Malicroix

by Henri Bosco

  Balandran was smaller than me, lean—but of a dark leanness—and raw, with taut sinews and sharp muscles. Already old, gray, with bushy hair. Enormous eyebrows bristled above his gaze, fixed in the center of his pupil as a keen, patient point of defiant attention that shone without weakening, surprisingly still.

  He wore a thick homespun vest. His pants, cut from a heavy fabric, were cinched by leather straps above huge, hobnailed boots.

  In his hand, he held a cane.

  A scent of water, fresh mud, and wet plants came from him, as if he had emerged from the river’s water. This scent seemed to announce the presence not so much of a man as of a creature still clinging to the primeval ooze. And yet the man was here, fully present, studying my eyes, my feet, my hands, my height—impassive, but with a piercing look.

  I said to him, “Are you Balandran?”

  He replied, “I am Balandran, Mr. Martial.”

  This unexpected “Mr. Martial” surprised and also touched me. He knew my name. He pronounced it roughly, but with a strange accent that moved me. I thought of Cornélius. He must have loved him. Which is why I almost asked him how many years he had served my great-uncle. But one word stopped me: “served.” I did not dare utter it. This Balandran did not look like someone who could fill such a role, even beside a Malicroix. I limited myself to announcing that the notaire was ill.

  “I will wait for him here,” I explained, looking at him.

  He replied, “There’s enough.”

  I considered; he must be talking about the food. But I added, “We will be patient.”

  He said, “We have enough to eat for the whole winter.”

  This sentence (spoken darkly) made me shudder. I said quietly, “Winter is long . . .”

  Balandran, still motionless in the same spot, stood now with his eyes lowered. He said, “We have fire.” Then he showed me a rope that, through a hole in the ceiling, went down the length of the chimney. “If you ever need me, all you have to do is pull the cord.”

  Unthinkingly, I reached out my arm.

  He stopped me abruptly. “Not now, Mr. Martial. I’m here.” He was right. I almost laughed, but he seemed so uneasy that my laughter stopped short. He noticed it. Which is why he must have decided to add, “It might disturb someone. You can never tell . . .” And he tried to smile, to reassure me, as if he wanted, in his way, to joke.

  But I sensed he was reticent, worried. “Can it be heard from afar?” I asked.

  He seemed to reflect. “It depends on the wind, Mr. Martial.”

  I thought to say, “Of course. It’s the place. All the winds pass through. They’re at home here.”

  He looked at me sternly but did not answer. He spoke of other things—the noon meal, wood for the fire. “I’ve put some dry wood in the storeroom.” He pointed to the back door. Then he took his leave.

  Through the window, I watched him go. Beneath the rain, he followed the path; unrushed, he disappeared into the woods where the wind was blowing.

  Once more, I was alone.

  • • •

  No two times of solitude are alike, for we are never alone in the same way. There are some singular people whose passage inspires in us a deeper, vaster sense of isolation once they have left us alone. The more they are themselves solitaries, the more their presence fills us; the more their absence leaves us empty. It may be that such people, created for the desert, attune us to the secret laws of solitude.

  I clearly felt that Balandran had left me more alone than I had been before his brief visit. “When will he return?” I wondered, as if already missing him. But although I did indeed miss him, it was in another way that he had made me aware of my unique position. Something ineffable, emanating from him, gave me a foretaste of this wild land and the life one lived here. Not exactly the taste, but some sort of cryptic warning—I was in a territory foreign to my natural life. Here the words, the sounds, the silences, even the objects, spoke a language of their own, to which I had no access. Among themselves, they conversed in this unknown idiom about regrets, old memories, deep-rooted thoughts, hopes—whose existence I sensed, but without perceiving the web of their mysterious relations.

  I had stumbled upon a fabric of imperceptible subtlety. The slightest gesture threatened to crumple its as yet invisible weave. “The best thing,” I thought, “is to perform only simple actions here, those of daily life, if it’s even possible to do anything here at all, no matter how it seems.”

