by C. F. Ramuz
—And he sure looks like me.
Other times, he spoke of his wife:
—She abandoned me, she went and cheated. But now, adieu!
He also said:
—You see, things change; this wound here (he rolled up his pants), anyone recall where it was anymore?
The violent spring winds had torn the slate off the eaves; the water coming through the holes ran down the front steps; yet the swallows, who liked this spot, had come to it to make their nests, and the mother arrived with worms and insects, while the little ones all held out their wide open beaks to her. At the edge of the pond the bulrush and reeds grew, lifting their pale thin leaves in the air. The cobbler came and said:
—I respect you, you see further than others.
The goats and the heifers were beginning to come out, in the morning the trumpet sounded through the village; and, on Sunday, people went to lie beneath the trees, forming groups that were pretty to see, with the blue and black hats of girls; the sheep bleated along the bank. And so it was that one Sunday, Théodule, on his way back from visiting a wheat field with his wife, passed by the pond, and saw Jean-Luc exit his house with a ladder, go to his apple tree, a little one flowering just then, place his ladder there, and, climbing to the top of the tree, begin to pick the flowers.
Théodule, approaching him, cried:
—What are you doing?
—It’s a bouquet for the little one.
He went on picking, tearing out entire branches, with the little tree that was becoming bare and black little by little, while Théodule’s wife said: “My God! is it possible? All of this gone, all of this wasted!” Upon which Théodule continued:
—Leave him the fruits instead.
But Jean-Luc shook his head. “He asked me,” he said. Because now he imagined that the little one spoke to him. He descended from the tree with a big bouquet, as many flowers as he could carry.
It was still another matter altogether the day of the Corpus Christi procession, which is one of the great celebrations. On that day the procession loops through the entire village; and along the streets, everywhere it had to pass, acacias had been planted, all powdered of fine white snowflakes, and cut from the hedges. In addition, three great altars had been erected and decorated with images and vases, with garlands full of daisies. Then, to the sound of the bells, when the hour had come, the entire village set off for church, from where the procession left. Long as could be, with the crosses, the colored banners, the soldiers and their beautiful uniforms, the fanfare, the drums, the little girls and their white chiffon dresses, crowns in their hair, the girls beneath their veils, and the men and the women, walking in two rows and singing, it uncoiled through the village to the altar near the fountain, returned, went around again; the bells were ringing, the mortars left.
Jean-Luc went home directly after Mass and reappeared wearing an old helmet from the time of the Pope’s Guards, which he had found in the attic, all spotted with rust, the panache eaten by worms. As for the rest, he had kept his ordinary clothes on; dressed in this way, he followed the procession. When people looked surprised, he told them: “It’s to please the little one. He laughed so hard when he saw me.”
Even so, he sang as much as possible, pious once more, and prayed with fervor. Then, the procession over, people began to celebrate; there was a dinner at city hall, with a ball afterward, in which men dance among themselves, to the drum; he danced with the bell ringer, he danced with Théodule.
The beautiful summer had arrived, shining at windows in bright flames; the vapors take pleasure in this. Sometimes, when the evening returned cool temperatures, he went off to Le Chemin de Finges, which races flat against the slope, bordered with briars and bushes and their white clusters. He walked there, carrying the child, and spoke to him.
Girls arrived in packs, because it’s the season for socializing, and the heart is like flowers, which have a window for blooming. They came holding hands. As they advanced, troops of little birds, bursting into the air from branches, flew along the hedge, landing farther, then shooting back into the air; people hollered from every direction. The girls would halt to respond and the cries came and went, the call from afar and the clear response; then they got going again, the evening air ruffling their aprons.
He sat down, awaiting them.
—And the suitors?
—Lost on the way!
He took the child (whom they could not see):
—Would you like one to replace them?
—Sure, if he’s of age.
And Sidonie said:
—Does he like brunettes or blondes?
They stood before him; they laughed, looked down, in their gray and blue dresses with the small velvet stripes.
—Well, said Jean-Luc, he’s blond, so he likes brunettes best.
He continued: “Isn’t that right, little one? … He says yes … You see he was too blond before, now he’s golden … He’s not for you, Sidonie.”
She was blonde too, as she well knew, having looked at herself in the mirror; she was proud of her blond mane. Then, showing her teeth, with her clear beautiful laugh:
—And you, what do you like best?
—Oh! me? he asked, I’m too old for that … he’s replaced me.
And he held out his empty arms to them, and they were not surprised, aware of his peculiarity, yet moved back, a little embarrassed, while he continued:
—You’re all being rather difficult!
Jean-Luc and the pack of girls headed back together, and from within thicker shadows, the pond gleamed like a silver dish. They chatted, passing by the painter’s house; a little yellow dog barked, and, at the windows, there were crates painted blue and filled with geraniums. Then Jean-Luc continued alone, having said goodnight to the girls.
He had become very handsome, with his long beard, which was black and curly, and his hair was black and curly. He was paler and as if taller, with a dash of steady fire in his dark eyes gazing out in the distance, the taut skin of his forehead, and pronounced eyebrows.
