by Jean Giono
“If I looked at him too closely, he would wink at me kindly and avert his eyes.
“On the third day, while the horses were being hitched to the wagons, Madame Tim, the prosecutor, and I met up at the edge of the rooftop terrace, near the little orange tree in its crate that would have to be taken double-quick into the greenhouse; near the little orange tree and in front of the vast vistas (which would have to be taken down double-quick as well, like a folding partition that blocks the air). We were all silent until at last I spoke, because no one else had dared: ‘All that’s left to do is to take our places in the quadrille.’ And I headed down toward the carriage that was waiting for me.”
•
“Two months later, in the fall, he started to build the Bongalove. Whenever he was on-site, I would go see him. I didn’t say oh, it’s big, or why are you putting windows there, or why did you start this whole thing when winter is coming? A word seemed to be nothing but a word at first glance, but I had very little faith in words.
“I only asked him something once, when I saw him clearing out the spot where we are now. I said to him, ‘What are you going to make here, with this gorgeous view?’
“ ‘A maze,’ he said.
“ ‘A maze?’ (At the time, I was thinking of something else.)
“ ‘Yes, a boxwood maze, like the one in Saint-Baudille.’
“Now I understood: those little paths crisscrossing through big boxwoods; I can’t say I like them much. I said to him, ‘And what the hell are you going to do with a maze?’
“ ‘Well, what does one ordinarily do with a maze?’ he asked.
“ ‘I don’t know,’ I answered. ‘I’m not used to that sort of thing. I don’t do anything with a maze in any case.’
“ ‘Well, I’ll stroll around in it.’
“ ‘Oh,’ I said to him. ‘That’s news to me. Come have a drink. It’s hot like the middle of summer.’
“ ‘What are you offering?’
“ ‘Vespetro.’
“ ‘Sounds good.’
“And we came back to the village together.”
•
“Winter, snow. Construction stopped but the walls were already covered, and since they were made of heavy logs, the freeze couldn’t harm them. On the contrary.
“Langlois came down from his bedroom to smoke his pipe in the café where it was warm.
“You all were somewhere else; nothing to harvest, so out came your playing cards.
“And Langlois sat sideways on a chair in front of the window. I left him plenty of time to smoke his pipe, and then came to sit next to him with my darning basket holding two or three pairs of his socks.
“I said, ‘Father Lambert, light the stove for us.’
“And old man Lambert began to poke the fire. The stove hummed. The snow fell.
“ ‘I’m getting married,’ Langlois said to me.
“(I was digging around in my basket for my boxwood darning egg.)
“ ‘Good idea,’ I said.
“ ‘It will only be a good idea if you take care of it.’
“ ‘Take care of it? How?’
“ ‘Find someone for me.’
“(I was unspooling a length of cotton.)
“ ‘And for what reason, exactly?’ I asked him.
“ ‘Oh, exactly . . .’ he said.
“(Old man Lambert stirred the fire like a true master. We sat and basked in the heat.)
“ ‘I have an idea,’ I said.
“ ‘I thought you might,’ he said.
“ ‘But I want to know what you have in mind.’
“ ‘You do. I want to get married.’
“ ‘Have you told anyone else?’ I asked him.
“ ‘No.’
“ ‘Not Madame Tim?’
“ ‘No.’
“ ‘The prosecutor?’
“ ‘No.’
“ ‘And why me?’
“ ‘Just a feeling.’
“ ‘What kind of feeling?’
“ ‘That you know better what I need.’
“ ‘Could be,’ I said.
“ ‘At my age . . .’ he said.
“ ‘I’ve seen older,’ I said.
“ ‘Oh, so have I!’ he said.
“ ‘I at least have to know the type you’re looking for.’
“ ‘No type in particular. As long as she’s not an embroiderer,’ he said, turning his chair to face me.
“I continued darning socks. Then I raised my head, took off my glasses, and rubbed my eyes. That’s how I could look straight at him (well, what I call straight at him—through my fingers).
“ ‘Obviously,’ I said.
“ ‘Why obviously?’
“ ‘You don’t need any embroidery done.’
“ ‘That’s about right,’ he said.
“ ‘And would you stay here?’ I asked.
“ ‘In the Bongalove,’ he said. ‘Could that fit your idea?’ he added. I hadn’t said anything.
“ ‘It could indeed,’ I said.
“ ‘Not an embroiderer,’ he said again. ‘And not what you’d call a “good wife.” ’
“ ‘What’s your idea of a “good wife”?’ I said.
“ ‘Life-size portrait,’ he answered.
“ ‘All right,’ I said.
“ ‘I’ll have the walls plastered,’ he said. ‘It will be clean and warm, but I don’t need someone who takes pride in her housework.’
