by Ivo Fornesa
‘Khun Suan says this is the sacred tree of Hinduism, so it’s also sacred for Theravada Buddhists. The leaves provided rest to Krishna, and it was under a banyan tree that the Buddha Gautama received enlightenment. He doesn’t want us to cut it down – he says this kind of tree you have to let fall down by itself.’
Thierry and Solange had regret written on their faces. They understood the gardener’s feelings, they said, but Thierry held firm.
‘I don’t like cutting down trees for no reason, and this one is spectacular, but if it falls down on top of someone it would be a tragedy. I’m sorry, I have to recommend we take it down,’ he said. Laurent seized a moment when no one was looking and crushed the stag beetle larva under his foot. He didn’t care how endangered it was – he liked the tree more.
Yammei, the cook, silently approached, walked over to Khun Suan and without a word began stroking his shoulder and whispering into his ear. Then she gently pulled him away from the tree, still stroking his shoulder, and took him back to the pergola. As he walked by the group he was still whimpering and sobbing. Tum suppressed a shiver and closed her eyes. Laurent noticed her trembling.
‘What did he say? Whatever it was, it seems to have shaken you.’
Tum spoke with what seemed to be great effort.
‘Khun Suan says it’s never a good idea to cut down a banyan, but that doing so in springtime can only bring great misfortune on this house.’
‘I can’t think of any calamity worse than not having the garden in shape for the opening of the château on the date set by Monsieur Shennan,’ Thierry said. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’d rather run the risk of offending the Thai gods than angering him.’
Solange nodded in agreement. Then Thierry asked them to leave, since they were going to start getting the tree ready right away and calculating how to angle the fall of the branches and trunks as they began sawing them off.
They glumly returned to the picnic, where the girls’ joyful antics quickly helped Laurent forget the drama of the tree. The nanny tried to hide her distress, but it was obvious to Laurent that the gardener’s words had made an impression on her.
That was Laurent’s last visit to the château in those months. Spring was at its height, the weather had begun to improve, and with the landscape arrayed in all its splendour, he threw himself into long rides on horseback, hikes and trips to places of interest in the surrounding areas.
UNDER THE VAULT OF HEAVEN
On that June evening, Laurent had just come back from a hike with Chimay, who sat gnawing through a bone of prehistoric proportions that Roger had given him. In Saint-Chartier, the early summer sunlight lasts until quite late and fades into such a spectacular display one simply can’t stay indoors. No sooner had he gotten home than he left the dog to enjoy his treat in the garden and set off on another walk, this time by himself.
Distracted by the profusion of wildflowers, he lingered alongside the road, gathering daffodils, nettles, bright gold buttercups, proud asphodels with white and yellow petals, speckled Mary’s tears, stalks of loosestrife, wild thistles with lilac hues that the French, with their overly poetic imagination, call cabaret des oiseaux – birds’ cabaret – along with many other specimens. Then he happened upon a cluster of wild asparagus, forgot about his floral rapture and single-mindedly set about digging them up.
An hour later, he’d filled up a knapsack and back-up plastic bag with the asparagus and a type of wild garlic called bear leek – delicious in salads – along with cresses and the mythical mugwort, a herb indispensable for tenderising poultry. When he saw that night had started to fall, he turned to walk back to the town and, once there, headed toward the plaza, taking in the imposing view of the château towers, which always surprised him from that angle. By the time he reached the monument to wartime martyrs, it was already dark, but it was one of those June nights that are so clear that a careful observer could make out each and every star visible to the eye. Laurent always tried to identify them, but the sciences were not his strong suit, and he rarely got past Ursa Major.
A good friend of his in the Chilean navy, Germán, used to always go on about the Pleiades, reminiscing about his trips to Antarctica, but as these disquisitions about the stars typically followed an alcohol-soaked feast, Laurent always questioned the reliability of his friend’s memory.
