In the Moon

by Alan Holmes

  When he couldn’t coax any more bets from the audience, the Gypsy, still using his megaphone, explained the rules of the race. “Le premier lapin qui grignote sérieusement une carotte sera le gagnant.” (“The first rabbit who seriously nibbles on a carrot will be the winner.”) Just sniffing a carrot did not constitute a win. None of the rabbits had eaten a thing in two days. They were famished, the Gypsy assured us. He went on to explain that he wanted complete silence during the race. “Il ne faut qu’un rire pour faire sauter la course.” (“It only takes one laugh to blow the race.”) And naturally, there was to be no cheering until the race was over. Anyone causing even a minor distraction to the rabbits would be disqualified from winning any prize money if his rabbit or carrot turned out to be a winner. If this happened, the second nibbling of a carrot would determine a winner.

  The Gypsy then adopted a grave and dramatic voice: “It’s the obligatory silence which gives this race its heart-pounding suspense! During the fateful silence of this event, fortunes are made or broken!” The audience listened in silent awe.

  A few minutes before the start, a small chicken-wire enclosure with neither top nor bottom was placed in the center of the carrot circle, and six very nervous-looking rabbits were carried in by their ears and placed in this small, round holding pen.

  At last, the big moment was upon us! The Gypsy was handed a long bamboo pole that he used to lift the chicken-wire enclosure gently up and out of the carrot circle, all the while keeping his distance from the rabbits. The merry-go-round’s calliope fell silent. A reverential hush descended over the crowd that had been chatting excitedly until now.

  After the starting enclosure was lifted, the rabbits just sat quietly, appearing bemused, gazing at the spectators and looking as though they didn’t know what exactly they were supposed to do. I realize now that the rabbits probably could not see the carrots lying in the grass some ten feet away and that for the rabbits, a new “enclosure” formed by a solid wall of spectators standing only five feet beyond the circle of carrots must have been a daunting sight.

  We stood in rapt attention and total silence for what seemed like several minutes. The rabbits took a few unconvincing rabbit hops leading nowhere; they seemed content to remain near the starting zone. Then, one of the rabbits hopped around to Grisette, looked her over, and mounted her. It was a rabbit called Grand Bonhomme (Big Guy). There was a round of muted tittering.

  I became alarmed because the people standing next to me had been the loudest with their tittering, and I feared I might be lumped in with them and disqualified. Furthermore, I had no idea what Grand Bonhomme was up to and couldn’t see what was so funny. Fortunately, the entire circle of spectators had tittered, and it didn’t seem to have disturbed any of the rabbits. They just pricked up their ears and stood their ground.

  Grisette shook off Grand Bonhomme and scampered about four feet out of the starting zone, where she came to a stop and turned around to face Grand Bonhomme as if to keep an eye on him. He now decided to have another try and nonchalantly took a few lopes towards Grisette. When he was within a foot of her, he apparently thought the better of it, made an about face and put on an air of indifference and innocence. There ensued more titters from the crowd and quiet shushing from the Gypsy.

  In the meantime, some of the rabbits made a few haphazard lopes toward the carrot circle. Ti-Noir (Little Blackie, who was actually bigger than Big Guy) seemed to be making the most progress and was now only three feet from a carrot—unfortunately, not mine. Then Ti-noir sat up on his hind haunches and, from this vantage point spotted something that caused him to make a headlong dash across the center of the circle and on towards its far side. At the last minute, he slammed on the brakes and came to a stop beside carrot number eight, right next to mine.

  Ti-Noir’s sudden movement had ignited the other rabbits into action, for they were now scurrying left and right, each eventually coming to a stop near the circle of carrots.

  It seems that rabbits—at least French rabbits—have to stop and contemplate any carrot they are about to eat. Every one of the rabbits was now beside a carrot, remaining motionless and eyeing the closest one. Grisette even sniffed a carrot without actually taking a nibble. Ti-Noir seemed distracted by all the commotion he had caused, lost interest in carrot number eight and turned his gaze to carrot number seven. Then he nonchalantly loped two feet towards my carrot and, as all the other rabbits had done, initiated the required period of cogitation.

