Malicroix

by Henri Bosco

  When you are a Mégremut, to be like this offers great pleasure and many advantages. And there is much displeasure and quite a bit of inconvenience in not being so. I might have yielded little by little to the attraction of that happy nature if, at the heart of all these charms, there had not also been a dark mass within my soul. It weighed on me. It was like a black, veiled rock, whose steadfast presence was palpable. Rock of presence, in effect, of simple presence, but the fact that it was there suggested the solemn expectation and immutability of my fate. Still, this sign did not cast too wide a shadow on the life of gardens and calm conversations that made up our days among the plants and trees, friendships and loves, on the good earth where the sound of the human voice drifted so gently.

  During these three months of family life, I was what I had been before my departure, as much for my relatives as for myself. I quietly went back to my work. I found my notes, and with them, my studious thoughts. I returned to my leisurely tasks. From the start, I had the help of the modest taste and innate patience that allowed me to stay bent, sometimes for hours, over a bell heather or blackberry that had just bloomed. I also tasted my old joys. Around ten in the morning, when I found myself alone in my large greenhouse, I would hear the rustic song of the black-headed warbler nesting in a honeysuckle from which even winter could not chase it.

  It seemed that no one went there anymore. I could pick up my old dreams. Still, every now and then a scent, a displaced pencil (I have a keen nose, a sharp eye) betrayed Inès’s secret passage. But I never surprised her. Moreover, neither she nor Marceline stayed with us for long after Easter. They were sent back to their convent. The whole family wept. For me, there remained of Inès solely a fragrance of rice and roses; of Marceline just that one kiss she inadvertently planted on my lips when she left. The days that followed were somewhat melancholy, and then, from April to May these vague sorrows dissolved into the rising joys of life in motion toward the season of fruits and warmer suns. The masses, the visits, the talks beneath the trellis; the meals, the pleasant evenings, the little village gossip; a struggling tree, a lost seedling, a marauding fox—such, as always, were our pastimes and simple thoughts. The weeks went by slowly, but they went by all the same. I noted their flow. The feasts—Ascension and Pentecost, Corpus Christi—were approaching and the great lights that lift June days up to the stars announced summer, farewells, the next journey. No one ever spoke of it; everyone pretended not to think of it, and I often had my mind elsewhere. Yet the spirit within us stirs when we rest on an immobile point, and beneath this movement animated by the vain comings and goings of daily life, the rock hidden in the river always awaited me. From the high point of June to the great fires of July, time, without slowing or quickening its pace, drew into itself powerful weeks of light, and each evening the ripening orchards made the fruit steam on the flank of our hill. On July 1, we tenderly celebrated the feast of Saint Martial, but without sentimentality. The time of my departure was near. Everyone knew it. But no one took the opportunity to show me their pain. At times I even wondered, with a trace of bitterness, if my family had any idea of the potentially mortal danger that was closing in on me. Then, all of a sudden, a pensive look from good Uncle Mathieu, a forced smile from Aunt Philomène, tore my heart. Twice they received letters from Uncle Rat. They said nothing to me, but I guessed it from their agitation, their silence, their forced cheer. What could these letters tell them that they chose not to share? I suspect they wanted to let me be alone, as was right. They sensed I was about to undergo an unreasonable trial and yet they offered me the gift of their own solid reason. I shared their blood and their spirit. However absurd my path, they would not turn me from it.

  One evening, Uncle Mathieu, in a detached tone, said to his brother Marcelin, “In one month, we’ll breathe.”

  It was mid-June. Startled, Marcelin looked at him. “In one month, in mid-July? Mathieu, are you mad?”

  “Precisely, Marcelin, we need a little madness. A Mégremut is common sense. Everyone knows it. A fine thing!. . ."

  Marcelin did not answer but sighed. Mathieu struck him on the shoulder and began to hum quietly. I had the feeling they had just been speaking of me.

  The next day, I ran into Marcelin near the greenhouses. He was studying a pot of basil. We spoke. I showed him a very fine speedwell plant. He came in, paged through my notes, consulted the herbal, and stayed for a good while gazing at the plants. He has some knowledge, being a natural gardener. Finally, he said, “If you leave, Martial, you can count on me. I will take care of your plants. Your corner is fragrant and lovely. Angulus ridet, angulus . . ."

