by Sarah Winman
Lilacs are scattered around the scrubby land, and the chalky blue hills of the Alpilles rise beyond. I’m so tired now, I’ve walked for days. Humidity confuses my thoughts. My clothes are drenched and the sweating frightens me and an overwhelming need to shit propels me off the path. I ditch my rucksack and crouch behind a bush and just about manage to scratch away at the earth and squat a hole before I explode. The clouds are low and gray, acting as a thick blanket keeping the heat in, so stifling so still. A low rumble of thunder shakes the sky toward the Alpilles. But there’ll be no rain, there’ll be no surrender. Ah, the simple joy of finding a tissue in one’s pocket, it’s those little things. I pull up my trousers and cover the hole. Thunder rumbles again. No rain, but around me the ants are out in droves. I feel empty, finally, and wonder why that’s a good feeling.
I drink water and it’s warm. It leaves my thirst unquenched. I can veer off this track anytime I want to. I come across signposts to towns and hotels and could easily divert and seek comfort, but I don’t. I’m forcing myself into this solitude and keep on walking. There’s something about movement—the necessity of movement to deal with trauma. Academic papers have been written about it and I’ve read them. How animals shake to release fear in their muscles. I do that too. Under the sun amidst the scrub, I shake, I shout, I scream. So I keep to the track, transfixed by the motion of walking, trusting in an invisible remedy that will make me feel human once again.
The sound of bleating makes me look up, and I see a small abandoned monastery ahead. I think it’s abandoned, as part of it is clearly in ruin and has become shade for a small herd of white goats. But as I get closer, I see that the building is, in fact, a home of sorts. I drop my rucksack and sit down on the smooth front steps that have already absorbed the heat of the day. I unlace my boots and take off my socks, and know immediately, I won’t be traveling any farther that afternoon. I’ll share shelter and shade with goats and will fall asleep to the music of their language.
I doze. For how long, I’m not sure. The heat hasn’t lessened at all. I’m aware of company, though, and thought it may have been an inquisitive goat seeking me out. But I open my eyes and see a priest. A little older than me, maybe, it’s hard to tell. But he has a kind face, benevolent eyes, and the dark skin of the South. He’s carrying a large terracotta bowl of water, and floating lavender heads release a subtle scent. He places the bowl next to me and goes back inside. I put my feet in the bowl and the sensation’s heavenly. He comes back out and I notice a quiver of a smile on his lips. I suddenly realize the water is for my hands and face.
The room I’m taken to is dark and still. The slight smell of damp stone remains, frankincense too. I move the shutter away from the window and look out onto rows of purple lavender. The sound of bees and cicadas is the faint musical backdrop to this scene, the goats, too, and their bells. I turn around but the priest has gone. My rucksack has been placed next to a small iron-framed bed and above the bed is a crucifix. Next to the bed a desk and on the desk an altar candle. I lift the crucifix off the wall and put it on the desk and cover it with my shirt. I hear footsteps climbing the stairs. I open the door slightly and catch a glimpse of two backpackers heading toward the room above. I can’t see if they’re men or women. The packs are big.
Night falls and, with it, my anxiety. I watch the shift of light through the window, the orange lights from farms in the distance. When the sky reaches the blackest navy, stars appear, mostly white but sometimes I see pink. Above me, the sound of a body falling onto a bed. A sliver of light seeps beneath my door. A shadow across the floor, the low rumble of thunder. A knock at the door brings me to my feet.
Light floods in. The priest carries a tray of bread and fruit and cheese and an opened bottle of wine. He places the tray on the desk, lights the candle and turns to go.
I reach out for his arm. Eat with me. Please. There’s enough, I say.
The priest stays. We eat. We don’t speak, but we drink from the same glass. The long walk has reinstated my appetite and my mouth comes alive to the sourness of the bread, the musty ooze of the cheese, the succulent sweetness of the apricots. Thank you, I say. Merci. My head shaking slightly, in disbelief and in gratitude.
