The vicar stuttered with astonishment as the parish priest dropped to his knees on the edge of the grave. But the moment of stupefaction over, they quickly dismissed the possibility of a revolting and sacrilegious prank. The body was that of the young nun laid bare against the ground, with its hideous hump leaning to one side and part of its waist still girdled by the remnants of an old hair shirt. The particular chemical nature of the soil, assuredly altered by supernatural intervention, had protected her from decay. Even the colour of her skin had remained unaffected by her death; she lay sprawled before their eyes as if she had just fallen asleep. The vicar could not contain his curiosity any longer. He cautiously stepped into the grave to turn her over. Yet to do so meant that he would have to touch the body, profaning its sanctity with the intimate contact of his mortal hands. But the desire to contemplate fie face of this corpse now certain to be canonized proved indomitable.
Sprinkling his hands with holy water, he lifted Hubertine off the ground, silently praying that she would not crumble into dust.
At once a shiver overwhelmed him, as he felt under his grip the unexpected lifelessness of her skin. One of her arms unfolded and stretched out revealing the well-defined track of protruding veins. Hubertine's long fingernails had remained intact, and with a sense of growing uneasiness the vicar noticed that they were finely manicured. Everyone leaned over fie excavation to help upraise the body. But when this amazing and mystifying corpse had been turned
over and respectfully laid beside the grave, they all stumbled back against the wall, shrinking in horror at the sight that met their eyes.
The front of Hubertine's body was burned from her chin to her knees. The skin was still blistered and covered with scabs, as if it had just been charred by an unseen fire smouldering under her, eternalizing the agony of a monstrous and unrelenting blaze. And if the grave did not contain any visible hearth, the vicar shuddered at the thought that the cold and impassible black soil had been the silent guardian of an inexorable torture. Looking in turn at the face of the wretched shepherdess, they all felt the sickly sweet and vicious mingling of ecstasy and perversion that emanated from her smile. Averting his eyes and wishing to repel the fear that was invading him, one of the workers pointed to the inscriptions covering the underside of the slab.
Unbeknownst to all, Hubertine had slept for almost two hundred years under a ledger that had once been removed, turned over, and then replaced upon her grave. The workers joined the edges of the broken stone, and after nervously adjusting his glasses, the vicar stammered as he read aloud the old epitaph.
Here Hubertine doth Lie Who did Live and Die For Naught Save the Love of God.
Artfully engraved, this first inscription was followed by another, crudely gouged out of the stone.
And whom the godless revolutionaries of 1789 Did drag out of paradise To make her partake in the lyres of Hell And give her to taste of the Devil's lust.
Hitching a Ride
Whenever I open the door of Angelo's, one of the greasiest diners alongside Aubry Road, the manager grabs a bowl and two eggs, and before I even have time to open my mouth he whips them up to prepare a bacon omelet. That's what I always get. I haven't been seated for five minutes when he brings it to me, placing the dish on my table with a smile of complicity. He is so sure about me that sometimes he even chances making it beforehand. I have often wondered how many of them he must have started each time he saw me coming toward his restaurant, and how many he had to serve to docile customers because I happened to be just walking down the road that day.
For Angelo I am the "bacon omelet guy." Don't ask him if I do anything else in life other than eat omelets; he's never tried to find out. He honours me that way, and I show him my appreciation by remaining one of his faithful customers, even though I have come to dislike eggs more and more.
Angelo was born in Italy, in one of the miserable shantytowns around Naples, and though he is no longer poor, his reflexes still have the quickness and vivacity bred by hunger. Keeping one eye on the greasy mess of his pans, he tags the other on the customer who might leave without paying. He takes the orders with one ear while he listens to the patrons' stories with another, as the ashes of his Gauloise cigarette hang precariously over the grill. Yet no one has ever seen them actually falling into the food, and it is quite a miracle if you consider that he talks out of the other side of his mouth, while constantly barking at his exasperated waitresses.
Truck drivers like to stop over at Angelo's, and they help spread the diner's reputation by meeting there from a dozen different counties. They all park their huge vehicles at their leisure, and as a boulder thrown into a brook forces the current to overflow upon its banks, their trailers clog the traffic, compelling irate motorists to chance their driving skills over the ditches and onto the surrounding potato fields. Meanwhile, inside the ebullient atmosphere of the dining room, the truckers are heartily eating and drinking, as their exuberant laughter resounds like the steely rumble of grinding gears.
Later in the afternoon the truckers usually quiet down as they share the stories of their trade. Today one of them is recounting how his truck had unexpectedly become the prey of a treacherous patch of sleet twenty miles into a mountain pass. Locked by the brakes, the wheels had become uncontrollable skates as the trailer began to swerve toward a bridge railing that was drawing nearer by the second, with nothing else in sight to prevent this mammoth of a truck from crashing through. Everyone in the room knows that road: beyond that thin railing there is only empty space and the huge void of a three-hundred-foot drop to the river below.