Recognizable at once, because of his height and the way he walked, legs bent, his upper body leaning forward; in his black Sunday clothes, which he wore all week, a black bow at his tie, a black felt hat.
Again he had sold one of his meadows to Firmin Craux, and it was said that his mother was trying to impose a ban on him.
And yet others nearly envied him, though his happiness was false; but not to him, who was firm in his folly, in such a way that he did not suffer at all. People were surprised by the gentleness of his voice.
The month of August came. The old Ambroise, Christine’s father, died.
CHAPTER X
HE WAS ROTTEN ON THE INSIDE, like a tree trunk eaten by worms, hanging on only by the bark; and were a gust of wind to come, it would break. One more time they saw him go all the way to the fountain, limping and hunched over with age, wearing his faded blue garment; and a while later return, he who coughed and spat, and halted at each step; he died in the night, he made no sound in dying: at daybreak they found him in the door opening, between the bedroom and the kitchen, fallen to the ground, fully dressed; his mouth was open, having died of suffocation; the neighbor said to Félicie: “What’s wrong with your father?” she didn’t know; they touched him, he was already cold. So, the death knell having started to toll, people halted on paths, people said: “Who is it?” “It’s Ambroise.” “Well,” they said, “he’s done his time.” And the following day Christine came back up, with her child, the new one, to whom she’d just given birth.
That same night, the blacksmith, having run into Jean-Luc, was so shocked by his countenance, that he remained standing there, watching him. Jean-Luc went off with his hands in his pockets, suddenly halted and lifted an arm; then turning around to face the blacksmith:
—You haven’t seen him? he cried.
—Who’s that?
—The little one.
—No, said the blacksmith.
And Jea
n-Luc (alerted of Christine’s return):
—My God! he continued, he was afraid of her, he left.
And sat on a wall with his head in his hands.
The next day, old Ambroise was lowered into the ground. They left him his blue garment, for it no longer served a purpose. And Christine remained in the village, having inherited her father’s property. She lay with her child on the old man’s bed; the dip in the mattress was still there. But from that day on she didn’t leave the house without first checking that Jean-Luc wasn’t out in the neighborhood; and she avoided him thus.
He was always on the road however, feverish with movement and walking; never still, never in one place, he spoke, he said: “He got the hell out of here, I’ve got to look for him … He went off, because of her. He was afraid, you see, she’s been a bad mother; he told me she wanted to poison him; and he left, end of story!” He went on: “And so I’m looking for him.”
—And I told myself: “Perhaps he’s only hiding.” So I went and looked in the upstairs bedroom, I moved everything, searched everything, I checked all through the kitchen, along with the cave and the hayloft, nothing! nothing! and went to the pond, went all the way around it, there are bushes, I looked inside of them, and then went through the village, have you seen him? tell me the truth … Ah! it’s a tragedy!
He went from house to house, shaking his head. He continued: “You see, I can’t live without him anymore, I’ve got a void here, a void in my head.” He left with his same great strides.
Then for about two or three days, no one saw him anymore, he had gone to look in the woods. Around Le Bourni, where the bisse pulls away as a tunnel, there are precipices; he ran alongside the bisse, in his turmoil. They said to him: “Could a child make it through there? We can only barely make it through.” He answered: “You see, he’s not like the others.”
He went up to the mayens, where people came to live on two different occasions during the year, now empty, his own empty too; from there he went off to the high prairie, already rocky, came back down; he went all the way around the ponds again, entering the remote haylofts, where there’s hay, where one can sleep; he returned in the evening, his beard gray with dust, his shirt on his arm; he let himself collapse with weariness on the bench outside the house, and did not think to start a fire, to make himself something to eat.
At times Marie brought him a bowl of soup. And, more formal with him now:
—Is it reasonable, may I ask, to live like a true savage?
She showed him the holes in the roof, the loose stairs: “You won’t make it if you go on like this.”
He answered:
—I don’t care, I need him back.
The swallows had gone to bed, having long circled the house with their little evening cries; it was as if a garment of silence had been placed over things, and over there, the little skinned apple tree, naked and black, with its leafless branches. He went on:
—I need to go to bed, and wake up early. Tomorrow I’ll go to La Bouille.
But, an idea having come to him, the following Sunday, directly after midday, he went down to the bottom, to his mother’s. The weather was typical of summer, bright and beautiful, even stormy, with heavy clouds resting on the flat mountaintops, and the flies stung more strongly. It’s the season of thick shadows, and the gray leaves that stick together hang in clumps from the weakened branches, while rods of sunshine are planted upright in the earth. He had gone by way of the valley path, done and redone time and time again: there, among the rolling stones, along the stream and round bushes, walk, on a daily basis, the men and the mules, the women knitting their stockings, the youngsters returning from school; he came down in hurried strides. Soon the path veers a little; with pinewoods you enter, and at first the terrain is flat, then the slope picks back up, and the roots, jutting out, twist upon it like snakes. There is a fountain, another bend, then the path sinks straight to the bottom; and you come upon La Pierre des Morts, which is a great flat stone that seems deliberately placed at the edge of the path, having acquired its name because of the coffins that are brought up to the parish cemetery, placed on the stone just long enough for the transporters to catch their breath. Then, slightly beneath the stone, the woods cease, and the orchards begin.
