The Elder Man

by Katherine Wyvern

  “We are thinking about it,” said Frederic. “We have family in the region, and we visit every summer. We were thinking of buying some small property and building a little cottage, just for the holidays. In the Correze, peut etre, although we do also like the Quercy.”

  “Ouch,” said Van. “I’d stick with the Correze. Not a lot of clay in the Quercy. It’s all limestone, bone dry, with just enough topsoil to feed some poor miserable half-starved sheep. Except in the valleys, which are prone to flooding in heavy rains, and you really don’t want to build a cob house where it floods.”

  “Ach. That sucks,” said Ella frowning. “It is a beautiful landscape, starved or no.”

  “It was. Somewhat less now, after the box moth destroyed half of the garigues. Whole cliffs, valleys, and hillsides laid bare. It breaks your heart. Well, anyway. You can get clay delivered by truck. It defeats the ecological purpose a little. But they dig up tons of clay every day to level building pads, and it all goes to waste. You might as well get it and make a house from it.”

  Ella nodded. “Maybe I’ll make myself a she-shed back home too. As a writing room.”

  “You are a writer?” asked Edith, interested.

  “Yep. Psychological thrillers, very dark.”

  That took them all aback, seeing what a truly nice woman and sweet mom she was.

  Ah, thought Van, amused. I knew there was something dangerous in that lass.

  “And erotic romance,” added Ella, with a slightly defiant look.

  “What? You write those books?” shrieked Monica and burst into laughter.

  “You do?” asked Van “How truly delightful!”

  That shut Monica up, and a good thing too, judging by Ella’s expression.

  “Nothing wrong with erotic romance,” said Edith. “I’m partial to reading it myself. Always had an idea of writing some too. I do have a few stories to tell.”

  Mark coughed a few times, trying hard not to meet anybody’s eyes. Armin attempted, in vain, to suppress a snort of laughter.

  “There is no need to giggle, you young grasshopper,” said Edith, giving him a symbolic wallop on the head. “Erotic romance is not the exclusive province of the young, you know?”

  “Exactly right,” said Van. “These young nippers, been out of school for a year, and they think they own the world. I am occasionally tempted to write a novel myself. And I would surely put a lot of sex in it. Oh, I could such a tale unfold….”

  “Ah, that misspent youth of yours,” said Ella, laughing.

  “Either that or very well spent,” said Meintje.

  “Perhaps you should interview him for book ideas?” asked Monica, with a twinkle in her eyes.

  Allie got up and said that it was high time to go back to work. Van gave an inward sigh and herded his unruly charges, the good and the naughty, back to the wall.

  ****

  Armin

  That evening at dinner, they were joined by Monet, which was unusual. He carried a canvas, still wet in places, about sixty on sixty centimeters, and to Armin’s complete astonishment, he was offered the painting, with a little bow. The old man touched Armin’s head, pointed at the painting, and then turned up the path and disappeared again.

  “Ah. I believe it’s a portrait,” said Van brightly, filling up his dish.

  “A portrait of what?” asked Armin, nonplussed.

  “Of what! Of you, of course, you dummy.”

  The painting was all made of twisting masses of color, blues and greens, mostly, with scattered crumbles of gold, maybe crushed gold pastel stuck to the paint, and an elongated explosive efflorescence of electric turquoise, roughly in the middle, under what could be a branching tree or forked lightning or maybe burning synapses in an electrocuted brain.

  It was hard to say.

  “The resemblance is extraordinary,” said Monica, who had walked around the table to see. Armin let out a quiet suffering sigh.

  “Er…” he said. “It’s very…”

  He knew absolutely nothing, zilch, nada about art, and he couldn’t come up with any clever comment at all. Van smiled kindly.

  “I think it’s meant as a compliment. Monet likes you.”

  “Er… does he? How can you tell?”

  “Well, to begin with, it’s not often that he presents a guest with their portrait.”

  “I will thank him, of course, first time I see him.”

