A Pinch of Time

by Claude Tatilon

  Whoever saw us there, preparing a game of cards or ludo in the yellowish light of the lamp, would think he was gazing upon an allegory of happiness. Yet in less than an hour, my mother would begin her nocturnal weeping again.

  “She’s crying less these days,” the all-seeing Gérard would point out. In fact, when you watched her carefully, you saw she was slowly changing – a bit less sad, a bit less grey, less on edge. Roger was, of course, not incidental to this miraculous metamorphosis.

  And the next spring, this observation: “Your mother’s lighter now, Dodo. Her heart isn’t as heavy.” A regular soap bubble.

  My cousin’s remark struck my imagination. With a child’s eyes, I saw my mother’s heart turn into a red balloon and, filled with the helium of love, carry her off, gaily laughing, a metre above the ground. When my turn came to experience the big thrill, each time I would hear my cousin tell me, “You’ve gotten lighter.” A time would come when the image of a hot-air balloon would take over from the simple red balloon. I had grown up, and my horizons expanded.

  SIX

  With Roger’s help, the cafoutche was turned into a henhouse. We had two hens now, a white one and a red one, and they took turns laying an egg every other day. Gérard quickly adopted the red one. He would sit on the ground and call, “Hey, Ginger!” She would flutter over to him and perch on his shoulder to receive her reward: a snail or a fat worm that was wriggling around her benefactor’s finger. Three or four eggs a week – not bad at all.

  “Kids, Roger is turning forty today. He’s going to have supper with us. Cousin Jeanne agreed to give me a head of basil and a bunch of vegetables from her garden, so I made a pistou.”

  “Great, Maman!”

  “And Jules the butcher gave me a nice piece of pork rind. But there are still a few hairs on it.”

  “Don’t worry, Auntie, we’ll shave it.”

  “With shaving cream?”

  “Of course not, fadòli! Your mother will boil it first, then we’ll use her tweezers. You’ll see, it’s easy.”

  “Have you ever done it before?”

  “No, but I know how.”

  “And for dessert, I’ll make you some eggnog!”

  “I know about eggs, but what are nogs?”

  “What is it, Auntie?”

  “You’ll see. It’s delicious and very good for you.”

  A litre of milk from Noiraude, Norine’s black goat that spends her days grazing in front of our terrace and talks to us when we play near her, two egg yokes, a pinch of saccharine and a spoonful of orange-blossom water. You beat it until it froths…

  “Auntie, are brown eggs better than white ones?”

  Ah! Gérard and his questions…

  “Your eggnog’s delicious, my little chick!” Uncle Roger told Maman, his face red as a flame. He got up, his napkin still around his neck, drinking down a second big gulp. “Now just a minute…”

  Our connoisseur Roger opened the cupboard door.

  “I’m going to ‘disinfect’ it with some hooch. There’s a bit left. One drop will do, and your brother-in-law won’t smell what’s missing.”

  “My godfather’s a harbour fireman. He can smell things from far away.”

  Birthday or not, Gérard, who had great affection for his godfather, was ready to defend him.

  “That’s just an expression, my boy! Your godfather and I have been friends forever. You know he’s my pétanque partner.”

  “He’s even the team captain!”

  “You’re right. He’s the captain because he’s the shooter.”

  “Yes, but, Gérard, the pointer is also an important player! He’s the one who scores the points.”

  “Not always.”

  Gérard could be pretty annoying. He always had to be right. I knew he liked Roger, but he liked Uncle Émile even more. I could understand: we’d known him for much longer. Still, he wasn’t as much fun as Roger.

  “Can I have a little more, please, Maman?”

  “There’s none left, dear.”

  No cake, no candles – no matter: the dessert, filled with “Happy Birthday!” and “Best Wishes!” was a great success. Such a success that Maman promised to make her eggnog every Sunday, for breakfast. We would enjoy it on the terrace or in the kitchen depending on the season, in our favourite chairs, our legs stretched out. “Gérard, don’t lick your chops like that, it isn’t polite!” I can’t remember a single time when my mother broke her delicious tradition. But she would never drink any of the magic beverage herself.

