Letters From My Windmill (9 page)

"I saw Pascal Doigt-de-Poix, who made his olive oil—with monsieur
Julien's olives!

"I saw Babet the gleaner, who, as she gleaned, grabbed handfuls from
the stacks to make up her quota!

"I saw Master Grapasi, who oiled his wheelbarrow rather a lot, so as
not to be heard!

"And Dauphine, who greatly overcharged for water from her wells.

"And le Tortillard, who, when he met me carrying the Good Lord, rushed
away, with his biretta perched on his head and his pipe stuck in his
mouth … as proud as Lucifer … as though he had come across a mangy
dog.

"And Coulau with his Zette, and Jacques, and Pierre, and Toni…."

* * * * *

Much moved and ashen with fear, the congregation whimpered, while
imagining their fathers, and their mothers and their grandmothers and
their sisters, when hell's gates were opened….

—Your feelings don't deceive you, brothers, the good abbot continued,
you sense that this can't go on. I am responsible for your souls, and I
do want to save you from the abyss towards which you are rushing
helter-skelter and head first.

"Tomorrow, at the latest, my task begins. And the work will not be in
vain! This is how I am going to go about it. For it to come out well,
everything must be done in an orderly way. We will proceed step by
step, like at Jonquières when there's a dance.

"Tomorrow, Monday. I will give confession to the old men and women.
Nothing much there.

"Tuesday. The children. I'll soon have done.

"Wednesday. The young men and women. That might take a long time.

"Thursday. The men. We'd better cut that short.

"Friday. The women. I will tell them, not to build up their parts!

"Saturday. The miller. A day mightn't be enough for him.

"And, if we've finished by Sunday, we'll have done very well.

"Look, my children, when wheat is ripe, it must be harvested, when the
wine is drawn, it must be drunk. We've had enough of dirty washing,
what matters now is to wash it, and to wash it well.

"May you all receive God's loving grace.
Amen!
"

* * * * *

He was as good as his word. The washing was duly done.

From that memorable Sunday, the sweet smell of Cucugnanian virtue was
heady for many kilometres around.

And the good priest, Monsieur Martin, happy and full of joy, dreamt one
night that he was followed by all his flock, as he ascended in a
candle-lit, resplendent procession, clouded in fragrant incense, with
choir boys chanting the Te Deum. They were all following the light to
the City of God.

There you are; the story of the priest of Cucugnan, as I was told by
the great colloquial writer Roumanille, who had it himself from some
other good fellow.

—A letter, Father Azan?

—Yes, monsieur…. It's from Paris.

The good Father Azan was so proud that it came from Paris. Not me
though. A little bird told me that this unexpected early-morning
letter, which had just fallen into my lap, was going to cost me the
rest of the day. I was not wrong, as you will see.

I must ask you for a favour, friend. I want you to lock up your
windmill for the day and go directly to Eyguières. Eyguières is a large
market town a few kilometres from here—an easy walk. When you get
there, ask for the convent of the orphans. The first house after the
convent is a single storey house with grey shutters and a small
back-garden. Don't knock, just go in—the door is always open—and
shout at the top of your voice: "Hello, folks! I'm Maurice's friend."
You will then see two very old folks, hold out their arms to you from
the depths of their large armchairs. Give them a heartfelt hug from me
as if they were your own. Then, you might like to talk to them. They
will be very boring about me, though, and tell you a thousand and one
tales—but do listen respectfully—no laughing. You won't laugh will
you?… They are my grandparents and I am everything in the world to
them, but they haven't seen me for ten long years. I can't help it.
Paris keeps me busy; and they are so old, so that even if they tried to
visit me they couldn't make it. Fortunately, you will be there for
them, my dear miller, and when you embrace them they will feel almost
as if I were there. I have often mentioned you by name, and our special
friendship which….

To hell with that sort of friend! It was fine weather, but certainly
not walking weather; too much sun and too much mistral, a typical
Provencal day to be sure. By the time this damned letter arrived, I had
already decided on my bolt-hole for the day. It was to be in the
shelter of two rocks, and I was looking forward to basking like a
lizard and soaking up the Provencal light as I listened to the pines
singing. Oh well, there was nothing else for it, I grumbled as I locked
up the windmill, and put the key under the cat-flap. Cane, pipe, and I
was on my way.

