Houseboat on the Seine: A Memoir Read online

  ‘It’s really brought our family together, I can say that. Will here is never restless the way he would always be, pacing about, looking into the refrigerator, opening the door of our apartment just to look out. He seems to be more inside himself. It’s almost as if this boat has become some kind of mission. I love him even more the way he is now than before.

  ‘But it’s tough for all of us. Will sweats out and dirties a full set of clothes from underpants to jeans and sweatshirts every day. His feet have begun to stink the way they used to do when we first got married. However, I’ll tell you, it’s nice sleeping in a bed with a hard man. His muscles are all coming back.’

  Neil starts laughing so wildly, I think he’s going to fall off his chair.

  ‘Rosemary, I never thought I’d hear you say you like sleeping with Will better because he has a hard muscle.’

  ‘Cut it out, Neil. You know what I mean. I’ll bet Donna and Barbara know.’

  She’s blushing. Everybody starts kidding around. Barbara and Donna laugh, too. Jo, who’s been quiet all along, carefully eating, listening the way he does, looks up. He’s somewhat older than the rest of us.

  ‘Well, whatever it is, I think that boat down there is going to change your lives, and it will be for the better. I’m tempted to look around for a boat myself. I’ll bet Addie would just love living on the river, and what a great studio a boat could make. I’d like to find one with a motor and learn how to drive it. I could maneuver it up and down the river and paint my eyes out. It’d make a great place to give shows from, too. Different shows in different parts of the city, different parts of France.

  ‘Actually, with all the canals, I could paint and give shows all over Europe. Now that sounds like a great life.’

  We all laugh, but I think Jo has the right idea. I almost wish I still had the motor on this boat, but then I could never have fit the boat into this small space. I have enough on my hands anyway.

  After cleaning up our picnic and bringing the chairs down into the boat again, we go back to work. The women are passing boards through the windows as we need them, and they’re all helping Rosemary clean out the upper boat. It still has mud in the damnedest places you wouldn’t think of, even after our big cleanup when we brought it up from the bottom.

  We nail in the last boards before dark. It’s like a big ballroom. Neil goes up to invite the women down to look. He’s as proud as any of us at what we’ve done. We give them a hand down my stairway ladder. When Donna looks around, she laughs out loud.

  ‘It’s like Roseland, or one of those taxi-dance places, only on the water.’

  ‘OK, Donna, let’s you and I christen this place.’

  Neil takes her in his arms, and they start waltzing around as he sings one of the Strauss waltzes. He has a strong baritone voice. I grab hold of Rosemary, and soon we’re all dancing. Jo joins us with Barbara.

  We’re laughing, dancing and singing along with Neil until we’re out of breath. We’ve combined our waltzing with something like square dancing, hooking elbows, swinging round, changing partners. Robin has started calling and clapping. I wonder what our neighbors think we’re doing. It sounds like some kind of orgy. Finally we all stop and just drop to the floor. I get my breath after a few minutes. The trouble is, each time one of us starts to say something, we laugh.

  ‘I’m promising all of you, when I have those windows in so we won’t freeze, and this floor sanded down, along with some heat, and a reasonable sound system, we’re going to have a celebration dance for this folly of mine.’

  Everybody applauds.

  ‘Now, it’s getting dark, we’d better all get home. I can’t thank you enough. I never could have gotten this done by myself. Look here.’

  I hold up the five-kilo packet of nails; there are about ten nails left.

  ‘We’ve really been pounding nails. I’m proud of us.’

  One by one, we climb my stairway, with me warning everyone to duck as they go up. I’ll need to build some kind of wooden cushion at the top where, right now, it’s sharp-cut metal just where you’d bump your head. Somebody could be scalped. As I go up, I pick out a spare scrap of Styrofoam and jam it over the sharp edge. It won’t do all that much good, but for the moment it’s better than nothing.

  I stand and watch as each car pulls away. It’s dark enough that they need their lights. I didn’t really think we’d be working this late. But then, the last part we weren’t working, just having an impromptu party. Matt has been good about it. I’m sure he’s convinced we’re all drunk. Some of those people are his teachers. I tried enticing him to dance, but he’s the wrong (or the right) generation.

