‘I don’t understand.’
‘Monsieur Seguin’s goat. You don’t know the story?’
Louis shook his head.
‘May I?’ the man asked Marius, indicating the vacant chair at their table with his pipe. Marius nodded. ‘A man called Daudet – Alphonse Daudet – wrote the story, about twenty… no, thirty years ago. But it’s as true today as it ever was. Shall I go on, young man?’
Louis nodded.
‘Well, Monsieur Seguin was a man who loved goats, but he never had any luck with them.’ He reached across to his table for the bottle of wine, along with his glass. ‘Monsieur?’ he asked Marius, indicating the wine. Marius nodded.
He poured a glass for Marius and himself, and a small amount for Louis, which he topped up with water.
‘Anyway, like I said, he had no luck with his goats. No matter what he did, no matter how he treated them, they always ran away. Monsieur Seguin was so upset he decided to never keep a goat again.’
The man took a sip of his wine and shook his head, as if Monsieur Seguin’s problem was his problem. Then, with a sigh, continued. ‘Of course, he did get another goat. Only this time he made sure it was a young one, so she’d grow up used to him. And what a goat it was! A beautiful little goat with soft brown eyes and a gentle manner. Her hooves were jet black, and so shiny you’d swear they’d been polished. Her coat was pure white – so long that it formed a houpelande around her, and she had beautiful twisted horns. He called her Blanchette. You like the wine, Monsieur?’
‘Yes. Thank you. The goat?’
‘Ah yes, the goat. Well, Monsieur Seguin wanted to keep this one, so he put her in his best paddock, where the clover grew sweet and abundant, and where there were big shade trees to keep her cool in the middle of the day. He tethered her, of course, but made the rope long so she could wander at will. And every day he would visit her and talk to her so she wouldn’t get lonely. And at first the little goat was happy – happy, that is, until she noticed the mountains not far away and wondered what it would be like, up there…
I see you’re smiling, young man, but that’s how it all starts, this want of freedom. Listen. You’ll see…
One day, as Monsieur Seguin was milking her, the little goat turned to him and said Monsieur Seguin, I’m so bored. Undo my tether and let me go to the mountain.
Mother of God in Heaven! cried Monsieur Seguin. Not you too. Aren’t you happy, Blanchette? Haven’t I given you my best paddock?
Yes, Monsieur Seguin.
Is your tether too short? I can lengthen it, if you like.
It’s not that, Monsieur Seguin, said Blanchette.
God in Heaven and all the Saints preserve us, cried the poor man, then what is it?
I want to be free, the little goat answered.
Free? Free? Mother Mary help me! No, I won’t have it. Don’t you know that there’s a wolf on that mountain? That every goat of mine that ran away ended up being eaten by the wolf? All six of them. All much bigger and stronger than you. What will you do when the wolf comes for you, hey? Tell me.
I’ll fight him with my horns, answered the little goat quietly.
You’re nodding your head, young man. You think the goat’s right, I can see. But wait. Wait till you hear what happened.’ The man refilled Marius’ glass, then his own.
‘Your horns are nothing to the wolf, said Monsieur Seguin. I had a goat called Renaude once, as big and strong and mean as the meanest billy goat that ever lived. Her horns were twice the length of yours. Well, she went to the mountain, and she fought the wolf all night long. But by morning, the wolf ate her anyway.
I don’t care, Monsieur Seguin, answered Blanchette. I still want to go to the mountain.
Well, as you can imagine, Monsieur Seguin was beyond reason, so upset was he. He took the little goat and put her in the cowshed, then locked the doors with a padlock so she couldn’t get out.’ The man refilled his pipe. Marius did the same. When the pipes were well lit the man continued. ‘Yes, he locked her up, but he forgot the window. No sooner was he out of sight that the little goat headed for the mountain.’
He looked closely at Louis to gauge his reaction, but Louis kept his face expressionless.
‘It was a beautiful day, and the little goat ran and jumped and rolled in the wild flowers on the mountaintop. She was so happy! No more tether, no more stake. Nothing to prevent her from going wherever she wanted. She was free. At one point, when she came to a rocky ledge, she saw Monsieur Seguin’s house far down in the valley, and behind it the paddock where she had been tethered.