“ ‘But there’ll be furniture?’
“ ‘Of course. She’ll have everything she needs, but I don’t want to be surrounded by objects.’
“(Langlois’s allusions right away made me think of the embroiderer and that furniture storehouse she lived in, where that life-size portrait was surrounded by all those things. But I was also thinking of other surroundings, from pearly mountains to linen curtains, not to mention crystal-covered tables and three sagging old folks walking arm in arm.)
“ ‘Obviously,’ I said.
“ ‘You find everything obvious today,’ he said.
“ ‘And isn’t it?’ I said.
“ ‘It is. Precisely,’ he said.
“ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘what you need is simply a woman who’s had a life.’
“ ‘And “of an appropriate age,” no?’ he said, a little sarcastically.
“ ‘Not necessarily,’ I said (choosing needles and lifting them one after the other up to the light of the window). ‘There are situations in which a woman gains experience very quickly.’
“ ‘She just needs to be satisfied with little.’
“ ‘That’s exactly what I mean when I say that one year in the service is as good as two,’ I said. ‘How old are you?’
“ ‘You know how old I am.’
“ ‘How old?’
“ ‘Fifty-six.’
“ ‘I don’t recommend someone thirty-five,’ I said. ‘They get sentimental at that age.’
“ ‘Let’s say thirty, then. Can you find me that?’
“ ‘Easily.’
“And that day we spoke no more about it, as someone said.
“Another time, in similar circumstances, a dark winter evening, with him sitting sideways on his chair, and me sitting next to him on my little stool while he watched the snowdrifts collapse and I was mending holes in a flannel vest.
“ ‘They’re from my pipe.’
“ ‘You fill your pipe on your flannel vest?’
“ ‘No, I stuff it too tightly; when I light it, the embers overflow.’
“ ‘Well, don’t stuff it so much, and smoke two.’
“ ‘Or stuff them more and smoke three,’ he said.
“ ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘What’s the hurry?’
“ ‘No hurry,’ he said. ‘By the way, have you thought about your thirty-year-old woman?’
“ ‘No need to think about i
t. If we want her, we just have to go get her.’
“ ‘Where?’
“ ‘I know just where. But we have to go to Grenoble. I have lots of connections there.’
“ ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘That’s one less thing to worry about.’
“ ‘Were you worried?’
“ ‘Not a bit,’ he said.
“Another bone-cold day, he puts on his fur jacket and cap, takes up his snowshoes, and says to me, ‘Cook up a little something for me for tonight. I’m going to get some air.’
“ ‘Don’t get too much, it’s a bit rough out there. And what do you want me to cook up for you?’
“ ‘Cabbage soup,’ he says to me, ‘and go see if that old harpy Anselmie doesn’t have a partridge or two. I know she traps. And make me a cabbage gratin in the oven, with bread crumbs. In this weather, I could eat cabbage off the floor. And I’m sure there’s no cabbage in Saint-Baudille.’
“ ‘Are you going to see Madame Tim?’
“ ‘Well, I might mention that thirty-year-old woman to her,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’
“ ‘I think you should,’ I said. ‘And do you know what else I think?’
“ ‘I’m sure I’ll find out,’ he says.
“ ‘I think,’ I said to him, ‘that I’m going to scare the wits out of Anselmie until she gives me six partridges. And I think, along with that cabbage of yours, I’m going to make some mushrooms à la crème, and, finally, I think I’m going to take over the bedroom on the third floor, light a fire, and put a bed warmer in the bed. Because I’m almost sure that if you talk to Madame Tim about that thirty-year-old woman, Madame Tim will come back with you this evening.’
“ ‘Good thinking indeed,’ he said, ‘except for the six partridges. What the hell are we going to do with those?’
“ ‘Two for you, two for Madame Tim, and two for me,’ I said to him. ‘You don’t expect me to eat in the kitchen, do you?’
“ ‘Well, that would be your place,’ he said, cautiously stepping back as if he were afraid.
“I threw my clog after him.
“I had no doubt that Madame Tim would come running, I just wasn’t sure about the time.
“I said to myself, ‘In the early evening. He’ll get there and have lunch. He’ll speak to her about it after lunch; they’ll have their coffee; she’ll have the horses hitched to the sleigh, and when the clock strikes four, they’ll be here.’
“But at three o’clock I heard the bells on the horses. She must have deprived him of his coffee, or else they drank it in a hurry.
“She gave no orders; Madame Tim hopped off the sleigh as if she were twenty years old; she entered my kitchen.
“ ‘Tell me everything,’ she said.
“She was curious.