As he tried unsuccessfully to find Altair, someone called his name. His knees began to tremble, because he knew perfectly well who that voice belonged to. He turned around slowly, trying to think of what to say and not feeling especially witty. It had been weeks since he’d last seen her, and even though he thought about her every day, he’d chosen not to give in to weakness and fall in love with her, for he could tell such a love would be hard to tame, and if it bucked him he’d find no salve for his wounds.
Yael stood in her doorway, leaning against the wooden frame, unaware – or perhaps not – that the light from inside the house cast her body in silhouette and generously outlined the space between her legs. The curls on her shoulders seemed longer than Laurent remembered, her panther eyes gleamed teasingly, and around her neck hung a necklace with an enormous shell comfortably ensconced in her décolletage.
Laurent approached cautiously, hoping to appear more in control of himself than he felt. She gave him her hand and offered her cheek for a kiss. Obediently, he placed his lips on cheek, and as he did so he felt her curls caress his face and deeply inhaled her scent, losing all notion of time and space. The only thing real at that moment was the hand on the back of his neck and the moist, half-opened lips pressed against his.
The next morning, he awoke alone in his bed with no idea of what time it was, because he hadn’t heard any of the insistent alarms that normally forced him out of bed at 6 a.m.
He saw he was wearing only his pyjama bottoms, which in itself was suspicious, since he normally slept without them. He sniffed the sheets and found they were clean, with none of the tell-tale marks or scents left behind by nights of frenzied lust. His head ached slightly, yet he didn’t recall having drunk anything. As he stood up the headache climbed to his crown and became unspeakably intense. He leant against the wall, and the image of Yael, naked, came to his mind. He saw her from behind, with her straight, toned shoulders, her narrow waist, and her buttocks like two tan, rounded stones. He shook his head and the memories returned, this time bringing back the taste of her breasts to his mouth. He noticed an erection and felt an imperious desire to possess her, but he was alone and confused in his meticulously tidy room, with yesterday’s clothes carefully folded on a chair, and his slippers, which he didn’t often wear, arranged side by side in perfect symmetry under his nightstand.
Something didn’t add up. He was certain he’d been with Yael, but he couldn’t understand how he’d made it home back to his bed all alone. It was all very strange, so he threw himself into the bracing arms of an icy shower, then went straight to Yael’s house in search of answers.
He knocked on her door, but no one answered. He checked and saw her car wasn’t there, and he had no choice but to admit she was gone. Corroborating this conclusion was a piece of irrefutable evidence: a bag of rubbish tied to her garage door. The rubbish collectors came on Tuesday mornings, and it was now Tuesday afternoon, which meant she didn’t intend to return until at least the following week – or who knew when.
He looked up and down the street, checking to make sure no one could see him, and took the bag of rubbish and began digging around in its contents. It was neither gentlemanly nor elegant, but he needed clues to find out why she had left, and he certainly had nothing better on hand.
He found several pieces of crumpled or ripped paper covered in scribbles and strange marks, a banana peel, more fruit scraps, coffee grounds, three empty tubes of ceramic paint – ‘Maybe she really is a potter after all,’ he muttered – two containers of high-fibre yoghurt, fabric cuttings, various advertising brochures and a series of cropped photos of the château and the people who lived or wor
ked inside. This he found odd: the photos weren’t artistic but rather professional, of the kind usually used in sociology or marketing studies … or investigations. He stuck the photos in his trouser pocket, retied the rubbish bag and put it back in its place, hanging on the door.
Lost, confused, feeling a bit like an abandoned puppy, he turned to head back. He couldn’t understand how, after that night of love, Yael could disappear without at least leaving a note. That part especially stung.
He walked up the slight rise back to his house, and when he closed the gate behind him, he saw hanging on one of the spires of the gate his knapsack and the plastic bag full of asparagus. No doubt he’d left in a hurry and forgotten them.
With them was a note:
I found this next to my door, and I seem to remember seeing you once wearing this ratty old knapsack. Careful with the asparagus – they say it’s an aphrodisiac.
