Malicroix

by Henri Bosco

  I had to step back, as my path was already disappearing beneath the flood. Another path, still passable, led me downriver on the same side. The sound was coming from there. Balandran was working. Wielding hammer and ax with his usual skill, he was building a makeshift landing on the bank. I called him. He motioned for me to come closer.

  “Is the water still rising?” I asked.

  “It’s rising.”

  “And what are you doing?”

  “I’m raising the landing.”

  This landing: four posts sunk into the water, linked by four crudely trimmed tree trunks. Above, a board, not very wide. Balandran was tying it down with ropes.

  “Now,” he told me, “the water can rise some more. And it will, the bitch. But it will take at least five days before it swamps my board. It was pressing.”

  I was surprised.

  He replied tersely. “Mr. Dromiols is arriving.”

  “In this weather?”

  “In this weather. He’s seen worse, with Mr. Cornélius.”

  “But I didn’t hear anything. Who told you?”

  Balandran shrugged. “I can feel him coming,” he replied. “Mr. Dromiols does not give notice.” He tightened a knot. As he was kneeling at his work, I could not see his face. After a moment he said, “I’ll let you know, Mr. Martial. And you’ll come wait for him.”

  I promised I would.

  • • •

  The next day, the rain stopped midmorning. I went out to see the landing again. The water was flowing by, less than eight inches below the board. No Balandran.

  Across the way, an overgrown bank. Through thickets of juniper, greenbrier, and samphire, I could see little wooded islets barely emerging from the vast stretch of moving waters. The entire flatland was covered by the rising flood, and the liquid sheet flowed silently beneath the trees, as far as the eye could see.

  As I gazed over this huge drowned plain, one detail caught my eye. In the middle of a gray clump of hackberries and leafless elms, a broad roof rose. A hedge of tall thorns hid the façade toward which this roof gently sloped. Defying the wind, four low chimneys jutted above the tiles. But they seemed lifeless. Despite the bad weather, no smoke was coming from them. And the big roof itself, heavy, worked by rain, wind, and age, had that resigned look of roofs that cover nothing more than an abandoned building. Still it was a noble roof, doing its best. Although it seemed here and there to sag beneath the weight of time, its bulk still resisted the elements. Under the stormy sky, at the center of the flooded woods, it alone, in its melancholy way, evoked the human spirit—but more as a memory of man’s passage than as a sign of man’s presence. Beneath this roof with its cold sad chimneys, humankind had long since disappeared.

  I was saying to myself: “Balandran never mentioned it. I wonder why.” He had reported “no neighbors.” Empty houses did not interest Balandran, that must be it. This explanation was reasonable, but, in keeping with my annoying habit, I immediately thrust it aside to spin some dreams. Like all dreams, they followed the most irrational paths of fancy; our fantasies always diverge from common sense and deceive us in order to enchant us. Now this lonely roof surrounded by woods and waters offered my imagination a powerful stimulus for a light reverie; and to entertain myself in my solitude, I would most likely have invented some refuge for fabled sleepers, male or female, had not my eyes, which always remain attentive to reality through my dreams, detected movement behind the juniper and samphire on shore. I returned to myself.

  A flat boat was gliding beyond those trees, unhurriedly moving against the current. It must have been navigating along a little dead branch of the river, where the current, slowed by thickets and an invisible spit of land, permitted painstaking upstream travel. From my distance, and because of the bushes on shore, I followed the boat’s movement poorly. The branches hid the boat, and I glimpsed it only where the vegetation was thinner. My view remained confused. Still, I was soon sure this sight had nothing to do with old Balandran. The boat was being propelled by a pole over very shallow water. It looked to me as if this pole was being handled by a woman. At least the slender silhouette led me to suspect that, although not completely. For this was no task for a woman, especially not in this weather. The boat vanished and I returned to La Redousse without having reached any certainty.

  I found Balandran in the house. He told me, “Mr. Dromiols is coming. I’ll bring him across this afternoon at five.”

  It was raining again.

  I told Balandran, “I’ll be at the landing to receive him.”

  He looked satisfied, then added, “He’ll sleep here, as usual, and he’ll leave tomorrow.”

  “And for a bed?” I asked.

