“Mama, what’s that?”
“That? That’s Themoon!” she replied, as if it were obvious.
Funny name for a pebble perched in the sky, I thought. I continued to observe it through the window, but with less concern now that I knew its name. It was the start of a great love story between Themoon and me. My pebble perched in the sky. In hindsight, I think that I have always remained that fascinated kid, arms outstretched on the grass, engulfed by emotions, tears streaming down my cheeks and splashing on the ground in bright little beads.
“Paul Vertune? Ah, yes, little Paul who is always daydreaming? He won’t be much of a man, he’s not suited for work!” people whispered among themselves.
When the villagers spoke about me, they pulled a doubtful face, which I hardly failed to notice. Despite my young age, I already discerned a negative connotation when people talked about daydreaming, as if dreaming were forbidden and emotion, criminal. After all, what harm was there in spending hours observing celestial bodies? I never felt as if I were committing a misdemeanor, let alone a felony. But a child’s gaze obscures the grubby reality. Children cannot see their own hidden flaws, their own power struggles. I only understood the real issue at hand much later: idleness, that weakness of spirit that certain people sometimes master splendidly without anyone realizing. There in the countryside, idleness meant death, while life was wheat, that gold sprouting from the earth, the center of our lives. My village’s economy depended on it. Wheat was a capricious crop that followed a strict life cycle in which the slightest mistake cost us dearly. Being born in the countryside left us very little choice in the end. It was wheat or exile, toil or starvation. Most of the village’s inhabitants were attached to their roots and took over their ancestors’ farms, working the land till they died. Their days consisted of nothing else. Wheat, always wheat, forevermore. I often accompanied the men to the fields and sat in a corner watching them. My brothers barely looked up, jealous of my still being allowed to enjoy such carefree days. As for my father, he cast a disdainful eye over me. His gaze, already heavy with reproach, seemed to hold me for an eternity.
Your turn will come, he seemed to be saying. Just like everyone else here, you’ll dig the earth, sow the seeds, lay out the plots, organize the harvests, scythe the stalks, pick up the wheat, negotiate the price with dishonest wholesalers, return home at night worn out, and go to bed with your back aching. And the next day, do the same thing, from dawn till dusk, every day that God grants you, without respite or rest. For the wheat won’t wait. It never does. Then we’ll see that exasperating smile wiped off your face.
I was convinced my father hated me from the day I was born. He found me too different from him, more interested in thinking than doing. Out in the countryside, thinking was considered a virus to be eradicated. A destructive scourge, a disgrace, a family sacrilege. Don’t think, just act—scythe the wheat, period. Thinking was a layabout’s invention, a subterfuge to flee harsh reality, a cancer. My father didn’t think. He worked hard, without ever taking refuge or shirking his male responsibilities. Quite my opposite. And I understood this as a child, thanks to that “cancer” dwelling within me. My mind frolicked ceaselessly, free as air, anxious to protect me from suffering. It constantly reinvented a reality in which I felt comfortable, like a bird in its nest lifting its beak to be fed. A quality my father abhorred above all else.
When I was five years old, destiny knocked at my door for the first time. My entire life since then has been built upon a succession of happenstances, strokes of fortune, coincidences—call them what you will. Me, I call them signs of destiny. Too bad if that expression seems naive. A path opened up to me that day and I threw myself onto it wholeheartedly, with neither remorse nor regret.
One Sunday, after mass, we all set off for the port of Arzon, which sits facing the vastness of the Atlantic Ocean on the western tip of the Rhuys Peninsula. Upon arrival, we spied a bunch of onlookers gathered by a ship, shouting with excitement and stroking the rusty hull of the massive vessel. Some, full of admiration, chatted with several bizarrely dressed men. I’d never seen such getups: flat hats with bobbles on top, blue-and-white-striped sweaters, navy-blue canvas pants, slim braided shoes. These characters looked as if they had stepped straight out of the future. My brothers ran over and stopped in front of them. No doubt accustomed to this, the men drily beheld the wide eyes staring at them with such admiration. My mother approached too, as did I, struck dumb by the mystery of these men in their strange uniforms. Where could they have come from? Themoon, that pebble in the sky? Were they the ones responsible for its light? Was the ocean full of secret passages that took them all the way up there? My enthusiasm mounted as I drew nearer, excited at the idea of discovering the truth about my pebble. I gripped my mother’s hand tightly, my heart pulsating in my chest like a soundly beaten drum. When we were beside them, I looked up, the better to take in their eccentric costumes. One of them knelt down, removed his strange hat, and placed it on my head.