  He knows his Latin. I smiled. He was serious, all the same, and even moved. I could have kissed him. But since my return, we had grown more sparing with our affection. I was silent. Marcelin left with a calm step . . .

  MALICROIX

  I LEFT Murevallières early on the morning of July 13. The tilbury had been hitched up. Old Antoine, Mathieu’s servant, would accompany me to Valcadière. It was very beautiful out. We heard a robin at Pomelore and the call of a mistle thrush on the dry plateau. The three houses seemed asleep. No smoke from the chimneys. But Uncle Mathieu was there. A clean-shaven Uncle Mathieu, in his reddish-brown tailcoat and silver-buckled shoes. He said to me, “You’ll be careful as you go down to Anthebaume. The brakes are old.”

  And he kissed me. He seemed calm. The whole countryside smelled of thyme, wet lavender, soft stone. The tilbury slowly took the road to Anthebaume. Uncle Mathieu returned to the house. I did not look back, not even at the bottom of the hill. We passed Anthebaume on our left. A few chimneys were barely starting to smoke. In the haystacks, roosters were crowing; a rickety carriage was already on the road to Ayguesorades. We did not see it; we heard it. The horse walked slowly through the lonely landscape; the odor of dry wheat, straw, and hay made his nostrils flare every now and then.

  My memories of that morning are undimmed. I see it all again. As we passed the little canal in Cerizoles, I said to old Antoine, “It’s really a beautiful summer. The air smells good.”

  He answered, “The air smells good; it will be a hot day.”

  We were not going fast. At ten o’clock, we could still see l’Escal and the houses of Amelières. By evening, it had all disappeared.

  • • •

  I did not linger on the road. I found my coach again. Two passengers boarded; they were dropped off at two farms. Closed, taciturn people. Once alone, I became patient. Time passes slowly when you cross the burning Camargue in mid-July. Many areas that were blooming with water forget-me-nots and marsh marigolds during my April journey were now dried up. Summer had calcified both earth and plants, leaving here and there only a few yellowing tufts of grass, perhaps salty, on winter’s pastures. Not one soul. Not one animal. But from time to time, fleeting columns of whirling insects. I reached the crossroad rendezvous at night.

  Balandran was there. He had been sitting on the stone behind the signpost. When he saw me, he stood up. Bréquillet was with him. He looked happy as he sniffed me.

  No outpouring from either Balandran or the dog. A few words of welcome, the usual gestures, nothing more. Tall, narrow, black-clad, the coach left, bumping along. Its axles squeaked. For a long time, we heard them as they endured the ruts in the road. We reached the forest quickly. As we walked, Balandran made his report.

  Since my departure, nothing. Dromiols, Rat, the Rambards—all had become invisible. The flock in good condition, La Redousse as well. On the ferry, Le Grelu and Anne-Madeleine led their life. About my absence, not one word. About my return, nothing either. I was coming back, and everything was in order: people, animals, house, island, river.

  We did not stop at the hut. We crossed the woods and reached the river around ten. The night was dark.

  “Balandran,” I asked, “does no one know I’m back?”

  “No one, Mr. Martial.”

  “Balandran, on the sixteenth, at midnight, Maître Dromiols will have a mass said—”


  “I know, Mr. Martial.”

  “A mass for the dead, on the waters of the Ranc, for two souls. I will be there. You will keep Anne-Madeleine away from the ferry, the island, the shore. I want to be alone.”

  He did not react. I added, “Entirely alone, without you.”

  We were on the bank, ready to cross. In the shadows, the water of the river was flowing. As I looked at it, I shuddered, but only briefly. I asked Balandran, “Is the Rhône rough?”

  He answered. “As usual. Summer has hardly made it any gentler. It rained recently, up there.” He pointed North.

  I boarded, and we slipped into the current, through the darkness. The boat seemed very frail—the planking low, the water almost level with it. I wanted to dip my hand into that water, but I was afraid. So I looked at the sky.

