The Elder Man

by Katherine Wyvern

  “Well,” said Monica with a sardonic grin, “if your house is an extension of your soul, it must be pretty twisted in there.”

  “You have no idea,” said Van, grinning.

  “I might want to find out, one of these days,” she said.

  Hussy, thought Armin, not for the first, and not for the last, time.

  Later that afternoon, after his shower, Armin lay half asleep in his bed for a while. He was dead beat, completely exhausted, and had decided to take a nap before going down to dinner. He was drifting in and out of sleep when someone snuffled loudly just outside the window of his tiny cottage.

  Another pig? he thought. The thought ran itself in his brain again, and his eyes shot open. But when he turned to look at the window he saw that it was, in fact, Michel, standing among the big leaves and flowers outside. His head just peaked over the windowsill. “Little creep,” muttered Armin sleepily. Then he recovered some wits and manners and added, “Ahem. Bonjour, Michel. Ça va?”

  “Hello,” said the child in English.

  That got Armin’s attention. “What are you doing here? Where is everybody? What can I do for you?”

  “They are all—busy,” said the child with another unhappy sniff. “Can you read?”

  Armin laughed, trying to rub his eyes awake. “Of course I can read.”

  Michel thrust an arm in the window, holding out a book. The cottage was so small that Armin just had to reach an arm out of the bed to take it. It was a very old, very battered copy of The Wind in the Willows, in English. There was a bookmark among the pages, a battered piece of thin yellow cardboard, torn from the wrapping of a Stanley saw blade. This struck Armin as a very Van-like bookmark.

  “You… want me to read this aloud? For you? Now?”

  “Well,” said Michel, frowning at him across the window, “can you read, or can’t you?”

  Armin laughed again. “Yeah, yeah, I can. Okay, come inside, then.”

  Michel’s face disappeared from the window, and after a few seconds, the door of the cottage opened. The child walked in, closed the door again, climbed onto the bed, and settled himself comfortably against Armin’s side.

  “The weary Mole also was glad to turn in without delay, and soon had his head on his pillow,” read Armin. “He saw clearly how plain and simple, how narrow, even, it all was, but clearly, too, how much it all meant to him and the special value of some such anchorage in one's existence. He did not at all want to abandon the new life and its splendid spaces, to turn his back on sun and air and all they offered him and creep home and stay there…”

  Michel curled up against him like a kitten, and they read on companionably, until Allie’s voice came through the window, calling frantically for Michel.

  “Pfft,” said Michel, unhappy.

  “Sorry, pal,” said Armin, mussing his hair. “Women, right? Can’t live with them, can’t live without them.”

  Michel rolled his eyes and shook his head dolefully and then put a conspiratorial finger to his lips. He took back his book, replacing Van’s bookmark carefully, and disappeared through the door with a last wave of his hand.

  Armin smiled to himself and was almost going back to sleep when his phone rang with the sepulchral tone that meant he had an incoming call. He ignored the call—he didn’t use his phone for that, thank you very much—but checked his messages and found half a dozen texts from his aunt, who was asking with increasing urgency if he was alive and well and could he call, or text or email either her or his mom, please? They were all worried.

  Women indeed. First they dispatch me to fucking asshole of nowhere to keep me out of sight, and then they get into a hysterical state if I don’t call for half a week.

  ****

  Van

  Van was tired too, but there was always, always something to do on a workshop week. A clogged pipe in a cistern had to be cleared so that Ella and Frederic could have their shower. A freakish spark from the fires of the summer kitchen had set a pack of paper napkins on fire, so a certain amount of upheaval had ensued, to save cook, dinner, and kitchen from incineration. Van had pulled the cooking table farther off from the fire, made sure nothing flammable was exposed, had a little chat about workplace safety with Mark, reassured the Americans that no such thing had ever happened before, and gods willing it would never happen again, and finally managed to get out.

  He was feeling distinctly elderly and ready to go to sleep and was walking up to the house to have a wash and change into something cleaner before dinner when he spotted Armin, standing in a path between two rows of pole beans, waving one long arm about and bending this way and that. He might have been doing a spot of evening tai chi, or he might have gone insane, but Van had had enough guests at Le Sureau Noir to recognize the symptoms.