He folded the note, grabbed the knapsack and the plastic bag, and walked up the stairs, singing at the top of his lungs, ‘Y si es delito el quererte, qué importa que me condenen a muerte en el tribunal de un beso.’ And if loving you is a crime, what does a death sentence matter in the courtroom of a kiss.
THE INVITATION
In Laurent’s new routine, he took two trips a week to La Châtre, one on Wednesdays and one on Saturdays. The first was to go to the Crédit Agricole savings bank, stock up on minor provisions, poke around Monsieur Mercier’s antique shop by the tower and along the way treat himself to a generous afternoon snack in a patisserie on the Rue Nationale. Nearly all of the patisseries were quite good, but this one had certain tarts that were dear to Laurent’s heart. Afterward he’d take a short stroll to visit the book shops, the cultural centre and the library in search of literary novelties, though these were few and far between.
The other weekly outing, on Saturdays, took him to the morning street market. He enjoyed the hustle and bustle, and the fish stalls called to mind a view of the old port in Marseille. In the plaza he never failed to visit Rachid, an industrious Moroccan rogue who sold olives with various seasonings along with the vinegary hot peppers Laurent used when making stewed beans. Next, he’d head to his main objective, the stall that sold Corsican products, where he’d pick up his favourite sausage, the figatellu. He’d then return happy to Saint-Chartier, already imagining the sandwich he’d have on his patio.
One Saturday, as he walked from his car to his door, laden with shopping bags, he spotted the postwoman parking her own vehicle next to the western wall of the château, under the shade of a luxuriant lilac bush. She motioned to him, and once she’d killed the engine he walked over to her.
‘Good thing I ran into you, Monsieur de Rodergues. I’m delivering Monsieur Shennan’s invitations, and he’s paid for receipt confirmation, so I need your signature.’
‘Monsieur Shennan’s invitations?’ asked Laurent in surprise. ‘To what?’
‘To the inauguration of the château, on 15th July – I can’t believe you haven’t heard! Here’s your invitation. Please sign on the line, where it says “received”,’ she said, handing him a notebook and confiding with pride, ‘You know, even I’ve received an invitation.’
Laurent signed, and after the mail carrier left, he stood looking up at the château. It was true. He hadn’t thought about it for some time, but in fact it had been days or even weeks since he’d seen lorries coming by or heard the noise of the cranes or the voices of the workers from the scaffolding.
At last Shennan has managed to his finish his château, he thought. Bravo for him. It took willpower, muscle and nerve.
Back in his kitchen, he cut open the envelope with a knife, while at the same time – unable to restrain himself – he cut himself a large chunk of sausage. As with everything Shennan did, both the envelope and the invitation itself showed the finest quality and design. Embossed into the paper was the emblem of the château, while the addressee’s name had been handwritten by a professional calligrapher, with the capital letters decorated as in an illuminated manuscript. The card itself was staggeringly elegant, simple but overwhelming. Part of the point, Laurent felt sure, was to leave the guests’ egos sizzling with delight simply that they were thought worthy of such a masterpiece of ornamentation. And of course Shennan had achieved that aim.
Yet the text had a roguish touch:
Château de Saint-Chartier
To celebrate the completion of the restoration work on our home, we are pleased to invite you to the festivities officially inaugurating the renovated Château de Saint-Chartier on 15th July 2009, at six o’clock in the evening.
With this event we wish to show our appreciation to all our friends and neighbours in Saint-Chartier whose assistance, encouragement and patience have made it possible to realise this shared dream. We look forward to seeing you there.
Formal summer attire requested.
Carlos Shennan and Mayumi Sayotaki
The line about ‘formal summer attire’ was sure to throw many people into confusion. Laurent smiled and opened a large bottle of ice-cold local beer.
THE CELEBRATION
On the afternoon of 15th July, Laurent set down the book he was reading and went to the kitchen to check the time: five o’clock. In just one hour the celebration at the château would begin. He went up to his room to shave, shower and choose his outfit. He hadn’t decided what he would wear, but complying with the request of the invitation posed no difficulty for him.