  Famished indeed! Every rabbit was now contemplating a carrot and, for at least a minute, none of them moved so much as a whisker. The suspense was intense as the crowd held its collective breath. The moment of truth was upon us! No one dared budge for fear of disqualification.

  Then, Ti-Noir took a tentative nibble at my carrot and, finding it to his taste, finally started some serious munching on it. The crowd went wild, unleashing a tidal wave of pent-up excitement. Françoise, beside me, was ecstatic. She clapped vigorously and rubbed her hands together in a prayer-like gesture.

  I collected my fifty francs from the Gypsy, handed them to Françoise, and walked over to the cages to receive my farmyard creature. I now had to choose from an assortment of chickens, ducks, and rabbits of different breeds and colors, but I already knew exactly which one I wanted. From the start, my eye had been on a mallard duck. The iridescent deep green color of his head plumage was the most entrancing color I had ever laid eyes on. It didn’t seem possible that I would be the owner of such a fantastically beautiful bird. I would call him “Ploof” after the celebrated mallard, Plouf, in the Albums du Père Castor (a superbly illustrated series of children’s books).

  The Gypsy lifted Ploof out of the cage and tied a string to the duck’s leg, the free end of which he told me to tie to my belt. This done, he handed me the duck, which seemed quite content to rest against my hip with my arm around him. I left the fair strutting proudly with my prize under my arm, and with Brenda and Françoise in tow.

  Upon our arrival home, I saw that Mother had returned from her game of golf and was resting in a chaise longue on the lawn, reading a book. As I approached her, I called out proudly, “Mummy! Look at the beautiful duck I won at the fair! His name is Ploof, and I’m going to train him to do all sorts of tricks and to follow me wherever I go!”

  Before Mother could comment, Françoise, right behind me, interjected, “For our dinner, Madame, would you like the duck served à l’orange or just plain roasted chasseur?”

  Without even waiting for Mother’s answer, I started to run, holding tightly onto my duck. I had no clear plan for dealing with this crisis, but I headed for a small wood in the back of the garden where, hiding, I might have a little time to work things out.

  On my way, I passed the open garage door and saw Raimond inside, tidying up his fishing tackle. Raimond had always been a dependable ally, so I stopped and, out of breath, told him how I had won Ploof at the fair and that Françoise was planning to serve my beautiful duck for dinner. Raimond was appalled and immediately went to the kitchen where I could hear him remonstrating with Françoise. It was the only time I ever heard him telling her off. Somewhat to my amazement, Raimond soon emerged unscathed from the kitchen. He immediately set about looking for materials to build a cage.

  In the meantime, I tied Ploof’s string to a sapling and went off to the compost pile where I knew Raimond was breeding a slither of snails for gastronomic purposes. I gathered a handful of the biggest ones I could find and returned to the garage. Raimond had shaped a piece of wire netting into a circle about a yard in diameter and about the same height. It was open at the top, and Raimond was lowering Ploof into this rudimentary cage as I returned.

  I offered the snails to Ploof, who tore into them voraciously, shell and all. “Alors! Monsieur Alain! Just like that you offer my precious snails, my dinner, to the duck!” Raimond said, teasing me.

  There was still plenty of time b
efore dinner, so I went for more snails. After Ploof had devoured his second helping, I took him out of his cage so I could admire him more closely. I spent an hour or so drinking in his exquisite beauty, petting him and talking lovingly to him as I held onto his short string so he wouldn’t escape.

  He was even more beautiful than I had realized. I hadn’t noticed the little white ring where the iridescent green ended on his neck. Nor had I seen the panels of snow-white feathers on his sides and a small, upright curl of black feathers centered on his back. And when he stretched himself by opening and flapping his wings, I was amazed to discover two more large swatches of a brilliant teal blue color on his sides. In elegant contrast with his feathers were a bright yellow bill and his two yellow feet. I happened to notice that the web was missing from between two of his “toes,” the only blemish on this otherwise perfect creature.