“ ‘I didn’t cook the partridges for the King of Prussia,’ I said to her, ‘so settle down! Your bed is ready and, around six or seven this evening, I’ll go and stuff a copper bed warmer in it. I’ve given you my lavender-scented sheets and the whole works. Send Bouvard back. You’re dining with us tonight. We’ll tell each other everything. But if we have to think of Bouvard freezing to death out there and if, after eating the partridges and talking, you’ve got to go back to Saint-Baudille at the risk of breaking your neck in the middle of the night, we won’t say anything to each other or we’ll say it badly. Trust me: we’re keeping you here.’
“Five minutes later, Bouvard was gone: vanished from the face of the earth. Not a track in front of the door, and Madame Tim might as well have been transported here by the Holy Spirit.
“ ‘And that’s not all,’ I told her. ‘By time and toil we sever what force and rage could never. Not a word about it before dinner. Do you want to talk about it while we’re making the cabbage? No. Give me an hour and I’ll toss out the three old men by the fire. I’ll close the front doors and the night will be ours. We’ll put the table for the three of us right in the middle where it’s warm. And the big lamp. So let’s get moving. It will be worth it, don’t you think? In the meantime, would you mind putting on an apron and peeling some celery root? We’ll make a salad.’
“She did it so nicely that I said, ‘See how it pays to be well behaved. And now the lady will offer you a bit of crème de cacao.’
“Langlois came in just as we were sipping.
“ ‘Don’t get up,’ he said.
“ ‘You’ve got your bottle of rum in the cupboard,’ I said to him. ‘No, not that one, that’s for my customers. The other one, next to the box of sugar. Which you can also take out if you feel like dunking a cube or two. And don’t count on us to serve you, my sweet love.’
“It’s not like I was completely at ease with my teasing. Before my two pals had arrived, I’d had a bit too much crème de cacao. To calm my nerves.
“In fact, after the third little glass that Madame Tim refused, and drank anyway, I realized she thought it was a good approach. She began to make those sweet little smiles and whenever she was about to say, ‘So?’ I put a finger to my lips: ‘Shhhh. Another tiny glass?’
“ ‘Very tiny.’
“Langlois took three good swigs of rum. It was white rum. I was aging it in a small cedar barrel and from time to time I’d draw a liter just for him.
“ ‘It’s hot in here!’ Madame Tim said.
“It was time to toss out the three lads by the stove.
“ ‘Already?’ said old man Lambert. ‘It’s only five o’clock.’
“I said to him, ‘I’ve got company.’
“ ‘And we’re not company?’ he asked.
“ ‘Company from another world, understand?’ I replied.
“ ‘No,’ he said.
“ ‘Well, too bad,’ I said. ‘Go warm up at your daughter-in-law’s.’
“ ‘Nothing doing. I’m going to bed,’ he said.
“ ‘Good idea. Sweet dreams.’
“ ‘I never have sweet dreams.’
“ ‘Do what you want then,’ I said.
“ ‘If I did what I wanted,’ he said, ‘I’d stay here.’
“ ‘What a nuisance you are!’
“I swept up the sawdust, especially around the stove. They were spitters, those bastards! Madame Tim wanted to do it, but I took the broom from her hands.
“ ‘No,’ I said. ‘Open the big cupboard and take out a tablecloth.’
“I didn’t know how she’d react to the old men’s spit. Everything had started off so well, I didn’t want it to end with a queasy woman. That’s the advantage of people like me. We’ve paid our dues, so we might as well make the most of it.
“I spread fresh sawdust around the stove and we dragged the table there, into the warmth. With the first mouthfuls, naturally Madame Tim asked, ‘So now, tell me what he was trying to tell to me.’
“ ‘Is he that feebleminded, then?’ I said.
“ ‘It’s not a question of being feebleminded,’ she said.
“ ‘I know,” I said. ‘Let’s just look on the bright side here.’
“I told her about that winter afternoon and how Langlois had let me know he wanted to get married. I repeated everything: his meaningless sentences and my own—my reserve. I wanted Madame Tim to see the scene exactly as it had taken place. If you ask me, if you wanted to see the event and its causes and consequences clearly, you had to know everything about that winter afternoon and Langlois’s short sentences.
“ ‘Perhaps you wanted me to tell you the history of France from Vercingetorix until now,’ Langlois said to me.
“ ‘This isn’t about the history of France,’ I answered, ‘but let’s say if you had told it to me, the mood would have been entirely different and I would have answered you differently. I would have had a different idea.’
“ ‘Like what?’
“ ‘A queen of France. A notary’s daughter. A patented broodmare. A young wench with a family tree.’
“(Madame Tim didn’t fli
nch; on the contrary, she sent me a little ‘bravo!’ out of the corner of her eye.)
