Jean-Baptiste Andrea was born in 1971 in Saint-Germain-en-Laye and grew up in Cannes. Formerly a director and screenwriter, he published his first novel, Ma Reine, in 2017. It won twelve literary prizes, including the Prix du Premier Roman and the Prix Femina des Lycéens.
Sam Taylor is an author and former correspondent for The Observer. His translations include Laurent Binet’s HHhH, Leïla Slimani’s Lullaby and Maylis de Kerangal’s The Heart, for which he won the French-American Foundation Translation Prize.
A Hundred Million Years and a Day
A Hundred Million Years and a Day
Jean-Baptiste Andrea
Translated from the French by Sam Taylor
Gallic Books
London
A Gallic Book
First published in France as Cent millions d’années et un jour
Copyright © L’Iconoclaste, 2019
English translation copyright © Sam Taylor, 2020
First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Gallic Books,
59 Ebury Street, London, SW1W 0NZ
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention
No reproduction without permission
All rights reserved
A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781910477830
Typeset in Fournier MT by Gallic Books
Printed in the UK by CPI (CR0 4YY)
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Jean-Baptiste Andrea wishes to thank
l’Istituto Culturale delle Comunità dei Ladini Storici delle Dolomiti Bellunesi
– Istituto Ladin de la Dolomites, Borca di Cadore
For my parents
Contents
Summer
Autumn
Winter
Spring
Summer
I will, inevitably, forget many things, perhaps even my own name. But I will never forget my first fossil. It was a trilobite, a small marine arthropod that was peacefully minding its own business until one spring day when its existence intersected with mine. A second later, we were friends for life.
Years after this, when I was old enough to understand, the trilobite would tell me that it had survived several mass extinctions. Lava and acid, a lack of oxygen, the falling sky. And then one day it must have surrendered, recognising that its time was up, and rolled into a ball, deep within a rock. It had to accept defeat, to make way for others.
Such as me: a Homo sapiens in trousers that were too big for him, standing in the tall grass of a still-young century. I had been sent home from school, that morning in 1908, for telling my teacher she was wrong. Pépin was not the name of a king of France, as she claimed. It was the name of a dog, my dog, a blue merle Australian shepherd that we’d found in the barn. He protected us from evil spirits and stray cats – often the same thing, as everybody knew.
Mademoiselle Thiers had shown me an illustration of a small bearded man in a crown beneath the letters P-É-P-I-N. And, even though I had only just started learning to read, I had the feeling that those letters were proof that I was wrong. When she said, ‘You interrupted the class, have you something to say?’ I had replied: ‘Next time, I’ll be right.’ She wrote the word insolent in my school notebook and underlined it twice. ‘Please ask your parents to sign this.’
I walked home along the Chemin des Brousses with my twice-underlined insolence and my martyred expression. Of all the boys in the area, I was the only one who liked school, and I was the best. It was hardly my fault that the king had a dog’s name, was it?
Seeing that her bedroom-window shutters were closed, I understood that I should not disturb my mother. In such moments she needed darkness, and darkness alone. The Commander was not in his usual place on the horizon, where our fields started their descent towards the village. There was only Pépin, youthful and vigilant, curled up in the wind on top of a small hill. His good ear pricked up and he glanced at me – there was indeed something kingly about him – before falling asleep again.
I grabbed a hammer, the best solution to so many of life’s problems. It was better to use it far from the house, so I walked through a jungle of lettuces until a large stone stopped me in my tracks in the middle of the neighbour’s field. I imagined the face of Mademoiselle Thiers on its surface and – one, two, three – dealt her a vengeful blow. The stone immediately split open, as if it had just been pretending to be whole. And, from its mineral depths, my trilobite looked me in the eye, every bit as surprised as I was.
It was three hundred million years old, and I was six.
‘Destination?’
Last stop, I replied. The place I am heading to no longer has a name. A simple hamlet, lost at the end of a summer’s day. The guy sitting under his parasol handed me a ticket and went back to sleep.
