Rivers

by Martin Michael Driessen

  High above their heads, three Mirages, the French air force’s new supersonic jet fighters, tore past.

  The vale was many miles long, but narrow. The meadowlands between either shore of the creek and the edge of the woods were at most a hundred meters wide, except at the spot where ruins from the Merovingian era, at one time a shrine devoted to Saint Godeberta, stood—more than this, no one knew. It was a favorite climbing place for goats.

  The land to the right of the creek belonged to the Chrétiens, that to the left to the family Corbé; it had never been otherwise. The families hated each other, and this, too, had never been otherwise.

  The Corbés were Huguenots, the Chrétiens Catholic. Since the Revolution, their farmsteads had been situated in different départements, so the only thing that bound them was the shared ownership of that narrow, uninhabited valley where in the summertime their livestock grazed.

  Because the creek was slender and shallow in the summer, the animals would cross over, and trying to keep them separated was a fool’s errand. This show of free will, however, did not tally with the two families’ worldview. No Corbé in his right mind would accept a calf from a Catholic steer; no Chrétien could abide a heretic billy goat mounting their nannies.

  To this end, they agreed to let their cattle or their goats and sheep graze in the valley on alternate years. This only led to more bad blood, because deep down, both parties were convinced that the other benefited unduly. The Chrétiens’ heifers trampled the grass in a year that the Corbés only kept sheep; the Corbés’ herds of cattle, claimed the Chrétiens, were far too large and displaced their goats.

  But the main bone of contention was that the creek bed was constantly shifting, eroding the loam in the outside bends, taking land away from the one side and giving it to the other. By and large, this injustice was compensated in subsequent years by new, opposing meanders, and as seen over the centuries, neither the one family nor the other was ultimately disadvantaged—but from generation to generation, the Corbés as well as the Chrétiens were convinced that nature had systematically dealt them a bad hand.

  The vale remained what it always had been, with its strips of grassland between the wooded hillsides, and the winding silver ribbon of the Issou more or less in the middle.

  Pierre Corbé was seven and was standing in the creek with his pant legs rolled up, netting for sticklebacks. His four-year-old brother had dozed off in the grass, a still-damp net over his face to keep away the hornets.

  Pierre already had a dozen of the tiny fish in his jam jar.

  The Chrétien girls walked on the far bank. They had straw hats and pretended to pick berries at the edge of the woods, but of course the berries weren’t ripe yet at this time of year. They all wore white linen dresses, and the oldest sister was at least thirteen. They were only here to spoil their fun. It’s not fair when you’re the oldest and only seven and your little brother is just a tyke, and they show up with a whole gang and their leader is almost a grown-up and they’re all girls. Even the youngest was older than him. That was because, according to his father, Catholics bred like rabbits.

  He had just scooped out a nice one that had been chasing a water flea, and he tipped it into his jam pot when the Chrétien girls approached him, like a swarm of white vultures.

  He tried in vain to pull up his little brother in time.

  “Hey, you there,” a voice resounded through the valley, “what are you doing there? You can’t go in our creek.”

  “Your creek?” he called back. “It’s not your creek. The creek is the boundary, and a boundary is everybody’s.”

  “Oh really? Is that what Mr. Calvin says? Well, my father says that the creek is the boundary, and you people have no business coming on our side.”

  “I wasn’t on your side. I was standing in the middle of the creek.”

  “Is that so? And whose is the middle? Yours, you reckon? The middle is nobody’s.”

  “He just pinched a stickleback from our side,” said one of the younger sisters. “I saw it myself.”

  “You can’t fish in our water,” the leader said, wading in up to her calves. “Give it here, that jam pot.”

  “No, I won’t,” Pierre said defiantly. “Fish swim wherever they want, and I do what I want too. That’s none of Rome’s business.”

  “All right, then,” she said, “we’ll fight it out. Put ’em up, if you dare.”

  “I don’t fight with girls.”

  “Because you’re a sissy!”

