Letters From My Windmill (6 page)

Seven years passed before Tistet Védène returned from the court at
Naples. His time over there wasn't finished, but he had heard that the
Pope's Head Mustard-Maker had suddenly died in Avignon, and he thought
the position was a good one, so he rushed to join the line of
applicants.

When the scheming Védène came into the palace, he had grown and
broadened out so much, that the Holy Father hardly recognised him. It
has to be admitted though that the Pope himself had aged and couldn't
see too well without his spectacles.

Tistet wasn't one to be intimidated.

—Most Holy Father, can you not recognise me? It is I, Tistet Védène….

—Védène?…

—Yes, you know me well…. I once served the wine,
à la française
,
to your mule.

—Oh, yes, yes…. I remember…. A good little boy, Tistet Védène….
And now, what can we do for him?

—Oh, not a lot, most Holy Father…. I came to ask you something….
By the way, have you still got your mule? Is she keeping well?… Oh,
that's good…. I came to ask you for the position of your Head
Mustard-Maker, who has just died.

—Head Mustard-Maker, you! You're far too young. How old are you, now?

—Twenty years and two months, great pontiff, exactly five years older
than your mule…. Oh, what a prize of God, a fine beast! If you only
knew how much I loved that mule and how much I longed for her in Italy.
Please may I see her?

—Yes, my child, you may see her, said the good, and by now, very moved
Pope, and, as you care so much for the dear thing, I don't want you to
live too far away. From this day forward, I am appointing you into my
presence in the office of Head Mustard-Maker…. My cardinals will
protest, but so what; I'm quite used to that…. Come and see us
tomorrow after vespers, we will give you the insignias of your office
in the presence of our chapter, and then … I'll take you to see the
mule and you can accompany us to the vineyard…. Well, well, let's do
it….

I needn't tell you that Tistet Védène left the hall walking on air, and
couldn't wait for the next day's ceremony. And yet, there was someone
in the palace, someone even happier and more impatient than he. Yes, it
was the mule. From the moment Védène returned, right until the next
day's vespers, the fearsome beast never stopped stuffing herself with
hay and kicking her rear hoofs out at the wall. She, too, was making
her own special preparations for the ceremony….

And so, the next day, after vespers, Tistet Védène made his entry into
the courtyard of the papal palace. All the head clergymen were there,
the cardinals in red robes, the devil's advocate in black velvet, the
convent's abbots in their petite mitres, the church wardens of
Saint-Agrico, and the purple capes of the choir school. The rank and
file clergy were also there, the papal guard in full dress uniform, the
three brotherhoods of penitentiaries, the Mount Ventoux hermits with
their wild looks, and the little clerk who followed them carrying his
bell. Also there were the flagellant brothers, naked to the waist, the
sacristans, sprouting judge's robes, and all and sundry, even the
holy-water dispensers, and those that light, and those that extinguish,
the candles…. Not one of them was missing…. It was a great
ordination! Bells, fireworks, sunshine, music and, as always, the
tambourine playing fanatics leading the dance, over there,
sur le pont
d'Avignon
….

When Védène appeared in the midst of the assembly, his bearing and
handsome appearance set off quite a murmur of approval. He was the
magnificent type of a man from Provence, from fair-headed stock with
curly hair and a small wispy beard which could have been made from the
fine metal shavings fallen from his goldsmith father's chisel. Rumour
has it that Queen Jeanne's fingers had occasionally toyed with that
blond beard. The majesty of Védène had indeed a glorious aspect; he had
the vain, distracted look of men who have been loved by queens. On that
day, as a courtesy to his native country, he had exchanged his
Neapolitan clothes for a pink, braided jacket in the Provencal style,
and a huge plume from an ibis on the Camargue fluttered on his hood.

The moment he entered as the new Head Mustard-Maker, he gave a general,
gentlemanly greeting and made his way towards the high steps, where the
Pope was waiting to give him his insignias of office: the yellow
boxwood spoon and the saffron uniform. The mule was at the bottom of
the steps, harnessed and ready to go to the vineyard.

As he passed her, Tistet Védène gave a broad smile, and paused to give
her two or three friendly pats on the back, making sure, out of the
corner of his eye, that the pope was watching…. The mule steadied
herself:

—There you are! Caught you, you swine! I have saved this up for you
for seven long years!