In front of me a skinny neck is tossed from side to side, threatening to snap at each bend in the road. An old woman. We are the only passengers: her, me, and an infernal heat that gets in through all the gaps – worn seals, loose screws, badly fitted windows. My forehead against the glass seeks in vain for a patch of coolness.
Umberto had not appeared by the time the shuttle left Nice so I’ll have to wait for him up there. He’ll catch another of these buses, with their strange white-sided tyres. He, too, will sit as it climbs for hours, feeling certain that the journey will soon be over – and he, too, will be wrong. I haven’t spoken to him in a month but he’ll come, I’m sure of it. He’ll come because he’s Umberto. And I will wait impatiently for him, cursing and ranting until he arrives, because I am me.
The neck cracks like a twig: the old woman has fallen asleep on her shopping bag. A little girl sat down with her mother a while ago, on the other side of the aisle, her legs stretched out on the red leather. I offered her the socca that I’d bought at the port – I had lost all appetite for it during those first bends. The girl stuck out her tongue, squinting at me, scorning my chickpea pancake. Her mother scolded her and I indicated that it was no big deal, even though, honestly, what a brat. Mother and daughter got off the bus maybe two hours ago, in another life. The road still unfurls ahead of us. It’s true that a story often begins with a road, but I wish I knew what made mine so tortuous.
This is a land where quarrels last a thousand years. The valley deepens then meanders away, like an old person’s smile. At the very end, not far from Italy, an immense cypress nails the hamlet to the mountain. The houses encircle it, jostling one another, reaching out with their hot roof tiles to touch it. The alleys are so narrow that you graze your shoulders as you walk through them. Here, space is rare and stone seeks to fill it. Man is left with almost nothing.
The village – recognisable from the photograph I’d seen, which was blurry, the ink absorbed by poor-quality paper – is like a pinned butterfly, with the cypress piercing its centre and, all around it, the large ochre wings of the buildings’ rooftops. Twenty craggy faces behind twenty cigarillos stare at me curiously. In their midst, a fully fledged member of the community, a donkey, lays down its curious head. The mayor comes forward, with outstretched hand and a snaggle-toothed smile.
The small crowd leads me, pushing and pulling, touching me to make sure that I really am the professore, the one from Paris, because they have never seen one here before and so, scusi, they don’t know what one looks like. I am served a cup of coffee, the kind only Italians know how to make, a bitter, tar-like brew that reminds me of my childhood, when I would fall and graze my knee. First you don’t feel anything, and then comes that sting that brings tears to your eyes … and the dizziness of relief when the pain fades.
I call them ‘Italians’ even though these people have been Fren
ch since 1860. Three times since my arrival, the mayor has repeated ‘real French people, Professore’, a patriotic finger indicating his red, white and blue sash. But they have lost nothing of their native land, on the other side of the mountain peak. Everything about them speaks of stone. Their skin, their hands, the dust in their hair. It brings them into being and it kills them. Here, before becoming a bricklayer, a carpenter, a cuckold, before becoming a bandit, rich or poor, you are a mountaineer. It’s hardly surprising. A child of these valleys meets a cliff face as soon as he can walk. He must learn to climb or he will go nowhere.
France? Italy? Doesn’t matter. Those are merely the words of children, bickering as they push counters across a large map. We are nowhere, in the belly of the world, and this place belongs to nobody, only to the science that brings me here today. By evening, I am in the room booked in my name in the village’s sole locanda. The air smells ancient. The discomfort is absolute. The shutters, pale purple and peeling, open onto a horizon in upheaval. A vertical landscape.
Beneath my window, a puppy flounders in the wall’s shadow, whirling after its own tail. It does not yet know that it will never catch it, that others have tried before and given up the quest. I know that puppy. My lips open to call out its name. But no, of course, it is 16 July 1954 and Pépin has been dead for forty years.
