Colonfay
A Novel
Myles O’Grady
New York
For my wife, who makes everything possible.
But love has pitched his mansion in
The place of excrement
For nothing can be sole or whole
That has not been rent
W. B. Yeats
Monday
1. Armand & Family
Armand de Coucy, full of years and honor (save in his own family), fell out of a tree in his park at Colonfay in the department of the Aisne in northern France. A hornet stung him and he lost his balance. It happened on a Monday and he was buried seven days later. He was not ready to die. Things were left undone. During the course of that week a lot of skeletons fell out of the closet. This is not a history book. God knows what it is. A tale told in a week. Full of sound and fury and all over the place. As many strands to be woven together as a braided rope. Well, it was a French hornet.
The same Monday morning. Armand’s daughter, Laure, reborn, with a fullness in her body and all impediments flushed away. This is her story, or stories, for she has many faces. Laure, Lolo, Laurence. Depending. Right now she’s lying there asleep as the clear dawn breaks over the Lubéron Mountain of Provence. She has a beatific smile on her face and a comforting hand between her thighs. She’s dreaming of things a married lady should not be dreaming of. Stolen fruit. Oh, the joy of it! Oh, the succulence of it! A gentle mistral rustling the plane tree is the background symphony to her dreams. The birds are trilling, the bees humming, the sun shining, the scent of the honeysuckle the bottom note to the delicious smell of sin. Free at last! Never to go back. Hell is in the north; Heaven is in the south. Her father’s fall will be for her the ultimate release. She despises him. Had she been anywhere near the tree she might have felt like giving the ladder a push. This mild-mannered man who wouldn’t say boo to a goose does not inspire much filial piety. Laure has lived too long already with his legacy of shame. Laure, cerebral, wanting not to be, last night liberated with her first unbridled climax.
Laure’s husband, Dermot McManus. A free-range Irishman with a lot of miles on him, unintellectual. Activist. Dreamer. Rolling stone. ‘I imagine, therefore I wander.’ Opposites attract? And endure? Yes, and pigs will fly. This Monday he’s in Gilleleje, Denmark. He’s supposed to be on location in Mexico, directing photography. He was there until two days ago, when, discarded by Laure like a Métro ticket in the wind, and having lost his center of gravity, he left for Denmark. Dermot needs a jar of hyggelig. Hyggelig is a Danish word for which there is no equivalent but ‘everything in the garden is lovely’ will do. Hyggelig is promoted if there’s a complaisant female troll around. Marital deprivation may be dissolved in carnal pleasure. Laure would concede that, at times, Dermot has the right to call up the reserves. Those who knew Laure, and knew about Nana the Troll, said “His balls rule his brain” but, sure, they don’t know the half of it. He too is saddled with the sins of his father. Plus the lapsed Irish Catholic guilt thing. Overcompensating like a mad fool. Dermot likewise seeking orgastic release.
Dawn in Paris that same Monday. Armand’s son, Patrick. He’s already at his desk in the Rue du Cardinal Lemoine. He’s an insomniac. The grey hours are best for injecting a bit more concentrated tedium into his story of the slug crawling across the ceiling. The ceiling he sees (and he sees it clearly) is in the bedroom at Colonfay. It’s not like Proust’s chamber, redolent with affection and happy anticipation. He hasn’t seen it since 1938 and every day he celebrates his removal from it with a word from the acid muse. He is, as they say, out of the family loop. When he hears of his father’s fall, he will ask— Did he bounce? Patrick has almost managed to exorcize the demon of inherited guilt. He’s earned remission of his father’s sins. He’s not unhappy. He’s a philosopher. He’s got it made. He understands what Beckett meant when he said there’s nothing funnier than unhappiness. He’s laughing as he selects the word. Melancholia can be fun!
