I chuckle with delight at the notion of ownership by an actress, the exotically named Mademoiselle Alziary de Roquefort, who, according to Michel, was a great friend of the painter Fragonard. I long to learn more. Was she as bewitching as her name suggests?
In 1869—Michel does not know why—the island was returned to the Cistercians, who have occupied, farmed and labored for it and for the renovation of its fortified monastery ever since.
“But see, we’ve arrived.”
The Cistercians are an order of silence. As we approach, we discover discreet signs requesting us to speak in whispers, dress appropriately and respect the ethos of the island’s inhabitants. An incongruous spectacle in this historical setting is a public telephone booth situated at a crossroads of dusty paths lined with pine trees.
On the exterior side of the abbey walls, tall palms shade and decorate the approach. During this season, the trees are laden with bunches of dark ruby fruit more reminiscent of fulsome berries than dates. Agapanthas, past their blooming season, line the pathways, as well as ficus-indica cacti growing as tall as trees and crowding the flowerbeds. These, too, are fruiting their terra-cotta-colored, ripe prickly pears.
Entrance to the abbey and its church are by iron gates ablaze with lustrous skeins of flowering bougainvillea. I read an engraved cornerstone that tells me St. Patrick studied here under the guidance of St. Honorat before traveling north to Ireland. As an Irish Catholic, I am tickled by this information. Patrick landed up in Ireland, and I here!
The shop is managed by two middle-aged ladies, one of whom sells us lavender oil as well as a kilo jar of rosemary honey which she earnestly recommends. Gregorian chants are playing softly in the background and can be purchased on compact disc.
Situated on the far reach of the island, on the windward shore, is the fortified monastery—dilapidated, solitary, awesome. We approach. A high, austere monument, it has been hewn from hefty chunks of stone. Constructed on a site at the very tip of a minuscule but windy cap, it faces out across the sea toward, I estimate, Calvi, a town on the northwest coast of Corsica. Everything about its location is windswept, which makes the soft peach tone of the stone even more enrapturing. I notice samphyre sprouting out of the walls flanking the water’s edge and unknown purple flowers pushing through like tomboyish daisies. On this open coast, the slap of the waves against the rocks has a relentless, overpowering brutality.
We pay fifteen francs apiece to a lone student girl who sits peacefully on a rusting iron chair close to the water’s edge, reading a book whose pages are blowing to and fro. This gives us entry to the ruin.
As we mount the stone stairs, I, compulsively curious, steal a quick glance at the abbey living quarters. There is not a monk in sight. What had I expected, to see them peering out like nosy neighbors? I am taken aback by the filth of their windows, until I realize that the distance has fooled me and their cells are protected by the same mosquito netting we found at our farmhouse. The place exudes stillness, almost a forsaken air. I picture solitary monks on their knees in their cells. I am intrigued by the weight of thought, the depth of spiritual reflection cultivated beyond those walls. These are mysteries forever closed to me. I will never know what such a life, the life of an oblate, claims, nor the courage and sacrifice such a vocation must demand, the unstinting dedication. The Cistercian order was founded at the end of the eleventh century in an attempt to return to a stricter, more disciplined obedience to God. The rule of St. Benedict, the founder of this particular order, is Ora et Labora, pray and work. Spoken, it sounds pleasingly achievable.
I return my attention to the fortified monastery. How different the energy on this island must have been when this edifice was built to protect its inhabitants against marauding Saracens. Within—should I say this when the roof is merely a space open to the blue skies?—there is little to see, save for the ancient walls which date back to the eleventh and twelfth centuries and the pockets of restoration work. The salle du chapitre is a dark, dank room cluttered with broken wooden chairs and a discarded wooden icon of Madonna and child. There are some fine marble stairs and stone pillars and arches, but all in all, the fort’s stately majesty lies in its breathtaking views. Unfortunately, these cannot really be appreciated, because the apertures have been closed, fitted with metal-framed glass like frightful, second-rate double glazing. This addition is so hideously out of keeping with the restored masonry work that it bemuses me. Why have the openings been sealed off? Are they to prevent broken-hearted tourists from leaping to their death on the treacherous rocks? Or to discourage monks who can no longer stand the solitude of their life?