  “Much too fattening for me.”

  Sunday afternoon. The square in front of the church was as full as an egg and loud as a henhouse, with peeps, clucks and cock-a-doodle-dos… At the centre of the crowd, Uncle Émile and Roger, in full concentration. In the front row, Gérard and I, excited beyond measure. That’s it! They’ve made the finals. They’ve just stolen their fourth victory – 15 to 13 – against Clément the mailman, a truly elite shooter, and his partner, an excellent pointer from Riez whose name I’ve forgotten.

  Their first match was a breeze. They played – luckily enough – against Tavé and Marcel. A redoubtable double, but only for the spectators: they run on rosé and when they shoot, watch your legs! At ten o’clock, by the time the tournament started, they had already reached their usual state.

  The other matches were much harder. The fourth, which lasted from three to four-thirty, should have been televised, had television existed at the time.

  And now, the grand finale against a double from Puymoisson who, in four matches, had already forced two teams to baiser Fanny.[1] The Puymoisson double was a real powerhouse: they estanquent their balls full throttle and sent them to kiss the jack in the gàrri two times out of three! Émile and Roger were going to lose, but we didn’t know that yet, of course. And since they were leading in points at the beginning of the game, we were happy as can be. “Don’t make so much noise, kids! Wait, Roger! Let me get this gratton out of your way, it’s right in your alley.”

  I could practically tell the story of this match, ball by ball, up until the fifteenth and final point, without inventing a single play – or almost. Which shows that, when sown in fertile soil, childhood memories leave indelible traces. But I’ll just describe the key moments. After 10 to 8, then 11 to 8, then 12 to 8 for our team, suddenly it was 12 to 11! Émile, the shooter, just missed two balls. Too much emotion, no doubt. Their adversaries got the jack back, but sent it at least nine metres away, maybe more (what about the rules?), to a spot covered with gravel (ah, how sneaky they are!). Their first ball wasn’t their best, but Roger couldn’t take advantage. He was nervous and wasted his own shot. He squatted, furious, feet perfectly tanqués in the circle, knees apart, and pointed the second. The ball had barely left his fingers when he got up in a flash and followed it all the way to the jack. “Come on, maï, my pretty thing! Just a bit…” It came close, no doubt, but it wasn’t that good of a shot either – a smidgen too short and not really in the right spot. The proof? Bang, 12 to 12! And then, ouch, 12 to 13. Émile, with a hard shot, kicked the right botche away, but a bad bounce also pushed Roger’s, which was holding the point. Yes or no? No or yes? Yes! 13 to 13. They won’t go down easily, the home team. Everything is possible.

  Then came the moment of truth. Émile was playing the decisive ball, the last one of the game. Destiny lay between his hands. If he shoots the opponents’ ball (without a bad bounce), the game is in the bag, and they win the big sack of potatoes that goes to the winning team. If he misses, see you later, ’taters: the trophy and the glory go to the other team.

  The ball twitched slightly in his hand. He swung his body back and forth, knees lightly bent, his left arm rocking to ensure stability. The ball was raised to nose level, his left eye closed to perfect his aim, Émile was about to…

  All around, eyes stared, mouths opened in painful grimaces, hearts and lungs skipped a beat.

  Oh! The ball arched in a hard shot.

  A dull noise: a hole, and
that’s it! A good twenty centimetres from theirs, mockingly illuminated by a teasing sunbeam.

  A pétanque game,

  It’s always fun

  Don’t you cause shame

  By hitting the wrong one

  You aim and miss

  You change your shot

  The ball and its hiss

  As the battle is fought.

  SEVEN

  Roger turned a section of the small yard facing the cafoutche, a metre and a half above the terrace, into a vegetable garden. We were still waiting for the first results, but we wouldn’t wait for long. Soon we’d be picking the most delicious tomatoes I’ve ever eaten in my life.

  Uncle Roger – that’s how Gérard and I called him since… well, since he started kissing my mother on the lips – helped us in so many ways. From time to time he brought us poor little birds taken warm, straight from the traps he set at the foot of the olive trees. Gérard and I participated actively in the great hunt by providing him the aludes with which he baited his traps. These harmless winged ants swarmed around the linden tree and were easier to catch than flies. Roger promised that one day he would bring us with him into the hills and give us a lesson on how to set traps.

