by The Weather Baker's Son [Dreamspinner, World of Love MM] (retail) (epub)
Peter, gulping, asserted, “I saw no one!” becoming more and more dismayed by his own web of lies. How could he explain that he was in an amorous encounter with another man? How could he make sense as to whether someone had seen them? Might someone tell on them? He did not want to disappoint his mother, as she had been through so much with the loss of his father. Peter did not feel she was ready to absorb more at this time. He needed breathing room to understand what had happened but felt in so doing he was falling deeper and deeper into a bigger hole.
The police spent much time with their flashlights examining the stack of fallen logs by the window and an odd mix of bicycle tracks and shoe prints here and there where there was bare dirt among the grass. To them it seemed that there was more than one set exiting from the house itself. Peter could not connect the dots. He had lied to the gendarmes. He had said he was alone when he heard a sound at the window. He tried to contain the event, asserted he had seen a fox in the yard earlier—perhaps it had knocked against the logs. Perhaps the man in the road was unrelated to the presence of an animal at the logs, but dirty fingerprints on the windowsill seemed to belie that argument. When the police pointed out the fingerprints to Peter, he inwardly fell further into despair. It is true, he thought to himself. We have been observed. Oh my God, who could it be? What will that person do?
Later in bed he continued to sit up in torment. A dizzying array of consequences arose in his imagination no matter what explanatory path he went down. He set up scenarios in his mind for the coming days, how to respond to questions, but caught himself up in his own lies each time he tried to rehearse his responses. He felt like a bug dangling wrapped in a spider’s web, anticipating the future….
A jug of red coquelicots, wild poppies gathered a few days back along the roadsides, sat forlornly on the bedside table, their fading red heads drooping ever lower, memories of their days in the sun passing away with each fallen petal.
The passing
THAT SAME Saturday night, at a time not of her choosing but not resisted by her, Marguérite slumped in her armchair while reading her book of poetry and passed from this world. The book lay open where she had last read:
May the wind that moans, the reed that sighs,
May the subtle perfume of your fragrant air,
May all that one hears, sees or breathes,
May everything say: they have loved!
GASTON LEARNED of Marguérite’s passing by overhearing the chatter of female voices heading to church that Sunday morning as they passed below the terrace where he sat forlornly, having slept not at all after fleeing the bergerie. It was with a sharp jolt that he connected the various words together. “Such a shame.” “She was found sitting in a chair.” And “In the candy shop.”
It was as if the resolve she had given him had died with his good friend, died with her and with the fright of the night before. He’d stumbled back into his room, intent on throwing himself onto his bed, when he knocked a book off his nightstand. It was the book Marguérite had given him at the candy shop, that day she had confided in him. The book lay open at the page she had placed a mark at, and in putting it back on the stand, he caught on some of the words there.
If I compare the whole of it, I say, with the four years during which it was given me to enjoy the dear society of this person, it is mere smoke. It is a dark and wearisome night.
Wiping tears from his eyes, Gaston reprimanded himself for having so soon thought of abandoning his dear friend’s advice. He reflected on his life so far and admitted to himself that it was a joyful one but that there was an emptiness in his heart, an emptiness that he could not fill by abandoning hope and losing resolve. Otherwise his life would be just an endless number of days without fulfillment.
He determined to face the new day more bravely, come what may, and passed down the corridor, past Mario’s room, where the door was closed. After first softly knocking, Gaston entered the room, but once inside he found that Mario was not there. He could see that the bed had already been made up, or less likely, he thought, had not been slept in. Strange, he thought. It is too early for Mario to already have gotten up on a Sunday morning. This is his favorite day to sleep in, when the bakery is closed. Gaston remembered the night he had helped Mario undress, the smell of his skin, his manliness.
Weighed down with a sense of foreboding, Gaston ate breakfast with Céleste and Mario’s mother, Sylvie, and they all wondered where Mario was; he had not shown up to eat. Is he out? Perhaps they should call his girlfriend? His bicycle was missing, but he had stayed out a couple of times before on a Saturday night. He was a young adult, after all, obstinate, and didn’t like to be treated like a child. He’d always shown up later during the day in the past, and it was a Sunday, so the shop was closed. Gaston, however, felt like a man waiting for the executioner: When would something happen? Did someone see? The most horrific thought that perhaps Mario had seen was something he was pushing out of his conscious mind, but it kept coming back, nipping around the edges of his brain, insisting on being confronted.
I must wait, thought Gaston. Wait and see if Mario shows up. Wait and hear if he was with his girlfriend. But what if he wasn’t? What if he saw me? Why would he have seen me? What would he be doing at the bergerie? Oh, where is he, where is he! What could I say to him?
Céleste innocently asked, interrupting Gaston’s train of thought, causing him to start as if his thoughts could have been heard, “Gaston, where did you go yesterday afternoon? You took off in a hurry from the shop without saying good-bye. The last thing I knew, you were serving that blond-haired German, and then you were gone! And then Mario too, so suddenly after you! Sylvie and I were left to close the shop.”