“Now you’re a sailor too!” the man exclaimed with a smile.
It’s odd how this apparently trifling phrase resonated in my mind for years. Certain words mark us for the rest of our days. We retain the indelible trace of their letters like a tattoo. The fibers of the hat sitting on my head were deeply ingrained with the centuries of knowledge of what I assumed to be an ancient brotherhood. I felt all of its force, its energy, and its philosophy through that fabric. The man plucked his hat from me and placed it back on his head. Then he ruffled my hair, little suspecting that he had instilled in me an idea that would gnaw away at my mind for years to come, shaping the recesses of my brain like a sculptor working his stone, to lay the foundations of a vocation. The man then headed for the ship, climbed the steps to the gangway, and waved at the people massed below. Soon the sound of the engines began to thrum across the port. White foam surged from the stern, and exultant cries rose from the crowd of onlookers as the ship moved away from the quay. My gaze was fixed on my sailor as he stood waving his arms on deck, happy to be flying away to Themoon. The ship eventually disappeared from view amid the rolling reflections of the ocean, and the crowd slowly dispersed. As for me, I remained rooted to the spot, my eyes fixed seaward. Part of me had embarked with them that day, to confront the storms and the currents. I was now certain of my choice. One day I would be a sailor too. Like them. I would sail away on the big blue ocean, the sea breeze caressing my cheeks as I stood on deck, a goofy smile plastered across my lips. That is, if my father one day granted me this privilege.
4
The days passed peacefully in the Gulf of Morbihan. My father and brothers went off to the fields while I helped Mama in her daily chores. I gathered fruit from the garden, milked the cows, and fed the animals. Every morning we went to the village market to buy the various ingredients for dinner. The farmers’ wives—forsaken by their husbands, whose mistresses, the crops, kept them busy—all rushed to the square to chat, to share their solitude. My mother’s days were filled with drudgery, the same routine of endlessly repetitive, alienating chores. But Wednesday was laundry day, and thus different. I awaited it with impatience, counting off the days on an imaginary calendar, marking crosses on the invisible wall of time’s passing. On Tuesday evenings, all the hair on my body would quiver with anticipation. I found it difficult to close my eyes, so hard was it to contain my excitement. I tossed and turned in bed, my heart pounding, my breathing rapid. The emotions were so intense that sometimes I trembled with fear at the thought of not being able to control them. They submerged me with all their might, all their volatility. Frightened by these convulsions, I turned my head to the window. Themoon hung resplendent in the sky, sometimes pale and puny, sometimes dazzlingly bright. Its golden rays spread like notes of silent music across the heavens, soothing my tormented mind. As I lay on my straw pillow, my restless eyelids grew heavy under the lunar melody and I fell into a peaceful sleep.
In the morning we went to do our laundry at the washhouse, where my mother was
a regular. The women of the village used to meet there at an allotted time in order to make this tiresome task jollier. I loved this moment above all else, that singular atmosphere full of gaiety, soap scenting the air, the uninhibited laughter of these women who, just for a few hours, were free of their husbands’ authoritarian grips. The rest of the week they moved about their homes like ghosts. But in the intimacy of the dilapidated washhouse, they threw off the chains of the submissive wife and were reborn. They splashed about in a whirl of bubbles, smiling at life in a way they no longer smiled at their men. On Wednesdays I watched them play the roles of the women they’d been before marriage, and I marveled at the spectacle. Finally, they lay on the grass, breathless, with arms outstretched. I applauded their performance, a little sad that the play was at an end. Panting, my mother smiled broadly at me, full of a certain madness that had displaced reason, before slowly returning to her usual self.