  The sky was dark, hazy; the stars were faint, distant, strangers to all. From the boat, you could no longer see the bank. It had merged with the black waters, the thick sky. We were coursing through the void, and I could barely see Balandran, bent over his oar. He was silent. The shadows, the beings, and the waters all seemed so fluid that nothing in me connected me to their existence. I was drifting through an abyss of darkness, and I kept my body still. It felt like ice . . .

  We landed amid a tangle of shrubs and soon reached La Regrègue. To get there, we had to slip through a maze of old trees, bushy thickets, and hidden clearings. Balandran advanced cautiously.

  “Trust me, Mr. Martial. No one will see your return.”

  A park had once surrounded La Regrègue. Its trace had been lost under the wild forest. It was black out. Still, I sensed the house, an even darker mass.

  I had never come here, and now I was having to furtively approach those walls whose presence wrung my heart. Through the odor of bark and dry leaves that emanated from the decaying woods, the walls shed a mournful scent that spoke of mold, abandonment, crumbling age. We had reached the outbuildings; from there we entered the house through a long corridor. Balandran lit a candle.

  “They’ll see us from outside, Balandran.”

  “No danger, Mr. Martial. Everything is shut up. And then I’ve scoured the countryside.”

  “But the Rambards?”

  “They’ve been cleared away, Mr. Martial.”

  He looked embarrassed. I was as well. Brusquely, he said, “They’re in the North, more than three miles off.”

  I suspected something, and he knew it.

  “It had to be, Mr. Martial. We have the place to ourselves.”

  “With difficulty. . ." I murmured.

  He was silent. I understood. After a moment, he said, “There’s a good room for you.”

  I followed him, Bréquillet at my heels. We went back into the corridor, turned, crossed a hall, climbed a staircase, and reached a low door.

  “We are in the tower,” Balandran said solemnly, respectfully. The room was small and carefully caulked. “The only one that’s livable, Mr. Martial.”

  “And the rest?”

  “The rest can no longer be kept up. The house is too big, too old. One room can be managed. I air it out, sweep.”

  “Why here?”

  He looked me in the eye. “Mr. Cornélius had ordered me to.” As he spoke, he lit a candle on the dresser.

  I asked him, “And for the mass—tomorrow’s mass—from where will they leave, Balandran? From La Regrègue?”

  He put on his gruff look. “No. From the North, Mr. Martial. La Regrègue is yours. They’ll come down the Rhône by boat. You will see their passage from the shore. . ." I did not react. And so, regretfully, he added, “From shore, you can see the Ranc.”

  “Only if the night is clear. . ."

  He reflected. “The water is high. It’s not usual for the season. But it has rained. It covers the rock. . ."

  “And once on it. . ."

  He nodded.

  For a moment we were both silent, not looking at each other. Then he said, “One big stroke of the oar is all you need. One long stroke, with both arms, crosswise, twenty yards from the island . . . You can pass. . ."

  “It takes courage, Balandran.”

  “Perhaps, Mr. Martial. But arms above all, and a good eye. The Rhône is strong.”

  He wished me good night and left me to myself.

  • • •

  The candle burned brightly. I felt neither any desire stirring nor any thought forming. Nothing was brewing in my shadows to announce the birth of a dream, of sleep. There was not one face in the room, not one of those imaginary faces that come to gaze at me in silence when I am alone, especially at night.

  I could see a low alcove. Two curtains crossed there. Gray, beaded curtains. On the wall in back, a white crucifix. The room was round, with wood paneling painted with gold tracery. On each panel, a bouquet of roses. On the vaulted ceiling, a wide scattering of stars. Between the two candlesticks on the dresser, a clock resting under a globe—gold hands and an alabaster dial supported on two thin columns. A book bound in blue and a crystal decanter still graced the alabaster nightstand. The air was heavy and worn, but a scent of heliotrope and vanilla, also heavy and worn, wafted through. Yet the scent still penetrated the deep recesses where spirits drifted. At this delicate touch, one spirit surfaced, only one; it clearly told me where I was on this night. That knowledge anguished me, bringing with it a strange, bittersweet torpor.