How small it is, she thought. No wonder I was bored. She splashed for a while in a nearby brook, then lay down on a warm boulder to nap.
When she woke, the gentle breeze had turned to a cold wind and the sun no longer shone. She looked over the ledge once more, but the valley below was filled with fog, and all she could see of Monsieur Seguin’s house was a little bit of roof and smoke coming out of the chimney.’ The man paused and stretched, took a sip of wine.
‘Monsieur?’ asked Louis.
‘Be patient, young man. Be patient.’ He took another sip, checked how much wine was left in the bottle.
‘The little goat looked about her, surprised. The mountain was turning purple. Night had arrived. Already? she thought. She heard cowbells very faintly from below in the valley. A hawk brushed her with its wing as it flew homewards, and the little goat shivered. Then, suddenly:
Ahooooo! Ahooooo!
She knew it was the wolf, and all the happy memories of the day disappeared. Then she heard, deep in the valley, the rich sound of a horn. It was Monsieur Seguin calling her one last time. Blanchette wanted to go home, but then she thought of the tether and the small paddock, and she knew she could never go back. The horn stopped calling. She heard a rustle of leaves behind her. She turned.
She saw two pointy ears, and eyes glowing in the darkness. Sitting. Watching. Now Blanchette knew that goats didn’t beat wolves. No, she knew she would die. But all she wanted now was to last as long as Renaude. She lowered her head and the little horns began to dance. The wolf pounced.
Hmm… excuse me a moment, Monsieur.’ The man rose and went into the café. Louis looked at his father, aghast, and Marius hid a smile beneath his hand. Shortly the man returned, opened a new packet of tobacco and refilled his pipe.
‘What happened to Blanchette?’ asked Louis.
‘Ah, poor Blanchette… All night long she fought the wolf. A dozen times, I’ll swear, she forced the wolf back to catch his breath. Occasionally she would look up at the stars and think Let me last till morning. If I can only last till morning.’ The man struck a match on the sole of his shoe and sucked at the pipe.
Louis waited, silent but impatient.
‘Then the stars disappeared from the sky one by one. The sky lightened. Blanchette redoubled her thrusts, the wolf his bites. Deep in the valley, a cock crowed. At last! she thought, and she lay down on the grass, her beautiful coat soaked in blood…’
The man finished his wine.
‘And?’
‘And, young man? Well, the wolf ate her, of course. The wolf ate her.’
The man sucked on his pipe. Marius refilled their glasses and sipped his wine thoughtfully. Louis stared into his glass. But for a while, he thought, she had her freedom. Even if only for a while…
3
Louis woke to the screech of seagulls and found he was alone. The day promised to be warm, but at this time the air was still soft and limpid, enriched with the smell of brine and spices. The buildings of the port were brilliantly defined by sunlight, every colour a shade more intense. In the harbour two sailing ships lay at anchor, and a number of steamships were docked by the wharf. Most of the fishing boats had left before dawn, and would not return for some hours.
Louis disentangled himself from the coils of rope on which he and Marius had slept and hesitated, unsure whether to search for his father or stay where he was and wait. He watched the disorder of natio
nalities that made up Marseille argue and laugh and work, some dressed in the European style, whilst others still wore a vestige of their original costumes. But it was the Negro stevedores loading boxes onto the steamships that captured Louis’ attention. They were dressed in a sort of cape made of rough sacking with a kaleidoscope of patches, with a corner folded to form a hood, and the whole outfit was held to the body by a rope fastened around their necks. Bare legs and arms protruded from the capes, and from below the frayed edges of the makeshift hoods he could see glistening faces with wide toothy smiles.
‘Hey, gamin, get away from there!’ a fisherman yelled, gesticulating at Louis.
‘He’s with me. He’s my son.’
The fisherman turned and looked at Marius. He took in the duffle bag on his shoulder, the freshly baked bâtard in his hand, and nodded.
‘Come, Louis,’ Marius said.