  Ploof seemed unafraid and quite friendly and kept uttering discreet little “kwuck” sounds which I took to be the equivalent of a cat’s purring; he was probably thanking me for all those snails. They must be like ice cream cones to a duck, I told myself.

  When I heard Mother calling me for dinner, I reluctantly put Ploof back into his cage, confident that I had made some headway in befriending him. That night at dinner, I regaled my parents and the guests with a description of the Great Rabbit Race. Each successive detail created a great deal of laughter, except the business of Grand Bonhomme and Grisette which, mysteriously, only produced an awkward silence.

  The next morning, I awoke to the crowing of a rooster at the neighbor’s farm. It was a sound that occurred daily and usually didn’t awaken me. But on this day, the realization that I owned a magnificent duck galvanized me into action. I slipped into my clothes and tiptoed through the silent house and out into the dew-laden garden. The sun was not up yet, and a low-lying mist lingered, adding to the tranquility of the scene.

  When I reached Ploof’s enclosure, I was horrified to discover that he was gone! Alarmed, I initiated a search through the little wood, then around the rest of the garden, all to no avail. I opened the front gate and sauntered up the grass track along the communal pasture, keeping a sharp eye out for places in the hedge to my left where Ploof might be hiding. My shoes were soon sopping wet from the heavy dew on the grass, and I was so intent on my search that I grew inured to the chill air, even though I was lightly dressed.

  Some distance from our house, the grassy track that I was walking along made a sharp left turn away from the pasture. On my right, opposite the turn in the track, was a gate into the meadow. The cows, which grazed all day in the communal field, were now congregated near this gate. They stood absolutely still, and the only sign of movement among them were the dense puffs of vapor from their breathing. An occasional plaintive lowing conveyed their collective impatience as they awaited their various owners, who would soon take them to their respective home barns for milking.

  I walked past the cows and on around the bend. Before me lay a fifty-yard stretch of the grass track bordered on both sides by thick bramble hedges which ended where the track met a paved road. Looking down this lane, I saw no sign of Ploof and realized the futility of continuing my search. Thoroughly disheartened, I turned back towards our house.

  Halfway home, I passed the entrance to the Baichant farm, our immediate neighbors to the north. As I went by, Madame Baichant came clattering out of her farmhouse in her wooden sabots. She opened the gate onto the grass track and greeted me cheerily, “You’re up very early, Monsieur Alain!”

  I told her my sad tale and asked her if, by chance, she had seen an unfamiliar duck wandering around her farm. Madame Baichant replied that she hadn’t seen any ducks and that she was in a hurry to bring Mémé in for milking. She would have a look around as soon as she was done. “Mémé can’t wait,” she said. “But would you like to join me in fetching her? You can tell me more about this duck on the way.”

  Madame Baichant was a cheerful and friendly woman, so I gladly accepted her invitation. We walked up the track and, when we reached the gate where the cows were gathered, she called out in a shrill voice, “Viens Mémé! Viens Mémé! Viens!” until one of the cows started to move slowly through the closely gathered herd towards the gate. Every cow in the meadow was called “Mémé,” but each one knew her owner’s voice and could be depended upon to come forward obediently upon being called, as the other cows stood by looking envious.

  Madame Baichant opened the gate, and her Mémé ambled through. With her massive udder swinging gently from side to side and without any guidance or coaxing from Madame Baichant, Mémé resolutely led us along the grassy track, through the open farmyard gate, and thence to her milking stall.

  Once inside the cowshed, I stared in amazement at the vigor and speed with which Madame Baichant milked Mémé. It didn’t take her much more than five minutes, during which time I continued my account of how I had acquired Ploof and of his disappearance.

  “Tell me, were his wing-tip feathers clipped?” Madame Baichant asked, as she worked smoothly and rhythmically at two of the teats.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Did the feathers look as though they had been cut with scissors? Were the tips of the feathers straight, or were they rounded?” she elaborated.