  With a flashlight, we gather together the few nails and tools. I put them in the back of our car. Already, the paranoia of possession is creeping into things. I hate it, but as long as there are people who steal, I guess there will always be locks and people locking things up. But I’m glad for the feeling of ownership, pride in our barge, out peniche.

  ∨ Houseboat on the Seine ∧

  Eight

  Smoothing Things Out

  On Monday, I start with the sanding. I find, in the Yellow Pages, a place not far from the boat where they rent the big industrial sanders that look like gigantic vacuum cleaners. There’s no use phoning, I have a devil of a time understanding French anyway, so over a phone it’s impossible.

  I finally find the place. It’s just a grass-grown-over dirt lot on the other side of Le Pecq. There are all sorts of equipment to rent, from shovels to bulldozers. But they do have sanders. I put down a significant deposit and buy replacement sandpaper. The guy shows me how to fit in the paper. He talks me into buying one rough emery- or Carborundum-type paper and another finer type for finishing off. He speaks simple but effective English. I’d give a lot to speak French half as well.

  He also talks me into renting a long heavy-duty extension cord. I’d never have thought of it. I don’t know what I’m doing trying to pretend I’m some kind of boat builder.

  We manage to jam the sander into the Hillman so I don’t need to put it on the roof. I don’t think I could ever have lifted it back down. It’s a real brute. I’m already worried about getting it through the bottom-boat window. There’s no way I could pull it along that beat-up gangplank and down my ladder staircase.

  I struggle it down to the water’s edge. I slide the aluminum ladder in place at the window, squeeze two extra boards from the flooring job between the outside supports of the ladder and maneuver the sander onto this ramp. I push it as far as I can up this jerry-rigged ramp from the shore, half in panic that the whole thing is going to slide off right into the water or that the ladder’s going to tip and off it will go.

  I dash around, scramble up the old gangplank, down the steps and up onto the ramp from inside the boat. I pull, using the handle, and muscle the sander over the edge of the window into the boat. Happily, then, another gratuitous gift of the gods, the ladder tips into the boat like a seesaw and I only need to lift it off. I almost lose the two boards as the ladder bounces back onto the bank, but the gods are with me again, and the boards bounce but stay in place.

  I bring down the extension cord from the car, plug it into the one heavy-duty plug I have right by the door of the wooden boat. I string out the cord down my staircase and plug it into the sander. I’m soaking wet from sweat already. I strip off my dripping shirt and hang it out over one of the riverside windows. I’m learning that in a typical day working out here, I sweat through at least three shirts. It’s a bit autumnal, but I decide to work without a shirt; I’ll take a shower when I go home.

  When I turn on the switch of that sander, I’m practically pulled right off my feet. I’ve never run an industrial sander and have no idea! It pulls and bucks and I’m just barely holding on. Sawdust is flying all over the place. And when I try to turn it, about half the time, it tilts and sands a groove in the floor!

  Speaking of sweat, in five minutes I’m covered with a mat of sawdust and sweat all gummed into
my hairy body. And the noise. I can’t hear myself think, not that I’m thinking too much. I’m too busy just trying to keep up with this devilish machine. I turn off the switch. It’s suddenly deadly quiet, the ordinary quiet I’d been taking for granted. I plop down on my partly sanded floor. I stretch right out on my back and, of course, leave a big swatch of sweat. There’s no way out.

  I pull myself together, stand up, brace my feet and turn the switch back on. Because the sandpaper is beginning to wear down some, I have more control. I can actually begin to push the machine where I want it, instead of being dragged to wherever it wants to go.

  I’m reminded of when I was about ten and I took a summer job walking an old man’s dog every evening. It was a two-year-old police dog named Wolf, nice as any dog could be, which isn’t very. That dog took me for walks, practically runs, all over town, to places I’d never been. Working my way back, pulling madly on the leash, to his owner’s house was a major problem, sometimes taking over an hour. Well, this sander is a bit like Wolf, but not so nice.