  “You’re way bigger and there are five of you and I have to look after my kid brother, that’s why.”

  “If you don’t dare, I’ll come over there and dump your sticklebacks into the creek.”

  While Pierre pulled his brother upright, the girls began to jeer and throw clumps of mud and hunks of chalk at him.

  “Heretic! Heretic!” shrieked one of the younger sisters, and she tried to fling a cow patty at them with a stick. The girls had the upper hand. They held on to their straw hats, insofar as they hadn’t fallen to the grass already, and bombarded him with anything within reach. And they had on those white dresses, while all the mothers, aunts, sisters, and girl cousins in his family wore dark clothing. It did make them look pretty, he thought, until a stone knocked over his jam jar. He tried to scoop up the wriggling sticklebacks, but it was as if they did not want to be rescued.

  Just then, a distant buzz caught their attention. It was a sound the children had never heard before. It came from the sky.

  The boys stood up, clutching their nets; the girls ceased their assault and shielded their eyes with their hands.

  To the west, between the white clouds and the treetops, something no one had ever heard or seen before approached.

  It was a flying machine.

  At a spot in the world where only falcons or crows flew was the outline of a man-made thing that cut through the azure Breton sky as though it had only just now been discovered.

  The machine was two-tiered, and because of its vertical partitions and cube-like tail, it most resembled a crate or a flying stall. But it was operated by a clearly visible hero wearing a leather cap. Moreover, he seemed to be waving to them.

  It dipped above the valley and, rocking on the gentle westerly wind, headed toward Nantes.

  “Santos-Dumont!” Pierre screamed, running after it.

  “Who?” the eldest girl called out.

  “Santos-Dumont!” Pierre cried. “The aviator! He’s from Brazil!”

  Shouting and waving, the children all chased after the airplane, trying to keep up with its shadow as it glided over the creek and vale.

  “Santos-Dumont!” they cheered as though they had found a mutual idol, and they ran after it and waved for their lives, each on their own side of the creek.

  It was paradoxical but not illogical that the families had turned to a Jewish mediator to settle their dispute.

  Eduard Solomon was a third-generation solicitor practicing in Lorient, a calm, well-spoken young man who read modern authors like Claudel and Romains. The ongoing case of Chrétien versus Corbé represented a considerable source of income for his family, and partly for that reason, his father, retired but still busying himself with the firm’s day-to-day matters, was hardly keen to reach a definitive settlement.

  “Supposing those obstinate farmers agree—what good is that to us? Let them go on arguing and come to us year after year for mediation . . . In an ideal world, there would be no place for people like us anymore.”

  “Which do you mean, us Jews or us lawyers?”

  “Us lawyers—and mind your tone, Eduard. Everything you are and have is thanks to me.”

  “I know that, Father. I beg your pardon. Another glass of Calvados?”

  Eduard refilled the glasses on the folding table.

  There was a stiff breeze; between the steep coast on which their villa stood and the Île de Groix, the gray-green sea showed a pattern of frothy stripes.

  Both men were dressed in black, as beho
oved their status: the father in old-fashioned tails with a brocade vest, the son in a sober three-piece suit with narrow lapels.

  “This villa—which you will inherit—I built. I paid your tuition to law school. Our firm’s profits increase by the year. And you have nothing better to do than better the world?”

  “Why shouldn’t I better the world, if I can?” Eduard asked.

  “Because you can’t,” his father said, pursing his thick, pale-pink lips over the rim of his liqueur glass. “And because it would not be in our best interest.” He wiped off his moustache and stroked his beard.

  “You wouldn’t want a perfect world, Father?” Eduard asked, smiling.

  “No. First of all”—his father counted off on his fingers—“because this is my world, and I don’t like it when someone just goes and changes it. Second, because it would jeopardize the labor market. In a perfect world, there would be no need for doctors, because no one would get sick; nor for judges, lawyers, or gendarmes; nor for soldiers or solicitors. And furthermore, is a perfect world what God wants for us?”