I arrived at Eyguières at about two o'clock. The village was deserted;
everybody was out in the fields. In the white dust-covered elms in the
courtyard, the cicadas were singing their hearts out, just like they do
in the Crau plain. An ass was sunning itself in the town hall square,
and a flock of pigeons were in the church fountain, but there nobody to
direct me to the orphanage. Luckily, I came across an old fairy
squatting and spinning her thread in a corner of her doorway; I told
her what I was looking for, and, so powerful was she, that as she
raised her distaff, the Convent of the Orphans appeared, as if by
magic, before me…. It was a big, black, bleak house, proudly boasting
an old red sandstone cross with a short Latin inscription above its
pointed door arch. I spotted a smaller house next door with grey
shutters, and a back-garden…. I recognised it immediately and went in
without knocking.

The long, cool, quiet entrance hall made a life-long impression on me;
with its pink painted wall, and faded flowers and violins on the
panelling. I saw a small garden shaking about in the wind beyond a
light coloured awning. I seemed to have come to the home of some sort
of antediluvian bailiff…. At the end of the corridor on the left, the
ticking of a large clock could be heard through a half opened door, and
the voice of a school-age child, reading each syllable carefully. Th
… en … Saint … I … re … naeus … cri … ed … I … am …
the … wh … eat … of … the … Lord … I … mu … st … be
… gro … und … by … the … tee … th … of … th … ese …
a … ni … mals…. I went gently over to the door and looked in.

In the quiet, and half-light of the small room, there was an old man
with flushed cheeks, and wrinkled to the end of his finger tips. He was
fast asleep, slumped in an armchair, with his mouth open and his hands
on his knees. At his feet was a very young girl dressed all in blue—a
large cape and a small bonnet—the orphanage's uniform. She was reading
the life of St. Irenaeus from a book larger than herself…. This
wonderful reading had a soporific effect on the whole household; the
old man sleeping in his armchair, the flies on the ceiling, and even
the caged canaries in the window. The big clock was quietly grinding
away. Nothing moved in the room, except from within a large band of
white light, which fell from between the closed shutters, which was
full of sparkling movement and microscopic waltzes…. In the midst of
all this general stupor, the child continued her solemn reading: S …
oon … two … lions … jum … ped … on … him … and … de …
vour … ed … him…. Then I appeared…. The actual arrival of the
lions in the room could not have caused more panic. It was a moment of
pure theatre! The tot screamed, the book fell, the canaries and flies
bestirred themselves, the clock chimed, and the old man sat up,
startled. I was a little flustered myself, and froze at the doorsill,
shouting as loud as I could:

—Hello, folks! I'm Maurice's friend.

Well! You should have seen the poor old soul come with open-arms to hug
me, and shake my hand, and pace wildly round the room, going:

—My God! My God!…

His wrinkled face broke into deep creases of laughter. He flushed and
stuttered:

—Oh, monsieur… Oh, monsieur!…

Then he went to the back of the room and called out for:

—Mamette!

A door opened; a mouse-like scurrying was heard in the passage … and
there she stood, Mamette, as pretty as a picture in her shell-like
bonnet, her nun-like habit, and her embroidered hanky, which she held
in the respectful, old-fashioned way…. It was so touching; they
looked completely alike. With his hair done up and yellow shells, he
could have been another Mamette, except that the real one must have
cried a lot in her life, as she was even more wrinkled than he. She,
too, had a girl carer from the orphanage, a little nurse, dressed in a
blue cape, who never left her side. To see these old folks, cared for
by the orphans, was unimaginably moving.

Mamette began by addressing me rather too formerly, but the old fellow
cut her off mid-stream:

—He's Maurice's friend….

The effect was immediate; she stood there, trembling, crying, and
blushing even more than he was. That's old people for you! Only a drop
of blood in their veins, but at the least emotion, it leaps to their
faces….

—Quick, get a chair, said the old woman to her little companion.