Forks of lightning touch low across the horizon but still no rain. The bats have claimed the sky from the swallows and the smell of lavender and sweetness rises from the earth. I stand at the window. Occasionally, the scent of honey from the candle falls on my nose.
I sense the shifting sound of movement behind me. Was that breath? The feel of a body up close against me. I don’t move because I have nothing to offer anyone anymore. I sense buttons being unfastened and fabric peeling away from skin.
I turn round. The priest is nowhere near me and I feel ashamed by my mistaken desire. The room cools sharply as the first of the rain falls. The priest comes toward me now, and he holds me by the shoulders. His eyes are gentle, his eyes are wounded. It’s as if he knows. I hold on to his arms and let my head fall. I’m broken by my need for others. By the erotic dance of memory that pounces when loneliness falls.
I awake early to the sound of a bell ringing. I walk across to the window and look out onto the landscape. The backpackers are on their way, and the goats continue to feast, unconcerned, in the scrub. I hobble over to the dinner tray and eat some bread and cheese. I pour out the last of the wine before I shower.
I leave money on the table and replace the crucifix on the wall. There are to be no good-byes, just an open door leading to sunshine. The overnight rain, I find, has released the scent of a benevolent earth. I’m grateful to his God and care.
* * *
• • •
THE CHAÎNE DES ALPILLES at the southern edge of Saint-Rémy are strung out blue in the early light, and mist rises from these hills. I begin my walk. Roads and scrubland and farmland. Olive trees scattered along the way, their gray-green leaves catching every ripple of June’s seductive breath.
I sit on a stone and face the ascent of the sun and revel in the light of the South. The cicadas are loud and their song unrelenting.
I remember telling G the story of the cicada song and he was as unimpressed as ever by the arbitrary knowledge that used to escape my lips. I said that ancient Greeks were so besotted by these little fellas that they used to keep them in cages so they could fawn over them and listen to them whenever they wanted. G said he thought they did that to young men, too. You have a point, I said. But . . .
And I continued.
I said, They live underground for most of their lives in a kind of larval stage, drinking sap from roots. Then, after about three years, they emerge into the heat of midsummer, climb out onto a nearby plant and shed their skin. That’s when the transformation begins, I said. And it’s only during the last three weeks of their lives that they live above ground and the males call out their song. And sometimes it’s for mating and sometimes protest. So what d’you think? I said.
Think about what? he said.
The story. It sounds familiar, right?
Oh God, he said. This isn’t an analogy for gay men, is it?
Think about it, I said. We all had to come out of the dark to sing.
* * *
• • •
BY MIDDAY, the heat is unforgiving and the road has turned to dust, a white dust that coats my boots and shins. The Judas trees are in bloom, and large black bees are noisy in their work, their bodies heavy with pollen.
I come to a mas with rooms, and I like the look of it. Far enough away from town but not too far should I ever have the need. The vacant sign is so discreet, it’s almost an afterthought in its appeal for guests.
I’m shown a quiet first-floor room that overlooks the grounds at the back. The sharp smell of grouting in the bathroom highlights a recent renovation. I lay out my few toiletries on the shelf above the basin. I unpack my rucksack and hang my clothes in front of the window, hoping the summer breeze
will remove the faint smell of damp canvas they’ve absorbed from an old pair of trainers I should have thrown out long ago.
The late afternoon sun is still hot, and I strip off and leave my pants and T-shirt in the sink, where I’ll wash them later with shampoo.
And now, I’m nervous. Naked in front of the mirror, I scour every inch of my body, searching for those telltale purple smudges that have afflicted others. I find nothing. The odd mosquito bite, of course, by my ankles and at the back of my knees. I sit on the bed and my fear is subsumed by the yellow warmth and comfortable surroundings. I breathe deeply and slowly, and I let the moment pass.
I put on my swimming shorts and go down the stairs, out across the gardens toward the shimmering absinthe-color pool.