"I thought I'd bought the farm for good," says the driver, rolling his shoulders to better demonstrate the yawing of his runaway vehicle. A hush falls over the room as all of the truckers look quite worried, despite the reassuring presence of the narrator. At last the patch of sleet came to an end. The frozen wheels freed themselves from the iron tongs of the brakes and recovered their grip on the asphalt. After shearing off two hundred feet of railing the trailer finally came to a stop, jackknifed in the middle of the road.
There is a brief moment of horrified silence before the whole diner explodes in a thundering, relieving laughter.
"I'm telling you, I've never seen death that close!" concludes the survivor, with such conviction that Angelo ironically spits out, between the ashes and the french fries, "What you talkin' about, nobody can see death, it ain't a person!" Everyone bursts out laughing, even the man who has just narrated his frightening account.
Unnoticed by the drivers, I am the only one who is not sharing in their hilarity. I know you can really see death, and after gulping down the rest of my beer, I let my memory drift back a few years.
The highway that stretches between Vitry and Cézanne is laid on a dreary, barren plain. As if to make it lonelier, the road no longer runs through any city. Obedient to the functional imagination of its engineers, it even avoids villages. Strategic curves keep the traffic away from any distracting landscape, and left on their own the motorists find the speed of their vehicles to be their only form of entertainment, and so they drive as fast as they can. That is what I also do each time I take that road, as I surrender myself to the exhilarating hazards of a steady 100 m.p.h.
And so last July, when I found myself on this suicidal highway once again, alone in my Maserati and in need of tempering company, I did not hesitate to answer the call of a hitchhiker who was eyeing the road at the Vitry exit. Besides, even if I had not wanted to stop, he acted in such a way that I had no choice but to obey him; for if I had not jammed on the brakes, I would surely have run him over. I say I had to "obey" him because, while he stretched out his aim in a manner that haughtily designated me as his chosen means of transportation, he also deliberately stepped into the path of my car.
I let him get in and sit beside me. He was a sprightly old man with a tall, gaunt frame and a nose that resembled the blade of a pruning knife. His tousled hair was set low on his head. His skin was thick and wrink
led like bark, with dirt in every crease. He was dressed in honest farmworker clothes whose cut certainly did not follow any recognized fashion: rain-faded and sun-bleached corduroy, which looked as everlasting as time. From my observations I deduced that he was a journeyman on his way to be hired in the fields of Brie. (But I didn't realize, although it was obvious, that nowadays Brie farmers have little use of such workers, since modem harvesting machines can perform in a single stroke the work of twenty sturdy men.)
I asked him where he planned to be hired, but he did not look at me nor did he answer. He only pointed his finger to the road ahead of us, and I understood that I would get nothing more out of him. It was quite clear that he wanted me to drive on until we had reached his destination. Soon his company started to annoy me. I had agreed to give him a lift so I could have someone to talk to and thus fight the boredom of this journey, but I was now carrying a silence much worse than the feeling of isolation that prods the travellers of this road to accelerate.
Therefore, I decided to whip up the fieriness of my invisible horses, but far from being concerned, the man seemed to be more relaxed. By the time we reached 110 m.p.h., he even looked at the speedometer with a satisfaction that almost brightened his face. Disappointed, I slowed down a little and proceeded to start a monologue directed at him.
This made him instantly lose his pleasure, but I went on and told him that two days ago, in my in-laws' garden, I had accidentally broken the gardener’s only scythe while mowing the lawn. So I had gone to buy a new one at an old hardware store that still sold a few of these contraptions. Eager to show me his knowledge, the owner had explained to me the different advantages of five or six kinds of scythes that he sold - advantages that I in turn described to my silent companion, who, surprised, granted me a brief but friendly glance. I then told him that during my captivity in Germany I had been forced to work in a tool factory, and I proudly informed him that in a period of two years I had turned out at least ten thousand blades of the best quality steel - the Swedish kind, whose sharpened edges could have shaved beards as well as prairies.
By now my quiet companion was looking straight at me, and I saw that he was pleased to hear me talk shop. And so I continued, describing the different cutting styles of old and illustrious mowers, those amazing nineteenth-century reapers who journeyed from oceans of corn to seas of alfalfa, driven by a cutting strength that seemed as invincible as the tide. This time the man stared at me and showed that he was listening to my soliloquy with real satisfaction. I thought that by remaining silent I might irritate him, so I proceeded to tell him how, in the fifteenth century, Saint Claude had become the patron saint of the guild, when - so claims the legend - he had inadvertently razed a whole row of poplars as if they were mere thistles. I then acknowledged to my silent but captivated passenger that I was indeed sad to see this glorious trade vanish, as if so many old-time reapers were being cut down by the dispassionate efficiency of automated blades.