Bang! A shot went through Gaston’s brain, bang, bang! Not gunshots but mental synapses exploding in his head all at once as he absorbed the import of Céleste’s words. And then Mario too, so suddenly after you! Gaston threw himself from the table, excusing himself, blurting he was sorry for having taken off, that he had chased after a customer who had left something behind. Yes, that was what he was doing, returning something to a customer! He had to go now. He was upset over hearing of Marguérite’s death. He wanted to go to his room.
Hurrying out, he left Céleste and Sylvie at the table. The two women looked at each other, confused and alarmed. “Gaston has been acting more and more nervous of late,” Céleste said to Sylvie.
The two women sat there, their arms folded over their bosoms as if to hold in any apprehension they were feeling. The weather baker sat looking at a bright blue sky out the window. However, all she could think was that clouds were brewing.
Raymond
THAT SUNDAY afternoon Hélène sat bewildered. The events of the night before at the bergerie had left her doubting her own son. She felt he was withholding something from her. She had earlier gone for a stroll in town and, when passing the closed bakery, saw Gaston looking forlornly out an upstairs window. A person in the street called up to him, “Hey, Gaston, bonjour!” but he withdrew farther inside. However, the calling of his name had caused a ringing in her head. The words Gaston! Gaston! drummed over and over in her mind. A revelation was coming slowly to her. She kept thinking about a bicycle passing, Peter yelling Garçon, and two wine glasses. Struggling with a half-formed revelation, a meaning that was insisting on being considered, she mumbled to herself, “Peter and Gaston,” and she slumped in her chair, thinking, He was calling Gaston!
Hélène needed to get out of the house and gather her thoughts in the fresh air. She stepped at a brisk pace out of the cottage and up the road, ascending the hill toward the pine wood. Approaching the cistern with the goldfish along the way, she held back, startled by sudden movement by the cistern. A middle-aged man was standing there peering into the tank. She half hid in the shade of some trees by the road and watched what he was doing. He bent to retrieve some crumbs from a rustic straw basket on the ground and threw them into the water. The hungry fish eagerly gobbled them up, coming to the
surface in a great struggling mass to get as many as possible. The man then turned to walk down a very overgrown path just to one side, kicking at the grass, running his hand along what appeared to be a wall or foundation in the ground. Hélène had never made out this ghostly construction before, but now she could vaguely see the outline of what might have been the footings for a house on the other side of the cistern.
Hélène’s curiosity was growing. The man had wavy salt-and-pepper hair and a slim figure with a bit of a forward hunch to his shoulders, as if the weight of time was bearing down on him. He was pleasant-looking, if not handsome, and otherwise had a gentle demeanor. He was casually well dressed.
Hélène then observed him sit down on the ground by the crumbling foundation and rest the sides of his head in his hands as if tired or in sorrow. Feeling sympathy, Hélène quietly moved back into the center of the road and continued to walk toward the pine forest. As she approached the cistern, she uttered “Bonjour,” whereupon the man looked up, startled. Hélène, emboldened, said, “I noticed you feed these fish in the cistern. I have often wondered about them since I rented the bergerie.”
The man approached and introduced himself. “I am Raymond. This cistern and plot of land to its side belong to me, although I live in the town down the other way from the woods. Ever since we halted construction on our planned house here, I like to come back and feed the fish.”
Hélène, curious, asked, “The fish are lovely, but why do you keep them here?”
The man had a sudden look of pain and answered, “They belonged to my dear late wife, Sophie. She loved to watch them dart about in their tank in our house in town. We had not had time to start anything other than the cistern and some groundwork for our new house here when she passed away suddenly. When she died, I wanted a part of her memory to be here, something alive and full of energy as she had been, so I put the fish into the cistern, which was the only thing completed. I come every second day around noon to feed them.”
Hélène then introduced herself and, uncharacteristically for such a new encounter, invited Raymond to the bergerie for tea. He was hesitant but ultimately declined, saying, “I must be off and back to town.”
Hélène emphatically said, “I hope to see you here in two days, but you might as well come to tea today as I have chocolate buns from the bakery yesterday that need to be eaten by today!”
So Raymond, confronted by such baking logic, hesitantly allowed himself to be led down to the bergerie.
Peter—who had been out in neighboring fields gathering his thoughts, afraid to go into town so soon that Sunday lest he cause Gaston further tumult, fearing Gaston would not want to see him or he would not find him, as the bakery would be closed in any event—returned that day about one in the afternoon to the bergerie, and as he approached the door, he heard the sound of gentle laughter inside. Going in, he was surprised to find his mother with a stranger, merrily chatting with him at the table over tea and buns. Hélène looked up at him with a twinkle in her eye as he entered, and she introduced Raymond.
Most memories are to be cherished and brought forth to gladden the day, other memories, unhappy ones, are not worth the time to dwell upon. Both Hélène and Raymond had for too long been prisoners of their memories, being led by them rather than directing for themselves the passage of their lives. That day both of them started to feel a little bit more in control, a little bit more masters of their destinies. This is not to say that they lessened the love they had in the past but rather celebrated it and let it be their guide to renewed happiness. Such junctures cannot be forced, and often it is mere happenstance or a recent fright that unblocks the way forward—the bright sun, fresh air, the sudden unknown, an encounter—not forced but left to its devices, left to let the flow of events gently determine an outcome. That day both had an inkling of a new dawn. After a couple hours more of chitchat with Peter as well, Raymond set off back to town, but not before Hélène had asked him to please come to lunch again in two days’ time, and she would love to help then with the feeding of the fish!
