Olive Farm

by Carol Drinkwater

  “A rate has been agreed. Hands were shaken upon the deal!” I bark.

  “Allow me to explain, chère Madame…” And he proceeds to explain in an irritatingly apologetic manner that he has underestimated the total number of man hours required for his two workers to climb up and down the hill and is obliged therefore to add this to the bill.

  I am speechless with fury at his audacity and invention. Here, in the Midi, I am discovering, there are always reasons why the valuations change or why the work is not done in the manner or to the standard agreed. In this part of the world, quotations and budgets might as well be used as barbecue kindling.

  Michel pays with good grace, and we order the laurel shrubs, for this is urgent and we cannot afford to delay while we look around for another gardener. Better the devil you know… Still, before plein summer is upon us, with all its distractions and harassments—the onslaught of tourists, lines, traffic congestions, when even the tiniest chore takes twice the time and every factory, société and office closes down for the entire month of August—we would do well to find ourselves some able-bodied help. We have a daunting list of tasks to accomplish. Most will be left to me to oversee, because Michel must return to Paris and will only be here on the weekends. I am tired from the run of the play and grateful to have an excuse to stay here and hang out. Besides, I have my writing project, inspired by our day trip to the islands, to complete.

  And then there is the leaking roof… Yet again, after evening calculations over a bottle of wine, we realize that our funds are desperately insufficient. We will have to choose what we attack now and what gets left until some future date. But we are not downhearted. After my initial bad mood, I grow cheery again.

  Last summer we managed and, better still, enjoyed magical months. There is no reason why this year should be any different. Now that the property belongs to us, certain pressures have been lifted. We can create our own pace. Installating a kitchen, rewiring throughout, building a bathroom between two guest bedrooms, replastering and painting upstairs and down, renovating an ancient scullery—une souillarde—as a summer kitchen while preserving its magnificent blond stone sink, replacing lengths of piping and cracked tiles, repairing and painting Matisse-blue all shutters and doors, planting palm trees, fruit trees, flowers, more flowers, creating vegetable and herb gardens, purchasing the second five acres, even my precious olive farming—such a never-ending list! But they can all be achieved in the fullness of time. If, during this summer, I can study the basics of olive farming and we can find ways to secure the house against the undesired entry of thieves and rain, we will have accomplished a great deal.

  I AM STANDING ON THE roof in the company of Monsieur Di Fazio, our chimney-sweeping plumber. He has agreed to coat this flat, leaking expanse with a layer of asphalt and gravel. Although it is a temporary solution and the work does not carry a damp-proof guarantee, he assures me that it should keep out the rain for up to a year, even two, until we can raise the hefty sum needed to execute the job in a more professional way. (The three quotes we have received have left us reeling.) While pacing to calculate meterage, he spins a kind of lumbering pirouette, a 360-degree turn, scans the length and breadth of our land, then screws up his face and peers south toward the bay. The view from this hauteur is breathtaking. In true Midi fashion, Di Fazio grimaces his approval. Coming from him, this is a rare compliment, for until this moment, he has recommended repeatedly that we raze the villa and construct a new one. But today, the earlysummer warmth mingled with an agreeable breeze coming off the hills seems to have put him in good humor. He concludes, “Pas mal, Madame,” with, as ever, the authority of God.

  I nod, gratified.

  He turns his regard toward our pine forest. “You have plenty of wood.”

  “Yes,” I agree. Hardly a debatable point, for the felled trunks and branches are lying at angles all over the grounds like pick-up-stix.

  “You know, a word of advice… if I may be so bold…”

  I brace myself, expecting to be counseled to build ourselves a cabin and abandon all hope for this once-neglected farmhouse.

  “There is enough wood here to pay my bill for the roof work.”

  “Really?”

  “Mais oui, Madame. Sell it for cash and then pay me in cash. It will be a très bonne affaire for you.” His eyes are ablaze with thoughts of a good business proposition, particularly if it is noir and therefore tax-free. We saunter toward the roof’s edge, preparing to descend the rear wall of the building by a ladder which I have placed there expressly for this purpose.