  “It’s all arranged, Mr. Martial. Mr. Dromiols will bring his bed and his screen.” I must have looked surprised, for Balandran ended by saying, “To each his own.” And he served me my meal.

  The rain resumed gently, and, softly illumined from above, surrounded the house in a murmuring, impalpable, silver mist.

  • • •

  At five o’clock, it was still raining just as gently, and I was at the landing. Wrapped in a heavy coat, my feet in boots, I waited without impatience. Beyond the shoreline, the mainland was flooded all the way to the horizon. I wondered by what road our traveler would reach the riverbank. There was, however, an earthen levee that cut across the waterlogged plain from afar—a narrow embankment still above water, dotted here and there with one or two grayish poplars and some tufts of reeds. From time to time, flocks of crows dropped onto these trees or flew off, cawing. It was a sad, lonely path that, from a vague horizon of floating mists, wended its way toward the abandoned house.

  On this embankment, but still in the distance, I made out a carriage. It was advancing slowly along the perilous ridge where the muddy ground must be bogging it down. Still, after fifteen minutes it came within good range and, as I have very keen vision, I could study it in detail. It was some sort of coupé. Between its thin-spoked, oversize wheels, the black, leather-clad cab seemed minuscule. A long, spindly horse was struggling to draw this ancient vehicle; when he was mired in a hole, the entire harness behind his rump wobbled precariously. The cab would then bounce on its thin springs, and the frail rolling structure would threaten to plummet down the embankment. As if by miracle, a strong jerk on the long spindly horse’s halter pulled him up from the pit, and, whinnying, he resumed his journey. On the seat was a tiny, hunched man. Under the fine rain, the carriage was patiently approaching the river. It ended, though, by vanishing into the woods where the house’s roof rose, and the melancholy roadway returned to its solitude.

  I waited. I could sense that night was coming, but enough daylight remained to light up the river.

  It was flowing rapidly. Its fury, even wilder than the night before, wrung the water into long green strands, making it seem so redoubtable I wondered whether anyone could cross it that night. It seemed too impassably fast. “They won’t come,” I told myself. I looked at my watch. “Let’s wait another minute. When night falls, I’ll go back.”

  And then I saw them. Balandran’s flat boat appeared upstream between two clumps of willows. He withdrew the boat from the bank, met the raging current crosswise, and steered toward the island. The stream carried him on a slant. Balandran, standing in the stern, his body braced, was leaning into a huge oar; the boat, cutting across the river at astonishing speed, was heading straight for the landing. Thirty yards away, it made use of an eddy to steer toward a quiet spot and approach the island more slowly. More slowly still, it skirted the bank; then, held back by the heavy oar, it silently advanced toward me with its four passengers, motionless under the rain.

  In the stern, Balandran, alone, rope in hand. In the prow, Bréquillet, soaked, his fur stuck to his body, his muzzle passionately straining shoreward. Behind Bréquillet, under a green umbrella, Maître Dromiols. Tall, stout, wearing a sort of heavy carrick as green as his umbrella but edged in black. A real carrick, with a little cape, a cinched
waist, and a collar reaching up to his ears. Above this collar, a bony head with wide, shaved cheekbones. The head featured a fleshy, prominent nose, on which gold-rimmed spectacles perched. On this head, rising toward the umbrella, a top hat with fluted brim and faded fur turning brown. The umbrella was held by a tiny old man who extended it over the notaire’s head. Sheltered by the notaire’s monumental back, the old man performed his task with concentrated attention, his whole body desperately straining to reach high enough. The gentle rain fell onto the boat, and, because everyone was silent, you could hear the fine droplets as they delicately struck the green silk of the big umbrella.

  The boat landed. Bréquillet rushed off, then stopped short and squatted, rump in the mud, gazing at us.

  Maître Dromiols lifted a large foot from the boat, set it down on the board, and, after a moment’s deliberation, heaved his whole body up onto the landing. He steadied himself with his other foot, making the board sag. Then he took a step forward, raised his top hat, and performed a courteous but somewhat reserved bow.

  “Mr. de Mégremut, I presume,” he murmured as he bowed. “Maître Dromiols, notaire in Roussillargues, at your service.”