I wander from the salle du chapitre to the cloître du travail. There, in the center of this work cloister, is what I take to be a baptismal font until I peer into it and discover a deep well. At first, I assume the water lying so far beneath us is seawater, although the building is constructed pieds dans l’eau, this seems doubtful because it is too still. From this distance, it looks impenetrable and stagnant. Midges or mosquitoes skate its surface, circumventing a dozen or so jettisoned Coke cans.
I look about for Michel and find him perusing a few historical facts, mainly dates, posted on one of the inner cloister walls. Work began on this fortified monastery in 1073. In 1635, the islands were occupied by the Spanish, and—“Look at this!”—in 1791, the island was sold at public auction to an actress, Marie-Blanche Sainval, who owned it until 1810! So who is Alziary de la Roquefort? Might that exotic creation have been her stage name? I fancy the sound of Alziary better. The deeds of sale might be written in the name of Marie-Blanche Sainval, but I shall continue to think of this actress as Alziary. In my mind’s eye, she is a tempestuous, flaming redhead, une femme d’un certain âge. Lord knows why.
Nearing the top floor, we enter the prayer cloister, le cloître de la prière, where, we are told, the walls date from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. A hundred years, it took then, to erect another story. Oh, that modern property developers could be so stayed! On the same level, we cross to the Chapelle Saint Croix, which was consecrated in 1088. This confuses my sense of logic.
Here there are wooden benches placed at angles, facing a stone altar where a painting of Christ on the cross hangs. Once again the environment, as well as the strategically positioned seats, invites contemplation. So I settle on one of the benches and, from this elevated tranquility, listen to the waves crashing against the rocks three stories beneath me. I crane my head toward the open sky. The blueness is cool and airy, a visual balm.
Our footsteps echo back at us as we climb one last flight of ever-narrowing, winding marble stairs to the summit of the keep where elegant metal railings girdle the surround—against accident or suicide? There, from that top terrace with its stone bell tower, we behold a 360-degree view which is nothing short of divine.
The Lord often had his prophets climb mountains to converse with him. I often wondered why he did that, and now I know the answer; when we are on high, we can see everything else as small. These are the words of the writer Paulo Coelho, who spent his early years in a seminary and with whom I once had the pleasure of dining in Rio. Everything else as small, yes, including self. How could you not be close to God here?
The light breeze at this altitude is very welcome. I walk to the metal railing and look around me. Far beneath, the clear yet rock-infested water draws me. Although I am not usually afraid of heights, a frisson of fear sends an icy shiver down my spine. Still, I long to plunge the hundreds of feet into the sea and swim and frolic like a carefree porpoise.
A fabulous two-mast cutter plows across the distant horizon, making for where? St. Tropez, Marseilles? Constructed in the monks’ vegetable gardens are two large banks of solar paneling.
The abbey clock on the terra-cotta-tiled tower chimes noon. “We should move on,” Michel says, and we begin the descent.
Our promenade around the island is crazily romantic. Water licks our feet and soaks our shoes, which we remove. Fish the size
of salmon slip beneath rocks, playing hide-and-seek with our shadows. We clamber from eucalyptus-perfumed bay to lavender-scented shade, kicking our toes in the sand, racing miniature crabs, grabbing hands, touching backs, necks, hair, crunching our sodden sandy feet on the spongelike cushion of beached and dehydrated seaweed, dragging our wet swimming towels like lazy kites as salt dries on our pinched, damp flesh. We dally, kiss, linger, taste the salt, lick it clean, then keep pace in blissful silence, or hurry, chattering like euphoric monkeys, toppling over each other. Falling in love: such a free expansive fall. There’s no knowing where, if ever, we’ll land, but today it’s in paradise.