  Then there were the snails we harvested after every storm. In Moustiers, a storm is a sight to see! The sky literally crashes down on your head. The rolling thunder orchestrates it all, its directions amplified by the resonance of the mountains, and it trumpets the arrival of curtains of rain – when it’s not hail – that drum down on everything in a deafening crash.

  Suddenly, a thick fog makes half the terrace disappear, and strong gusts of wind whip the linden’s mop of hair. Terrified, we would hide in the kitchen, lights off, doors and windows shut tight, squeezed together as if in King Kong’s fist. My mother, who trembled as much as we two boys did, could not find a single comforting word.

  Then, abruptly, it all stops, leaving a dizzying silence. Then come the cries of the crows cawing from their shelters. We open the door: the fog is lifting, the sky straightening itself. Little by little the terrace recovers its proper size, and the linden tree is calm. When we were sure the storm had travelled far enough – on to Verdon or Valensole – we ventured outside, relieved and reassured, as if waking after a long sickness. “Don’t forget your little bag for the snails!” The rainwater, having accumulated on the Vénascle plateau, the mountain’s buttress, hurtled down into the enormous funnel above the village. What a show!

  Our friend the linden tree shook itself off as we passed. Around us, nature slowly raised her head again. Exalted by the rain, even the smallest blade of grass – of thyme, of mauve, of pèbre d’aï – sent out its scent in the still shimmering air. And Gérard, euphoric, declared, “To the gastropods!” His straight-A erudition from the older group never ceased to amaze me.

  We took the Riou Road that went right in front of the house, on the large sloping field covered with bramble and weeds: Noiraude’s territory. She was always a little fearful after a storm and slow to come out. We caught our best prey on fennel stalks: Burgundies and small greys by the dozen. Gérard kept the tiny ones for his hens.

  Back home, we set our loot in the wirenetted crate that Uncle Roger built for us. He called it the sapès, the snails’ dieting room. After the customary eight days of snail fasting, Maman made us a feast in her style: snails à la suçarelle! A tomato, two garlic cloves, fennel, and a dribble of olive oil. “A real pleasure!” Gérard, worthy son of Eugène, invariably declared, putting on a show by sucking his fingers and smacking his lips. Once, I remember, sated, full to the brim, he refused his aunt’s tempting offer of another small grey with a great, “No, thank you, Auntie! The others are still crawling in my stomach!”

  Olive oil was measured by the drop. In those difficult times, there was an almost complete absence of fats and, to make them even more virtual, rationing cards were rationed too. But Uncle Émile, who owned a few dozen olive trees around Moustiers, sold his produce to the Riez cooperative, which paid him in heavy, glistening coins. He shared his wealth with us once or twice a year: a bottle filled with liquid gold. Beautiful brownish-gold tempered with hints of green that my mother, aware of its worth, would use only for special meals, being careful, of course, not to waste a single drop.

  Last month, Maman found herself a paying job. Overnight, she became an artist for her brother-in-law Émile’s nephew who owned a small family company in Marseille that made “luminary art” – which meant he designed and manufactured, with the help of his wife and son, lampshades for certain department stores, like the Dames de France. Every week, the bus from Marseille dropped off a few hundred lampshades, unmounted and cut from Celluloid or oiled paper. With her tongue stuck out and her brows furrowed, she had to colour the drawings traced on the shades: Provençal landscapes and Nativity figures. She worked from daybreak to dusk, but at least she received a few pennies for her work, and they were added to what Grandma Rose and Uncle Eugène would send her.

  On the day this commercial enterprise began, Gérard decided to make a painting of our beautiful village, and propose it for use on a shade. He couldn’t stop talking about it.

  Finally he finished it. With the two mountain peaks in the background, linked by the chain, his work was fairly good, though Maman thought the yellow star that hung from the chain in the middle of the drawing was out of proportion. I liked it the way it was.

