“When I saw the cat, I didn’t hide anything from you. I said: ‘Keep a sharp eye out on every slope,’ but in all honesty, I didn’t believe it could get this bad. And now—and I’ve thought hard about this—if, after the spring, after Marie’s sickness, after the fire, there’s still another dirty trick that comes down on top of us, then what will we do?”
“. . .”
“We’ve been pretty well rattled.”
“. . .”
“To be blunt, if one of these days a trick as dirty as the one that just got played comes down on our heads, we’ll be done for. That’s my opinion.”
“Mine too,” says Arbaud.
“And here’s the worst of it: If these were all natural happenings, we could cope. You can’t have bad luck all the time, you get through it, but—do you want me to say it? All of this is being done to harm us, us and our families, the Bastides, you name it. And by someone stronger than we are.”
“Who?”
Jaume looks at Gondran.
“Ja . . . net,” Jaume says slowly.
“He is a bit nasty, the old bastard, it’s true,” says Maurras.
Not a peep from Gondran.
“If I say it’s Janet, it’s that I know, it’s that I’m sure of it. I’m not a man to wrong anyone else for nothing. Remember—everything I’ve said, everything I’m going to say, these are things I’m sure of. I’ve dug up the proofs, I’ve weighed all of it up inside myself, and I’m sure of it.”
Gondran coughs.
“What is it that makes you say you’re so sure about it?” he breathes. “I don’t have any doubts about you, I have confidence in you, but to say you know? Can’t we look for a minute at whether I’ve thought about this too?”
“Listen,” Jaume goes on. “It was when the spring failed. After we’d been tramping through the bush searching for the underground stream and we came home that evening completely wiped out. All that night I couldn’t stop chewing it over. It seemed unbelievable to me that we hadn’t found anything. This country around Lure is brimming with water, but for us it had turned into a kind of burning flesh. I got the idea that from the other side of the air we know, and from inside earth, somebody else’s will was coming at us head on, that these two wills had locked horns, like two goats who have it in for each other. Right was on our side. We were looking for answers as best we could, we couldn’t have done any different. So, why was the other one so headstrong?
“In the morning I went to see Janet. He’s the oldest—so I thought he might know something useful. And he did. He boasted about it, but he didn’t want to tell me. When I couldn’t cure Marie I took it on myself to come and talk to Janet again. I didn’t do it willingly, you can be sure of that. He’d already done me a dirty turn. This time he showed his true colors. You can’t have the remotest idea of the things he said to me. I saw his malice standing right in front of me, like another man. He told me we were all going to croak, and that this made him glad, that he was doing everything necessary for it to happen. I tried to make him listen to reason, I got angry, but there was nothing to be done. And then it was he started to talk, as if he himself had been the source of the mystery. It all took shape—a whole world being born out of his words. He conjured up countries, hills, rivers, trees, wild animals. It was like his words were marching ahead, stirring up all the dust of the world. Everything was dancing and spinning like a wheel. It totally dazed me. In a glance, I saw, as plain as day, how all earths and heavens are one, including this earth where we exist—but transformed, totally varnished, totally oiled, totally slippery with malice and evil. Where before I used to see a tree, a hill—in other words, all the things we’re used to seeing—there was still a tree, still a hill, but I was seeing right through to the terror of their essence. Power in the green branches, power in the clay-red folds of earth, hatred that mounts up in the green streams of sap, and hatred that trembles in the wounds of the furrows. And then I saw someone holding a thorn in his hand, who was ripping open the wounds to heighten the anger.”
•
They were listening, with their eyes wide open, their jaws slack, their lips drooping, their pupils dilated, their hands frozen, overwhelmed by this vision of the avenging spirits of the vegetal world.
•
“I’ve seen it move—the hill,” Gondran murmurs.
“And it’s Janet who’s holding the thorn,” concludes Jaume. The sweat is running down his ashen forehead.
“The slimy bastard,” goes Arbaud.
“Thank goodness we have you on our side,” says Maurras.
•
A silence falls. Since the fire, the silence is even heavier than before. The trees can no longer keep it hoisted above people’s heads. It crushes earth with all its weight. Then, from the very heart of the blackened plain, the howling of a dog keens skywards.
•
“And so?”
“And so, it’s him, there’s no question about it.”
“Janet?”
Gondran bites his hand, this massive hand that’s utterly useless in the face of this dilemma. He finally takes it away from his mouth, in order to be able get his thoughts out.
“It is true, I wasn’t saying anything, but I’d figured it out. Not the way you tell it—you’re quicker than we are—but I had my suspicions. You’re right, it’s from Janet that it’s coming, but there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“Yes there is.”
“What?”
In back of Jaume’s lip they catch sight of a yellowed tooth; it disappears.
“We have to kill him,” he says.
Ideas like this don’t sink in immediately.
“Good god!” goes Arbaud, once he’s understood.
