William Cornford nods his head in his slow way, that does not signify agreement.
‘What you suggest costs money.’
‘Of course. But my way, the company makes more money. If everyone on the payroll wants the company to succeed, then they work harder, they’re more vigilant, they use their local knowledge and ingenuity to do the job better, they don’t get into labour disputes, they don’t fall sick, they see the fruits of their labour, and we all make money!’
His father nods his head again and frowns and sighs.
‘We are a subsidiary of a larger company,’ he says.
He goes to his shelves and takes down a book called The Banana Empire, by Kepner and Soothill, and opens it to a page he has previously marked.
‘This is an investigation into the United Fruit Company,’ he says. ‘It was written and published before the war, in ’35. In all fairness to the company I should tell you that the authors have been accused of making Communist propaganda.’
He reads from the book in his slow grave voice.
‘This powerful company has throttled competitors, dominated governments, manacled railroads, ruined planters, choked cooperatives, domineered over workers, fought organised labour, and exploited consumers. Such usage of power by a corporation of a strongly industrialised nation in relatively weak foreign countries constitutes a variety of economic imperialism.’
Larry hears this in silence.
‘I should also add,’ says his father, ‘that such practices have not been the norm in Jamaica, which has the great benefit of being part of the British empire.’
Larry gives a short laugh.
‘One empire pitched against another.’
He reaches out one hand for the book.
‘I’d better read it, hadn’t I?’
‘You’ll only find one mention of our company, on page 181. I know it by heart. They write, “Elders & Fyffes from then on” – that is, from 1902 – “became the European arm of the United Fruit Company.” That is not so.’ His voice has risen. His face is flushed. ‘Fyffes is an independent company, in spirit if not in fact.’
Larry stays up late that night reading the book. The next morning he speaks to his father over breakfast.
‘I believe it even more strongly now. There is a better way of doing business.’
He has the book before him. He reads out his own chosen extract.
‘If the United Fruit Company had been more concerned with the improvement of human relations and social welfare than with the mere obtaining of profits, it could have rendered extraordinary service to the Americas.’
William Cornford gazes at his son across his copy of The Times and says nothing.
‘Just give me a chance to prove it,’ says Larry.
‘What is it you want to prove, darling?’ says Geraldine, joining them at the breakfast table.
‘That we can run our business for the benefit of all,’ says Larry.
‘All who?’ says Geraldine.
Larry is watching his father. He answers Geraldine impatiently.
‘All the employees.’
‘But of course the business benefits the employees,’ says Geraldine. ‘It gives them jobs.’
‘What do you say, Dad?’
‘I’ll tell you what I think you should do,’ says his father. ‘I think you should take a trip to Jamaica.’
Larry leaps up in excitement and strides up and down the breakfast room.
‘The very idea I had myself! Of course I must go to Jamaica. I must see for myself. I must learn everything for myself. Of course I must go to Jamaica. I’m convinced we can produce and sell double the tonnage we’re bringing in.’
‘I’ve no doubt you’re right,’ says his father, smiling.
‘When would you go?’ says Geraldine. ‘How long would you be gone?’
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ Larry turns to her, his face bright at the new prospect.
‘Of course not,’ says Geraldine with composure. ‘You are the breadwinner. Your work must always come first.’
*
The day before he sails, Larry receives a letter addressed to him as Lawrence Cornford, care of Fyffes head office. It’s been opened by the office staff, who must have thought it was intended for his long-dead grandfather. The letter is from Nell.
Darling, we’re going to live in France, but I can’t leave without writing to you. I expect you hate me but you shouldn’t, if you had given me the chance I’d have explained. Darling I did it for you, and I was right, wasn’t I? You were never sure about me. I told that story to see what you’d say and I was watching your face and saw how you were frightened and then a gentleman doing his duty so that was that really. I expect you were hurt and angry etc etc but I’m quite sure you’ve got over all that now and forgiven me. Tony Armitage and I are married, I expect you heard, I don’t really know why he’s such a pig most of the time and all this fame has gone to his head. He stamps and rants and calls everyone fools and how he can’t bear fakes and posers, so we’re going to live in France though I don’t see why there shouldn’t be fakes and posers in France too. I do love you darling and you mustn’t mind about the story but come and visit us in France, it’s called Houlgate just down the coast from Deauville and I’m going to be so bored I expect I’ll kill him. He won’t care, all he cares about is himself and his painting which is actually quite restful for me. If I don’t kill him we should get on all right. Remember we said we’d be friends so we have to go on being friends it’s much better than being lovers. The other thing makes men so cross really I’m bored with it. Please write to me at the address above and tell me you forgive me.
34
After a day of driving down long straight empty roads, Ed reaches Narbonne, in the region of France called the Aude. He puts up in a modest inn, and eats a solitary supper of veal, accompanied by the excellent local red wine. Then as is his habit he questions his host about the vineyards of the region. He learns that the best wines are made in the land to the south, in the corner between the Pyrenees and the sea. He is advised to seek out the domaines round the village of Treilles; in particular the domaine de Montgaillard.