  I was still wide awake, but even as I warded off sleep, my alertness let this languor penetrate me. It had the strength of desire. Troubling tide that conveys the approach of those mortal bodies whose movements touch mystery. But no living body was perceptible to me. I was quite alone, even deep within, where my still-tempted soul dwelt unseen. Rest was long in coming. I stretched out on a settee. It was old; beneath my weight, springs and wood creaked a little. But I slept well and long, without waking.

  • • •

  I emerged from sleep somewhat heavily and without a thought. The room’s windows had been opened. Air was coming in. It was calm. So was I. This day promised only rest, heat, solitude, and silence. Such days take your whole soul, enclosing it in one anxiety and creating from that anxiety a motionless block. No torment escapes that block; the spirit does not move. Nothing, moreover, moves within us, burdened as we are with anticipation. Beneath this unchanging burden, I was awaiting night and nothing more. Fear, debate, clear will, hesitation—not one thing disturbed my soul’s shifting clouds. I had some actions to perform, but only one—the great stroke of the oar on the reef—stopped my mind. It dominated everything. It had to succeed, and to succeed, it had to be well-planned. This was an exacting task that required knowledge, first of all. I was thinking about nothing but this hard task. To know the ferry, the bank, the current; to measure the distances; to see the reef’s eddy in full daylight and, across the way, on the other shore, the landing place, the calvary.

  I ate breakfast peacefully. Toward seven, I went out exploring. I did not hide. The growth was so dense I thought there was no need to. I reached the ferry without any trouble. The large flat boat was resting in the reeds. An old yet sturdy hull. A cabin, built from wood planks, served as a house for the blindman. A thread of smoke was rising from it. The man was there. Some old sacking hung in front of the cabin. I studied the boat, the cable, and the steel wire stretched across the water. The wire extended from an old pylon, and it sagged at the center of the river. The cable that went from the boat to the wire was screwed to the planking. Steel. Impossible to break. But the planking was old. Four good blows with an ax and the rotted wood would split, taking the cable with it. The boat would be free. All I needed was an ax. I would have it . . .

  •

  I never doubted a thing; I deliberated without emotion. Yet the place, the man, the memories—what could be more moving? And the woman I loved, Anne-Madeleine? And the action I had to perform; the night; Dromiols; the mass for the dead on the water? I knew. I knew it all too well. This knowledge paralyzed my soul. The movements animating me had only to do
with my deliberations. My thoughts were clearly formed, but stood apart from me, so deeply expectant. What came to me was only a muffled sound, clear vistas, and the mental outline of a simple will, not muddied by any hidden wave. The only feeling that remained was curiosity. I wanted to see the blindman, Le Grelu—Mathias called Matefeu.

  The sun was rising rapidly. From the mire came a sweetish scent I found unpleasant. Painfully, it reminded me of my fever. Still, I persisted. The waters flowed by, wide and strong. On the other shore, I could see the old wood of the crucifix rising from a thicket of reeds. The reeds and rushes made access difficult. The current there was swift, the water heavy. Second danger, after the reef—foundering in the mire. I thought of it, but with indifference. I was waiting for Le Grelu, the only one who, for now, interested me. Le Grelu was making me wait.

  At last he appeared. He lifted up the sacking. I saw the inside of the cabin. He was alone. I was close enough to the boat to see him well. Holding the sacking above the door with one hand, he seemed to be gazing in my direction. Yet the look on his face clearly showed that the eyes he lifted toward day were leaden. It was truly an old face, very large, hairy, with a flat nose. Below the white hair whose bristles rose up to his ears, I sensed strong bones, made for a hard life. The high brow was thickly folded above the dead eyes. Still, a spirit lived there, and its sad presence gripped me.

  The body, stocky and robust in defiance of old age, was no longer moving. An ineffable wariness emanated from it. Still, the entire man was facing the sun. The hard face was seeking heat; beneath the blind forehead, it must be recalling the memory of light. Heat was his clarity, his only clarity; and painfully he lifted his strong, sad face up to it. I had the sense that every morning, for one moment, he came here, to lift toward the sun that large mouth, those stationary eyes. It was his way of praying in front of the fire, of invoking and imploring the unfeeling light. He remained in the sun for a long time; then he withdrew behind the old sacking, and I heard him cough. I moved away from the shore.