Among the new grass flowed the fresh water, with its beautiful hues, which combined to make green; taking advantage of the sun, and also because of the first ripe grapes, many had come down; the whole bottom was filled with people, even though it was the season where it still remained uninhabited. At a bend in the road, two or three couples twirled to the tune of harmonicas; farther down, between the apple trees, which, seen from above, were like balls, completely round and without trunks, boys and girls were sitting or lying down, or else ran, chasing each other. Then came the vines that collapse through the prairie in great distressed banks, between little walls and strange rocky tips; stony, all of it, and shining in the sun, with, finally, the back of the valley and the river, straight and white like a road.
From there, some steam rose; along the river, a train left, dragging on like a black worm; and, on the pointed summits of the opposite mountains, which were already faintly engulfed in the blue, some clouds, new and white, not belonging to the ones still in place, had been caught, and, as if held by a string, dangled, then tore off, carried elsewhere by the sky’s highest winds, while weight and tranquility reigned below.
And Jean-Luc went off to the left, toward his mother’s house, along with two or three other structures, for this entire zone of the mountain was made up of such hamlets. White houses of stone, decrepit under their flat roofs; sundials with numbers painted blue. You could hear the sound of the drums, in an orchard the fanfare played.
He paid attention to nothing. He asked the first person he encountered:
—Have you seen my mother?
—She was here a moment ago.
He entered, did not find her, and, walking outside, did not find her where she sometimes came to sit in front of the house, being of an age that requires heat; a vine hung from some trellises, it allowed for a little shade. Meanwhile, in front of a cellar belonging to Baptiste the hunter, some men drank, and two dogs were lying at the foot of a small almond tree. Just then, Baptiste lifted his glass, saying: “One more week and we can take out the shotguns.” Seeing Jean-Luc, he cried to him:
—Hey! have you come for a drink?
But Jean-Luc shook his head, he repeated: “Have you seen my mother?” They answered him: “She just left, come have a drink while you wait for her, we’d like your company, we never see you anymore.” He lifted a hand: “Those days are over!” He entered the kitchen.
After some time, his mother arrived; he walked right up to her, she didn’t have time to speak:
—Is he here? he asked her.
She had small gray eyes, deep-set, with a hat pulled over them, and hands like the knots in vines. And she watched him with those little eyes, she forced them upon him:
—Come in, she said, if you have something to say to me.
And she pushed him inside. “Is he here?” “You’ve got something to say? Well have a seat,—I do too.” She had pulled out the bench for him.
—Ah! he said, I see, you don’t have him either, and yet I’ve searched for him everywhere.
Meanwhile she had gone to fetch a piece of bread and a quarter of cheese from the cupboard beneath the hayrack, she set them down before Jean-Luc with a full bottle of wine, she said to him:
—Eat and drink, then you’ll head back up.
But he interrogated her, saying:
—Why won’t you answer me?
—Ah! poor soul, she said. What have you done with your property? You made a fool of me with your marriage, you said: “Go to hell!” She made a cuckold of you, you returned, I took you back, you left again. And now, what sort of life do you live? ah, and whose son are you? They say you’re mine, ha! I no longer believe it; when I look at you I think: “Is that my son?” I’ll say it again;
eat and drink, and then you’ll head back up, for I don’t know you anymore.
He was quiet, neither ate nor drank; when she was done speaking, he only said:
—Will you answer me?
He continued:
—Because if you’re telling the truth, I have to head back.
But she, approaching him:
—Is it your child you’re looking for? And yet you’re well aware he’s dead.
He looked up, and began to laugh.
—Who told you that?
—I saw it with my own two eyes.
—You must be blind; listen to me, I’m the one who sees clearly.
And, with the tips of his fingers, he touched his eyes. She remained her mouth open with surprise. The sky was now overcast and some clouds lay across the sun, so that the light had dropped abruptly: the kitchen was in total darkness. Jean-Luc continued:
—I’ve got ears, I’ve got eyes and ears.
In front of the house, Baptiste and the others chatted outside of the cellar; the fanfare no longer played. And the wind, high in the sky, came from the eastern side, which was made visible by a purple hue, high above the mountain, which was growing with haste; the grass tilted, the vine shoot leaves trembled. Then the little cat entered the kitchen. But the old woman approached him again:
—They were right!
And he: “Who?” “Those who say you’re crazy!”
He lifted his baton, he banged on the table.
“Yes,” she was saying, “you’re crazy!” He banged harder on the table, he was screaming: “If you’ve got him, give him back, and if you’ve hidden him, come clean!” And each time he lifted his baton. So she began to call: “Baptiste, come, he’s breaking everything!”
Upon which Baptiste arrived; and, from all the neighboring houses, people, drawn by the noise, had come running and asked: “What is it?” But Jean-Luc, seeing Baptiste enter, moved back to the bedroom door; he was saying: “Don’t touch me! don’t touch me! because otherwise …”, and again he lifted his baton. The old woman kept repeating: “If you hadn’t come, he would’ve broken everything!”