I closed the door to my apartment a week ago; I say ‘my’ out of habit, but it was already no longer mine. I went to see Madame Mitzler on the sixth floor and told her I was leaving. Where are you going? Doesn’t matter, Madame Mitzler, what matters is that I will no longer be there to help you carry your shopping upstairs on Fridays, to ask you to do my sewing for me, to rescue your cat when you leave the window open, to warn you when your sink overflows, enlarging the dark ring on my kitchen ceiling. Will you come back? Of course I’ll come back, Madame Mitzler, what do you think? But probably not to this neighbourhood. I’ll be in a more chic area, in an apartment with mouldings, perhaps. In her hazy eyes, I saw a mix of regret and admiration. Madame Mitzler knew a man of destiny when she saw one.
It was raining, a whine of grey zinc that trickled under collars. On the way to the Gare de Lyon, I passed the university that I had entered for the first time a quarter of a century before, a young palaeontology professor still full of illusions, certain that I had arrived in an Olympus where all pettiness would be banished. Only later did I learn that the gods of Olympus were pettier, crueller and more vicious than any human. The gods lied, plundered, cheated, devoured one another. But they were intelligent, no doubt about that.
The only thing I owe that place is Umberto. One day in my office, he appeared suddenly, giving me the fright of my life. How could this carnival giant have come in without me noticing? His clumsy movements, his awkward smile brought to mind a child perched on stilts under a papier mâché costume, using hidden levers to produce each comic gesture or expression. His thick-lensed glasses only added to this blundering impression. He had the seriousness of all giants, of all beings who occupy more space than ordinary mortals on this planet, and who bear the responsibility that goes with it: he had to measure the impact of his actions.
‘I am your new assistant, Professor.’
Umberto was twenty years old, and I was twenty-five. Nobody had told me about his appointment; I had never had an assistant and I hadn’t asked for one either. Nobody at the university knew what he was doing there. In the end, we found his name in a file in the accounts department, and that proved enough to justify his presence. If we were paying him, he must have some use – it stood to reason. It was only later that we realised he was part of an exchange programme between the universities of Paris and Turin. Despite an in-depth investigation, we were not able to work out the identity of the student we had misplaced in Turin.
Umberto rapidly became indispensable. I liked his calm presence, his devotion, the way he called me ‘Professor’, a title he respected all the more since I was so young. In this regard, he was the exact opposite of my colleagues, who, for the same reason, pronounced the word as if it were in quotation marks. He was not the most rigorous or intelligent scientist I knew. But there was magic in his hands. When an ammonite disintegrated in my fingers, when the stone refused to surrender the hostage that it held, it was Umberto I called. Gently, he released time’s grip on the object that interested me: leaf, mollusc, fragment of bone. He acted with infinite slowness, a consequence, probably, of his childhood in the mountains. More than once, I found him in his office early in the morning, in exactly the same position as I had left him the previous evening: chisel in one hand, brush in the other, frozen in a dust cloud of atoms. He wasn’t married, so it didn’t really matter to him where he laid his large head to allow sleep to steal a few hours of his life.
After two years, I told him he could call me by my first name. A thousand times, I tried to make him pronounce Stan, explaining that the n was the final sound, but every time he said ‘Stan-eh’, his hands raised in a comic gesture of helplessness when he heard his own mistake. In the end I just laughed about it.
Then there was the story of the grappa. One evening, I went to the laboratory to look for a sample. Umberto was studying photographs of an excavation site in the Ardèche. Next to him stood an open bottle. The smell of alcohol assaulted my nostrils. Smiling, he offered me a swig; his uncle made very small amounts of this eau de vie and he had sent him a bottle to remind him of his home, where it was highly sought after. I said no. I didn’t know how things worked in Turin. In France, and particularly in Paris, and more particularly in that venerable college, a researcher did not drink while working. Without a second thought, I confiscated the bottle from the sheepish giant and put it in a cupboard, where I promptly forgot about it.