One of the advantages of living in the vicarage was the amount of free space he had at his disposal. He had an entire dressing room all to himself where he kept everything: his suitcases, shoes, boots, coats, even his bedclothes and towels, and naturally his ironing board.
He looked out the window. The day was warm and bright, though of course it always cooled off after six. He had only three summer suits: one in dark blue alpaca, another in white linen and a third in seersucker with thick sky-blue pinstripes. This last one seemed like the best choice, because it would be different from the clothes he thought he’d see at the party.
To go along with it, he opted for a white linen shirt, and instead of a tie, he thought it’d be good to catch people’s eyes with a bow tie he’d had made with the same fabric as the suit but with the colours inverted. Shoes, socks and belt would be black, he decided, because after the bow tie he didn’t dare do anything else too offbeat.
He was in no rush. He didn’t really like massive parties like this, even though he recognised that the Shennans’ restoration effort warranted his attendance. Besides, he knew he’d have fun seeing their daughters, and he was certain the event would be unsurpassed in both entertainment and catering. And finally, he thought as he drew the razor across his face, all of Saint-Chartier would be there, so he, as a member of the community, couldn’t bow out.
He rubbed his jaw to check that he’d gotten a close shave, and it occurred to him how happy he’d be to run into the mysterious Yael at the party. What would she wear for the occasion? He hadn’t seen her in weeks, not since that heated night of passion that seemed ever more distant and dreamlike. Still, he was entirely convinced that she wouldn’t miss the inauguration of the château, even if he wasn’t sure he wanted to know her real motives for going. He heard cars arriving and vans unloading the food that would be served in the reception. Suddenly, amidst the hubbub, he could make out musicians rehearsing, with bagpipes – hardly a common sound in Saint-Chartier – and other instruments that seemed almost to be vying to outdo each other. He peered out of the window and saw his fellow townspeople dressed to the nines, strolling about or talking in small groups to pass the time as they waited for the gates to open.
THE GIFT
That was when he realised he didn’t have any kind of gift for the Shennans. Worse yet, finding something that would surprise them just half an hour before the reception would be a Herculean task. He thought about getting a bottle of wine from his personal collection, but he desisted before reaching the bottom step: compared to what She
nnan had in his wine cellar, Laurent’s bottles would be pure vinegar. Suddenly he grimaced, remembering that he did have something they’d love – but parting with it would be like shooting himself in the kneecap.
Reluctantly he went to the room he used as a study and took from his bookshelf a box wrapped in tissue paper. He carefully unfolded it and placed the contents on the table. There in all its splendour lay a small book, a work by Hector de Corlay on the town of Saint-Chartier that included historical details about the château.
No doubt Shennan already had this edition in his own well-stocked library, and in terms of paper and covers the original was nothing more than a simple booklet. But Laurent’s version was different: it had undergone certain ‘alterations’ courtesy of Hernán Rubio, a Mexican painter and good friend of his. Months earlier, Laurent had asked him to bind the book in the finest leather and create a work of art on its cover, using a gouge and awl, based on the contents.
The results lay on the table, a bibliophile’s delight for which he’d paid a fortune – though no doubt less than it was really worth, since clearly Eduardo had not skimped on the effort. He picked it up, gingerly opened it and lifted it up to his face to breathe in the aroma of tanned leather – cordovan on the cover with embossed guadamecí on the boards. The artist had chosen colours and materials to create striking chromatic compositions yet not detract from the seriousness of the contents. The Shennans couldn’t help but be moved by such a gift. He wrapped it back up in the same tissue paper, carefully tucked it inside his jacket and left for the party.
THE GUESTS
As soon as he stepped out into the street, he began saying hello to people left and right. If success was to be measured by the number of townsfolk attending, the event was going to be a smash. People he almost never saw were making their way to the château. Farmers who hadn’t taken a holiday since their wedding day, so as not to leave their cows and goats unmilked, came out of the woodwork and were now heading toward the château.