The next morning he drives south. On either side of the dusty white road lie shallow valleys planted with vines, sheltered by belts of almond and cypress trees. Low hills rise up beyond, the pink land studded with the grey of olive trees. Umbrella pines grow on the ridges, slanting under the pressure of the prevailing wind. The houses he passes are pink as the land, made of the same stone. He sees no one. The clusters of houses and barns have an air of abandonment.
He reaches a village at last, and stops by the church. A small bar seems to be open. In its dark interior, he finds a somnolent woman, who gives him directions to the chateau.
He follows the road, which becomes a rising track. He notes vines in their neat rows on either side. Then there at the end of the track appears the chateau, which is in fact little more than a fortified farm.
The house is big and square, with a single tower attached as if by some afterthought at one end. Two very old cars are pulled up in front of the wide door, which stands open. Ed knocks, and getting no response, calls out. After a while a girl of about ten appears, and stares at him, and runs away. After another while Ed hears a slow heavy tread, and a large elderly man presents himself. He has grey hair and grey skin that falls down his face in folds. He stoops, as tall men often do, which gives him a sad and defeated air.
Ed introduces himself and explains his business. His host, whose name is Monsieur de Nabant, is astonished to learn that an Englishman has arrived with a view to buying his wine. He keeps shaking his head, and rubbing at his cheeks. Then he invites his visitor into his house.
The interior seems to consist of one very large room, where all the affairs of the family are conducted at once. The shutters are closed against the heat, so the room is cool and dark. In the beamed and shadowy spaces Ed makes out a daybed, on which reclines an elderly lady; a kitchen table, r
ound which sit several children; an immense fireplace, holding an iron cooking range; a grand piano; and some item of agricultural machinery on the floor, in the process of being mended by a young man. Assorted dogs gather round him to sniff at his legs.
Ed is shown to an upholstered chair in the part of the hall that might be called the sitting room. In a matching chair facing him there sits a second elderly man, small as a dwarf, with an entirely bald head, a smooth almost blank face, and remarkable grey curled moustaches. This person, who is not introduced to Ed, gazes at him with unsmiling intensity; exactly as if he supposes himself to be invisible.
M. de Nabant issues a stream of orders, and the children jump up and rush out. A middle-aged woman in an apron then comes in, makes a little bob of respect to Ed, and goes out again.
‘Vous mangerez chez nous,’ says M. de Nabant.
Ed thanks him.
Food arrives, carried in by the children. A bowl of olives, a saucisson, a block of pâté, a slab of pain de campagne, a cake of butter.
‘Pour boire, il faut manger,’ says M. de Nabant.
The wine arrives in unlabelled bottles. Ed and his host and his host’s luxuriantly moustached friend eat and drink. The rest of the household and the dogs look on from the shadows. The wine is unusual, very ripe and gamy. M. de Nabant watches Ed as he drinks and notes his response with satisfaction.
‘Notre premier vendange depuis la guerre.’
Ed asks what combination of grape varieties he uses.
‘Carignan, Mourvèdre, Grenache Noir.’
Another bottle is opened.
‘Seulement Mourvèdre,’ says M. de Nabant.
Between the three of them they drink a bottle and a half of the wine. The woman comes and goes with the dishes. The boy on the floor grunts and mutters over his spanners. The children, no longer excited by the newcomer, return to giggling round the table. The dogs roll over and go back to sleep.
After they’ve eaten M. de Nabant rises, and with the same air he has projected throughout, that this is the way everything must be, he says to Ed, ‘Maintenant nous allons visiter le vignoble.’
His moustached friend does not accompany them on their tour of the vineyard. Ed learns that his name is Vivier, that he is a scholar and a historian, and that he studied long ago at Oxford University.
The vines on closer inspection turn out to be extremely well maintained. The tiny green berries are just beginning to form. In all, the domaine extends to a little under five hectares, and produces ten thousand bottles a year.
Ed discusses quantities and prices and means of transport. He proposes an initial purchase from last year’s bottling of ten cases, to test the market. The price is so low he finds himself suggesting a higher figure, which M. de Nabant accepts without comment.
On their return to the house, Ed is left by his host in the company of his silent friend while he searches out his account books.
‘I understand you studied at Oxford,’ Ed says in English.
The old man nods, and suddenly smiles a sweet smile that makes the ends of his moustache quiver.
‘Is our local wine to your liking?’
He speaks softly and distinctly, with a charming accent.
‘Very much,’ says Ed.
‘You are a long way from home.’
‘I go where my business takes me,’ says Ed.
M. Vivier studies him with an intent gaze.
‘You have no need to travel so far to find good wine,’ he says. ‘The English are usually content to stop at Bordeaux.’
‘Your prices are lower,’ says Ed.
M. Vivier nods. Then after a pause he says, ‘Are you aware that you are in the land of the bons hommes?’
‘No,’ says Ed. ‘Who are the bons hommes?’
‘Also called the Cathars.’
‘Yes, of course,’ says Ed.