  Di Fazio signals me to go ahead. I twist and lower myself onto the first rung, stepping cautiously because descending backward down ladders always makes me queasy. I leave him to follow. He is a hefty man and, I assume, will wait until I have reached solid ground before climbing aboard, but he doesn’t. I am only two rungs beneath him when I feel his weight and the ladder begins to shift. “I have discovered your secret, Madame,” he bellows from above. I wish he wouldn’t talk now. I try to hurry, concentrating on reaching terra firma.

  “I told my wife. But no one else. I’ll keep it to myself. You don’t want the entire village gossiping.”

  Whatever this secret of his is, it is amusing him greatly. I stare into the soles of his thick workman’s shoes while trying to avoid the not very pretty sight of his blue trousers flapping around extremely hairy legs. He is laughing so loudly that the ladder is now slapping back and forth against the wall. I picture us crashing to the ground, a damaged heap of limbs and metal.

  “Tell me in a minute!” I yell, flinging myself to the ground, which seems the preferable alternative. From there, flushed and giddy, I await his revelation. “What secret, Mr. Di Fazio?”

  His eyes are twinkling like those of a big kid who has uncovered the whereabouts of stashed sweets. “Pas un mot.” One finger is raised and pressed against his pouting mouth.

  “But surely—”

  “Ssssh. My lips are sealed.” How he loves to play-act, to revel in his moment of drama.

  I shrug and lead the way to the front terraces. I have no idea what he is talking about. Surely not that le monsieur and myself are not yet married? He winks and shakes my hand ferociously, transmitting his soot to me in the process. “You are busy, Madame, I must leave you to your work. Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.” And off he goes, clattering down the drive in his rickety bus filled to bursting with old sinks, bits of pipes and blackened chimney brushes.

  Frankly, I am baffled. Still, his suggestion about selling the wood appeals to me. Unfortunately, I am not quite sure how to go about finding myself a purchaser, until one morning a few days later, returning by the back roads from a gym I have recently joined, at the wheel of an antiquated Renault 4 I have just purchased for five thousand francs, I pass a fenced field stocked meters high with lengths of tree trunks. I park the car to take a look. Beyond the gate, which is locked, is a small wooden hut. A notice is pinned to its door. I clamber onto the lower of the wrought-iron rails and peer over, searching for a telephone number or the hours of service, but its message is too faint to read. I glance at my watch. Twenty past twelve. No doubt the patron has closed up for a hearty two- to three-hour lunch break. It’s no problem; this little entreprise tucked away in the woods is barely five minutes’ drive along the circular lane that skirts the foot of our hill. I resolve to return later and, in the meantime, dash to the village to buy myself an olive and tomato fougasse before the baker closes for his lunch and another bout of baking.

  Approaching the village square on foot, I spy Mr. Dolfo, our good-natured electrician. The poor fellow looks hot and flustered, locked in desperate combat with his van, the engine of which is screeching. It whines and starts to overheat, as does he, all in an attempt to reverse into what seems to me to be a perfectly generous parking space. When he claps eyes on me, he abandons all further shots at parking and simply switches off the engine. I am a little taken aback, because the vehicle is skewed at a rather
dangerous angle, a fact which concerns him not a bit as he steps out and greets me heartily, shaking my hand as though I had just informed him that he has won le Loto. “Bonjour,” say I, still regarding his atrocious parking. I am ravenous and fearful of losing out on lunch. I make a move to leave, but he grips my hand fast and murmurs in a highly confidential manner: “We had no idea, Madame. Je suis désolé.”

  “About what?”

  “Et enchanté.”

  This has to be Di Fazio’s doing.

  On the far side of the place, I regard the automated shutters of the boulangerie creeping toward the ground. My breakfast consisted of two cups of black coffee, I have worked out for two hours and I have nothing edible in the house. “I have to go…”

  “Mr. Di Fazio said pas un mot, so pas un mot.” He winks, releases my hand and wanders off aimlessly with a wave and complicitous nod.