Now that the overwhelming fact is out in the open, Jaume breathes easier. Suddenly he’s gotten all red in the face. Bulging veins wrap around his temples, like the roots of an oak. He speaks in a voice drained of enthusiasm, a voice that barely escapes his mouth before the words drop down at his feet. And, at the very core of what he’s saying, he embodies his idea, like a wooden statue of a saint in his woolen mantle.
•
“We have to kill him, it’s the only way. He may already be scheming what it would take to kill us—the rest of us. It comes down to knowing whether or not we want to live, whether we want to save Babette, the kids, the Bastides. This is the only chance we have left to defend ourselves. We’ve battled against the hill’s body. Now we have to crush its head. As long as its head’s still raised up, we won’t be free from the threat of being destroyed.”
“He’s a human being,” says Gondran.
“He’s not human,” says Jaume. “Not a man like you, me, the rest of us—we have respect for life. We live our lives the same way we carry a lantern that the wind’s trying to blow out—we shelter it with our hand, and we’re humble in the face of life. Lots of times you’ve picked up newborn chicks, ever so nice and warm, and they nestle into your palm? When they’re in there, right in there, between your fingers, if you squeezed just a little you’d crush them. We’ve never even been tempted to do that, because we’re men. Him, it’s not chicks he has in his palm, it’s us. And we’ve already felt him tightening his grip, and we know that he has every intention of tightening it right to the limit. He’s not a man.”
“Hey, listen I’m not contradicting you,” continues Gondran softly, “I know it, I haven’t lived with him for twenty-five years without getting to know all about him. I do agree with you, it’s from him that everything’s coming and . . . we would have to kill him, as you say, if we wanted to pull ourselves out of this, but he’s almost down to his last breath. We might not have to wait long before it happens by itself . . .”
“And if you wait,” Jaume flings back, “if you wait, he’ll make you suffer as long as he has even an ounce of life left. The closer he is to the end, the more nasty he’ll get. When you come right down to it, if we wait, we’ll all end up crossing to the next world at one and the same ti
me, with him out in front and the rest of us bringing up the rear, like a bunch of penitents on the march. What does he have to lose?”
“You’re right,” says Gondran. “But what I’ve been saying, it’s because he’s my father-in-law. You understand? And on top of that, maybe I ought to talk about it with Marguerite first.”
“Go find her. We have to put an end to this by tonight.”
•
Gondran has just gone in to Les Monges.
Jaume looks at Arbaud and Maurras.
“It’s just as well we sort this out once and for all,” he says.
And the two others have answered at once, firmly:
“Yes, for sure.” And then, “Basta.”
•
With Marguerite, it was settled quickly.
When Gondran stepped in to Les Monges, the other three men felt suddenly afraid of her. They saw her flying over the grasslands, her nails thrust forwards, crying full blast. Jaume had thought of every counter-argument: “I’ll say to her: ‘So, now you want that all of this should go back to being bush again?’ I’ll say to her . . .”
No, with Marguerite he didn’t have to say anything. It was settled quickly. She’s come out staggering, stamping down on the grass, and now she’s over there wailing, crouched against the watering trough.
•
They’ve gone some distance away from her to settle the matter.
“You’re the only one who can do it,” Jaume says in a whisper to Gondran, “he won’t suspect you.”
“With what?”
“With your hands. In the state he’s in, it won’t take much.”
“Right here,” says Maurras, pointing to the nape of his neck. “I was a butcher in the regiment, and I know what I’m talking about. Right here, like you do it with rabbits. One sharp blow, and then you hold the pillow over his face.”
“Show me,” Gondran asks.
Maurras lowers his head and gets Gondran to feel his spinal cord.
“Right here, with the edge of your hand.”
“Will he bleed?”
“No, not if you hit sharply. Maybe a drop, but don’t pay any attention, put the pillow over his head and press down on it for a minute.”
A silence, with the four men motionless. In an instant, Gondran makes up his mind: He takes a first step, the hardest one, then he heads off, a solid mass, his back hunched, his arms stiff, his hands held away from his body, as though he’s afraid he’d stain his trousers with them. With each step, he looks like he’s trying to make sure that the earth is solid too.
In the gray evening, a vulture from Lure glides overhead, its talons open wide.
•
A cry. The door bangs, and Babette comes running out, trailing her shawl.
“He’s dead, Janet’s dead! Come quick!”
Old Madelon appears on the terrace. Gently, without showing much emotion, she makes a sign: “Come.”
Gondran had been on the very verge of going into Les Monges. He jumps back to get himself well away from the door, to make it abundantly clear that there was nothing afoot, that he didn’t actually go in, that Janet has died of natural causes, pure and simple.
Babette is over there, under the oak. She’s mouthing explanations and making motions that loosen her hair from its bun. She’s putting it up again as she babbles on, and suddenly, Gondran is moved by the arc of her beautiful, raised arms. Life washes over him like a huge, roaring wave. His ears are full of music, and he drops down heavily to the ground, like a drunkard.
•
It’s true, Janet is dead.
They’ve taken off their hats. Jaume has set his pipe on the sideboard, but since it’s still smoking a little, he goes outside to tap it out, taking care to muffle the sound. Marguerite is sniffing back quick, tearless sobs.