The main cast is there. There are extras, some with important roles, like André, Laure’s American Liberator. And others, like Mouse, Dermot’s cousin, sometime shrink, fixer, the anchorwoman, though anchorman would be more appropriate in Mouse’s case. There’s Nana the Troll, Dermot’s comfort lady; both the balm and the fly in the ointment. They’re dispersed hither and yon. Trying to consolidate them is like trying to gather up the pieces of an exploded fragmentation grenade and reassemble it. Let the bits fall where they may. All fiction is chaos. The magnet is Armand. He fell out of a tree. That’s a hard fact. Let’s get to him. First, a word about Colonfay where the poison flowers grow. A hidden house in a secret corner of France, unknown that is except to the permanent residents nearby; ‘the glorious dead,’ planted in military rows with regimental badges carved in the stone markers and, yes, the obscene ‘Dulce Et Decorum Est’ on the plinths of the central memorials. Colonfay, scene of battles long ago. And yesterday. The château of Colonfay, the family house that once echoed to the happy sounds of children at play and later to the screams of the victims. A monument to man’s inhumanity to man. And woman. And child. Colonfay, and the killing tree. The cedar of Lebanon. The execution post. The wreck buoy on the human chart.
2. Colonfay: the Last Battle
Colonfay. War-torn, again. The great storm of August, 1980. It devastated the region. A brilliant white night flickering with incessant sheet lightning and simultaneous cracks of thunder, like the 120mm guns that had often rocked the house in earlier times. It had blown great guns too. The shutters rattled; the house groaned; things jumped about in the grenier under the roof. Dawn was a sky that bled. A German Expressionist dawn, blood-red slashes across a green and purple canvas, with a few small daubs of blue, and black clouds like funeral spinnakers racing across the sky on their way to the cemetery.
Which cemetery? Take your pick. Colonfay was between the French war cemetery of La Désolation—Yes, La Désolation!—and the German war cemetery at Le Sourd—Yes, The Deaf! “The dead are all on one side,” as the poet, René Arcos, said.
The monument in the cemetery, erected by the Crown Prince for his friends: Treu Bis Zum Tode. Faithful unto death. Ja, verily.
“Up yours, Heinie,” said Dermot, every time he passed it. Dermot, in 1943, a trained killer at seventeen, remembering the sergeant instructor on the Commando course at Achnacarry, “Mac, I’ll see your name on the village war memorial yet!” Funny. War was hilarious. You could die laughing.
Colonfay was always in the thick of battle. The park was violated in August 1914, during that first battle of Guise, and again in October 1917. During World War I, that they used to call The Great War—The Great War!—it was the headquarters of General Lanrezac commanding the Fifth French Army and later that of the German general commanding five armies. The cave had been reinforced to make a bunker. During World War II, the house alternated between French, German, British, and American tenants. Colonel Charles de Gaulle rested there after his exceptional stand and the park was churned up when Guderian’s and Rommel’s tanks swept through from the “impassable” Ardennes with their buckets and spades on their way to the seaside at Dunkirk; and again in 1944, by the American 1st Army during the Battle of the Bulge. That was in December when the U.S. 1st Army tried to hold Bastogne and 80,000 casualties resulted.
The house was shat in at different times by Prussians, Russians, Bavarians, British, Moroccans, Americans, and French Meridionals to whom the sound of a shot was an instantaneous laxative. It was desecrated by the brutal and licentious soldiery, with the panelling of the library burnt and the roof ripped open to make an observation post. The retarded village girl had been used and abused in a maid’s room, by an entire battalion. It was said that the Crown Prince Wilhelm had been taken aback in the orangerie b
y his friends in the Kaiser’s Garde Regiment Zu Fuss. People in the village had the General, von Kluck, dressed in women’s nether garments and dancing on the dining-room table.
Dermot: “You lost over two million men in the Great War.”
Patrick, son of Armand: “It wasn’t all bad. On the other side, Paul Wittgenstein lost his right arm, and Ravel composed his Concerto for the Left Hand for him. One concerto is worth two million men. War’s great for music!”
Way back in 1814 Napoleon had slept there on his way to encircle Blücher at Château-Thierry. In 1815 the Emperor had dallied a while on his way to the battle of Waterloo where Blücher, coming to the aid of Wellington and saving the day, took his revenge. In 1870 the Prussians bivouacked in the park on their way from the battle of Sedan to invest Paris. And so on and so forth. Colonfay. You know you’re there when you see him at the crossroads. He stands there, the cast iron poilu, a soldier of France, resting on his upturned rifle above a list of the local fallen, ‘mort pour la Patrie.’ He’s a sad sentinel, ignored save on one day a year, your standard economy model war memorial for impoverished small communes, like Colonfay.
