Part 12 (2/2)

The people of this hamlet were welcoming and amiable; the men were smooth talkers, the women coquettish. Once you got to know them, you discovered they were determined, tough, sometimes even surprisingly malicious, perhaps a result of some obscure atavistic memory of hate and fear that had been pa.s.sed through the blood line from one generation to the next. Yet at the same time they were generous. The farmer's wife, who wouldn't have given an egg to a neighbour and held out for every penny she could get when selling her poultry, listened in dismal silence, together with the rest of her family, when Jean-Marie told them that he wanted to leave the farm because he had no money, that he didn't want them to have to support him and that he would try to make it to Paris on foot. ”It isn't right to talk like that, Monsieur, ” she declared with a strange kind of dignity. ”You're upsetting us . . .”

”But what else can I do?” said Jean-Marie, sitting next to her with his head in his hands, still feeling very weak.

”You can't do anything. You have to wait.”

”Yes, of course, the post will be working again soon,” the young man murmured, ”and if my parents are actually in Paris . . .”

”We'll see when the time comes . . .” said the farmer's wife.

Nowhere else would it have been as easy to forget the outside world. Without letters and newspapers, the only link with the rest of the universe was the radio, but the farmers had heard the Germans were confiscating the sets, so they hid them in lofts and old wardrobes, or buried them in the fields along with the hunting rifles they were supposed to have handed over. The village was in the Occupied Zone, very close to the demarcation line, but the German troops weren't stationed there; in fact, they had only pa.s.sed through the village and never climbed the hill to the hamlet, which was two kilometres away along rough, rocky paths. Food was beginning to run out in the cities and certain other areas; here, there was even more food than usual, for there was no way of transporting their produce away from the village. Never in his life had Jean-Marie eaten so much b.u.t.ter, chicken, cream, or so many peaches. He recovered quickly. He even started putting on weight, the farmer's wife said, and in her kindness towards Jean-Marie there was a strange desire to make a deal with the Good Lord-to save one life for Him in exchange for the other life He held in His hands: just as she offered grain to the chickens in exchange for their eggs, so she tried to offer Jean-Marie's survival in return for her own son's life. Jean-Marie understood this very well, but it didn't change in the slightest his grat.i.tude towards this elderly woman who had nursed him. He did his best to help out, doing odd jobs around the farm, working in the garden.

Though the women sometimes asked him questions about the war, this this war, the men never did. They were all former soldiers (there weren't any young men). Their memories remained stuck in '14. They had had time to filter the past, to decant it, to get rid of the dregs, the poison, to make it bearable for their souls; but recent events remained confusing and laced with venom. Besides, deep in their hearts they blamed it all on the youngsters, who weren't as strong as they, weren't as patient and who'd been spoiled at school. And since Jean-Marie was young, they tactfully avoided judging him-him and his contemporaries. war, the men never did. They were all former soldiers (there weren't any young men). Their memories remained stuck in '14. They had had time to filter the past, to decant it, to get rid of the dregs, the poison, to make it bearable for their souls; but recent events remained confusing and laced with venom. Besides, deep in their hearts they blamed it all on the youngsters, who weren't as strong as they, weren't as patient and who'd been spoiled at school. And since Jean-Marie was young, they tactfully avoided judging him-him and his contemporaries.

This was how everything conspired to comfort and soothe the soldier, so he could rebuild his strength and courage. He was alone almost every day; it was the season when there was the most work to do in the fields. The men left home before dawn. The women looked after the animals and the was.h.i.+ng. Jean-Marie had offered to help but they'd sent him packing. So he would go outside, crossing the courtyard where the turkeys were squawking, and walk down to a little meadow surrounded by a fence where two horses grazed. There was a golden brown mare and her two little coffee-coloured foals with their short, rough, dark manes. They would come and rub their muzzles against their mother's legs as she nibbled the gra.s.s and shook her tail impatiently to chase away the flies. Every now and again, one of the foals would turn towards the place near the fence where Jean-Marie was lying on the gra.s.s, look at him with his dark, moist eyes and whinny happily. Jean-Marie never grew tired of watching them. He wanted to write a story about these charming little horses, a story that would evoke this day in July, this land, this farm, these people, the war-and himself.

He wrote with a chewed-up pencil stub, in a little notebook which he hid against his heart. He felt he had to hurry: something inside him was making him anxious, was knocking on an invisible door. By writing, he opened that door, he gave life to something that wished to be born. Then suddenly, he would become discouraged, feel disheartened, weary. He was mad. What was he doing writing these stupid stories, letting himself be pampered by the farmer's wife, while his friends were in prison, his despairing parents thought he was dead, when the future was so uncertain, the past so bleak? But while he was thinking these thoughts, he saw one of the foals run joyously towards him, then roll around in the gra.s.s, kicking its hooves in the air and looking at him with mischievous and tender eyes. He tried to work out how to describe that look, all the time feeling impatiently curious and oddly anxious. He couldn't find the words but he knew what the little horse must feel, how good the crisp, cool gra.s.s must taste, how annoying the flies were, the sense of pride and freedom when he raised his muzzle and ran and kicked. He quickly wrote down a few awkward, unfinished lines. They were no good, he hadn't captured the essence, but it would come; he closed the notebook and finally sat still, hands open in his lap, eyes closed, tired and happy.