  “You’ve even got a theological argument?”

  “To the woman He said: ‘In pain you will bring forth children.’ And to the man He said: ‘By the sweat of your face you will eat bread.’”

  Eduard shook his head and got up to move the potted oleander out of the wind.

  “Even so, I’d like to show you the proposals I plan to present to the families.”

  “I’d prefer Camembert with olives.”

  “I’ve drawn them in on maps of the valley.”

  “My own father showed me maps like these, once. Nothing ever came of it.”

  “I’d appreciate your opinion before I go talk to the Chrétiens and the Corbés.”

  “Go on, then. Bring something to weigh them down. And, if you please, some Camembert and olives.”

  A large chasse-marée with dark-red sails turned into the wind toward the jetty. The elder Solomon could predict precisely when it would tack.

  Eduard unfolded three maps, weighing them down with a bottle of wine, a carafe of water, a plate of cheese and olives, and a marble ashtray.

  Before he could say anything, as his mouth was full, his father began wagging his index finger impatiently here and there above the first map, on which a horizontal equator drawn in purple pencil separated the area into a northern and a southern half.

  “Already suggested this once,” he said as he broke off a piece of bread. “A lost cause. The southern part of the valley is a bit wider . . .”

  “I’ve adjusted it for that.”

  “And besides, neither family would put it past the other one to pollute or poison the river upstream if they were to opt for the southern half.”

  “And this one?”

  “I don’t see anything. What’s your point?”

  Eduard indicated a slip of paper with text written in his own calligraphic hand and attached to the map, explaining how the families would grant each other alternate use of the entire valley for a period of twelve years.

  “That’s creative, I’ll admit . . . I believe there’s something like it in Leviticus. But I’m telling you, they’ll never go along with it. The Chrétiens might be able to afford it, but the Corbés can’t survive for twelve years without that income. Besides, they’d probably chop down all the trees in their last year. Or the other party would suspect them of doing so. No contract is any match for these people. Twelve years on, it will be all-out war. Or just one year on, should you think of suggesting a shorter term.”

  Eduard sighed and picked up the carafe to pour himself a glass. The third map fluttered up and stuck against his chest like a paper toga.

  “The point is, any solution that requires one of the families to relinquish part of their land or any of their rights doesn’t stand a chance. Ergo, there will never be a solution. What’ve you got on that third map?”

  “I give up for today. Time for a glass of wine. Supper is almost ready.”

  The chasse-marée lowered its gaff sails, leaving only the triangular jib visible above the pier.

  “Come, let’s have a look, as long as we’re at it,” his father said. “Then we’ll be done with it.”

  With something close to aversion, Eduard peeled the map from his chest and spread it out on the table. There was a red line straight down the length of the vale.

  “Aha, the classic solution: a fence down the middle. The creek meanders to the right or to the left, but the line of demarcation stays the same. A topographic solution entirely in the spirit of the Enlightenment. I can tell you a good story about that.”

  “I’m listening,” Eduard said, as he poured two glasses of Bordeaux.

  “In the year 1851, when I was a young law student myself, my father attempted the same thing. It was the most progress we had ever made in the case. The families had even agreed to split the cost of the surveyor and the placement of the fence. But . . .”

  “One family pulled out at the last minute?”

  “No—high water. The valley was inundated all the way to the woods’ edge. All the better, my father said: this surveyor can do his work and drive the stakes from a rowboat. What more objective way to draw a boundary, when you can’t see the land?”

  “Perfect! What went wrong?”

  “Nothing, at least with the surveying. The valley had turned into a lake. An elegant, nearly endless row of stakes ran straight through it, from the headwaters down to where the property ended. But when the water receded, they discovered that the creek bed had shifted, making a huge bend to the west, thus giving the Chrétiens some six hundred square meters of mud. So of course they vetoed the new demarcation line.”

  “And everything stayed as it was. My God, those people are shortsighted.”