I’m thankful poolside is quiet. People are sleeping off lunches or out in their cars following the wine trails of Les Baux-de-Provence. I lay out my towel on a lounger, shaded by a windbreak of oleander. A sweet catch of music rears beyond a hedge, a forgotten radio turned low so as not to disturb. When the breeze ripples, petals of pink and white and fuchsia fall on me and I imagine myself a garlanded pyre alight under the fiery sun.
* * *
• • •
ANNIE ONCE ASKED ME what Ellis and I talked about. I said, Nothing really, because it was true, but she didn’t seem convinced. And she laughed the way she always did, a response to her incredulity. Oh, Mikey, she said, and she grabbed my face and kissed my forehead. You beautiful sweet scamp, she said.
It was 1977 and she and I were new friends. We were getting drunk in a restaurant in Soho, an old-guard Italian one in Dean Street. We’d just bought her wedding dress at a secondhand shop in Covent Garden, lured in by a Gallic-themed window display, all Capri pants and Breton shirts and trilbies. Breathless to a T.
When she came out of the changing room wearing the dress that would take her down the aisle, I whistled loudly. She frowned and said, You’ve never done that before. And I said, I’ve never had the need.
I bought the dress for her while she was changing back into her favorite jeans.
I lifted the bottle, poured out more wine and continued the conversation. I said that Ellis and I talked of things in the moment. I said we just existed in each other’s presence, because that’s how it felt. Often in silence. And to a child it was a good silence, because nothing felt misconstrued. There was a safety to our friendship, I said. We just fit, I remember saying.
She became quiet and thoughtful. She told me that she’d once asked Ellis if we’d ever kissed. She said he looked at her, trying to fathom out what she wanted him to say. After a while, he said, We might have once, but we were young.
She told me she thought it quite a trite answer because she always knew it was more than that, more than youth. She just wanted to know, she said, to be part of us. There’s something about first love, isn’t there? she said. It’s untouchable to those who played no part in it. But it’s the measure of all that follows, she said.
I couldn’t look at her.
She got up and went to the bathroom. I paid the bill and the waiters cleared the table. I was ready to go back to our shitty B&B in Bloomsbury, when I saw her heading toward me, face flushed and eyes bright.
Let’s go out, she said. I wanna go where you go, she said.
She gripped my arm and we walked along neon-stained sidewalks through to Charing Cross Road and the Astoria. We waited outside while I lit us a cigarette and scanned the flavors of men going in. Her eyes were on me, I could feel her watching. Shovels uncovering my years of hiding. I smiled. Blew out smoke. I flicked my cigarette into the gutter. Come on, I said.
The sound of Thelma Houston pulsed through our hands as we paid our entry, and we were swept along in a fug of aftershave and sweat, into a group of bare-chested clones singing “Don’t Leave Me This Way.” Oh my fucking God! shouted Annie.
Look! The stage was heaving with gyrating bodies. Leather queens in a dance-off with punks, and among them, suburban kids living a long-contested fantasy.
I handed Annie a beer. The music was too loud for conversation so we drank fast and a change of record propelled us back onto the floor. “Dance Little Lady Dance.” And oh we did! The light show flared off satin shorts and glistening shoulders and I felt overdressed and I took off my T-shirt, Annie laughing at me. I can’t hear you, I shouted. Her hand on her chest. I. Love. This. And on the large screen behind her, Busby Berkeley dance routines played on a loop.
The air was flecked with sweat and stank of poppers, and leather boys danced hard. The light show dared itself, and strobes caught the delight on Annie’s face, her hair plastered to her forehead. A mustachioed man danced next to us, white vest and gloves. He stuck a small bottle under her nose and I watched her gasp. You OK? I mouthed. She nodded, stunned. Fuck, she mouthed. Smiled.
Black light drenched the room and her teeth glowed brilliant white. Her bra too, visible at the deep V of her shirt. I pointed. The gloved hands were raised above us, fingers flickering like feathers. Look, Annie! Doves flying! I shouted. I gasp. A hand down the back of my jeans has found my crack. A blast of poppers hits my nose and my heart thumps to the bass notes of desire.
