Date: Tue, 22 Aug 2017 21:45:12 +0200
From: Guillaume Bacharene <bacharene@gmail.com>
Subject: Village Life IV: Village Idiots

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!'

Please support and donate to Nifty, which supports this community of
writers and readers.

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)