—Open the blinds, cried the old man to his.

The couple took a hand each, and trotted me over to the window, which
they opened wide to get a better look at me. Once they got back into
their armchairs, I sat down between them on a folding stool, and with
the little blues stationed behind us, the grand interrogation began:

—How is he? What is he doing with himself? Why doesn't he come? Is he
settled in?…

And so on and so forth—for hours on end.

I was answering all their questions as best I could, filling in the
details that I knew, shamelessly inventing those I didn't, without ever
admitting that I hadn't noticed if his windows were well-fitting, or
the colour of his bedroom wallpaper.

—The bedroom wallpaper!… It's blue, madame, pale blue, with a floral
pattern on it….

—Really? went the old lady fondly, and added turning to her husband:
"He's such a fine boy!"

—Oh yes, he's such a fine boy! he echoed enthusiastically.

All the time I was speaking, they shook their heads at one another, and
chuckled, and gave knowing winks and nods to each other, then the old
fellow drew close to me:

—Speak louder!… She's a bit hard of hearing.

And she said:

—Speak up, please!… He can't hear very well….

So, I raised my voice, which evinced a grateful smile, and as these
smiles faded I could just make out a faint image of Maurice. I was
overwhelmed to see it; a vague, veiled, yet evasive, vision, as if I
had seen my friend himself smile back at me, but in the misty distance.

* * * * *

Suddenly, the old man sat up in his armchair:

—I'm wondering, Mamette, if perhaps he hasn't had any lunch.

Mamette, shocked, threw her hands in the air:

—Not eaten!… Good Lord!

I thought they were still on about Maurice, and I was about to reassure
them that their dear grandson always ate before midday, but it turned
out it was actually me they were concerned about. There was some
consternation when I admitted that nothing had passed my lips:

—Quick, lay the table, little blues! Put it in the middle of the room,
use the Sunday-best table cloth, and the decorated plates. And do
please stop giggling so much and make haste….

Certainly, they did hurry, and the dinner was soon served up—three
broken plates later.

—There you are, a fine breakfast for you! said Mamette, urging me to
the table; "You will be dining alone, though, the rest of us have
already eaten this morning."

The poor old things! Whatever the hour, they would have always claimed
they'd already eaten.

All Mamette would have had for a breakfast, was a little bit of milk,
some dates, and a tartlet—and that had to keep herself and her
canaries going for a least a week. And to think that it was I who
finished off their supplies!… Also, what indignation there was around
at the table! The little blues, propped up on their elbows whispered to
each other. From inside their cage, the canaries seemed to be saying,
"What sort of man would eat all our tartlet!"

In fact, I did finish it off—almost unconsciously—I was busy looking
around the light and peaceful room, where the scent of antiques seemed
to drift in the air…. There were two small beds in particular, that I
couldn't take my eyes off. I pictured the beds, almost as small as two
cots, early in the morning when they are hidden under their great
fringed curtains. Three o'clock chimes; the time when all old people
wake up:

—Are you asleep, Mamette?

—No, my dear.

—Isn't Maurice a fine boy?

—Oh, yes, a fine boy?

And I imagined a whole conversation in that vein, inspired by just
looking at the old folks' two little beds, laying side by side….

Meanwhile, quite a drama was taking place in front of the wardrobe at
the other side of the room. There was a jar of cherries in brandy in
the top drawer—waiting for Maurice for ten years—and which they now
wanted me to have. Despite Mamette's pleas, the old fellow had insisted
on getting the cherries down himself, and stood on a chair to try to
reach them, to his wife's great horror…. Picture the scene: the old
man trembling and hoisting himself up, the little blues clinging to his
chair, Mamette puffing and blowing behind him, her arms outstretched. I
caught a light scent of bergamot wafting from the open wardrobe with
its large piles of discoloured linen…. It was a charming sight.

At last, after much struggling, the much vaunted jar was fetched from
the drawer together with a dented old silver tumbler, which belonged to
Maurice as a child. It was filled to the brim for me; although it was
Maurice who loved cherries so much! While serving me, the old chap
spoke into my ear with the air of someone who knew about gourmet things: