I threw what I needed into the bag and escaped like a man on the run. I was heading South towards the sun, out from under the sulky gray sky hanging over Paris. If I’d stayed a moment longer, I might have killed someone, anyone – even myself.
It’s a level plain on that part of the Tarn along the river, with a little village of primitive brick and stone long houses built for Monsieur’s servants in the 1700s when famine raged on the Emerald Island. They’d come over in droves only to watch Monsieur flee his chateau in the middle of the night during the Revolution. They were far from being French but now the Irish farm workers and domestics suddenly found themselves on their own. They’ve been arguing over the chateau ever since.
(Fearsome Old Aunty, head of the tribe, nearing 90 and slightly tipsy by early afternoon after a long, friendly conversation with the bottles on her kitchen table, kept them all in line. I had a few laughs at the local market watching her bully down the aisle, pushing people out of her way while muttering a blue streak.)
The plan was to spend March in one of the houses, lent by a friend whose parents were away. I could pull myself together, or maybe throw out the useless bits. There were stories and books, ideas and plans, floating in the air above my head and if I stood still I could hear voices giving me hints. The place was quiet and I would have a plenty of time to listen.
A writer at work bothers no one. He keeps to himself, minds his manners, concentrates on his work. He has to listen hard and keep it going on the right path. I was short of money then so there was no reason to go out, to go to town to sit in a café or see a film. My neighbors might have seen me pass by twice a week on bike on the way to the town nearby. Once the warmer weather started to ease in, I began to look around.
I watched over the garden and chopped wood for next winter. That was part of the deal. The drive to the house was infested with a species of bamboo that was running wild, choking the bushes. I began to pull it up, only to discover an intricate lattice of roots spreading across half the property. They were everywhere. Soon I was down on my hands and knees with a spade, following the lines of new growth, barging into the quiet slumber of frogs nestled peacefully until the warm weather came. They eyed me with mute incredulity. They’d never been so close to a human before.
Finally the extended family, cousins all, took notice of the guy strolling around the chateau grounds along the river or on a bike in nearby Rabastens. Who was he ? Who let him in ? They were suspicious. Did I haul a few pieces of firewood from the fallen trees ? Had I stolen the bike ? I must be guilty of far worse things. Family members were deputized to visit, inspecting the house, not me, to make sure everything was in place. Apart from the library there wasn’t much and I was upstairs under six blankets in an unheated room. None of them bothered with dinner invites and beyond the fact that I was so and so’s friend, suspected me of wanting to steal a portion of their precious paradise, which provided rents and an easy life. The stranger wasn’t paying a centime for the pleasure of being there, was he ? Well then out with him ! I watched Aunty from the front yard as she drove her old compact recklessly from house to house stirring up trouble.
That tree was the place to watch the world come around each morning, the shapes of things becoming clearer, stillness broken only by birds waking up and tenant farmers throwing open their heavy barn doors. It was the very beginning of the world and the days were growing longer. I stood there listening to the trains in the distance as they went city to city, taking commuters who had to be somewhere else and felt myself a kind of royalty, quietly writing a book in the countryside, lonely as hell, pacing under eaves that once must have sheltered two or three large families at the same time.
The tree was the axis, the central point of this tiny hameau into which I’d wandered on the slightest invitation: its bare limbs which spread with such elegance, complexity and proportion had something to say to me. An absurd but irresistible idea.
I stood a short distance away, pot of coffee on the window ledge, watching as day triumphed over night, awakening everything around it without the slightest show of force — quite the opposite. If only a book could be like that, pulling you in like the tide. Impossible. It’s like comparing music and literature. The mechanics, even the spirit of the two mediums, are at odds. Writing is hand to hand combat, an attack on every vulgarity and commonplace, a temporary edifice, a house made of words, a mirage, a dream in the shape of a book. Writing is for idlers. Music is much more definite, it has specific notes and despite the variety of interpretations, is essentially a road map from one place to another, with scenic views along the way. The tree was music in its purest form.
The war party finally arrived at the front door and made a short business of it. Whoever I was, whoever’s friend I was, I was a suspicious presence in their tiny hamlet. People were beginning to lose track of things in their houses, a thief was suspected, and who else could be the culprit ? They’d noticed my late night rides on the borrowed bike; that was proof enough. They looked around for things that were missing or they’d misplaced. When I asked what they were getting at, they replied in a cursory manner, so I couldn’t possibly understand what they’d said. Charming. Intended effect achieved but they neglected to ask what I was writing. That’s where the real theft takes place. Anything can happen when pen hits the paper.
-Well, I’ve set a story in a small town in rural France. It’s pretty good.
They stared at me, mute, unsure if they should ask the obvious.
-Right here. With all of you. Isn’t finished yet but I could read it if you like.
Now they were visibly uncomfortable.
-You’ve written about us ? said the middle-aged lady who’d confronted me after I’d helped her haul heavy logs for an hour when I was about to carry a few of the smaller ones back to the house where I was staying.
-Sure. I don’t really know you very well so I’ve made a few things up but yes, set here. It’s an inspiring place. By the way, do you think I could take a quick look inside the chateau ? Before I go.
They were visibly nervous now, muttering among themselves. It was catnip to me and I started saying whatever came off the top of my head. Portrait of a small village in the Tarn countryside. I wanted to see how far I could get their dander up. Aunty shouted something on the order of, -He’s got to go now,’ and charged off upstairs to see if I’d wrecked the place. -My suitcase is open, I called after her. The rest of us stood there in icy formation.
-Would you like some tea, or coffee ? I’ve plenty of that.
No, no, they had to go, they’d just stopped by to make sure everything was all right with the house. As far as they could see even the cobwebs were still in their original places.
-You don’t practice cannibalism in the village, do you ?
That set them back. Was that what I’d put in the story ? I refused to say yes or no. -Well then no one will know it’s you. You don’t have a worry in the world.
Aunty stormed down the stairs and hurried out to her car without a word, raising dust as she gunned it down the long drive.
Just a few more questions before they got away.
-Of course I write in English so you don’t have to worry. Hard to tell but they seemed a bit relieved by that. -But maybe it will be translated. They were halfway out the door now. -Not a worry in the world, I repeated reassuringly. -You’ve changed the name at least, asked a meek husband who’d spent most of his time with his back to us inspecting the bookshelves.
-No, not yet. Should I ? I doubt these savage descendants of Irish tenant farmers who now lived rent-free in the shadow of a modest chateau read books except the soft kind, and only when they were bored checking their bank accounts on-line.
No paradise lasts forever. It can’t. Humans would fall apart if it did. I would have liked to get to know the farmers better and the locals paying rent, who talked about the crazy family in terms they deserved. They’re still arguing over what to do with the chateau. They want to get on the gravy train by opening it to the public but they’re afraid someone might steal a lamp or a slip cover. I held on til the end of the month and caught the train back to Paris, where the riot of spring had chased the clouds out to sea.
*
How Riffs works: this page is written by an immigrant to France, who, when he gets the chance, travels around. He’s still waiting on his papers so he can quit the dodgy pasttimes that make posts all too irregular. Every euro in the hat helps. Thanking you in advance, ladies and gentlemen. Read on ! There are 121 meaty mini-essays to choose from.