  Through the years, and many changes of address, I miraculously held on to a copy of this expressionist landscape. I have to admit, with its large star that changes reality, it still speaks to me. And with everything it reminds me of, I wouldn’t trade it for anything other than a Cézanne.

  Urged on by Uncle Roger, whose charm would always conquer Maman’s reluctance, I managed to persuade her to send Gérard’s work to Marseille. What’s the worst that can happen, Mireille? It fell into the hands of Monsieur Lacroix, the head of the lighting department at Dames de France, and supposedly everyone loved it. Monsieur Lacroix immediately ordered several dozen copies.

  The gentleman’s real name was Rosenberg. Not too long after this unexpected order, his flowery name – most probably divulged by a well-intentioned neighbour – would earn him a one-way ticket to Auschwitz.

  My cousin was grateful for my help in turning him into a landscape painter and, to thank me, he let me smoke one of his cigarettes, made from carefully chosen stems (they had to be the right size, their holes wide enough to let the smoke go through) that he hid in the stable. It was an impressive scene, and I still remember its emotional charge: our clandestine entry into a forbidden place, the disquieting protests of the rusty lock, the sweet scent of mould and dust, the dark recesses that our wavering candle couldn’t quite illuminate. And then, in a solemn ceremony, from a dark corner Gérard would produce a large pack of cigarettes, held tightly by an elastic like the sticks Madame Dupuis would give us for calculus lessons.

  The cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, like Uncle with his fat yellow gitanes, Gé gave a great big pull on the cigarette to light it from the candle flame – what imprudence in a place full of dry wood! As for me, nothing, not a memory. I’ve forgotten everything about my smoke. Did the pathetic contraband cigarette make me cough? Did I smoke it to the end? Not a memory, even of its taste. It surely had the delicious scent of transgression – a repressed memory, people nowadays would say.

  EIGHT

  Uncle Roger was a truck driver. At least he became one after he had to leave Toulon, where he worked as a mechanic. Last year he came to Moustiers to live with his sister and brother-in-law, in the latter’s family house, to avoid his Compulsory Work Service. Roger was from Toulon, but his sister, twelve years his senior, had married a dyed-in-the-wool Mousterian, which explained why he knew Moustiers like the back of his hand, and was considered a true son of the soil.

  “Didn’t feel like working for the Krauts!”

  He wouldn’t have been sent to Germany straight away, since at its inception in Febru
ary 1943, the CWS [2] recruited only from young people born in 1920, 1921, and 1922. But Roger feared the situation would get worse, and he was right. Less than a year later, the demands of the occupiers increased, and the Vichy government was forced to extend the CWS “to all women without children, aged between 18 and 45, and all men between 16 and 60 years of age.” At the end of March 1943, Roger closed his garage – where he’d been twiddling his thumbs anyway since the truce of June 22, 1940 – and left everything behind. Everything but the Berliet truck that he drove to Moustiers. His “old friend from the thirties,” which now ran on a gasifier, would help him start his own transportation business: scrap metal, fruits and vegetables, lavender and, more often than not, manure for the market gardens.

  Due to “that providential excrement that doesn’t exactly fall from the sky,” he assured us we’d soon have the “best pommes d’amour in the country.” That’s what we called tomatoes in our part of the world. He installed the gasifier on the Berliet all by himself. Mechanic – that was his true calling. He even had a diploma from the Aix-en-Provence vocational school. Maman was right when she said, with a hungry look I didn’t quite understand, that Roger could do anything with his hands. I was much more impressed by his biceps. When they flexed, they almost burst through his shirt sleeves.

  Does anyone know what a gasifier is these days? A large metallic cylinder set vertically at the back of the vehicle’s cabin in which charcoal was burned. The combustion created poor quality gas – a mix of carbon, hydrogen, and nitrogen, if I correctly remember Roger’s explanations – with a low energy value.

  Before starting the vehicle, Roger had to wait for the gases to build up in the cylinder; usually it took a good quarter of an hour. Then it was “Whip it, coachman!” Sometimes he had to languish, as he put it, on the roads he travelled, since the smallest slope would force him to downshift into first. “But the countryside is so pretty around here! It would really be a shame to rush through it.”