It was over. We had to return to the farm. Darkness had fallen, and I gripped her hand tightly on the dirt track. She whispered tenderly in my ear to reassure me. The two of us were alone in the world, with the stars for lanterns. She let go of my hand when we arrived home and paid me scant attention until the following day. No doubt she feared my father would reproach her for showing me excessive emotion. In spite of my young age, I understood that relations between the two sexes were very complex, separated by a river of emotion that would sometimes spill over or dry up. Children are marked for life by the upbringing they receive. That is how I grew up, amid a whirlpool of emotions nipped in the bud, suppressed, without realizing that one day all the corpses at the bottom of the river would float to the surface.
One July afternoon, not long after my sixth birthday, my brother Jacques taught me to dig for clams. I hung on his every word, listening attentively to his wise instruction. He showed me how to find the best spots, scratch in the sand, and not strain my back too much. I threw myself enthusiastically into the hunt for my first shellfish, ready to do anything to amaze my parents and shine in the eyes of my father. A few hours later, my bucket remained as empty as a cloudless sky. Jacques’s, however, was full to the brim. Of all my siblings, he was my father’s favorite, the eldest, the most productive, the one who gathered the most wheat and collected the most shellfish for Sunday lunch. The family couldn’t praise him enough, all agreeing he would be the next owner of the Vertune farm. My exact opposite. Over time, an affective hierarchy developed in the family. Our brotherly rivalry grew more palpable each day, although I managed to avoid being seen as a threat, thanks to the paradoxical advantage of always falling short. Jacques was fond of his little brother. He saw me as a playmate rather than an adversary. And it was this perception that convinced him to take me under his wing. Might as well make allies where one can.
So on that afternoon, the last rays of sun glimmered over the darkness of the ocean and I resigned myself to returning home empty-handed. I pedaled toward the farm. A few yards from the house, I heard raised voices. I laid my bicycle down in the grass and silently skirted the animal pen. The imprisoned beasts covered the sound of my steps with their scornful lowing at the human race. I slid along the wall until I caught a glimpse of my parents locked in discussion.
“What are we going to do with him?” bellowed my father with such disdain that I immediately knew he was referring to me.
“Give him a chance, take him to the fields, show him how to work the land.”
“He’s useless, that kid, there’s nothing to be done about him. He’s not like his brothers, he’s got no backbone, no courage, he’s like a little girl!”
“You’re too hard on him,” protested my mother. “He’s different from the others, it’s true, but that’s no reason to scorn him.”
“We’ll see about that. Tomorrow I’ll take him to the fields with us.”
My fate was playing out before my eyes. The die was cast, the deck stacked. I felt the injustice of being just a child, not allowed to have my say. My father looked in my direction. I started and hid behind the wall, curled into a ball, my stomach knotted with fear. I was scared he’d come for me in my hiding place, furious at being spied on by his own son. But he went back inside and I heard nothing more. Night had now fallen. In a corner of the sky, Themoon still smiled upon me, its vast craters like dimples. Crouching behind the wall, like a prisoner on the run, I sensed that my carefree days were coming to an end. The afternoons at the washhouse, reveling in the beauty of those liberated women, would soon be no more than a distant memory. Clouds began to fill the sky, dark and sinister, like the years ahead. It was time to become a man.
5
My father woke me before dawn. His face loomed over me in the dark, his hair still tousled with sleep. He put his finger to his lips and beckoned me to follow him. All my brothers were still fast asleep. The house was completely silent. I rubbed my eyes, sat up slowly on the hay mattress, and fumbled in the half-light. As I walked across the room, I felt a strange mix of curiosity and fear. Why had he woken me so early and left my brothers to sleep? Outside, the cool air caressed my face and I felt the moist morning dew on my bare feet. My father sadly watched me from beside the animal pen. I sat down on a piece of wood. He furrowed his brow, preparing his solemn speech.
“Today I’m going to teach you to till the land,” he said coldly.