  However, that floor is getting sanded. It begins to look like a floor instead of a pile of trash lumber lined up. I’m beginning to feel somewhat in control. Then, I decide it’s time I change to another roll of the heavy Carborundum paper. I lock it into place and prepare myself. I’m really surprised to find that if I just don’t try to fight the thing, it isn’t impossible. But it’s throwing sawdust up like crazy. The hard part is getting the edges smooth around against the bulkhead of the boat without ripping off chunks of Styrofoam. But I manage.

  After about two hours, I decide to try the finer sandpaper. This works beautifully, practically polishing the floor. Now I’m trying to smooth out some of the gouges I made with my first efforts, when the machine would dominate me and dig in. I’ve rented the machine for a half day, and it’s getting to be eleven-thirty.

  I unplug, roll up the extension cord, pull the ladder with the boards on it as far into the boat as I can. I hope when it seesaws on me the sander won’t wind up in the river. I manage it without trouble. I’m having brief moments when I feel like a ‘pro’ instead of a ‘sandpaper lotter.’

  I drag the beast up the bank and shove it into the back seat. I still have ten minutes. I back out down the chemin de halage, turn and head for the rental shop. I manage to bump down the road to the shed where the owner keeps his tools just as he’s locking up. He looks at his watch, does a French shrug and helps me unload, checking to see if everything’s OK, as if I could actually do anything to this machine that could possibly hurt it. I pocket my deposit and ask if he has small hand sanders as well. He nods as he’s locking up again.

  ‘Betsy there too much for you? She can be hard to handle.’

  ‘You’re right there, she threw me around for a while. Sure wish you’d told me her name, maybe I could’ve tamed her a bit faster. Wouldn’t be holding you up from le dejeuner. ’

  ‘‘I’m open again at two, and I have some good hand sanders.’

  His English is really quite excellent. He sprints over to his Peugeot 104 and swings on up the dirt road. I follow him. I have a beer and ajambon beurre in the Hillman that I’ll eat back at the boat. Now I’m beginning to have a feeling the boat is a kind of home for me, and I look forward to going back. Also, I want to puzzle out how the hell I’m going to put those windows in. I can’t nail into that metal, I can’t even drill holes. No glue is going to hold wood onto the edges where the windows are cut out.

  Then I have an idea. I’ll use the same theory I used to hold the Styrofoam on the walls.

  First, after lunch, and a one-hour unplanned nap on the bank, I go back to the tool place. The guy’s there and has out for me a practically brand-new-looking sander. This is a tool I’ve used before, but he’s convinced I’m a moron now, so he shows me how to hook the sandpaper on the vibrator belt.

  I make my deposit and zip on back to the boat. I want to finish sanding the stairway, braces and steps, then work around the edges and the bulkheads, where I couldn’t get in with the big sander. I sand all afternoon, so my whole body begins to vibrate. Mostly I’m on my hands and knees. I find some old rags in the upstairs boat and tie them around my knees so I won’t wind up with ‘houseboat knee.’

  I’ve rented the extension cord again so I can work the sander around to just about anywhere. But I’m beginning to lose light, so as I wrap it up I take out the last piece of sandpaper from the sander. I glance around the room and it looks great to me. I wonder what I can put on this floor to protect it, probably one of those hard-finish varnishes that comes in two cans, one with the varnish and the other with the dryer, but they cost a fortune. Also, I could just wax it or oil it; however, I’d prefer the varnish. I’ll worry about that later.

  The rental place closes at six and I’m running out of time. I measure all the windows and do some rough calculations. I’m hoping I won’t have too much wastage from this part of the job. Money’s really getting scarce.