Contemplation
MOUNT VENTOUX, the Beast of Provence, as it is known, the highest mountain in the region, beset by strong winds, was Gaston’s chosen place for contemplation. At that time of year, one could ascend by car the steep winding road all the way to the top, starting with fresh-faced young meadows at the base and arriving at the last retreating snows on top. The magnificent view in all directions was of postage– stamp–size fields thousands of feet below, forming a checkerboard of bright colors. The Italian poet Petrarch centuries before would sit on the mountain and lament his unrequited love for Laura, a noblewoman, already married, whose beauty had enthralled him.
As children Gaston and Mario had delighted in school trips up the mountain, and later, when they could drive, just the two of them would go together to sit side by side on a rocky spur, their shirts and jackets fluttering in the gusts, their cheeks reddened from the chill up high. They could not help but have broad smiles as the wind seemed to tear at the very corners of their mouths and caused them to brace and reveal their bright white teeth. They would laugh profusely, like young folk do, and pull their heads close to each other to shelter their faces from the wind. This was a special place for them, the world at their feet, a shared experience.
When Mario did not come home on Sunday night either, Gaston could wait no longer. He needed to find Mario and talk with him, to explain what had happened, if indeed Mario had seen, to ensure Mario was still his friend. He took the bakery’s van on Monday and traveled to the mountain in search of him, thinking he might be there.
On Monday morning, Peter tossed and turned in bed, overcome with conflicting emotions. He was haunted by the events of the past Saturday night, worried about consequences but in need of ensuring Gaston was all right. He kept on focusing on the twinkle in his mother’s eyes the day before as she sat with Raymond. There was a freshness in her demeanor that had long been absent since the death of his father, a sense of a hesitant new beginning, perhaps. And this so soon after her car accident! He mentally kicked himself, thinking of the dark shadows he had allowed to come over him due to his experience with François. His stubborn resolve to keep his emotions pent up had been slit open by the chaos of the past Saturday night. Perhaps one sometimes needs to be turned upside down and shaken about to realize an advantage is slipping through one’s fingers. With another new dawn and introspection, Peter was coming to a new self-realization. Perhaps François had been right all along in avoiding him? Perhaps he had been too harsh in his evaluation of François’s motivations? Was it a youthful crush that Peter had had, a crush that François had not shared? Perhaps it was insistence on Peter’s part that quite rightly required harsh countermeasures on François’s part?
Peter moaned, “What a fool I have been!” He spent another restless day at the bergerie, listless and nervous. He needed to think more, to get away. But first he wanted to see Gaston, at least from a distance, to see the object of his affections, to understand better how he felt about him. The bergerie had a couple of bikes available for use by renters, and so Peter late that Monday afternoon pedaled a bike to town with athletic fervor, allowing the wind to rush through his hair. In town, however, he could not see Gaston through the bakery windows. He did see Céleste alone there. Peter decided to come closer and entered the shop. While standing awaiting his turn, he overheard Céleste and a customer talking.
“And how are the boys today?” inquired the lady of Céleste.
She replied, “I do not understand where they have gone. Mario was away yesterday, and I have not seen him today. Gaston did all the baking alone today, and now I cannot find him. Perhaps he has gone off to play soccer, but usually he would let me know. I saw him leave in a hurry in the van, however.”
Peter silently left the shop without making any purchases. He made his way out of town and along a path that followed the contours of the Rhone River to an area where he was accustomed to go reading by the rive
rside. He felt a need to sort through the jumbled emotions and events, alone among paths crowded by wildflower meadows. The Rhone River was only a couple of miles from the bergerie, and the public paths were not heavily used. It was usually a joy to exalt in one’s solitude, observe the profusion of wild plants, and bask in the heat of the beating sun, but this day joy was hard to find.
Unbeknownst to Peter the path he took that day also brought him past a place where Mario would sit in the sun or sometimes fish, hidden among a low clutch of bushes. Mario had retreated to this customary riverside lair after the events of Saturday night and had slept there now two nights, not returning to his room above the bakery. For much of that time he sat there in a daze, increasingly disheveled and hungry, turning over in his mind the scene he had witnessed at the bergerie window, turning over in his mind his memories of the years he had been Gaston’s best friend. He heard Peter’s bike pass nearby, and he peered out to see him heading down the path to the south.
What has this person done to Gaston? he thought. Surely Gaston was all right before this guy’s arrival? I have known Gaston forever. He is my best friend. He is all right. He would tell me if there was something bothering him, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t he? This has to be new; this has to be this new guy’s doing!
He determined to follow Peter; a welling of anger had seized him. He had no firm idea what his intentions were, but his impulse was not fueled by any happy thoughts. Before he could get up and retrieve his own bike from a nearby wood, however, he noticed Peter stop sharply up ahead, jump off his bike, and run to the riverbank.
Peter stood in shock at the sight on the riverbank in front of him.