  I undertook then to explore the house, using the necessary discretion. A house, even one given to you by law, might very well not give itself. It is easy to appear as an intruder. A simpler, more straightforward house could not be imagined. But simple places are the hardest for us. We are never fully at home in them; we look them over too quickly to uncover the thought that may be secretly inscribed in the most ordinary object.

  Nothing in the room where I found myself drew me, nothing I could not have seen the night before—nothing except the writing desk. I hesitated to open it. “I should wait for the notaire,” I told myself, even as I fingered it. I moved on. I entered the storeroom.

  It was a very tidy room, with shelves, a cupboard, a sink, and a loft. This was where the supplies were kept. Two windows let in some light. A door opened onto a small outbuilding. The whitewashed room smelled of dry wood and spices. It felt good in here; it was a room made for life. In a corner, the fireplace, where a few embers still glowed, told me that this was where my first meal had been heated early that morning.

  These humble details moved me. Through them, I came into contact with the intimate life of this house whose main room intimidated me. I was comforted by the sight of these homely tools. Here in this room, they bespoke the modest needs of the body whose soul had been contained in the next room. But it was easy to go from one to the other, and I was reassured.

  •

  The rain fell violently until noon. I spent the morning beside the fire. At first, I thought I might be bored, and for a moment I regretted not having brought any books. For the house contained none. My search was fruitless. I am a great lover of reading, and I was a bit surprised. In bad weather, when night fell early, how, without a book, to endure evenings in this hermitage? To think? But about what? To dream, perchance to sleep . . . But could one sleep between these walls of such unyielding whiteness? They forced you to stay awake. Even as they proffered their magical surfaces for the emergence of dreams, didn’t they also demand lucidity? They tempted me. I would have liked to have found on them the outline of the human shadow old Cornélius had cast. But they stayed blank. No human form, not even an imaginary one, was projected onto them. Everywhere, the coldest light spread over the whitewash, whose smell was magnified by the damp. Without warmth, the light radiated like a pale phosphorescence. Imbued over long years with the presence of this strange man and his powerful, tenacious life, the walls remained impersonal. Only the fire, when a jet of flame flared up every now and then from a burning log, created a barely perceptible yet somewhat gentler reflection on the walls. To divert myself, I fantasized that these reflections represented old recollections, and that I suddenly inhabited, albeit fleetingly, the very memory of that soul now forever mute.

  Mute or taciturn? I could not have said, so new to me was the silence of this place, where even the fire, the only living being, was still. From time to time, when the wind and the weight of the rain bent the house’s rafters, the wood of its beams groaned. But beneath the voices of these materials worked by the storm, the house kept its silence.

  Ordinarily, when the wind blows in the hill country where I am from, the sounds created by the wind’s fury within a structure make the house seem alive. Here, the house lived on its own, apart. Although subject to November’s storms, which tore natural cries from its roof and doors, it became, beneath these blows that did not reach it, like an unreal dwelling of peace. Strange peace, built more on expectation than on the perfection of accomplishment. This was not the definitive peace of a fate fulfil
led, but the stillness of a solemn, watchful creature that had just transferred its fate into new hands, whose strength remained untried.

  And so I dreamt. Every now and then, I fed the fire by placing a root on it. The root crackled; the hearth, darkened at first, heated the wood. The split bark flamed, and above the glowing embers a bright tongue rose, swaying in the black air as if it were the very soul of the fire. This creature dwelt at ground level on its old brick hearth. It lived there patiently, with the tenacity of small fires that endure, slowly hollowing out the ashes. Indeed, it was one of those ancient fires that had never stopped being fed, whose life had persisted in the shelter of the ashes, on the same hearth, for countless years.

  These fires maintain in us the warmth needed for the arrival of dreams, and they have such power over our memory that the ancient lives slumbering beyond our oldest recollections awaken within us at their flames, revealing the deepest regions of our secret souls. They alone, on the threshold of the time that governs our existence, light up the days before our days, along with the unknowable thoughts of which our own are perhaps often but the shadow. As we contemplate these fires associated for centuries with mankind, we lose the sense of time passing; time sinks into absence, and the hours leave us without a jolt. What was, what is, what will be, melt into one another to become pure presence, and nothing in the enchanted soul permits it any longer to know itself—except perhaps the infinitely pure sensation of its own existence. We do not affirm that we are, but that we might be, a faint glimmer yet remains. “Will I be?” we murmur to ourselves, and we cling to earthly life solely through this doubt, barely formulated. Nothing of mankind remains in us but warmth; we no longer see the flame that transmits it. We are ourselves this familiar fire that has burnt at ground level since the dawn of time, but from which a bright point always rises above the hearthstone where human fellowship keeps watch.