In the silence, in the dark, the shitty B&B didn’t seem so bad. It was two a.m. and our ears were ringing. I had a slight headache encroaching and I knew she must have too. Oh forgive me, nose and brain. I was restless and much too hot. I drank chlorinated tap water out of a plastic cup and almost choked on my thirst.
You don’t have to sleep on the sofa, said Annie, from the double bed she’d booked as two singles. I’m fine, I said. Really.
She sat up. Her body a silhouette backlit by streetlamps.
Mikey, she said. If you ever met anyone—
I know, I said.
I didn’t want this conversation and I cut her off before it broke ground. The idea was incompatible. I could never bring anyone into our three. I had no room to love anyone else.
* * *
• • •
OUT BEYOND THE CONFINES of the mas, dusk envelops the land. Evening light falls upon the walls and dusts them in pink, and dark shadows press upon these walls. I’m aware of my loneliness in the intermittent silence along the road. An occasional car up ahead turns onto gravel. The shrill pipe of swallows above me, annoying then reassuring, dark arrowheads across the sky, their last dance with sun. I walk as far as the olive groves, but not as far as town. I want company, I don’t want company. I turn back. My fickleness knows I’m too agitated to sleep.
The candles are extinguished on the dining tables and the outside gates locked, and quiet chatter snubbed by sleep. I go up to my room and change. I rub mosquito cream over my body and put on my swimming shorts and T-shirt. I walk downstairs, out across the grass, along the stony track toward the azure light of the pool.
The sunloungers have been repositioned and their cushions put away till the morning. I pull off my T-shirt. I crouch down and feel the temperature of the water. It feels cold after the heat of the day. I don’t dive in, but jump. I bend my legs and the bottom of the pool swiftly meets my feet. I surface and begin to swim. My arms blade through the water. One, two, three, I turn to the left and breathe. At the wall, in deep water, I flip. Disorientation and bubbles, a brief moment of letting go, but all too brief, and my feet push against the concrete side, and my arms blade, and I breathe, and my anger propels me, back and forth until my lungs burn and my head feels tight and there are no thoughts just a body in motion. And every length I swim, I slough off a layer of hospital visits, of smells, of hopelessness, of medication, of young men who became old too fast, and I swim and I swim and I swim.
In the middle of the pool, I stop. Facedown, floating not breathing. I used to do it all the time as a kid out at Long Bridges. Learned to float before I could swim. Ellis never believed it was called dead man’s float, thought I’d made it up. I told him it was a survival position af
ter a long, exhausting journey. How apt.
All I see below is blue light. Peaceful and eternal. I’m holding my breath until my body throbs as one pulse. I roll over and suck in a deep lungful of warm air. I look up at the starry starry night. The sound of water in and out of my ears, and beyond this human shell, the sound of cicadas fills the night.
I dreamed of my mother. It was an image, that’s all, and a fleeting one, at that. She was faded with age, like a discarded offcut on the studio floor. In this dream, she didn’t speak, just stepped out of the shadows, a reminder that we are the same, her and me, cut from the same bruised cloth. I understand how she got up one day and left, how instinctively she trusted the compulsion to flee. The rightness of that action. We are the same, her and me.
She walked out when I was eight. Never came back. I remember being collected from school by our neighbor Mrs. Deakin, who bought me sweets on the way home and let me play with a dog for as long as I wanted. Inside the house, my father was sitting at the table, drinking. He was holding a sheet of blue writing paper covered in black words, and he said, Your mother’s gone. She said she’s sorry.
A sheet of writing paper covered in words and just two for me. How was that possible?
Her remnant life was put in bags and stored in the spare room at the earliest opportunity. Stuffed in, not folded—clothes brushes, cosmetics all thrown in together, awaiting collection from the Church. My mother had taken only what she could carry.