“Gritte, we have to get him dressed while he’s still warm. He’ll be too stiff afterward. Bring us his Sunday jacket.”
So that Gondran and Maurras can pull on Janet’s corduroy trousers, Jaume has taken hold of the corpse under the armpits, and its limp head lolls back onto his shoulder.
They’ve laid him out on the bed and bound his jaw with a white scarf.
“Gritte, close the shutters. Light a taper. We men will keep vigil over him. You women, go on to bed.”
•
Gondran digs around in one of the dresser drawers. He’s looking for a pipe.
“D’you have any tobacco left?” he asks Arbaud.
Night has fallen, dense and sombre. Down below, toward Manosque, the blaze is still burning a little. A cricket is singing on the terrace.
Gondran, straddling a chair, his eyes shut, is pulling gently on his pipe.
And Janet continues to gaze at the post-office calendar.
•
They remained there like that, saying nothing, smoking away, until almost eleven o’clock at night. Then, just as the last stroke sounded from the mantel clock, Jaume raised his hand and said: “Listen.”
Outside, from the depths of the shadows, a sound.
They’ve asked themselves: The wind? The rain maybe? Whatever it is, it’s brought a cold sweat to their brows.
They’ve gone to open the door. They’ve cocked their ears. . . . And they’ve all had the same idea: “Get the lantern.”
They’ve gone out. There wasn’t anymore doubt about it, but they wanted to make sure by seeing it and touching it.
The fountain is running.
Maurras looks over toward the doorway of Les Monges, from which the yellowish light of the funerary candles is seeping. He touches Jaume’s arm:
“Hey,” he says, “that was just in the nick of time.”
•
They’ve waited the obligatory twenty-four hours, and this evening they’ve buried Janet, at the edge of the land that was left unscathed by the inferno.
It’s Maurras who’s made the casket, and it’s Babette who’s read a passage from her missal, over the grave.
On the way back to the Bastides, Gondran has said to Jaume:
“You should go to Manosque tomorrow to do the formalities. Monsieur Vincent will make out the certificate for you, and then you’ll have to go to the town hall.”
•
“I’ll go, but not till tomorrow afternoon. I’ll walk down as far as Les Plaines, and I’ll take the Banon post. What do you have to say about it, Ulalie?”
They’ve gone back to their place. Something mysterious is worrying Ulalie. She’s pacing around the table, gazing at the window, which is full of night and stars.
“Do as you like.”
Even so, he’s gotten up at six o’clock this morning. It’s no small deal to go to Manosque. You have to bring out your good clothes, unfold them, sweep off the mothballs, find a neckerchief, brush your hat, polish your shoes, shave . . .
While he’s lathering up his soap with crystal-clear water from the fountain, he thinks about that morning, not long ago, when Gondran shaved with wine. Now there are six good feet of earth piled up over Janet, and the spring has come back to life. Just in the nick of time, like Maurras said. Jaume has had enough, he’s weary. He’s lost weight. He thinks about flowers, about hayfields in flower, and how the women call out to each other while they’re forking over the hay.
“Hey, Jaume!” shouts Arbaud from below.
Jaume hasn’t really snapped out of it yet—he jumped up right away, but then, while he was opening the window he saw—there behind the oak—the low mound of freshly dug earth the length of a man . . .
“Later . . .”
“I’ve come from Bournes vale. Somebody’s dead over there. It must be Gagou.”
Ah, yes, nobody had thought about Gagou for the past two days.
“He’s all shriveled up like a baby cicada. I’m certain it’s him. I took a quick look at his face. The rats have eaten off his nose. I recognized him from his buck tooth. I’m going to tell Gondran.”
Gagou! So, it’s not over after all! There’s still this thing lingering
in Jaume’s brain, those words of Janet’s. They haven’t died out yet, those words.
But, ah, since we’re already having to deal with things that hurt, we might as well get this one over with too, right away. Suffer a little, and then be sadder but wiser.
He turns his attention back to his shaving.
Ulalie comes in, carrying the water jug.
And, as he continues to lather the soap across his face:
“You know what, Ulalie, Arbaud’s just seen Gagou. He’s dead. Completely burned up. Down below, at Bournes. The rats have eaten off his nose.”
“I know, I heard.”
She leaves the jug under the sink.
He looks at her in the mirror as he goes on stroking the brush over his days-old beard.
“Where is it you say he’s at?” she asks.
“At Bournes.”
She goes into the corner where the tools are kept. She digs into the pile of implements and pulls out the new spade.
In the mirror, he follows all her movements.
She touches the tip of the spade, then goes to the door. Jaume turns around. He tries to turn slowly. He tries to speak clearly. But it’s only a muted whisper that makes it through the foam: “Where are you off to?”
“Where it is you say he’s at,” says Ulalie, repeating her words.
They look at each other eye to eye, face to face. And, imperceptibly, Ulalie loses control of her facial expression. A crease deepens next to her mouth, fills out again. Her eyelids tremble. . . . She pulls gently on the door and heads downhill.
•
So, it is really true?