“Yes, Papa.”
“Then, in September, I will introduce you to the village schoolmaster. You’ll go to class in the morning and work the fields in the afternoon.”
He paused for a few seconds, his eyes boring into mine.
“I want you to become a man, Paul, who gets up early and works all day long without grumbling, or dreaming, or thinking—who simply works his plot and feeds his wife and children by the sweat of his brow. If you’re not up to it, there’s nothing I can do for you. Out here in the countryside, you’re born in the field and you die in the field. Those who don’t like it leave. Got it?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Go wake your brothers while I get the tools ready. Tell them we’ll be leaving in fifteen minutes.”
I ran to the bedroom and roused my brothers. They understood that my turn had come. Childhood was drawing to an end. My first adult responsibilities had appeared. We breakfasted in silence and set off without a word, tools in hand. My father led the way, proud as a rooster, greeting the people we passed as we went. He couldn’t wait to see the sweat run down my brow and hear me beg him for a break, exhausted by the heat. When we reached the field, everyone went straight to their posts, heads bowed, like good little soldiers. I found myself at the edge of the field not knowing where to start, having never received any training in how to work the land.
“Paul, come here,” yelled my father.
“Yes, Papa,” I replied, dashing toward him.
“For the first few months you’ll watch how we work and give us a hand whenever we tell you to.”
“Yes, Papa.”
I did as I was told, frustrated at no longer being able to enjoy my mother’s tenderness and her warm smiles. As in any organization, farming obeys a hierarchy established by time and experience. Nobody was exempt from the rules. Everyone started at the bottom of the ladder and worked their way up on merit, according to the amounts of wheat sown or harvested. My first task—lending a hand to whoever required it most—was the initial rung in that long ascent to responsibility. For the first time in my life I had a job. That word held a place of considerable importance in my father’s mind, being part and parcel of the human condition. To my mind, however, it did not bode well at all.
I swallowed my pride and threw myself into the work, eager to shine in my father’s eyes and redeem myself. I attended to everyone’s needs according to their progress, coordinating the distribution of tools in such a way that there was no dead time. I brought water when their mouths were dry, handed out the midday meals, and packed away the equipment come evening. Out in the fields, my eternal optimism always prevailed. I ended up enjoying this job of
handyman; it suited my active mind, my need to always be moving around. And helping others suited my sensitive personality. An unshakable smile lit up my face, in spite of the exhausting days, the sunburn, and the blisters on my hands. To keep my spirits high, I sang my mother’s hymns. My brothers, recognizing the melody of their curtailed childhood, hummed along when my father was otherwise occupied. They were all wary of my father, except for Jacques, who had a special relationship with him. From time to time, my father raised his head above the golden stalks swaying in the wind, scanning the field to glimpse my face, convinced he had an idiot son, a good-for-nothing. When he finally caught sight of me, he’d yell, just for the pleasure of trying to break my optimistic spirit. He didn’t understand why I was still smiling. He had hardly smiled for years. Decades. Millennia. Once he’d vented his spleen, he returned to work, mumbling inanities into his beard, like the elderly ruminating upon their expended lives. Jacques, stupefied by the unshifting smile that illuminated my face, quickly grew jealous. He set out to destroy my optimism by reproaching me for not carrying out my tasks quickly enough, claiming I was handicapping his progress. I stupidly apologized, so as not to stir his hate any further, and redoubled my efforts, indefatigable, until he could no longer reproach me for anything. Then he would stop his little ploy, tired of yelling and gesticulating for naught, having understood that nothing and nobody could stymie my desire to prove myself, particularly in my father’s eyes.
By the end of the summer, my hands were cracked with scars, slashed by the ungrateful wheat, and my back was bent by the weight of the tools. Mama had to step in so I could rest. I was consumed with the urge to show my worth. My father, who had succeeded in bringing me to my knees, affirmed what he had foreseen.
“You’re nothing but a shameful little girl; you’ll never become a man,” he told me one morning while my mother’s back was turned.
Seasons of the Moon Page 2