‘Where are we going?’
‘The market square. I have to arrange for our passage.’
Away from the fisherman Marius pulled a chunk off the still-warm bread then halved it and handed a piece to his son. They walked towards the square savouring this simple feast, appreciating the soft white centre and smooth crispy crust, so different from the rough brown country bread they knew. When they reached the square Marius dug into his pocket and handed Louis a few coins.
‘Your brothers wanted you to have this. Don’t waste it.’
Louis took out the large square of cotton that his mother had cut from a sheet worn thin and hemmed into handkerchiefs, and tied the coins into a corner of it.
‘Do you want to explore?’
Louis nodded, smiling.
‘All right. Meet me back here in an hour. And don’t get yourself into any trouble.’
#
‘It’s all arranged,’ said Marius when he met up with Louis a while later. ‘The ship leaves at two this afternoon.’
‘Will it take us long to get there?’
‘Three days.’ Marius looked at his son and smiled. ‘Long enough for you to get your sea-legs,’ he teased, but Louis didn’t react.
‘I bought something while you were gone, Father.’
‘Oh? What did you buy? Show me.’
Louis handed Marius a postcard depicting the old port. ‘For Gustave,’ he said, then reached into his pocket. ‘I got this, too.’ He opened his hand to reveal a watch-chain, the links alternating in colour. ‘It’s gold, Father, and silver. See how it shines? I know you probably think I’ve wasted my money, but I will have a watch one day…’
Marius looked at the chain and immediately recognised that it was neither of gold nor silver.
‘Where did you buy it?’
‘From a man in the square. He had to sell it – he didn’t want to, but he needed the money for his family, he said. I told him I didn’t have enough, but he must have needed the money very badly, because in the end he agreed to take just what I had for it.’
‘All of it?’
‘Yes, but it was much less than what it’s worth. I think he must have been poorer than we are…’
Marius looked at his son thoughtfully. He has his mother’s heart. He ruffled the boy’s hair in an uncharacteristic gesture of affection.
‘Well, the money was yours to do with as you pleased. Let’s find a post office to send Gustave your postcard. I just hope your chain still shines when we reach Algiers…’
#
On the deck of L’Arlésienne men in officers’ uniforms jostled about, shouting orders at stevedores who ran up and down the gangplank with sacks of coal on their backs. L’Arlésienne was a two mast, one funnel steam-ship, considered small for her class. But she could make the Marseille-Algiers-Marseille round trip in a week, and for enough francs her captain was known to close his eyes to the exact number of passengers that boarded her.
Louis and Marius sat on the quay and watched people gathering. Bags and trunks and wooden chests tied with cord were stacked in piles onto which women and children roosted. Confusion prevailed, and street urchins stalked the crowd. The time of departure came and went, and still Louis and his father waited. Nearby, a dozen Legionnaires sat smoking, playing cards, dozing. A dray pulled by a huge worn-out horse made its way amongst the crowd, the driver cracking his whip and yelling for gangway as waiting passengers scattered and stevedores ran to unload it.
It was late afternoon when they finally boarded and L’Arlésienne weighed anchor. Louis watched with excitement as the Old Port disappeared from view, then followed Marius down to the hold where the steerage passengers were to sleep. There, metal berths two deep lined every wall, four rows high.
‘Come, let’s claim a berth before everyone gets here.’ Marius looked around and chose two top berths close to the hatch. ‘The air will be hotter here,’ he said as he stored his duffle bag on one, ‘but it will be fresher when the hatch is open.’ He helped Louis onto the second berth. ‘Now sit up here and don’t move. I’ll be back soon.’
Louis sat on the cold metal and waited. He felt overtired, but the novelty of being on a ship minimised his discomfort. Below him other passengers were arriving; there would be close to a hundred, all sharing the same space. Women with small children favoured the lower berths, and there was an air of excitement in the hold, a feeling of relief that at last they were leaving Marseille. Marius returned, carrying two thin straw-filled mattresses he had bought from the crew. He passed them to Louis, who spread them onto the bunks.
‘Can I go back on deck?’