All in all, the circumference of the island is approximately three kilometers and takes us, strolling and with a pause to swim, little less than an hour and a half. We had been intending to swim naked, at least I had. Whenever it’s appropriate, we do. Here, even though there has not been a single sighting of a monk, I cannot rid myself of the feeling that they see us wherever we are on the island. Their spiritual presence is omnipresent.
“When we return from Australia, I want to come back here and picnic on that grass bank overlooking the turquoise water,” I say.
My thoughts return to our treasure hunt as our chugging ferry delivers us back to Ste. Marguerite in time for lunch. We are famished and don’t dawdle along the jetty.
“The restaurant is right over there.” Michel points to a white-painted veranda several hundred yards along the coast. Behind it, a half a dozen or so houses with light turquoise or pale lilac shutters, hidden between trees, peer out toward Cannes from their watery aeries. Early clots of autumn-yellow mimosa blossom. Once again, my gaze is drawn up to the hilly incline and the Royal Fort, which I had completely forgotten until now.
“Lunch first.” Michel grins.
Approaching the restaurant, we realize that it is closed and pause in the lane while we consider what to do next. “There is another, I’ve forgotten its name, on the beach down behind the fort. We have to climb and then descend the other side of the cliff. It’s not far, but we should hurry. It’s getting late. We’ll see it from the clifftop, so, if it’s closed as well, we won’t bother going down there. It tends to be seasonal.”
We break into a jog and come abreast of the ramshackle building I spotted from the ferry. A scruffy sign, cobbled out of broken bits of ceramic, reads: Hôtel du Masque de Fer. The Iron Mask Hotel. An intriguing name. I approach the tall glass-paned doors and peer in, believing the place to be empty, but then I see a stooped woman with bleached hair tottering across a poorly lit, high-ceilinged dining room.
“There’s someone in there.”
Michel is intent on getting to the restaurant. He holds out his arm as if to encourage me away. “We can look later.”
“I think it’s open. Maybe they serve lunch.”
He returns to my side and looks in. “Do you really want to eat here?”
“Let’s ask.” And with that, we open the door and an old man materializes from behind what looks like an exceedingly outdated pizza oven. At first he is reluctant to take us, making the excuse that lunch is over and there is nothing available. We accept his refusal graciously and start to go, but he calls us back with “Still, if you are not in need of anything too fancy, I can offer you—”
The surroundings are deeply shabby, yet the setting is so picturesque and I have such a fanatical attraction to buildings in ruin that we agree to order his suggested pizzas, along with salad and a local rosé wine which, according to our host, has come from the vineyard on the adjacent island of St. Honorat. Perfect. We seat ourselves at a table by the window and stare out at an abandoned landing bay. The water is rippling like corrugated iron across to the bay of Cannes. The view is stupendous. Our wine arrives.
“If we hadn’t found Appassionata, this place would set us a challenge. Not a farm, but… Why is it called the Iron Mask Hotel?” I ask.
“Because the fort on the clifftop has dungeons dug deep into the rock, and it was in one of those cells that the man in the iron mask was imprisoned.”
My eyes widen to the size of our approaching pizzas. “The Alexandre Dumas character?”
“For three hundred years, writers have been inspired by his story.”
“He was a real person? I didn’t know that!”
Monsieur serves us our plates and retreats.
“He spent eleven years incarcerated here, and never once was his face revealed.”
“Tell me about him. Bon appétit.”
“Legend has it that he was the twin brother of Louis XIV, or his bastard half brother, but there are many theories. Some have suggested that the masked man was Molière. Others claim that it was a woman disguised as a man. What does seem to be certain is that whomever he was, he was famous.”
“Why?”
“It’s logical. Why go to such lengths to keep his face hidden if he wasn’t easily recognized? Not even his doctor, when he was imprisoned in the Bastille, was allowed to look upon his naked features.”
“How did he shave?” I ask. Our carafe of water arrives.
“Il vous plaît, le déjeuner, Monsieur, Madame?”