  “Hola,” he said.

  “Oh, Van!”

  “Lost your connection?”

  “What connection? There’s not as much as one bar of 3G in this whole damn valley. I’ve been trying to send an email for twenty minutes. One email, for crying out loud!”

  Van shrugged. “It comes and goes. Some days are better than others.”

  “Gosh, I hope this isn’t a good day!” said Armin morosely. He was so peeved that Van gave an inner sigh and took pity on him.

  “Come, kiddo, it’s a beautiful evening. Walk with me.”

  “Walk? Walk where? Why?”

  “I will tell you a secret. And show you something.”

  “Show me what?”

  “A tree.”

  “Not another damn tree, please.”

  “Bear with me, kiddo, will you?”

  Van led him westwards and upwards, along a winding path across a narrow belt of oaks and hazels to a fenced sward of tightly clipped grass with two rows of walnut trees in it.

  “Every time I think I’ve seen all of this place, there is another bit to discover,” said Armin, surprised.

  Van opened a small gate and let him through. “Please, always remember to close the gate, okay?”

  “Pigs again?” asked Armin, looking rather anxious.

  “Nope.” He pointed to a far corner where three smallish black sheep sat in the shade, peacefully chewing their cud.

  “Oh,” said Armin. “Just sheep. That’s okay. Wait, they don’t bite or anything, do they?”

  “No, they don’t. They just stink. Now, look here, and remember,” said Van. “Third walnut from the gate on the left. No, left, I said.”

  Armin looked at the tree in question, uncomprehending. “What about it?”

  “Take out your phone, sweet pea.”

  Armin did, looked at it, looked at it again, and whooped.

  “I don’t believe it. 3G, four bars! Why? Why here?” He looked around as if he expected to see a repeater tower strapped to the treetop.

  “Beats me. But there is always a better signal here. Just this one tree.”

  Armin laughed. “How did you find out? Did you ask the sheep? Or the trees? Or did you go around the whole property with a phone, dowsing for a 3G signal?”

  “Something like that. Listen, I need to go and wash. Have fun with your internet. Don’t tell anybody about the magical 3G tree though, or they will be all over the sheep’s grass all day and night just to check their damn Twitter notifications.”

  “My lips are sealed, sir.”

  “Mmm, let me see.” Van gave him a long hearty kiss—no, those lips were definitely not sealed—and had to struggle rather hard with himself to let go of the young man again. “See you at dinner?”

  “You bet,” said Armin, bending to steal one last kiss.

  Van made his way back toward the house, but he had not gotten anywhere near there yet when somebody ran up to him from behind and put two arms around him, shutting his eyes with the palm of their hands.

  Never mind, I’ll manage to have that shower, sooner or later, he thought, heaving a long-suffering sigh.

  It was not Armin. He would have known Armin in the darkest night, by that absurdly lo
vely scent he always wore, if nothing else.

  He had expected Maja or Sofia, both of whom were fond of him and absurdly affectionate, and still young enough to go around hugging people with impunity, and was horrified to turn and find out it was Monica.

  “Hello, sailor,” she said huskily. “Going down to dinner?”

  “I was going to give myself a wash actually.”

  “Ooh, wanna shower together? New inspiration for your sex book? Come, let me see that twisted mind of yours.”

  “Er, no,” he said flatly.

  “Oh, come on. You sure can sell the smoke and sizzle, but where’s the sausage, hey?”

  “I thought you were a vegetarian,” he said, trying to drag himself free and make for the house. He would make a dash for the door and barricade himself in and never come out until Monday.

  “Oh, I can appreciate human meat, though,” she said, and right then, he spotted Meintje and Rebekka, out and about in one of their private little garden walks. They were getting very tight, those two.

  “Ladies,” he said brightly.

  “Oh, come on, be a sport,” said Monica, low in his ear.