‘Better stay here a while. Wait till everyone’s settled.’
Louis was about to protest, but two seamen came down the ladder, carrying between them a huge cast iron pot. People crowded around them, and the seamen swore and yelled for everyone to stand back as they ladled the steaming hot stew onto metal plates, and Louis was pleased to see a hunk of mutton on his, still on the bone. The mutton was tough and many complained, but to Louis this mixture of potato and mutton was a feast. And that night, as he lay in his bunk thinking he would be awake all night for the excitement of it all, the creaking and rolling of the ship lulled him into a dreamless sleep.
4
It’s 5 p.m., Monday 6th of March. 64 degrees and cloudy here in Sale, with the barometer at 29.86 and falling. Variable winds south to southeast. You’re listening to ABC Radio 3GI and here is the news. Nancy Prasad returns to Australia after her 8-year exile, more POWs freed, and the last hostages released as guerrillas surrender in Sudan. In sports, the Socceroos win the first round of the 1974 FIFA World Cup elimination series.
Fourteen-year-old Nancy Prasad received an emotional welcome yesterday at Sydney airport, eight years after she was deported to Fiji. Nation-wide controversy erupted when Nancy, then six, was deported in August 1965. The enormous amount of publicity given to her staged kidnapping made the case a hot political issue around the world, and turned her deportation into a symbol of the White Australia Policy in action.
In other news, another 136 American prisoners of war and 312 civilians were released from North Vietnam today as—
At the mention of Vietnam Nicolette quickly turned off the radio and eased her little VW onto the side of the road. She glanced at Michael, dozing on the passenger seat beside her, then at Willow. The eighteen-month-old was stretched across the back seat, also fast asleep, thumb in mouth. Nicolette decided to leave the engine running so as not to create a sudden silence that would probably wake them. This was their second day on the road and she needed to stretch.
They’d left Adelaide the previous day, reaching Melbourne late afternoon, and after a night in a motel were back on the road early that morning. They’d made good time and had stopped at Lakes Entrance for lunch, buying fish and chips and walking across the footbridge to Ninety-mile Beach to eat. It had been warm, then, so Nicolette had stripped Willow down, and they’d run and splashed at the water’s edge while Michael watched them from the beach. She’d called out to him to join them, but he’d shaken his head and she hadn’t insisted, k
nowing how fragile he still was. Later, she’d taken photos of Willow building a sand castle with Michael’s help, then used her macro lens to get a shot of a little crab scurrying over the sand, and some of the patterns on seaweed as it dried on the sand, before being on their way again.
But now it would soon be dark, and if they wanted to reach their new home before nightfall, Nicolette knew she should get back in the car and drive, but still she lingered. She still wasn’t sure they doing the right thing. Would they really be able to start a new life in a new state, away from the city, away from all the temptations? Was it really that easy – just pack up and go, and all your problems will stay behind? They planned to become self-sufficient – grow their own fruit and vegetables, maybe have a few sheep, and chickens for eggs. There was even a river nearby full of trout; they could teach Willow to fish, when she was a bit older… But what about Michael? He’d sworn he was clean now. Insisted he’d stay that way. For her and Willow. And she believed him, didn’t she…? Yes, of course she believed him – she loved him so much, she was just worried about him. Worried he’d never forget Vietnam. Forget whatever horrors still haunted his days and his nights…
A car came around the bend up ahead, kicking up a cloud of dust, and its driver waved to her as he passed. Country people, friendly and accepting. Maybe Michael was right – maybe this was the best thing for all three of them. Nicolette sighed and got back into the car. No guarantees, unfortunately. She’d just had to trust the universe…
‘How far are we?’ Michael stretched, yawned, and picked the road map off the floor. ‘Anywhere near that general store yet?’
The Bendoc general store was the only landmark along all those miles of narrow twisting road they called the Bonang Highway, an unsealed road that snaked its way along the steep sides of ridges and deep valleys filled with giant primeval tree ferns as it climbed towards the Snowy Mountains, so that it took over three hours to drive what would have taken only an hour or so on a straighter sealed road.
That Devil's Madness Page 2