Here in the Aude, as he knows very well, he’s deep in what was once Cathar country: Carcassonne, Montségur, Albi. They say twenty thousand heretics were massacred in the siege of Béziers. But this is all ancient history.
‘I haven’t heard Cathars called bons hommes before,’ Ed says.
‘It was their own name for themselves,’ says M. Vivier. ‘They are a much misunderstood sect.’
M. de Nabant re-enters with his account book.
‘They held heretical beliefs, I seem to remember,’ Ed says. ‘The pope launched a crusade against them.’
‘That is so. May I ask, do you subscribe to a faith yourself?’
‘I was raised a Catholic,’ says Ed. ‘But I’ve rather fallen away, I’m afraid.’
‘Fallen away? You no longer believe?’
‘I no longer believe.’
M. de Nabant, unable to follow the conversation in English, speaks rapidly to his friend in the local dialect. His friend replies, also in dialect. Then he turns to Ed.
‘He tells me you have come to buy wine,’ he says. ‘I am not to bore you with dangerous nonsense from the past.’
After the wine and the music and the sunny tour of the vines, Ed finds himself in a mellow state of mind.
‘What is this dangerous nonsense?’
‘It is the creed of the bons hommes,’ says M. Vivier. ‘My own special area of study.’
M. de Nabant throws up his hands, as if giving up on his attempt to control his friend. He lays down his account book and reaches down to stroke his dogs.
‘May I presume to ask,’ says M. Vivier to Ed, ‘why you no longer believe? Is it perhaps because you question how a good God could make an evil world?’
‘Something like that,’ says Ed.
‘But you don’t enquire further. You don’t take the next step, obvious though it is.’
‘I’m sorry,’ says Ed. ‘I seem to have missed it.’
‘That this evil world was made by an evil God.’
Ed smiles, amused by what could indeed be called an obvious step.
‘Ah, yes. That would follow.’
‘Many things follow, once you open your mind. This world is a prison. In our hearts we know this is not where we belong. We seek freedom, sir. You seek freedom.’
‘I’d gladly seek freedom,’ says Ed, ‘if I knew where to find it.’
‘You do know. You have in you the divine spark. There is only freedom in the spirit.’
‘It seems you know more about me than I know about myself.’
M. Vivier takes this as a rebuke.
‘Forgive me. As my friend will tell you, I can forget my good manners once launched on this subject. The English care greatly about good manners.’
‘Not me,’ says Ed. ‘I’m much more interested in this evil God.’
The little man is gratified.
‘You are not shocked?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Then allow me to go further. All men have a natural instinct to look for meaning in their lives. We crave meaning, and love, and order. You too, perhaps?’
‘Me too, perhaps,’ says Ed.
‘And do you find meaning, and love, and order?’
‘No.’
‘Of course not. You live in an evil world, made by an evil God. You are a bon homme in a mauvais monde.’
M. de Nabant utters a low groan and rolls his eyes. Evidently he has witnessed this performance by his friend before.
‘I’m a good man?’ says Ed. ‘I’m a Cathar?’
‘Names are unimportant,’ says the old man. ‘Only the truth is important.’
‘And that truth is, that this world is evil?’
‘This world is created and ruled by the power the bons hommes call Rex Mundi. The king of the world.’
‘And this king of the world is evil?’
‘We know it,’ says the old man, ‘by his works. This world is evil. All matter is evil. Our bodies are evil. But our spirit seeks the good, which is love. It is this suffering of the spirit, trapped in the prison of the body, which causes mankind so much unhappiness.’
Ridiculous though thi
s should be, Ed finds himself taking the little man’s words seriously. Partly it’s the absolute confidence with which that soft earnest voice speaks. Partly it’s because he seems to see into Ed’s own heart with such uncanny accuracy.
‘Do I understand,’ says Ed, ‘that you yourself follow this Cathar creed?’
‘No. I follow no creed. I am a historian. I study the beliefs of those who are long gone. But my mind is open.’
‘Did the Cathars have an answer? How did they seek to escape this trap?’
‘The bons hommes taught that we must renounce this world, and set our spirits free.’
‘How?’
‘Must I tell you how? If the body is the prison of the spirit, how is the spirit to go free?’
‘By death,’ says Ed.
‘The death of the body,’ says the old man. ‘The death of this world.’
‘And after death?’
‘After death is life.’
‘How do we know that?’
‘We know it because we have the divine spark in us. That is the source of our unhappiness. It is also our proof of eternal life.’
Ed is more struck by this than he cares to admit. For the first time he is being offered a version of existence that matches his own experience. The terror he feels, that he calls ‘the darkness’, is nothing more nor less than the world he lives in. The God who made it, in whom he could never believe, is an evil God. This he can believe all too readily. The pain he lives with every day is the longing to escape.
And yet surely this is all nonsense. Yet more superstition, cobbled together to meet man’s bottomless hunger for meaning in a meaningless world.
‘Why did the pope call the Cathars heretics?’ he says. ‘Why did they have to be exterminated?’
‘Why does power hate freedom? Need you even ask?’
Motherland Page 37