  “How’s everything going?” said Van, hurrying through a patch of bee-flowers toward the two older women. Rebekka had a camera hanging in front of her. They looked somewhat dashed to have company, but he crashed on.

  “I was trying to take some photos,” said Rebekka. “I can’t see much of the photo, to be honest, but I imagine you can’t take an ugly picture in this place.”

  “Indeed you can’t,” said Van. “Please save me,” he added in Dutch.

  “Eh?” said Monica.

  “Eh?” said Meintje and Rebekka, together.

  “Would you like to see the lotus pond? Excellent spot for photos. Come, I’ll take you there.”

  “Actually— ” began Rebekka.

  “Please just damn say you want to see the pond,” said Van, in Dutch, still smiling.

  “Of course we want to see the pond,” exclaimed Meintje brightly in English.

  “Good, just follow me, ladies. There’s some excellent photos to be taken at that pond. Very picturesque pond. Do you know that lotus, Nelumbo nucifera, is actually an edible plant? The whole plant, not just the tuber. A very interesting crop what with climate change—”

  “Well, I’ll just see you down at dinner, then,” scoffed Monica, turning toward the kitchen.

  “Okay, bye!” said Van and led the two other ladies smartly in the opposite direction.

  “What was that about?” asked Meintje, laughing. “Are you being stalked?”

  “I didn’t know you could speak Dutch,” said Rebekka.

  “Oh, I just picked up a bit of it years ago, long story.” He turned, to check that Monica had really disappeared, and gave a sigh of relief.

  “Well, ladies, thank you. Enjoy your walk, apologies for the interruption. Please carry on.”

  “What about the lotus pond?” asked Rebekka, baffled.

  “Never had such a thing. Excuse me. I really, really need a shower and a clean shirt. I’ll see you at dinner, okay?”

  He left them standing in the garden, Meintje laughing so hard she was near to tears, Rebekka quite puzzled.

  Chapter Nine

  Saturday Evening

  Armin

  That evening, when a plate of sliced ham was passed around the table, Armin stood undecidedly with a fork poised over it, his mouth watering, and then he shrugged. Fuck it, he thought, and he took a fair helping of it.

  “Ah, converted, eh?” said Mark, winking at him.

  “More like un-converted, if that’s a word.”

  “Well, tuck in then. You can use a few more pounds on you, tall as you are an’ all,” said Edith, motherly.

  “Yeah,” said Armin. “And I was assured this was a happy pig, who lived a good life and was shipped off to Dignitas to die a good death or something like that.”

  “Well, it’s still perfectly barbaric, and no laughing matter,” said Monica, frowning. She looked uncommonly peeved, even for a vegetarian confronted by a dish of ham. Armin wondered what was bugging her. “You, sir,” she said turning to Van, “are perfectly wicked, tempting people…” She trailed off, apparently choked by her own indignation.

  “Well, you have to eat something, Monica, so please, take some broccoli,” said Van, solidly refusing to be drawn into a quarrel at the dinner table.

  He had gone to the pains of explaining his point of view to Armin that morning, but he seemed to consider Monica a lost cause.

  “But were they happy broccoli?” asked Maja impishly.

  “Of course they were,” said Van.

  “Can broccoli truly be happy?” retorted Mark.

  “They absolutely can,” said Van, filling Monica’s dish.

  “How do you know that?” asked Maja, putting her arms around his neck. She had already finished eating, and she couldn’t keep still.

  “If you’d ever seen a row of broccoli dancing in the rain…” said Van with a grin. “It’s a sight that can never be forgotten.”

  “I am sure it is,” said Edith, laughing, and the conversation rolled on, lapping easily around Monica’s stony frown.

  Armin wondered if he had ever been such a killjoy at dinners and ate his delicious ham sandwich in silence, saying a sort of vague but heartfelt inner grace.

  The ham was like no ham he had ever eaten.

  “Was this one of your pigs, Van?” asked Frederic.

  “It was indeed.”

  “What sort of pigs are they?” asked Mark.

  “Sneaky pigs,” said Armin, with his mouth full, to everyone’s amusement. “That’s what they are. Absolute creeps. Assholes. They absolutely deserve to be made into hams and salami.”