  I bowed in turn and begged him to cover himself. He slowly brought his hat back up beside his ear, bowed again, and very carefully replaced it on his head.

  Having thus resumed his full stature, he turned slowly and called in an imperious voice: “Uncle Rat!”

  The tiny old man scurried forward. He was carrying cloak, umbrella, bag, valise.

  Maître Dromiols told me, “Rat is his name. That’s what we call him: Rat. Anastasio Rat, to be precise. The Rats have been our clerks for three centuries. From father to son.”

  As I looked surprised, he added, “And this one is Uncle Rat. ‘Uncle,’ Sir, in this part of the world, is the household name we give to elders who, while not our relatives, are still, through long years of service, somewhat part of our families.”

  He took the umbrella, opened it again above his head, and ended by saying, “I am at your service, Sir. Lead the way.”

  We set out in single file. In front, Bréquillet proudly opening the procession. Next, Balandran, carrying a heavy bundle. Then I, preceding the notaire. He, under his umbrella. In the rear, tiny Uncle Rat, skipping from puddle to puddle with a horrified look.

  Night had already fallen when we reached La Redousse.

  • • •

  The luggage entered the house through the storeroom, from which Uncle Rat soon emerged.

  Standing in the middle of the large room, Maître Dromiols extended his paunch to Uncle Rat, who unbuttoned the carrick. Then, going around to the back, Uncle Rat respectfully removed the huge garment, which he spread on an armchair in front of the fire, to the right of the chimney. He set the top hat on the carrick. The garments began to steam, and the air soon smelled of wet wool.

  Divested of carrick and hat, Maître Dromiols appeared before me, dressed entirely in green, in an ample frock coat. He wore a large winged collar and an elaborate black cravat, pinned with a tiny medallion. The forehead, vast and high, furrowed over arched brow bones; his thick dark hair was beginning to silver at the temples. No eyebrows. Small eyes, brown, with a solid, full gaze: eyes that did not flit from one thought to the next, but that pondered. The large mouth, with two folds falling toward it from the cheeks, looked predatory. The massive chin jutted forward, fleshy and alive. Over the whole face a look of order, calm, voracity. Nothing stirred in it except the functional features that move when words are spoken. In short, hardwood, roughly worked, ruled by the will to be oneself, and nothing more.

  Before this powerful, assertive face, Uncle Rat bent his own countenance, where meekness was cautiously allied with cunning. Although spare and well past sixty, he seemed still vigorous, supple, keen. He was not looking at anyone or anything, but resting with eyes half-shut, watching everything. Spiritually, he seemed to embody deception itself. Still, he pleased me by a certain something that seemed real and passionate, which he hid poorly. He was here, hanging on.

  For now, he was motionless, awaiting an order, which was slow in coming. It arrived, but silently. Maître Dromiols said nothing; he simply nodded, and Uncle Rat vanished at once into the storeroom.

  And so Maître Dromiols cleared his throat and said to me, “At your service, Mr. de Mégremut.”

  I invited him to have a seat with me in front of the fire.

  As he sank into an armchair, the straw and wood creaked around him.

  Then he set his feet down in front of the flames. He laid them flat, not with the soles up the way people usually do when they want to dry them. He planted them heavily on the dark paving stone, spreading his large legs to create a wide space between those feet. There, he displayed them in all their strength. Their length, width, and weight were astonishing. They occupied the floor with an air of unshakable possession that made me marvel. I said to myself, “These feet are at home everywhere.” Power is imposing, and the power of Maître Dromiols’s feet imposed itself on old Malicroix’s hearth with such assurance I was both annoyed and troubled.

  Beside them, my own feet seemed trifling, made for taking no more than a fleeting step upon the earth, then departing.

  “Harsh country, Sir, is it not?” the notaire suddenly murmured.