“Delicious, thank you.” We nod enthusiastically, although it is so-so. But we don’t really care. We are having a wonderful day.
“Has the hotel closed?” I ask our host.
“It is sold, and is to be turned into a new Carlton with a small marina for private yachts,” Monsieur tells us, while staring longingly across to the mainland at the outline of the real McCoy. My heart sinks as I picture the vision. “There is only one small problem,” he adds.
“What’s that?”
“The inhabitants of the island have signed a petition. They intend to block the permit I hope to acquire for the construction of a helicopter landing base.”
At that moment, the door opens and a tall, dark-haired gentleman in his early forties enters, dressed in what must be a Cerruti suit and leather Italian shoes polished to a mirrored shine. He is accompanied by eight or nine others, running after his every need. The proprietor abandons us instantly, legs it across the dining room and all but genuflects at the feet of the new arrival. Then comes Madame, welcoming them with the same attention. We are riveted. Tables are dragged together, chairs drawn from here and there. Paper tablecloths are pressed in place and ironed flat by desperate hands. The new arrivals are seated. Bottles of wine begin to arrive. Rosé, red, white, followed, moments later, by heaped saucers of local olives and sliced saucissons. Dishes of marinated eggplant swilling in oil and herbs land splashing onto the table. Carafes of water and glasses all but jump of their own accord from the dingy kitchen. Nothing is too much trouble for this bunch, who eat and drink with gusto. We have been entirely forgotten. In fact, we do not exist for anyone in the room save each other. Everything centers on the sleek-haired man.
“Might he be local mafia?” I whisper to Michel, hoping that he is and that I can eavesdrop on hideous tales of local corruption. I watch him vigilantly, attempting to be discreet but failing hopelessly, spellbound by mannerisms that I might put to fruitful use later: he constantly slicks back his immaculately groomed hair or adjusts the cuffs of his shirtsleeves; he never touches his wine, even when a toast is made. He raises his glass, allows the rim to brush his lips, then sets it back on the table. “Always on the alert,” I conclude, and as I do, he glances in our direction, allowing a discreet nod. Oh, he is aware that we are watching him and appears to bask in any, all, attention. Michel is ready to leave, keen to begin exploring the fort and visit the dungeons, but I cannot drag myself away from the commedia that is playing out before us. In fact, we have no choice in the matter. The guests at the other table have finished lunch and are preparing to depart while we are obliged to sit it out, hoping for our bill.
The proprietor and wife, tea towels in hand—or, in his case, tossed over one shoulder—are poised patiently like dogs awaiting some titbit or expression of what, gratitude? Acknowledgment? A tip? The padrone shakes their ha
nds and thanks them. The proprietors bow and thank their esteemed guest for the time and trouble he has taken to visit them. This is followed by every other member of the group shaking hands with the old man and his wife. This extended “Merci, merci beaucoup. Non, non, merci à vous” ceremony is followed by the eventual departure of the group. Gratified, our hosts set about clearing away the debris. Michel is now able to attract their attention and requests l’addition. Monsieur nods and goes away to calculate it.
“Did you see that?”
“What?”
“Those guys didn’t pay for a thing.”
Michel grins at me. “You’re right. Maybe they have an account here.” This makes us giggle. My curiosity cannot resist; when the restaurateur returns, I ask him the identity of the tall, well-groomed gentleman. Our host’s rheumy eyes swim with pride as he inform us, “Mais, c’est Michel Mouillot.”
In chorus we reply, “Qui?”
“He is to be the new mayor of Cannes and has promised us the construction permits we need. We will achieve a far better price for the hôtel with permits.”
IN THE DISTANCE, the smoky blue hills. Intent on the continuation of our little adventure, we saunter, hand in hand, up the verdant incline in the afternoon sunshine, our minds refocusing on the masked mystery.
“Victor Hugo said of him: ‘This prisoner whose name nobody knows, whose face no one has ever seen, remains a living mystery, shadowy, enigmatic and problematic.’”
Olive Farm Page 10