Houseboat on the Seine: A Memoir

  ‘I know you don’t have much hair, Will, but what you have is all caked with mud. And don’t forget to wash the back of vour neck.’

  I wash my hair and let the soapy water run down my body. I lean against the shower wall in front of me and just let the water coat me with a fine film. It’s like a gentle massage.

  We couldn’t fit a tub into this tiny bathroom, so it’s this elevated shower. I’ve fallen asleep often in tubs in my long life, but this is the first time I find myself falling asleep in the shower. I start sliding slowly into the Mississippi.

  Luckily, Rosemary looks in at the precise moment I’m ready to let it all go and try curling up in the bottom of the shower.

  It couldn’t be too bad; we’ve given the kids plenty of baths in the bottom of this shower.

  But she rouses me, dries me off, as I halfheartedly, half-assedly, try to help. At least, so she tells me much later. I don’t remember anything after I’ve scrubbed the shampoo into my dirty, thinning hair. She must also have worked me into my pajamas, because when I wake in the morning, I’m wearing them.

  Tricky Business

  Rosemary and the whole crew are gone. There’s a note on the table beside my plate where she’s set my breakfast.

  Hope you’re feeling better, Will. Please don’t go to work on the boat today. You need a rest. I have a faculty meeting this afternoon so we’ll be late coming home.

  Love you, Rosemary.

  I pour out Muesli cereal and spoon yogurt onto it. I drink my orange juice, washing down the vitamins she’s left on the place mat. I chop a banana into the cereal, stir up the mix and eat it. I’m not tired anymore; in fact, I feel as if I’ve just been born again. I can hardly wait to be out there on the boat pushing glass into place. I’ll make a point of getting home before five. Rosemary won’t be home before then, what with the faculty meeting, so she won’t have time to worry.

  I look at my watch for the first time. Nine o’clock. I haven’t slept this late in years, not since before we had our first baby, Kate. I scoop out the last of the cereal, wash it down with the orange juice that’s left, take the dishes into the kitchen, and wash them. The dishes from the family’s breakfast are in the dish rack, dry. I add mine to theirs. Then I go into the bedroom, make the bed and dress myself in another pair of work jeans.

  The traffic isn’t too bad, and I’m climbing up the gangplank before my wristwatch beeps ten.

  The sun’s out, but it’s cool inside the hull of the boat. I keep on my jacket as I work. I cut a set of the quarter round for the inside of the window to the same measurements as the exterior ones. I open one of my packets of putty, work and roll it around in my hands to warm and soften it, then, using a spatula, start squeezing putty in all around the first, outside, set of quarter round that is in place. I slip on my gloves before lifting the pane of glass, then I stack the tiny glazier points in place on the sill under the window.

  I feel whole and intact, doing quiet, constructive work on a cool, sunny morning, floating on a river. Slanted beams of sunlight splash on my newly laid and sanded wooden floor. I’m at one with the world.

  Happily, because I’d put the panes of glass into the car in the order in which they’d been cut, when I unloaded them, they’re reversed and in perfect order where I stacked them in the boat, with the number-one pane on top. I check my gloves once more and take a deep breath.

  I put the number-one in the upper-right-hand corner, and it slides in perfectly. I push the pane in against the putty just tightly enough to hold and, hopefully, keep out the rain. Some extra putty slides visible between quarter round and glass but, after all, this is only the first pane. Nothing’s perfect.

  Now, holding one hand up against the glass, just in case the putty isn’t strong enough to hold it in place, I pick up the piece of quarter round I’d cut for the top inside and spread putty along it, but not too thickly. The glass fits into place beautifully. I’m holding the window in now by leaning against it. I hang some of the tiny, headless points between my lips and position one in the center of the quarter round. In my back pocket I have the little tacking hammer I usually use to nail canvas onto stretchers. I use it now to hammer in the small point. I’m getting nervous. I hammer along the same plane as the pane of glass, tenderly, cautiously. It goes in easily. Now I feel safer.