  After dinner, while most people were still chatting around the table, Armin brought his bizarre gift up to the palace. He now recognized the style, from the abstract paintings in Van’s house. The canvas was certainly full of energy, a pent-up force of some kind, but whatever it wanted to express remained a mystery. He squinted at the thing from all angles for five minutes without making any sense of it and then gave up and left the cottage.

  He had not gone two steps out of the door when he hesitated, paused, and went back in.

  He rummaged in his duffel bag and took out the jacket he had worn on his trip to Normandy. He had not come to the workshop with any idea of having sex—who could have imagined that someone as hot as Van would be lurking here in this wilderness—but he had worn the jacket in town all year. It had many pockets. And in principle he had always been a prepared guy. And indeed, with a soft whoop of triumph, deep in an inner breast pocket, he found a couple of reasonably new condoms, wrapping still intact. He slipped them deep into the pocket of his jeans and left.

  On the way down to the kitchen, he found Rebekka standing alone on a narrow garden path, under an apple tree among tall billowing beds of bee-busy flowers.

  “Hey, are you lost?” he asked.

  “Me? No. No, just taking a walk.”

  “I can walk with you if you like,” said Armin, who was never quite sure how much help Rebekka needed to get about and how to offer assistance without appearing in some way insensitive.

  “Don’t worry about me. I am waiting…”

  Right then Meintje appeared around a bend in the path. “Here I am, sorry. Oh!”

  “Hey there,” said Armin, a little confused.

  “Off with you then,” said Rebekka.

  “Ok, I will just, er… go, then,” said Armin.

  “Yep,” said Rebekka.

  “Ciao,” said Meintje, waving him goodbye.

  He threw his hands in the air and just took himself off in direction of the kitchen.

  “Odd boy,” came Rebekka’s voice, in Dutch, through the hedge.

  “Sweet though,” said Meintje in the same language.

  Armin, who understood Dutch a little, although he could hardly speak it, gave a small snort of laughter, shaking his head, and decided to take a little walk to one of the more remote outhouses. Thankfully Le Sureau Noir was big and intricate enough to offer lonely private walks for a whole drove of talk-tired introverts.

  He sat in the outhouse for a little while, enjoying the solitude.

  He was not sure what would happen when the company parted ways after the desserts and digestif and the usual after-dinner chatter. He would walk up to the house, and maybe Van would still be out and about, but would he want to have another private late-evening encounter? Or had it all been a one-night thing? There had been that quick, hungry kiss in the car, but that could mean anything, or nothing. They had exchanged barely a word during the day. That, too, might mean nothing. They had been surrounded by people the whole time, and Armin guessed that it would have been awkward, and even somewhat inappropriate, to make a public display of intimacy in what was, after all, for both of them, a professional context.

  Still, Armin ached to be in Van’s arms again. There was something in the way Van’s hands touched his skin that made him sick with longing. It was like being home after a long, long absence, if there was such a thing as a real home, the home everyone dreams of, the home where your heart is.

  He absent-mindedly stroked that hickey on his neck, and it seemed to flare with an odd tingling energy, sending feelers of aching need under every inch of his skin.r />
  The thought of making love to Van again had a hold of him and there was no escaping it, no reasoning it away; it curled and it twisted and doubled upon itself, like one of Van’s twirling designs. Armin was on the point of screaming or moaning or crying with longing.

  He raised himself out of his reverie with some effort. It was just a matter of time before somebody else needed the outhouse. It was a nice place for contemplation though. The outhouses were all cob buildings, of course, less ornate than Van’s home but still with those organic, curvy walls and roofs. They all had a shelf full of books right at hand, matches and candles in a lantern, which was a nice touch—you never know, you might want a slow, romantic, candle-lit, midnight crap sometimes—and a window in front of the seat to stare out at the forest or garden. This one looked on a drift of huge ferns, with mossy tree trunks behind. The outhouses were also surprisingly clean. There was no bad smell. They were surrounded by wild aromatic things, mints and whatnots, which scented the air as you approached and long after you had passed. Simple, low-tech, eco-friendly solution to air-freshening. And because of the wood shavings, the inside smelled mostly of new pine wood, very much like a trip to IKEA. The thought made Armin laugh quietly to himself.