  “That’s just how it is. A few years later, incidentally, there was more land on the Corbés’ side. The truth is, they don’t want a solution.”

  Eduard folded up the maps, made a little brick-sized stack of them, and lined up their edges with his fingertips. He tied them up with a black ribbon, like a widower might with letters to his wife.

  The elder Solomon watched him sardonically and sipped his Bordeaux.

  “I’ll archive this,” Eduard said, “but I still hope to come up with a solution one day, something they simply can’t refuse, to get this thing settled once and for all.”

  “Pipe dreams, my boy,” said his father. “Our name might be Solomon—but in this case, wisdom just isn’t enough.”

  After the Great War, too, a resolution seemed more elusive than ever. When Pierre Corbé, who had been called up in the final year and had been interned as a German prisoner of war, returned and took over the farm, Adèle Chrétien, who had no brothers, had married Corentin Berthou, the son of one of Brittany’s largest landowners, and who defended the interests of the family with merciless fanaticism, and a new confrontation loomed.

  Eduard, by now a heavyset man who read Gide and Mauriac, took the train one Sunday afternoon to the local station at Auray and wandered through the valley, so as to assess the situation.

  Although he did not frequent the great outdoors, he gradually began to enjoy the undertaking. It was a fine spring day, and the meandering creek glistened between the green grasslands, which, as his map showed, were everywhere nearly equally wide. Having traversed a number of kilometers, he decided to rest and found a suitable spot: the gray stones upon a hillock, which were said to be the ruins of a chapel devoted to Saint Godeberta. He shared the spot with a few goats.

  This year they would be Corbé’s, he thought, although he couldn’t say for sure. A large billy goat lay on the highest stone and had no plans to vacate it. Eduard sat down on a lower one, from which he still had a view of the entire valley. The goat eyed him, one skinny foreleg with a cloven hoof dangling over the edge, the other folded sideways under his body. His bloated, hirsute belly rested on the warm stone and made the occasional muscular contraction. Flies buzzed.

  Now this is n
ature, he thought, the real thing in the midst of our civilized France. This hillock could just as well be a prehistoric tumulus. Just then, the church bells of Auray chimed. The steeple was hidden behind the wooded hills. It was a reassuring thought that the Chrétiens were now at Mass, and Pierre Corbé would be at a service at the distant Protestant church in Camors. He had the place to himself. He took a sandwich from his tin lunch box, uncorked the bottle of cider he brought with him, and opened his portfolio.

  There, before him, lay the problem.

  The creek had split.

  At the broadest part of the valley, the creek had branched into two, to all appearances, equally wide halves, forming a long elliptical island in the middle before rejoining further up. His father and grandfather never had to deal with this. Which branch was the boundary?

  The goats, who by now had all closed in around him, had other matters in mind and sidled ever closer to his lunch box. His attempts to shoo them off had no effect whatsoever.

  The divided course of the creek would require negotiations, and negotiating with the Corbés and the Chrétiens was well-nigh impossible. A good, heavy rainfall for a few weeks, which might cause the stream to shift its bed yet again, could solve the problem, but such an occurrence transpiring this year was doubtful. In the meantime, something had to happen, of this he was certain.

  A brown goat with a black dorsal stripe had planted her forelegs between his thighs and looked him straight in the eye. Eduard was fairly sure goats didn’t attack humans, but all the same, he wasn’t entirely at ease. He threw the crust from his bread as far as he could, just to have some peace.

  While thumbing through his portfolio, a yellowed newspaper clipping from the l’Ouest-Éclair fell out into his hands. Pierre Corbé’s great-grandfather and Adèle Chrétien’s grandfather had been found dead on the nearly dried-up riverbed. Corbé’s head had been bashed in, and Chrétien had taken a bullet through the heart.

  There were no witnesses, and no one had any clue as to the circumstances, but public opinion in Catholic Brittany was that Chrétien had been cravenly shot dead and with his last bit of strength had brained his murderer.