  Over the next quarter-hour, I position all four quarter-round pieces in place with putty, and nail three of the small points in each. The fits at the corners aren’t always exactly right, but I didn’t really expect them to be, only hoped. I’m on the last nail, the right vertical quarter round, the hardest one, because I can’t nail left-handed. I’m twisted around to nail properly parallel to the plane of the pane when I do it. I mishit and the point nips the pane so a small crack spreads out of the corner!

  At first, I think of throwing the hammer through the window, but control myself. I rub a smidgen of putty along the crack line and wipe it off. I also wipe off all the window because it’s smudged with putty. When I’m finished, I stand back to take a look. Not perfect, but good for me. I swear I can already feel the boat getting warmer.

  I work all day putting in windows. That first crack is the only one. After that, I hammer with the caution of a kitten fishing goldfish from a bowl.

  I stretch out on the floor and look around. It’s definitely warmer now. I’m going to need to build that back window so it can open, not only to move large things such as paintings into or out of the studio, but for ventilation.

  I’ve never built a real window before. I measure around carefully for the big window. Tomorrow I’ll go buy materials. I’ve actually spent the entire day doing just what Rosemary thought I’d be doing yesterday. It was demanding work but not butt-busting. I’m clean, except my undershirt is soaked with nervous sweat. I forgot to eat lunch, but then I had a late breakfast.

  It’s just before four, so I hide my tools, sweep up bits and pieces. I’d like to go search out materials for making that back window, but I can never do that and be home by five. As I go up the stairs, I look back, and it’s beautiful. I swear, because of the white Styrofoam on the walls and the light coming through the windows, it’s even lighter than outside; what a great studio it’s going to be down there. I’ll need water and a way to drain it without sinking the boat, but that comes later; the draining, not sinking the boat, I hope. Tomorrow it’s the back window.

  I’m not quite home by five, but I luck out on a parking place and beat the rest of the family into the apartment. I pick up the mail and the International Herald Tribune at our mailbox in the entry hall. I’m aching to take a shower before they come home, change into a sweat suit, and be lounging around like a rock star when they come in, but I’m too tired. I only change my shirt. I’ve just settled down in my favorite chair when I hear them on the stairs. Rosemary unlocks the door. She stares at me and smiles.

  ‘Well, you really did it. I never believed you’d actually take off a day from that dumb boat. What did you have to eat?’

  ‘I had a great breakfast, even ate a banana for the potassium.’

  ‘Well, how are you feeling? You look fine.’

  She puts her wrist against my head.

  ‘Here I left a virtual corpse in the morning and come back to find you lolling around good as new. That’s wonderful.’

  The kids go change out of their school clothes. Rosemary carries groceries into the kitchen.

  ‘How about a cup of Caro, dear? I’m having some tea. Those faculty meetings can be so dumb. We don’t talk about the children, or the curriculum, or anything that matters, it’s only about money, the budget, salaries and ‘Formation Professional’ One English teacher wants money to study pottery on a Greek island. Maybe she’s going to teach her students how to write cuneiform on clay tablets. I don’t know. Maybe I’m in the wrong profession.’

  The Back Window

  Next day, I look all over for a place where I can buy materials to build my back window. It turns out to be a small wood and moldin
g shop up in St.-Germain-en-Laye, about three kilometers from the houseboat. Most of the other places I’d been to would make the window for me but wouldn’t sell the raw materials so I could do it myself.

  This place has a nice woman who agrees to help. The shop is very tiny and in a narrow back alley not too far from the post office. I show my measurements to her and she searches through her stock until she finds something I can use. I want the most simple materials possible. I’m not even considering building a window with individual panes. I want to look out that opening with nothing between me and the view but clear glass.

  She says she’ll sell me the glass and extras I hadn’t thought of for constructing the window. I know the glass will cost more here than at Chez Mollard, but this is a straight cash deal, no standing around in lines before people with celluloid cuffs. I generally prefer dealing with small artisans. These people are just holding on by their teeth in France, particularly specialty businesses where they custom-build windows, furniture, metal work for balcony railings and so forth.