Dermot would salute the poilu. He remembered the Commando sergeant with his brilliant wit but limited repertoire: “Mac, I don’t want you to die for your country. I want you to make the other bastard die for his!”
You would be through Colonfay before you realized it. There’s nothing but a line of nondescript cottages leading into the village; a small store with a bar; a church that’s visited rarely; the château hidden away behind the church.
Château, castle, manoir, maison de maître. The house at Colonfay was just a big house but it was ‘le Château.’ So what was it about this house and its hidden park, planted with exotic trees? Well, it was on the direct route for armies from the east. Huns and Visigoths.
The cedar of Lebanon dominates the park. It has watched for three hundred years the passing of the barbarians and has sheltered murder and mayhem and all sorts of abominations. Reprehensible acts unconnected with war. Blood has fertilized it, and Laure has shed copious tears under it. Armand is but the latest victim of the killing tree. Poetic justice? Who is to say? Now, again, Colonfay devastated. Trees uprooted, slates torn off the roof. Lightning has struck the old walnut tree. The wall to the kitchen garden looks as if a Tiger tank has been driven through it. The small greenhouse is matchwood and broken glass.
The venerable cedar of Lebanon is smashed in its lower branches, one hanging down like a broken arm, all twisted with the sinews white and the tendons stretched. The whole scene is like that of a battlefield after another battle.
3. The Breath Upon the Glass
Armand took the best part of a week to die. It’s a long time if you’re in agony but it’s as the blink of an eye if you’re trying to put the pieces of a dysfunctional family back together again. Impossible? By no means. Perish the thought. Impossible is not French.
Impossible n’est pas français. That’s what the French say. They say it with habitual modesty and a blind eye to the facts. They repeat it parrot-fashion like children learning their catechism. “Impossible n’est pas français!” Yes, well, if you believe that you’ll believe anything.
Impossible is not French! If you say something often enough the words may become the action. This is what Armand de Coucy said to himself that mournful Monday morning after the tempest. He looked out of the window at the desolation in the park and the shattered cedar of Lebanon. Armand de Coucy, at the age of eighty and crippled, decided to make like an acrobat. “I may be hors de combat but I will go up that tree and cut off the broken branch. Impossible n’est pas français!” Well, we know how that Cartesian gem worked out. There’s no fool like an old fool, as Granny used to say.
Armand was up the ladder sawing away when the hornet stung him on the left wrist. He turned to slap it with his right hand. The whole body twisted. He was locked into a rigid plastic ‘corset’ from the neck to the lower back, a consequence of an accident chasing moths at night in the Cameroons two years ago. He had fallen down an animal trap and broken three vertebrae. He was then a stripling of seventy-eight.
The saw flashed away. The ladder skidded along the branch, lost its anchorage and pirouetted in empty air before toppling backwards. A giant hand gave it a push. The old man was flung off and landed horizontally face up. He lay there on his broken back looking surprised and peevish. He tried to move. A pain shot through him. The shaggy bitch stood there looking at him, wondering. She licked his face. She whined. He moved again, tentatively. More pain.
He said, “Palsambleu!”
Nobody except Armand de Coucy had said Palsambleu! for a hundred years. He was given to démodé expressions. He would never have said the full, ‘par le sang de Dieu,’ by the blood of God. Never would he take the Lord’s name in vain. He was a passively religious man. Went to Mass some Sundays, gave to the poor. Confessed his sins, which weren’t many, but not all. Saintly. Well, yes, they do say that the biggest sinners make the best saints.
“Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth,” said Dermot, who had his measure.
“The devil incarnate,” was what Laure, his only daughter, thought, and despite Dermot’s intercession, she treated him accordingly. “My father, the war criminal,” she said as she introduced him formally to Dermot (who had already met him briefly) before they were married.