  ∨ Houseboat on the Seine ∧

  Nine

  Money Problems

  I’m beginning to go deeper and deeper into debt with all my friends. One of the advantages of being an artist is you have a chance to know a bunch of rich people. They’re about the only ones who can afford a thousand dollars or more for a painting. After all, it’s a mere piece of linen canvas with colored pigment ground into oil and spread over the surface, sort of expensive oilcloth. So I’ve been taking advantage, hitting some of them for loans – not huge ones, never more than the cost of a painting. Most of them consider it an advance on another painting. But I’m getting deep into minus numbers, that is, salable paintings I haven’t done yet.

  This boat is taking all my time and money. I figure it’ll take about four meters of milled, quality wood to do each window. The place I’ve been using doesn’t carry anything like that.

  After I deliver the sander back and pick up my deposit, I head out farther west. It’s getting dark enough so I need headlights; the traffic is thick. I’m going to a big store called Conforama, where they sell everything, including lumber, and they’re open late. I’m hoping to buy what I need with the deposit money from the sander along with a little more. I figure at the very least, I’ll need fifty meters running of boards two centimeters thick and ten centimeters wide. I’m hoping I can get them in either two- or four-meter lengths. I suspect two meters for this kind of stuff is more like it. I also need some finish nails and wood putty. I’ll want to make a new miter box, too, unless I can find one cheap. My old box is broken.

  This place Conforama is enormous. I wander around for ten minutes just trying to find where they store the kind of wood I need. It’s sort of self-serve, which is why I’m here. I have a devil of a time explaining these material complexities to a salesperson, and the French are not notorious for their patience.

  Finally, I find the right area. After another ten minutes, I also find the right kind of wood for the framing, and at a reasonable price, reasonable for France. I should have enough left over to buy the quarter round I’ll need to hold the glass in place.

  While I’m looking, I see they’re having a big sale on frisette, that is, wood paneling. Boy, would that boat look great with wood paneling, and it shouldn’t be too hard to do if I can only figure a way to make the stuff stick to the sides of the boat. Get thee from me, Satan. I’ll be in hock for more of my phantom paintings, more than the Louvre has Rembrandts.

  When I pay at the cashier, I’m rooting around in the bottom of all my pockets for change. I just make it with fifty centimes left over. That’s cutting it close.

  I drive back to the boat, carry the loot up my gangplank and store it in the living room. I can see my work spreading out ahead of me. Except for the pleading, begging letters I’ll need to write tonight, sort of like a beggar holding out his hat, it’s all actually exciting and fun. I can barely wait till tomorrow.

  Rosemary is great about all this boat craziness. She’s worried, too, about the money, also that I’m not
painting and I’m selling paintings I don’t have. She knows how much I hate being in debt, but I don’t really see any other way to do this. I know myself, whether it’s doing a painting or working on a big project like this boat. As long as I’m enthusiastic and have the steam, I should never quit, or I might never start again. I need to keep plugging away in the flush of my excitement, while I still believe in what I’m doing.

  Windows on the World

  The next morning I’m out there early. First, I carry all the new wood downstairs. That gives some idea of where my head is. Already I’m thinking of this as a two-story house. I can hardly remember when it was two boats and I was out there trying to steer them one on top of the other for the great marriage. Maybe it’s this kind of forgetting that keeps me going. Probably what keeps most marriages going, too.

  I’ve brought out from Paris the bulk of my tools. I’m going to need a jigsaw, a keyhole saw, a crosscut saw, two hammers (one large, one small), the nails, putty and a miter box. I know what tools I’ll be needing, but I still don’t know how to put in those damnable windows. I have only a hunch.

  I almost butcher the job with my first window. First, I cut the sill three centimeters longer on each side than the hole. This is on purpose. Then I jigsaw slots at a slight angle on each end of this board. I want it to slant down toward the outside of the boat to run off the rain. When all the cuts are made I fit – rather, jam – the board into place. It’s tight, and I’m pleased with myself until I realize that the extra cut on each side of the window is going to make it so I can’t get by with two lengths of two meter boards for each window. I’m about to pull a Ken Kesey, ‘take a great notion and jump in the river and drown,’ when I remember that the vertical cuts will be shorter by twice the width of the horizontal boards. The gods take care of drunks, children and sloppy carpenters.