  After a morning of futile running around, it looks as if I’ll finally have the materials to build our window. The woman gives me several hints as to how I should go about it. She also sells me hinges, special wood glue, some more putty, a pair of latches to keep the window shut and a screen-door hook and eye to latch the window to the ceiling when I open it all the way, if I ever manage to have a real ceiling. She speaks slow, simple French, so she almost makes me believe I understand the language. She tells me her husband is out putting in a whole set of twenty windows in an old office building. He custom-built them all, right here in this little shop.

  I’ve built enough stretchers and frames for paintings, so I’m not too worried about this job. To be honest, I look forward to it. I’m tired of all the brute labor. Even putting those raw panes of glass in my hokey frames was a bit too much like heavy labor for me, especially when I think about sliding down the bank, then running back and forth from the riverbank, up the old gangplank, down the stairs, then leaning out the window and pulling those heavy panes in.

  I watch her cut my piece of glass. It’s twice the size of the others, and I’m as amazed as I was at Mollard’s when she snaps off the huge piece clean. I try to help her, but she waves me away. I guess it’s a one-man (woman) job. I’d screw it up for sure. When I heft this pane into the back of my Hillman, I’m even more impressed. It’s heavy and that lady can’t be more than five feet tall and weighs less than a hundred pounds. She says it’s all in knowing how to handle the glass. Ha!

  She helps me cushion the pane so it won’t break on the trip back. This time the pane barely fits on the blanket; it’s twice as long as the other panes. I’d measured before I left, to be sure, but until it’s actually in the car and the hatch closed, I worry. I’m a worrier. I wave goodbye and she goes back into the little shop, wiping her hands on a blue denim apron and smiling.

  I use the same system I used before to haul the glass down to the boat: more mud up my rear end. However, this glass is so long it wants to bend, and glass won’t bend. I’m sure it’s going to crack in half and I’ll be cut at least in half. But by going slowly and not jiggling too much, I make it. Less mud, too – most of it is in the plumbing at our apartment. I have a regular mudslide down the berge now, curved to fit my contours. I’m slipping in the mud, like an otter except I don’t go all the way down into the water, on purpose.

  Sliding the glass onto the ladder and wooden trestle is, of course, even more of a project, but I do wrestle that large pane into the boat and settle it on the floor. I sit beside it, dripping sweat.

  Building the frame, as I thought, turns out not to be too big a deal. I keep squaring it with my square as I go along. Fitting it into the frame so I can attach it to the boat, as I did with the smaller windows, is another problem. This time I really need to measure carefully so the frame will fit the frame of the window, no half-baked measures now. I put quarter round only on the inside. This means I’ll need to do everything inside out, from under the window.

  The window will open in, hinged to the ceiling as I planned it. I don’t have any wood on the ceiling to which I can attach the window when it’s open. This additional luxury will need to wait until I’ve lined the inside of the boat with frisette.…If!

  But it doesn’t matter. I’ll latch it closed for now, and when I want it open I’ll jam a piece of wood against the frame to allow air to come in. But I’m getting too far ahead of myself, always dangerous.

  However, I’m learning something. I suspect the frame with the glass in it is going to be too heavy for me to mount without help. Still, I’m anxious to get along with the job. I decide to hang the window frame first, then put the glass in after ‘it’s hinged into place.

  First, I check to see if the pane of glass fits in the window frame. It does. I lift the glass out and put it well aside so I can’t step on it.

  Then I start the process of fitting the window frame into the mounted frame on the back wall of the boat and attaching it with the hinges. After this, I mount the attachments the lady sold me to hold the frame shut. This seemingly simple operation takes me two hours. I spend another half hour opening and closing, latching the empty window frame, congratulating myself.

  My hands are shaking and I realize I’ve forgotten lunch. I go across to the café and have a jambon beurre, the ham sandwich with butter on half a loaf of French bread. I spread mustard on the ham in the sandwich and wash it down with a demi, a small glass of French beer. The sun is shining and my hands have stopped shaking. It just wouldn’t do to try manipulating that glass with shaking hands. I talk to the woman who runs the café. She’s been watching the progress of the boat, too, each time she takes her dog for a walk along the chemin de halage. She says she’s impressed, at least that’s how I translate her rapid-fire French.