  It was thanks to the fire’s enchantment that I spent the morning peacefully.

  •

  I was drawn from this pleasant state by the unexpected smell of wet fur. I saw a dog, a long-haired briard sheepdog. Not too tall, standing on his paws, furry, the muzzle bearded and mustached. Amid the hair, two black eyes, bright, with, above all, a questioning look: “Who are you?”—“Here I am. I am the dog.” He looked so much like Balandran he could have been mistaken for him, and I think I was mistaken when I spoke to him.

  “Balandran,” I said, “it’s raining this morning.”

  A shudder shook him from head to tail, and he let out a faint whimper. Just then the real Balandran emerged from the storeroom. He carried a wooden tray that bore a steaming lunch. He replied, “It’s the season.”

  And he placed the tray between me and the chimney. The dog, who had not moved, stood three yards away. I said to the dog, “So, come closer.”

  He came, but shyly, and sat down at a respectful distance.

  “This is Bréquillet,” Balandran told me.

  It was of no use for me to call him. Bréquillet, resting quietly on his rump, did not come near the table. His bright eyes never left me. For as long as I ate, he sat still. I sensed that he was fully present at the simple and serene scene of the meal; his soul was so close I could feel it, warm as a muzzle, asking only to love. I was moved. Balandran leant against the chimney, staring at the hearth.

  He was silent, like me, like the dog. I was happy.

  The meal of dried legumes warmed me. The wine was brisk, sharp; the coffee aromatic.

  Balandran told me, “Around five o’clock, the rain will let up slightly. But not for long.”

  I asked him, “Where do you live?”

  He gestured vaguely toward the door. “That way.”

  “In the hut?”

  He shrugged. “Yes, if you like . . .” Then he added, “At night, I sleep on the mainland, because of the flock.”

  This flock intrigued me. “But during the day, Balandran, when you’re not there, who watches it?”

  Balandran hesitated, then replied, “the Sacristan.” As he saw that I was about to question him further, he added, “He’s my master ram.” The image of the Sacristan must have risen within him, for his stern face grew even sterner, yet he also softened. “A real little stud, Mr. Martial. And he knows it.” I nodded. He saw, and, touched by my admiration, nodded in turn. “After the rains,” he promised, “you’ll be able to meet him.” And he removed the tray.

  Bréquillet, left alone, drew closer to the fire. From the storeroom, Balandran said, “I leave him with you. He’ll help you pass the time this afternoon. You can speak to him. He answers when the mood strikes him.”

  I heard him go. Through the window, I saw him plunge into the woods dripping with rain. He had placed the tray on his head, covered with a waterproof esparto hat. He walked quickly, unaffected by either the wind or the slanting rain.

  • • •

  I returned to the fire. While I had been looking the other way, Bréquillet had slipped onto the hearthstone. He was resting there, his muzzle on his two black paws, relaxed but alert. His bright eyes skimmed the floor, from the chimney to the door. Every now and then, stirred by a fleeting, mysterious concern, he cocked a furry ear. It felt good in the house. The tamarisk roots were burning with an aromatic flame, and Bréquillet sighed with well-being. Long tremors ran along his spine as he closed his eyes to savor the pleasures of a warm hearth and the closeness of man, creator of fire, friend of dogs.

  Bréquillet’s contentment was visible and palpable; it was that of all dogs sleeping by a fire in cold weather. Yet although Bréquillet readily accepted my presence, he neither sought nor showed any signs of affection, which surprised me. He was here, happy perhaps, yet absorbed in a secret thought of his own. Because animals’ thoughts come from and go directly to the heart, I did not see it. Our thoughts obey sad laws that keep the movements of our minds away from our hearts. My thoughts like everyone else’s—perhaps a bit less at times, but never enough to enter the souls of animals, even domestic ones. I was limited to the resources of my solitary imagination, for solitude favors reverie.