  I say “murmured” advisedly. From the nasal and commanding voice that made him seem almost inhuman, Maître Dromiols had drawn the sounds closest to silence. Yet even murmured, the metallic tone of his words divorced them from his thought; their banality took on too much significance not to awaken a deep, mysterious alarm in me. (At that instant, I heard the rain on the roof and thought I could feel the vibration of the flowing waters gliding around the island . . . )

  “Harsh country, indeed,” Maître Dromiols continued. “And in every season, sir. The weather abides . . .” He sighed. His sigh matched his murmur. It was a deliberate sigh, as categorical as a statement. Perhaps he breathed it to express some compassion for my suffering during the endless days I had spent awaiting him in this bleak countryside. For he added, “I feel for you . . .” But this purely polite commiseration did not enlighten me as to his true feelings. He went on to say, “And also, I apologize. You have waited for me. My pain, sir, my pain! It is the reason for my regrettable delay.”

  And he struck his right thigh.

  It was a robust thigh, to which the green fabric of his pant leg clung. To see it, it was hard to believe it had ever succumbed to pain.

  “Sciatica,” explained Maître Dromiols, as if detecting my doubt.

  But he did not insist, for he sensed that, despite myself, I was skeptical. Yet I wanted nothing more than to believe him. Alone in this mutely hostile world, I was groping to find the least sympathy. Even from this huge man, and despite the fact that he alarmed me, I sought a sign of friendship. He must have seen that, for, in a more human tone, he said, “Mr. de Mégremut, I imagine you must find yourself quite out of your element here.”

  He had hit the mark, and he knew it; my face spoke plainly. Having penetrated my soul, he seized the chance to sing the praises of my native land, Puyloubiers. “Beautiful region, sir, all gardens, fertile and friendly countryside, charming folk, an easy life, I hear. In a bountiful land, pleasing people.” He bowed, leaning lightly in my direction.

  I nodded in turn. “To please is a pleasure for those who know how to please,” I said sententiously, following his lead.

  He was not offended. We spoke in proverbs, a prudent way to proceed when you are feeling your way. In a drier tone, he continued. “It is a pleasure we rarely find here, Mr. de Mégremut.”

  “So I fear,” I quietly replied. “We are patient. It is our natural gift. A modest one, I admit.”

  He forced a smile that, despite himself, bent his lips ironically. “We too have our patience, Mr. de Mégremut, but it is more taciturn than yours, and less gentle.”

  I interrupted him calmly. “The gentlest, sir, is often the most tenacious. Nothing a
lters it.”

  He sighed. As before, his sigh preceded his thought, and I foresaw a complaint, which came. But it was to enlist my sympathy that Maître Dromiols began to bemoan the place and the people. “Alas, sir,” he exclaimed, “here the climate, the land, the people are oppressively harsh. Even I, shaped by this blood and this land beneath these stormy skies, find it hard to endure the untamable wildness. We are human . . .”

  I looked at him. He was presenting his profile. Immobile, his large hand leaning on his large thigh, his torso erect, he seemed to be impersonally addressing the wall above the hearth. His prominent, fleshy nose deliberately seized his voice and, amplifying it, expunged from it any perceptible feeling.

  “We are human,” he continued, with emphatic melancholy, “and humans do not fare well beneath these wild winds on these solitary expanses. Even during the shortest stay in this inhospitable region, you will experience, sir, unbearable harshness and tedium.”

  “I have borne them for seven days,” I remarked modestly.

  “Seven days that have been seven centuries . . .”

  “I do not know, Sir,” I replied, “for I have been meditating. This house inspires thoughts, and one loses oneself following them. And so time passes . . .”

  He could not keep from furrowing the skin on his brow. His forehead rapidly folded and unfolded. A large muscle protruded from his cheek, but he quickly mastered himself and, pretending not to have heard me, went on.

  “This country is hostile to man. See for yourself, Sir, these flat lands, and, in the end, distance, nothing but distance—the desert! Where to rest? Where to find life? The sameness of the lagoons on the vastness of the stones, all the way to the sands of the sea . . .”

  “Is it far?” I asked.

  He bore my interruption patiently. “Everything is far on these unrelieved, dull stretches that extend outward and vanish into the horizon. Barely does a patch of salt sparkle here and there; some trees stray beside lonely lagoons; sparse vegetation—mastics, tamarisks, wild olives—just enough to make even more mournful these endless tracts where the mind of man sinks and swoons.” He paused as if to reflect, and then, in a solemn, heartbroken tone, continued: “Indeed, sir, the mind of man.”