  I go back to the boat. I’m sure it’ll be a tough afternoon, but I’m feeling as ready as I’ll ever be. Naturally, the glass must be fitted into the outside of the window frame. This means I need to crawl under the frame I’ve just mounted on hinges at the top and squeeze myself along with the monster piece of glass between the window frame and the back wall. I’m working up a panic again.

  I squeeze myself into place, then realize I don’t have my hammer, the little glazier points or the putty to hold the glass. I can see them on the floor through the glass too far away for me to reach. So I need to reverse the entire procedure, lower myself – with the pane of glass – out from under the window frame, then slide the glass to the floor without cutting off my toes. I require another rest after these contortions.

  Now I balance my hammer, the glazier points and putty on the sill.

  I don’t own a putty knife, so I do my damnedest to work in the putty with a kitchen knife. It takes forever, although this must be the two-hundredth window I’ve puttied in during my life as amateur builder. When it looks fairly good, not too much putty showing from the inside of the windowpane, I wipe off all the smears, putty, sweat, exhalations, until voilal There’s a window with a regular God-given painting framed for me looking upriver to paint, if I ever find time to paint again.

  ∨ Houseboat on the Seine ∧

  Ten

  Time Passes and Then the Gangplank

  During the next days, weeks, months, years, every time I manage to squirrel enough money to buy a few packets offrisette, I’m down in the hull of the boat nailing it up. I don’t think I could have faced doing it all at once, so this is one time our economic shortcomings are to my advantage. As I’m working on the walls, framing with paneling and molding the frames of the windows, I keep looking up at the ceiling, that is, at the Styrofoam that is still jammed in the places where I hope to put a wood ceiling. The great difficulty will be getting around the line of metal supports we left from front to back of the boat. They stick down about half a foot, with sharp triangular-shaped braces on each side every half meter. At the lowest point, they’re only about six-and-a-half feet from the floor.
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  I come up with two solutions. I’ll try the first one in the room where the stairs come down from upstairs. It’ll give a sort of W-like configuration. Since my names, first and last, start with Ws, it’s appropriate.

  In the meantime I continue with my slow wall-paneling and actually build a halfway-mark divider and hang two interior doors. They’re made from two pieces of light plywood, framed on the interior with cross-bracing wood. They’re wide enough to move most furniture or any large paintings through them. I build two, one on each side of the center line, where we’ve left a section of wall for additional support of the deck holding the upstairs boat.

  I’m finding this part fun and, in addition, I’m actually back to painting, real painting, my own paintings.

  My main effort now is to renovate the upstairs, then the gangplank, so the family can move out here and live. Then there will be no more hour-long trips through Paris in the mornings. Also, I can start staying at the boat. I never thought that would sound so good.

  I find old rugs on the island across from us. It’s an outfit like the Salvation Army called Les Freres Emmaus or, sometimes, Abbe Pierre’s. It’s named after the priest who founded it. They clean out attics and cellars, and people give them stuff they don’t have any use for, but is too good to throw away. Every time I drive out the N13 road to the boat, I stop and look, hoping to find something they have that will be OK on the boat.

  Rugs are the first things I buy. They’re in various tones of tan or beige. It makes the place look lighter and more civilized. The rugs I put into my original upstairs pirate’s-den version were ruined in the inundation.

  I also find a table and some chairs, simple but strong, well glued. I’m not exactly fighting the antique dealers who show up in all their finery looking for that lost Louis XV armoire. I even replace most of our pots and pans, cutlery, dishes, so the place is ready to move into. These pots and pans are ten times better than what we have at home in the apartment. Our apartment is pretty much furnished with used junk anyway. I mean, most of it was already used when we picked it up years ago. Then, after fifteen years of use by a family of five, it’s well used.