  “They are Iberian black pigs,” said Van, laughing. “Fattened on acorns. We don’t have such a long acorn season as in Spain or Portugal, so it’s not quite as flavorsome as the real Jamón Pata Negra, but it’s still fairly edible.”

  “Fairly edible? It’s unbelievably good,” said Edith with some feeling.

  “And what breed is Jade?” asked Maja, who had let go of Van to go cuddling with the dog.

  “Oh, he is a Great Catalan Wuss Dog,” said Van very seriously. Everyone looked impressed for a second, and then they all burst into laughter.

  “A wuss dog? No way!” said Sofia.

  “Either that or a Grand Slut Hound of the Corbieres. I honestly don’t know. He was a stray and didn’t bring his pedigree along. I found him near the Spanish border some years ago. Or rather, he found me. Followed me around everywhere. A fine, upstanding, good-looking mutt, I thought. Will make himself useful, I thought. And so I took him home. Never been so wrong in my life.”

  “He’s so big and so cute,” said Maja, hugging the big dog, who wagged his tail and smiled ecstatically.

  “Oh yes, big and cute and sweet, and everyone’s best friend. No loyalty whatsoever. And scared of his own shadow besides. Never seen such a wretched watch dog in my life.”

  “Well, at least he makes noise. And he looks fairly impressive if you don’t know him.” said Meintje, obviously feeling that the poor animal needed some moral support.

  “That he does,” said Armin, remembering only too clearly the scare he had had at his first meeting with the beast.

  “And he is adorable,” said Maja reproachfully.

  “Yeah, much like his owner,” said Edith, looking fondly on Van, who demurred politely and then affected to bat his eyelashes.

  “He is, isn’t he?” said Meintje.

  “He’s so… calm. One of those men who never loses his cool and never gets angry.”

  “Er… well,” said Allie, making a funny frantic gesture with her hands, like an Italian.

  Everyone laughed.

  “So, he does get angry,” mused Frederic with obvious relief. It must have been hard work, being a father to three daughters, however lovely.

  “Well, no, he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t,” said
Allie staunchly. “I mean, until he does, and then all the fucking shit hits the fucking fan at once,” she added, and then she clapped her hands over her mouth, looking at the young girls, who laughed twice as hard.

  “Look,” said Van, with a pacifying gesture, “just because that once I picked up a hunting dog and bodily tossed it in his owner’s face, it’s no reason to go and scare the children, okay?”

  “’Course not. ‘Course not. It was the coolest thing I ever… no, I mean of course it never happened. No, he never gets angry. He’s Mr. Cool really.”

  “Are you opposed to hunting on principle or only on your lands? Just curious,” said Mark.

  “I am not opposed to hunting at all. I have no problem at all killing an animal—to eat it, not for sport. But I think you should have the decency to do it like a man, not like a fucking paramilitary operation. Twenty people with rifles, cars, and radios, and twice as many half-starved, hunger-crazed hounds, all for killing a pig? It’s bad enough in the morning, and even worse after they had lunch and wine. The dogs are in a state I will not describe, not at dinner, and they will attack anything, given half a chance. Game, livestock, people—they killed a woman, a pregnant woman I may add, just last winter. I’d say it’s barbarous, but the real barbarians had twice the balls and the dignity of these idiots in camouflage gear and hi-vis vest, shooting indiscriminately at anything that moves. And yes, I don’t like them on my land. I don’t like people with guns near my house or my animals or my guests. I hardly dare have people around on a winter Sunday for fear they might get shot on my doorstep.”

  Armin had never seen Van so close to genuine anger and was stunned by how seriously daunting he looked at the moment.

  “Gee, you mean this literally?” asked Ella, shocked.

  “Well,” said Van, relenting a little, “I am laying it on a little thick, maybe. But I won’t let my dog, or Michel, play outside when there’s hunters in the area. It’s as simple as that, really. They shot one of my pigs, four or five years ago. They may be black pigs, but they don’t look anything like a wild boar, I assure you.”