  Hurrying across the cobbles to purchase my loaf, I am all but flattened by a speeding Peugeot 5 which, after missing me, narrowly escapes swiping the entire hood off our electrician’s ill-parked van. In the smoke-filled tabac, alongside the bakers, a village resident I have noticed once or twice presses his thick speckled nose against the window and, beer and cigarette in hand, heeds me lasciviously as I hurry back to my car.

  I cannot imagine what story our plumber is spreading around!

  BEFORE DI FAZIO BEGINS work or guests arrive, I have a few days to organize my summer. I have scripts to write. Gardens I want to create. Books to buy, a restock after the robbery. I browse in air-conditioned bibliothèques, hunting the ABCs of olive farming. In my quest for knowledge of the olive, its history and farming, I buy everything I can lay my hands on. I learn that there are certain esteemed connoisseurs who hold that the olive oil produced around Nice has only one rival, the Italian variety from Lucca. Others pronounce that the fruit produced here on this French Riviera coast is second to none. It yields the finest virgin pressed oil in the world, as well as the most expensive. Legend has it that Adam’s grave was planted with an olive tree. I cannot think how this could be substantiated, but given the Middle Eastern locales of the Old Testament, it is not implausible. As tales go, I rather prefer the one about the battle between Poseidon, god of the seas, and Athena, goddess of wisdom, for the title of the city of Athens. The gods named the city after her rather than him because she planted the first olive tree within the Acropolis as a symbol of peace and prosperity, and the gods judged her legacy to mankind more fruitful than any of Poseidon’s trident-bashing, art-of-war chicaneries. (Women had the ruling vote on this: there were more goddesses than gods.)

  Getting back to facts: olive trees thrive best in Mediterranean climes. They will grow and produce in stony as well as well-drained soils and will survive happily at lofty altitudes, where other fruit trees would perish. Once established, they need little attention, minimal water and can withstand all but the severest of droughts and even frost, if the temperature does not drop beneath 45°F for any length of time. These gnarled and characterful plants survive for centuries but commence production at a tortoiselike pace. They do not produce their first fruits until they are seven or eight years old and will not deliver the full extent of their bounteous crops until fifteen, even twenty, years old. For any farmer who is beginning from scratch, it is a long-term investment. Fortunately, that is not the case at our place, but it might explain why it is illegal in southern France to chop down an olive tree. Any road or building must be constructed around existing trees.

  I stroll our dusty tracks flanked with the silvery trees, the sky above me Gauloise blue, digesting the knowledge I am amassing, seeing the cleared land anew. Now that we are rid of the stranglehold of weeds, I spend delicious time alone examining trunks and roots, the hang of the branches, the fattening drupes. The ancients deemed the olive tree a healer, and I feel its soothing power at work on me, chilling me out, slowing me down.

  On my return to the house, to my work, I observe two magpies warning off a russet fox, a battle for territory which the fox loses. The magpies send the rather sleek creature scuttling off into the undergrowth.

  I HAVE BEEN AT MY trestle table scribbling notes, lost in the history of the olive, and have left my return visit to the wood store till late in the afternoon, but upon arrival, I find the place still padlocked behind its iron gate. I hang around for a bit, kicking my heels, wondering if I should leave a note and, if so, where best to post it. The early-summer warmth embraces me. Several retired horses are grazing in a neighboring field, and I stroll over to stroke them. I have driven by these creatures on numerous occasions but have never had reason to stop.

  It is a pretty uninhabited country lane, and I decide to while away some time examining the hedgerows, in the hope that a woodman might appear. Scraggly clematis vine is climbing everywhere. A flattened milk carton lies in the road. It attracts my attention because its lettering is Arabic. I pass a bay tree as tall as a fully grown cypress. There is a peppery perfume in the air which I cannot identify. Is it wild sage? Yellow broom in full blossom brings a sweet, bright coloring to the roadside brush. Shards of green-tinted glass from bottles thrown carelessly on the tarmac threaten my feet, shod only in rope-soled espadrilles. Around the next corner is a tiny vineyard which I have noticed frequently on my trajets to and from the inland village of Mougins. The vines are years old, short and stubby and gnarled. The green fruit hangs like breasts heavy with milk. There are several cherry trees growing among the neat vine rows. Should I seek out this vine tender and ask his advice on preparation of soils, planting seasons, fruit flies, harvests, oh, a million questions? A jeep rattles past, and I am suddenly aware of how perfectly silent it is here, a meditative silence. There is no breeze. The day is still, intense.