When he got back at dinnertime, he immediately saw that something important had happened while he was out. One of the farmhands had gone into the village to get some bread; now there he was with four round golden loaves on the handlebars of his bicycle and a group of women crowding round him. One of the girls saw Jean-Marie and shouted, ”Hey, Monsieur Michaud! This'll make you happy, there's post again.”

”Really?” said Jean-Marie to the old man. ”Are you sure?”

”Positive. I saw the Post Office open and people reading letters.”

”Then I'm going upstairs to write my family a letter and take it to the village. Will you lend me your bicycle?”

In the village, he not only posted his letter but bought the newspapers which had just arrived. How strange everything was! He was like a castaway who had made it back to his homeland, civilisation, society. In the little village square, people were reading letters from the evening delivery. Some of the women were crying; many prisoners had sent their news, but had also given the names of friends who'd been killed. At the farm, they'd asked him to find out if anyone knew where Benoit was.

”Oh, so you're the soldier living there, are you?” the women asked. ”Well, we have no idea, but now the letters are coming, we'll soon find out where our men are!”

One of them, an older woman who'd put on a little pointed black hat with a rose at the front to come down to the village, was crying as she spoke. ”Some of us will find out too soon. I wish I'd never got this d.a.m.ned piece of paper. My boy was a sailor on the Bretagne Bretagne and they say he went missing when the English torpedoed the s.h.i.+p. It's just too much!” and they say he went missing when the English torpedoed the s.h.i.+p. It's just too much!”

”Don't you give up hope. Missing doesn't mean dead. Maybe he's a prisoner in England!”

But to all these attempts at consoling her, she just shook her head and the artificial flower on its bra.s.s stem quivered as she trembled. ”No, no, it's all over, my poor boy! It's just too much . . .”

Jean-Marie headed back to the hamlet. At the side of the road he found Cecile and Madeleine who'd come to meet him; they both asked at the same time: ”You hear anything about my brother?,” ”You hear anything about Benoit?”

”No, but that doesn't mean anything. Can you imagine how many letters must be backed up waiting to be delivered?”

As for their mother, she said nothing. She just s.h.i.+elded her eyes with her yellowish, dry hand and looked at him; he shook his head. The soup was on the table, the men were coming home, they ate. After dinner, when the dishes were dried and the kitchen swept, Madeleine went into the garden to pick some peas. Jean-Marie followed her. He knew he would soon be leaving the farm and everything seemed even more beautiful and peaceful to him.

It had been stiflingly hot for several days; you could hardly breathe until the sun began to set. But this was the time when the garden was at its most beautiful. The heat had withered the daisies and the white carnations bordering the kitchen garden, but around the well the rose bushes were in full bloom; a scent of sugar, musk and honey wafted up from the cl.u.s.ters of small red roses next to the beehives. The full moon was the colour of amber, s.h.i.+ning so brightly that the sky was bathed in a soft green light, as far as the eye could see.

”What a beautiful summer we've had,” said Madeleine. She'd taken her basket and was walking towards the stakes of green peas. ”Only a week of bad weather at the beginning of the month and since then, not a drop of rain, not even a cloud, though if it carries on like this we won't have any more vegetables . . . and it's hard to work in this heat; but I don't care, it's still nice-as if the heavens have taken pity on us poor people. You can help if you want to, but you don't have to,” she added.

”What's Cecile doing?”

”Cecile, she's sewing. She's making herself a pretty dress to wear to Ma.s.s on Sunday.”

Her skilful, strong fingers reached between the cool green leaves of the peas, broke the stems in half, threw the peas into her basket; she looked down as she worked. ”So you're going to leave us, then?”

”I have to. I'll be glad to see my parents again and I've got to find some work, but . . .”

They both went quiet.

”Of course, you couldn't stay here your whole life,” she said, looking down even more. ”Everybody knows that's how it is, you meet people, you say goodbye . . .”

”You say goodbye,” he repeated quietly.

”Well, you're much better now. You've got a bit of colour . . .”

”Thanks to how well you took care of me.”

Her hand stopped still under a leaf. ”Have you been happy with us?”

”You know I have.”

”Well, then you better make sure you keep in touch. You should write . . .” she said, and he saw her eyes full of tears, close to him. She quickly turned away.

”Of course, I'll write to you, I promise,” said Jean-Marie and gently touched the young girl's hand.

”Everybody says that . . . After you've gone, we'll have time to think about you here, my G.o.d . . . Now it's still the busy season, we're working all day long . . . but when autumn comes, and winter, we'll have nothing to do but look after the animals, and the rest of the time we'll just stay indoors and watch the rain fall, then the snow. Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn't look for work in town . . .”

”No, Madeleine, don't do that, promise me. You'll be much happier here.”

”You think so?” she murmured, her voice low and strange.

And suddenly picking up the basket, she moved slightly away from him so he couldn't see her through the leaves. He picked some peas, lost in thought.

”Do you really think I could ever forget you?” he said finally. ”Do you think I have so many happy memories that I could forget this? Just imagine! The war, the horror, the war.”

”But what about before that? You weren't in the war for ever, were you? So before, were there . . .”

”What?”

She didn't reply.

”You mean were there women, girls?”

”Of course that's what I mean!”

”Nothing very interesting, my dear Madeleine.”

”But you're going away,” she said and finally, without the strength to hold back her tears, she let them fall down her full cheeks and said in a voice choking with emotion, ”I can't stand the thought of you leaving, I can't. I know I shouldn't say it, you'll make fun of me and Cecile will even more . . . but I don't care . . . I can't bear it . . .”

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