  I really am a city-dude, ain’t I? I’d better not mention this to Van, or I’ll be excommunicated.

  He finally concluded his business, went out, and washed his hands at the basin under the eaves.

  There was a small path that wandered off into the woods, which he had not noticed before, and he decided to take a little stroll in that direction, still wrapped in this blessed solitude.

  He passed a small gate, which was latched with a bit of wire, and ventured downhill, under sparse trees, almost clear of any undergrowth. It was utterly quiet down here. He stood there peacefully for some minutes, leaning his back against one of the old retaining walls that crisscrossed the hillside, and he was gazing dreamily at the sky, where the sun shone low and orange in the west, when someone just behind his ear said, “Snarfl.”

  Like someone with a bad cold trying to clear their nose.

  He turned, frowning, and found himself face to face with the staring, shaggy snout of a huge, muddy, black pig.

  “Argh!” he yelled.

  “Argh!” yelled the pig, and they both bolted in opposite directions, crashing through the trees like two herds of bullocks.

  He was still sweaty and somewhat out of breath, but he had almost recovered his composure by the time he had made his way back to the dinner table, and he was finally rather inclined to laugh about his adventure.

  “What’s up with you, young man?” asked Mark as he flopped down onto a chair. “You look like you just ran half a marathon.”

  “I just met a pig in the woods,” he said.

  “A pig?” asked Edith.

  “A hairy black pig.”

  “Oh dear,” said Van. “Did you close the gate again?”

  “Er… I think so. I was somewhat in a hurry at the time.”

  Van gave a snort of laughter. “You got scared by a pig?”

  “He snuck up to me! That pig is an absolute creep!”

  Van was laughing in earnest now. “I’ll go check on that gate. Last thing I need is pigs in the vegetable garden. I might as well say my goodnights now, shall I?” he added, talking to the company at large, and everybody agreed that, yes, it was time to go to bed.

  They were all pretty knackered. Allie collected Michel, who was half asleep already, and took off toward the top of the garden and the path to the cars. P’tit Paul said he had a few things to finish up in the kitchen and would see them all in the morning.

  Monet had reappeared after dinner—his comings and goings were a mystery to Armin—and Armin tried to talk to him, but the painter just waved a hand vaguely and went to help Paul.

  Van and Armin walked together back down the path to the outhouse.

  “Hey, listen,” said Armin.

  “I’m listening.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but is Monet, er… how shall I put it?”

  “Totally batshit crazy? Absolutely gaga? Oh yes.”

  Armin laughed, and so did Van, but then he also gave a small serious frown.

  “He’s a good old lad, though. Not a mean bone in his body. And he sees things right, you know? I like his paintings. I try to look after him the best I can.” He sounded somewhat sad, despite the earlier laugh.

  “Is he a relation of yours?” Armin asked.

  “No, just an old friend.”

  By then they had arrived at the gate, which was latched, much to Van’s relief, and then Van gave a look behind him, peering into the trees, and pulled Armin into a quick, rough hug.

  “Oh, thank God,” breathed Armin, sinking his face into Van’s neck. He almost wept with bliss and with a hungry, ravening longing that almost scared him.

  Van uttered a long, low, growling moan, more animal than human, while running his hands along Armin’s spine, warm, firm, strong hands that held and kneaded with deliberate, steady strength. A sculptor’s hands, through and through.

  They remained like that on the darkening path, under the silent trees, for a minute or two.

  “Come,” said Van in the end, whispering hoarsely into Armin’s ear. “Let’s put the ducks to bed, and then we can… er… resume this conversation in a more private place, okay?”

  Armin nodded, but he did steal a quick kiss from Van’s lips, which earned him a scowl of reproach and then a wink and a smile.

  Back in the garden, at the duck’s gate, Van made that kissing noise that Michel had also used, which brought all the birds out of cover and waddling up to them.