  I pause by a narrow shady lane, speckled with shoals of pebbles and the crumbling remains of last winter’s forgotten leaves. Michel has pointed out this little pathway on several occasions. It leads to the rear side of our hill, he says. I notice, because I am on foot and not beetling by in my battered old car, that a few yards down the lane the route has been barred but is not impassable. There is no red and white Défense d’entrer sign; the land probably belongs to the local commune, which has installed the gatepost in an attempt to discourage the infuriating habit some have acquired of jettisoning old sinks, fridges and rusty electrical junk anywhere and everywhere, be it country lanes, gutters or roadsides. The Arabs are normally blamed for it, but I have no idea how sound these accusations are.

  I hear a mewling, or is it a bird? It is so unexpected within the silence that, at first, I take it to be one of the horses whinnying, back near the wood store. I hear it again and trace its source to farther along the lane. I had been intending to turn back but decide to take a quick peek. As I walk, slipping beneath the horizontal post, the sound grows more audible. On either side of me, the brush is thick with dozens of misshapen Portuguese oaks. They have repeatedly seeded and now struggle for light and space. In amongst them are many fluffy-fronded mimosas. There is a small clearing ahead, and at the farthest point, half the carcass of a rotting car. The sound is coming from there. As I approach, I see a gorgeous golden-bay animal lying on its side, panting heavily. It is a dog, a large shaggy one, shockingly thin. I bend and kneel, too timorous to reach out in case it snaps at me. One of its rear legs is bleeding badly. It must have ripped its flesh on the jagged, jutting metal. Gingerly, I put out a hand, and the creature bears its teeth in a ferocious grin. For a moment I wonder if I am mistaken. Might it be a wolf? It could very well be. Whichever, it is a magnificent animal, and in distress. I rise, considering what to do for the beast. I am close to home, but I couldn’t possibly carry it even if it allowed me to. And because of the barred entry, I cannot bring my old car to the rescue. I decide to hurry home, find the name of a local vet and meet him here. I start to run, and the dog lifts its head and whines miserably. I halt, look back, heart torn, then scoot fast back down the lane.

  When I reach my Renault, I discover another, a sh
ooting-brake, parked by the gate of the wood firm. A short silver-haired man is unloading two chainsaws from his trunk. I call to him, and he spins around. His face is flushed and friendly and kind. I tell him about the animal and ask for his help. He reloads the chainsaws and beckons to me. I jump in beside him, and we motor along the lane as far as the post. Together we return for the dog, who is yelping helplessly but grows defensive as we draw near. Eventually, after several fruitless attempts, the wounded animal allows us to approach and carry her—I now see that it is a her—to the trunk of the car, where she is settled on her side, hemmed in by the chainsaws, baskets, a profusion of wicker and dozens of empty wine bottles.

  Back at the farm, I run in search of a couple of torn sheets and a pillow, and the dog is installed on our obsolete mattress in one of the stables—where we found the wild cats at Christmas. The man introduces himself as René and offers to take me back for my car. During this short journey, I explain to him that I had been waiting for him, with the intention of selling him recently cut wood. Pine, olive, oak. “Would you be interested?”

  “Pourquoi pas?” His eyes are blue and creased, and I know instantly that I like him.

  While I slip off to telephone the vet René has recommended, he examines the wood and offers me one thousand francs above the sum Di Fazio is charging for the temporary sealing of the roof. More than that, he pulls from a leather pouch in his car a very healthy bankroll of notes and pays me, on the spot, the entire sum in cash.

  “Don’t you want to wait until—”

  “No, no. I’ll be back with my son tomorrow. We’ll saw it into logs here, if that’s all right with you. It will be easier to transport.” I agree happily, we arrange a mutually convenient time for his return and off he goes, leaving me staring at a satisfyingly thick wad of five-hundred-franc bills.