and south-facing, it’s relatively inexpensive to heat and maintain, but it can be isolating.
Sounds, with its on-demand ‘Listen again’ option, which allows access to thousands of audible books, dramas, documentaries, afforded a much-needed connection to home. In the middle of the Covid lockdowns, it was a life-saver. While I was painting, I listened to a 1968 adaptation of The Day of the Triffids. I’d first heard it hiding under the covers as a four-year-old on holiday at my grandparents’ house in Staffordshire. They had difficulty persuading me to play in the garden for weeks. Great programme planning for Covid. Yes, we had a pandemic to deal with, but at least we weren’t blind, in the middle of societal collapse or getting hunted down by roving man-eating shrubs. Even with a VPN, for reasons too boring to explain, access to Sounds is no longer possible. I’d happily pay a subscription for it, as I bet just about every other Brit living abroad would (4.7 to 5.5 million of us). Nice wee earner.
That evening I was meeting a Ukrainian friend, Ellen, in the bar of the hotel Lou Calen. I hadn’t seen her since she got back from visiting her ailing father in Kyiv earlier in the summer. He died a month later. She and her husband were moving from the village here to Nice the following week and we had a lot to catch up on. It was still warm so we sat on the terrace with our gins. Someone was playing the piano in the bar lounge. I know of three accomplished pianists locally. My money was on Prosper.
Sure enough after 20 minutes he shuffled out. Prosper is from Marseille but lived in Indianapolis for 37 years where he worked as a private chef and waiter. His wealthy clients, including governors and mayors, inevitably had pianos – and after dinner, Prosper, a keen and talented player, would entertain the company with the music of Satie, Debussy, Ravel and improv pieces.
As a waiter in the St Elmo restaurant, he was a favourite of Liza Minnelli and Gene Hackman. Prosper has been suffering from Parkinson’s disease for many years and now has marked dyskinesia. His whole body jerks violently and sways uncontrollably, and his mobility has deteriorated to such an extent that he’s recently moved into a care home. But every time I see Prosper, usually in a bar or restaurant, he’s with a different woman. It’s easy to see why. Although I don’t know him well, at 75 he’s easily one of the most charming, engaging and interesting men I’ve ever met.
‘Prosper, would you like to come to a concert next Sunday?’
Whenever I see Prosper, he’s with a different woman. At 75, he’s easily one of the most charming men I’ve met
He was already there at our meeting place, on the Place de Mairie, when I arrived five minutes early. I was glad; it took a while for him to walk the 20 yards to the car and – with his jacket, stick and bag – get settled. ‘Ah, you’re wearing a dress and I’ve got my best shirt on,’ he said as I fastened his seatbelt. I dropped him off at the door of the church, parked, then joined him on a pew. By coincidence Simon and his wife, Emmanuelle, were in front of us. Simon turned and said: ‘Hello, Catriona. There aren’t many Scottish voices round here. Glad you could make it.’ He went on to tell me that the pianist was a friend of his and that they often cycled around the Var and knew the villages well.
The concert programme featured pieces from Chopin, Brahms, Debussy, Rachmaninov, Schumann/Liszt, Respighi and Satie, all favourites of mine, plus a contemporary composer I don’t like because I find the tempo and repetition irritating. My problem, not the composer’s. Prosper’s jolting movements were strong enough to jostle the pew. No one minded but I worried about how exhausting – painful even – it must be for him.
Soon Conrad Labuschagne walked down the aisle. In his black polo neck and dark suit, he looked more like a French existential philosopher than a pianist, that is apart from his gentle manner and shy, winning smile, which seemed to say he was as affected as we were at what turned out to be his world-class playing. He began with the third movement of Chopin’s Piano Sonata No. 2 in B-flat minor, Op. 35, the opening bars of which are immediately recognisable as the Funeral March. The middle section, where the music rises in a tender ecstatic crescendo then falls, is devastatingly lovely. Gradually I became aware of a stillness and turned towards Prosper. His dyskinesia had ceased and he sat motionless beside me for the rest of the performance.
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