  “Come on, paphoonies. Time for sleepies,” said Van, herding the unlikely flock toward their hut.

  “What is paphoonies?” asked Armin, who had been perplexed by the word before but had never gotten around to asking.

  Van laughed softly. “When Michel was this small”—he indicated a very little boy’s height with his hand—“I read him a story about the Portunes, which were some small invisible garden people. He loved it, and he tried to rename the ducks the Portunes, but he could not say it right for some reason. He kept saying the paphoonies. It was so cute that it stuck.”

  Armin smiled and then frowned. He could not help wondering about Michel. He had noticed, of course, Van’s easy, familiar care for the child and also that Michel appeared more at home around Van than around Jean-Pierre, and although Allie and Van were not together, they were very close.

  “Are you—are you Michel’s father?” he asked in a rush and then clicked his mouth shut. “Oh shit,” he added hurriedly. “It’s none of my business, sorry.”

  “Godfather,” said Van mildly, quite unperturbed. “Although I did see him born, cut the cord and all.”

  “Oh, wow.”

  “Ye-es. It was an interesting experience. Not particularly enjoyable, mind. But interesting.”

  “Did she—was he—ahem … how comes you were at the birth?”

  “Her husband died just before Michel was born. Car accident. She was alone and distraught. She didn’t want to go back to her family in England. They don’t much approve of her choice of career, to be honest. They don’t approve of me either. They think I’m a bad influence.”

  They were silent for a little moment.

  “She is a very good girl,” said Armin tentatively.

  “Dreadfully good, isn’t she?”

  They both gave a snort of laughter.

  “How did she, er… become mixed up with a reprobate like you?” asked Armin, choosing his words cautiously.

  Van shrugged. “Hell if I know. Girls always like a scoundrel, I suppose. Can you imagine the two of us together?”

  Armin shook his head. “I thought you were together when I arrived here. But honestly? The mind boggles.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” said Van, grinning. “Well, anyway, we are good friends. She needed someone to be there for her, so...”

  “O
f course. Christ. I am not sure I’d have the guts to do it, even for my best friend.”

  Van shrugged. “It is a bloody mess, granted. I have seen sows squeezing out fifteen piglets with not a tenth of the bother. Sometimes I wonder if humans were really meant to give birth. Perhaps we’d do better with laying eggs or something. Come, now.”

  He made a curiously carrying troo-too-toot call, and the ducks wallowed docilely into the hut. Van locked the door behind them.

  “Why do you keep ducks? And black ducks at that?” asked Armin. “Everyone keeps chickens. You just have to be different, don’t you?”

  Van shrugged while closing the door of the duck house.

  “Personality. They are engaging creatures and very handsome, don’t you think? Cayuga ducks, an American breed. I don’t usually hold with new-fangled American inventions, but when I saw these... well, I was just helpless. And they give better meat and better eggs than any chicken.”

  “Meat? You mean that you eat them?” asked Armin, shocked. His aunt kept chickens, and they were pets, with names and all.

  “Well, they raise ducklings, you know, and roughly half of them are males. You can’t keep them all. They are superfluous for reproduction, and the girls would be shagged to death. Most males are redundant, you know? Not to mention a bloody nuisance. Just ask Monica.”

  They both laughed.

  “How can you be so patient with that impossible female?” asked Armin, who was not as a rule a violent person but had a severe itch to throttle the woman. In part, it was because she was so annoying, and in part, he was honest enough to admit, because despite arguing with him all the time, she also kept making cow eyes at Van.

  Van shrugged. “Her ideas are not wrong, you know? I might even go as far as saying that her heart is probably in the right place. It’s just that she puts a political spin on everything, all the time. Gender equality, vegetarian diet, sustainable building. She always turns everything into a matter of political correctness.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “Oh hell no. Too narrow and polarizing. And anyway, I was building green, gardening green, and eating green, and being a decent man, long before political correctness was invented, and I will still be doing all that when Trump and Brexit and the word woke are long gone. Well, Trump at least. I am not so sure about Brexit, to be honest. That one might outlast even me.”