  “Rounded,” I replied with certainty, for I had admired their streamlined shape from close up.

  “Ah! There’s your problem! That Gypsy didn’t trim the wing feathers, hoping the duck would fly back to him if it were left in a place open to the sky, like this one,” she said, nodding towards the walled-in farmyard outside the stall. “That way, they can use the duck again and again. Ducks are like homing pigeons; they will fly back to where they came from, especially if they are part of a family of ducks that have grown up together.”

  “But I gave that duck some fat snails, and he really liked them. He should have realized I was going to be a good friend. It doesn’t seem possible he would return to that nasty old Gypsy who probably never brought him a single snail. For an hour last night, I petted Ploof and talked to him in a friendly way. How could he betray me like this?” The tears came welling up as I spoke. “When he belonged to the Gypsy, he had to live in a tiny hutch all day long. How can he prefer that to . . . .”

  There, I stopped, realizing I hadn’t provided Ploof with any kind of shelter, and perhaps he had feared a fox might come while he was asleep in Raimond’s open-topped cage. Also, I hadn’t tied his string to the cage when I put him in it after I had finished admiring him, believing that he couldn’t fly straight up to escape.

  Madame Baichant had filled the pail, relieving Mémé of her great load of milk, and asked me if I’d like a cup of fresh milk. As she picked up the heavy pail, I accepted her offer and followed her across the farmyard to her house.

  On entering her front door, I found myself in a spacious kitchen that also served as general workroom, dining room, and living room. What struck me first was a smell that was a mixture of many pleasant things. There was the smell one finds in a seed and grain store, chiefly that of bran in bulk, combined with the smell of a hearty meat stew cooked with aromatic herbs.

  Two small windows pierced the thick stone outer walls and cast dramatic side lighting on a small part of the room, leaving the rest in dim light. The only other light was a warm glow from the other side of the room, where a fire was burning in a large fireplace. The room was further darkened by a black earthen floor, uneven but packed hard and polished to a high glaze in places of heavy use. The crooked timbers of the low ceiling were rough-hewn, and their wood was old and riddled with tiny woodworm holes. The room’s darkness was not oppressive; rather, it created a strong sense of shelter and coziness. It felt solid and permanent and made me feel safe and at ease.

  I was enthralled by Madame Baichant and the way she led her life and was so taken by her farmhouse kitchen that I completely forgot about Ploof.

&
nbsp; Madame Baichant invited me to sit at the table, unhooked an enameled ladle from a wall hook, took an earthenware mug from a shelf, and ladled milk from the pail into the mug.

  “Couldn’t be fresher,” she said, handing me the mug, “and still warm from the cow.”

  As I sipped Mémé’s creamy milk, Madame Baichant intimated that Ploof was a lost cause. “You had better forget about him. If you like ducks, you can come over here any time you want and feed ours. We have a dozen or so. Some of them are mallards, and there are even a few ducklings,” she volunteered. The offer sounded genuine and was, for me, a solution to a problem that had been nagging me all morning: if I did find Ploof, how would I keep Françoise from snatching and cooking him?

  “I’d like that very much, Madame Baichant,” I replied, without a thought of what Mother might think of this scheme. I followed up with, “May I come again later today?”

  At that moment, a door opened, and through it came a sleepy-looking young girl wearing a flannel nightshirt so large that she held big bunches of the shirt in both hands to keep from tripping over it. I had seen her numerous times as we drove up the grass track on our way in or out of our place and I knew she was Madame Baichant’s daughter. Until this morning, however, I had never known her name. It was Michelle.

  She was about the same age as I and the same height but, unlike me, she was a sturdy, tough-looking child. She was a towhead whose home-styled, gamine haircut with its straight bangs accentuated the sharp features of her face and imparted to her a rather hard look. A few minutes of listening to Michelle talking with her mother soon dispelled this unfavorable first impression and made it clear that she was a happy, easy-going young girl.