  “This dog,” I told myself as I dreamt, “has come to watch over me this afternoon. The weather is bad. I cannot go out. Time weighs on me. No distraction, not one book. This dull fire, the endless sound of rain on the windows, the roof, the walls; and outside, on the woods, the silt, the river—what slowness, what languor, what penetrating sorrow! I am alone. For a man raised gently, who values human company, this unaccustomed solitude can only make him uneasy when he thinks of his native land. And today I am thinking of it, in this lonely house, so far from my family, on these wild waters. God knows why I have come here . . . But there, even in autumn, the countryside will stay mild for a long time. There the gardens are well-sheltered retreats leaning against the hills, nestled in all the hollows, warmed by the slightest sun. There the water comes solely from springs, which we channel. Even in winter, the brisk wind does not harm the orchards, protected from above by small rose-colored cliffs and from below by hedges of reeds over which cypress trees bend when the wind blows. After the rain, the earth dries so quickly it sparkles with tiny crystals. It is a land of pleasant roofs, beneath which small farming families live in peace. There, virtues acquire a domestic charm, and grace tempers duty. There, the fruit are beautiful and often early; they ripen so soon after the flower that for a long time they preserve the scent—when you eat them with their skins on, right from the tree, they have that slightly intoxicating taste of pollen and nectar. That is where I was born, where both day and night delight me, and where I do not know a single season that does not bring me some joy. There, my family won its happiness through several centuries of steady work and modest ambition. There, I see paradise, if indeed paradise can exist on earth. As an innocent Mégremut, I am not far from believing it, and if sometimes I have my doubts, it is only out of respect for God who has promised it to us in heaven. But the heaven of my hopes, I confess, is simply to find once more the pure image of my native la
nd, for I know of no sight more beautiful than that of fruit trees ripening in the sun . . .”

  In this way my thoughts rambled, but the cry of a gust of wind brought me back to myself and my solitude. And then I saw, passionately fixed upon me, the bright eyes of black Bréquillet, still stretched beside the fire, but wakeful, with his inscrutable, secret thought.

  •

  The rain stopped a little before five. I rose. The calm tempted me, and I left the house. Bréquillet followed me, but as soon as he was outside, he vanished into the underbrush, and I did not see him again for the rest of the day.

  I headed briskly north, following the path Balandran had taken. I was seeking the river. I had missed it in the morning, and my desire to see it before nightfall had grown. It was rumbling. You could hear its voice all around the island. I walked awhile under cover of elms streaming with water; and I quickened my steps, for the sky was still threatening. Suddenly, the woods opened, but a small rise covered with dwarf birches still blocked my view. Feverishly, I climbed it and discovered the river.

  •

  The whole river. In one solid span, dark and swift, its wide front was coursing toward the island. It was tracing a reckless arc as it arrived from a low horizon. The current’s speed made the whole stretch of raging liquid swerve as one. Bent on destruction, the massively charged upstream waters were assaulting the silty bank, gouging out murky black whirlpools. The sky in the west had sprung up to form a wall of storm, spouting swirls of green mist—some hung above the river’s surface while others steamed as they unfurled slowly along the shore.

  Here and there, the menacing fleeces trailed down to the trees; only in the distance did a more open sky show rough squalls pelting the horizon with bluish rain. The river’s rage was bearing down on us from there. Through miles and miles of storms, all the upland streams were carving ravines into the snowy Alps and dark Cévennes, rushing into the river’s swift bed. This convergence of waters glutted the river’s descent with sand, mud, and stones. The river where this mire was churning, roiled in its depths by its own fury, was coming at us, heavy and yellow, nearly half a mile wide, with a strong, steady motion. Often, sudden thrusts of waves swelled the oily surface and it foamed, roaring. Beneath the visible surface, you could sense an invisible, furtive river—slower and heavier, dragging the dense waters of the heaviest rains along its viscous alluvial bed—slowly animated by a secret current and the downward suck of treacherous chasms.