At that point, the old man straightened up in his seat as if he had suddenly come to a decision. He stretched out his hand and adamantly pointed his finger at the gas gauge. I looked at if it was on empty. I was surprised, for I had filled it up less than fifty miles before. Fortunately, we were close to an exit that advertised a gas station. I drove the car to the pump and went out to fill the tank, but after a few gallons, the gasoline surged back and overflowed. The mechanic walked up to me, and I was about to ask him to check the gas gauge when a loud clang drowned my words. I jumped back and stared at my car in disbelief: it looked as though the front end had suddenly caved into the ground, leaving the vehicle listing at a forty-five-degree angle. Both the mechanic and I kneeled down and peered underneath the car as the reason for this extraordinary accident was immediately revealed to us. The two front wheels had collapsed inwards. They were severed from their axle as if they had just been turned into dead wood.
Somewhat shaken, I straggled to my feet and walked around a little as the mechanic stared at the twisted heap of metal.
"That s the craziest thing I've ever seen," he said, wiping an oily rag across his face. "A half mile more at the speed you were driving, and you were a dead man!"
I agreed with a retrospective shiver and replied that I really owed my life to my passenger, a strange but wise traveller who, just in time, had unknowingly shut one of the trapdoors of my fate.
"What traveller?" answered the mechanic, with a strange look on his face. "You were alone when you got here."
I rushed back to the car. In the commotion I had all but forgotten about the hitchhiker and I was afraid he might be hurt, but the old journeyman was no longer there. I leaned inside, searching for some trace of him, but found nothing... except, perhaps, a slight smell of freshly ploughed earth.
Ever since that day I shudder at the thought of those drivers who have picked up and trustfully helped this death labourer, but who will never be able to testify to his existence as I have.
Night Horses
Travelling from Paris by train, I got off at Landivisiau in late afternoon. It was my first trip to Brittany, and the mild dampness of its weather was a welcome change from the rigours of the capital. The night was hurrying to bring the day to a close, but the streetlights still hindered the darkness from completely invading the town. And if the provincial architecture, veiled by the deepening twilight, greeted me with a startling change of surroundings, my surprise was further heightened by the folkloric attire and distinctive accent of the inhabitants.
I ate my dinner at the local hotel, and although I could have slept there on a comfortable bed, I had made up my mind to leave that very evening and press on toward my final destination. The impatience of my heart was luring me ever closer to Kerentran, where I was only expected the next day. But knowing that the night would certainly feel shorter if I slept nearer to Joceline, I had decided to reach the inn closest to her manor.
When dinner was over I inquired about any available means of transportation, but to my surprise I was curtly told that I would not find any. The man directly facing me across the table, a young and robust farmer, even chided me for my temerity. Another diner nodded in agreement, saying it was obvious that I was a stranger in these parts; otherwise, the very thought of leaving the town at night would never have crossed my mind.
"Around here no one travels during the dark hours," reproached the man standing at the head of the table. "The night does not belong to the living," added another in a slightly menacing tone.
As they all became quiet, their reproving silence only urged me to leave without the loss of another moment, even if it meant I would have to walk the twenty miles separating me from Kerentran.
The night was clear under the full moon. I had no difficulty finding my way, since every curve of that road had graced Joceline's last letters, making me feel as if I already knew each intersection and village...
How many miles had I actually walked, lost in thought and dreaming of Joceline? Even to this day I could not really say. All I remember is that at some point along that road I became aware of a long, large line that seemed to be painted across the pavement. I looked up and found myself at the foot of a huge cross towering over a wayside shrine. It was its shadow, reflected upon the road, which had caught my attention and drawn me out of my reverie. Then, in the distance, cutting through the softness of the night, I heard the oncoming rattle of a carriage. I stopped and sighed with relief, blessing the apparition of this unexpected traveller, since I felt certain that for a few francs he would take me all the way to Kerentran.
I could now see its contours. Drawn by three white horses harnessed in an arrowhead formation, it was approaching very rapidly. Oddly enough the horses' hooves were not shod, and their gallop resounded upon the rocky surface of the pavement like the muffled beat of a huge wooden heart. Stepping onto the road, I waved and shouted at the driver, but despite the vigour of my calls he failed to notice me. The coach was now bearing down on me without slowing in its course. I jumped as
ide and barely had time to dodge the lash of a whip, which cracked above my head like a snarling animal.
I was outraged and could not refrain from shouting an insult, but then, within a few yards, the fiery horses came to a screeching halt. At the speed they were going, even the most intrepid driver could not have stopped them in a hundred yards without snapping the reins. I was startled, and I hesitated to walk up to the coach for fear I'd be thrashed by the driver. Finally, after uttering a few words of apology, I took a few steps forward. The coachman was standing up against the slatted side of the carriage, staring straight in front of him. A stocky man dressed in a brown cape, he was as petrified as a rock. I could not see his features hidden under a large brimmed hat, but I discovered that he had two travelling companions, clothed in the same fashion, who sat astride the two horses hitched up behind the yoke, while the lead horse remained free of riders. It looked as if the driver had absolutely no notion as to the proper way of harnessing a carriage. I did try to ask them a few questions, but despite the insistence of my pleas, none of them even turned their heads to look at me. Indeed, the whole equipage, men and horses alike, remained as motionless as statues.
The Nightcharmer and Other Tales Page 9