Dermot thought that a trifle excessive but no doubt she had her reasons and, as your man Blake said, ‘the path of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.’ Sometimes the path is long and when you arrive at the palace it’s a mausoleum.
Was that Laure’s problem? Could be. Dermot had had his problems with his father. True for you, we spend our lives recovering from our childhoods. The English poet Larkin was right: ‘They fuck you up, your mum and dad.’
Armand was an entomologist, a lepidopterist specialising in moths. He passed out. He came to in a world that revolved, then stopped. He saw himself in different situations, dreamy images in and out of focus; like looking in a steamed-up mirror that was sometimes wiped clear. The breath upon the glass. Images held awhile or in chaotic sequence. Slipped images. Into his consciousness spun a butterfly. It fluttered above him. He thought it curious. A Papilo podarilius, called Le Flambé. It seemed to have lost its way and was working in the wrong zone. Its inertial navigation system was all screwed up. The black diagonal stripes made it unmistakable. A flying zebra. He had seen it south of Lyon but never as far north as the Aisne. Most curious. He remembered seeing it described in the book The Butterflies of France as ‘a rare swallowtail butterfly.’ Had he seen it described as ‘Iphiclides podarilius’? Maybe. He couldn’t remember. The red-tipped wings.
What he kept remembering was Laure. Laure and her little culottes with the red piping. Laure lifted up by her Uncle Didier to swing on that branch of the tree. Laure screaming. Running to him, wrapping herself around his leg. Crying, “Uncle Didier does things to me! Make him stop, Papa!” And him saying, “Don’t be silly, Lolo. Don’t be a cry-baby. It’s only a game. Your uncle loves you. He wouldn’t hurt you. Go back now.” And her running into the house and locking herself into her room in the tower.
Did he know that it was more than a game? Did he want to know? Laure, little Lolo, her need ignored. His denial. Laure, who never forgave him for not protecting her. Laure who held him more guilty than she held her uncle, and who would never trust him again.
4. The Liberator
For Laure there was no curse but a blessing at André’s house under the shadow of Montagne Sainte Victoire. Who was it said the best time is going upstairs? Right. Oh, yes. And how. Apart from the big death in the north, the small death in Provence.
He’s following her up the steep, narrow stairway in his 17th-century house at Le Tholonet near Aix. Showing her the traditional maison de maître. Halfway up he puts his hands on her hips and stops her. He’s touching her.
She can feel his body behind her. Warm against her buttocks.
He says, “Look up.”
She sees the bas relief on the wall of the landing. A tondo. A big carving within a circle, a Madonna, in a pale blue gown, with halo, delicate, beautifully executed. Not a Luca della Robbia but still. It has been created with talent. It’s unvulgar. Not like those gaudy madonnas in the churches or at the crossroads. Yet.
There’s something about it that’s different. It’s lascivious. The virgin has a knowing smile, conspiratorial, lewd. Her hands are lowered and are opening her gown at the vital point. It’s the Piero della Francesca Madonna del Parto, the pregnant virgin before she got pregnant. Hand in the slit of her gown, daring, playing with herself, inviting. Nothing is more provocative than a saintly whore.
He says, “It was a maison de rendezvous built by an archbishop for his mistress.”
She says, daringly, “Consecrated sex.”
She’s excited. She’s conscious of his warmth behind her. She’ll never understand why she does it. A brainstorm. Unpremeditated. No thought of revenge, of betrayal. No thought. Just a sudden impulse to jump off a cliff. Her body has a mind of its own. Her arm is out of control. It’s like a non-drinker suddenly reaching for a brandy snifter and knocking back the fiery liquid. Burn me! She reaches back and touches him. Feels him. She’s shocked by her own audacity. Frightened. He pulls away and then comes closer. Lifts her skirt. She helps. She’s ready. Ready? She’s been ready for twenty years. The dam bursts with a vengeance. The valley floods. The tidal wave sweeps everything away. She’s submerged. She’s dumped, almost unconscious, by a breaker on the heavenly sands. She comes back into focus. She sees close to her eyes the octagonal tiles, the steps worn by centuries, red, cracked. The strip of polished oak at the edge.
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