I found it again by chance. It was late, and I had stayed behind to fill out a grant application. The bottle was half empty anyway, so who would notice? From the first mouthful, a mountain wind struck me, an aria of slopes and meadow flowers that brought tears to my eyes. I worked until midnight.
When I had finished with the form, I stood up to gather my belongings. Suddenly clumsy, I pitched forward head first into the field of edelweiss, dragging my chair and a few documents from my desk behind me. Alerted by the racket, Umberto came running. While he picked up the empty bottle, I gigglingly apologised. I was sorry – that divine drink had made me feel as if I were eating springtime, sorry, really sorry, Umberto, I never told you this before but you’re my best friend, I swear it, my meilleur ami, come here and let me hug you, soon we’ll have new grants and it’s all thanks to your grappa, oh and you wouldn’t have another bottle, would you, what was I saying, oh yeah, all granks to your thappa, why is that so hard to pronounce, um, but yeah, anyway, it’s thanks to your grappa that I managed to finish that form.
‘This form?’
He held the pink pages out in front of me. Only the first page had been correctly filled in. The rest was covered with sketches of dinosaurs, fossils, pretty landscapes. There was even a short poem. After that, I don’t remember anything.
I woke in a disused storeroom in the building’s bowels, huddled under a sheet of tarpaulin next to a puddle with my previous night’s dinner floating in it. Bitterness on my tongue, my soul in shreds: I was twenty-seven years old and this was my first hangover. It would not be my last.
Umberto was asleep in my office, in the permanent twilight of all basements, his head resting on the grant application form, neatly filled out and ready to be sent. When I started apologising, he stretched out his arms, which were long enough to touch the walls, and interrupted me with a nonchalant va bene. Frustrated in my penitence (a legacy of the teachings of Abbé Lavernhe), I told him: ‘All the same, if I were in your shoes, I’d be angry.’
‘Back home, everybody tries to get our zio to tell them the secret of his grappa. You only needed one taste of it to understand. My uncle adds flowers to the grape marc before distilling it. You are a refined man with good tastebuds. So, no, I’m not angry.’
<
br /> With those words, Umberto left me to my headache.
From then on, he always brought me some grappa whenever he received any … and I pretended not to notice when he drank it at his desk.
‘Destination?’
It stopped raining the moment I arrived at the Gare de Lyon. I took that as a sign.
‘Destination?’ repeated the guy behind the counter.
‘Nice,’ I replied.
He handed me a ticket and said, ‘Next.’
Four days. Still no Umberto. I’ve given up going to the bus stop to wait for him. I curse him, telling myself I’ll wait one more day and then leave without him, even though I know perfectly well that this is not true. Everybody knows it: the birds, the stones, the cricket playing the violin on my thigh. I can’t do anything without Umberto.
The village was almost deserted this morning, its inhabitants sucked into more prosperous, more open valleys, for a day or a week of labour. Some will not return. The most famous of those who left and never came back, the mayor told anyone who would listen, was his Capolungo cousin, the one who went to America, the one who succeeded in ‘Ollyhoude’. Or that, at least, is what the cousin told everybody in the long letters he sent to the village. And what did it matter if it wasn’t true? What did it matter if he was exaggerating when he spoke of boulevards so wide that you could get lost while you were crossing them, or of women who never got old? What did it matter if he was starving to death on a construction site somewhere, piling up rocks like all the men in the village? To leave was, in itself, to succeed.
I know America well. I miss it. Here, there is nothing but heat and a sprinkling of shade. This valley is a wound in the mountainside, an eternal vendetta between stone and water. It smells of church, the scent of the wind in the steeple, of tarnished bronze, of crosses lying in the grass. You expect silence, but your ears are wearied by a perpetual roar: the torrent rushing below, mint-sharp, where moss-covered steps sink into the water. You would have to be crazy to venture there.
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