And she let loose a mule-kick of really terrible proportions, so that
the dust from it was seen from a long way away—a whirlwind of blond
haze and a fluttering ibis's feather were all that was left of the
unfortunate Tistet Védène!…

Mules' kicks are not normally of such lightning speed, but she was a
papal mule; and consider this; she had held it back for seven long
years. There was never a better demonstration of an ecclesiastical
grudge.

It was one of those nights when I just couldn't sleep. The mistral was
raging and kept me awake till morning. Everything creaked on the
windmill, the whistling sails swayed heavily like ship's tackle in the
wind, tiles flew wildly off the roof. The closely packed pines covering
the hillside swayed and rustled far away in the darkness. You could
imagine yourself out at sea….

All this reminded me of the bad spell of insomnia I had three years
ago, when I lived in the
Sanguinaires
lighthouse overlooking the
entrance to the gulf of Ajaccio on the Corsican coast.

I had found a pleasant place there where I could muse in solitude.

Picture an island with a reddish cast and a wild appearance. There was
a lighthouse on one headland and an old Genoese tower on the other,
which housed an eagle while I was there. Down by the sea-shore there
was a ruined lazaretto, overgrown with grass. Then there were ravines,
low scrub, huge rocks, wild goats, and Corsican ponies trotting about,
their manes flowing in the breeze. At the highest point, surrounded by
a flurry of sea-birds, was the lighthouse, with its platform of white
masonry, where the keepers paced to and fro. There was a green arched
door, and a small cast-iron tower on top of which a great multifaceted
lamp reflected the sun and gave light even in the daytime. Well, that's
what I recalled of the Isle of the
Sanguinaires
, on that sleepless
night as I listened to the roaring pines. It was on this enchanted
island that I used to fulfil my need for the open air and solitude
before I found my windmill.

What did I do with myself?

Very much what I do here, or perhaps even less. When the mistral or
tramontana didn't blow too hard, I used to settle down between two
rocks, down by the sea amongst the gulls, blackbirds, and swallows, and
stayed there nearly all day in that state between stupor and
despondency which comes from contemplating the sea. Have you ever
experienced that sweet intoxication of the soul? You don't think; you
don't even dream; your whole being escapes, flies away, expands
outwards. You are one with the diving seagull, the light spray across
the wave tops, the white smoke of the ship disappearing over the
horizon, the tiny red sailed boat, here and there a pearl of water, a
patch of mist, anything not yourself…. Oh, what delightful hours,
half awake and day-dreaming, I have spent on my island….

On days when the wind was really up, and it was too rough to be on the
sea shore, I shut myself in the yard of the lazaretto. It was a small
melancholy place, fragrant with rosemary and wild absinth, nestling
against part of the old wall, where I let myself be gently overcome by
that trace of relaxation and melancholy, which drifts in with the sun
into the little stone lodges, open all round like old tombs.
Occasionally, a gate would swing open or something would move in the
grass. Once, it was a goat which had come to graze and shelter from the
wind. When it saw me, it stopped, dumfounded, and froze, all agog,
horns skyward, looking at me with innocent eyes.

At about five o'clock, the lighthouse keepers' megaphone summoned me to
dinner. I returned only slowly towards the lighthouse, taking a small
pathway through the scrub which ran up a hilltop overlooking the sea.
At every step I glanced backwards onto the immense expanse of water and
light that seemed to increase as I went higher.

* * * * *

It was truly delightful at the top. I can still recall now the lovely
oak-panelled dining room with large flagstones, the bouillabaisse
steaming inside, and the door wide open to the white terrace; all lit
up by the setting sun. The keepers were already there, waiting for me
before settling themselves down to eat. There were three of them: a man
from Marseilles and two Corsicans; they all looked alike—small, and
bearded, with tanned, cracked faces, and the same goat-skin sailor's
jacket. But they had completely different ways and temperaments.

You could immediately sense the difference in the two races by their
conduct. The Marseillais, industrious and lively, always busy, always
on the move, going round the island from morning till night, gardening,
fishing, or collecting gulls' eggs. He would lie in wait in the scrub
to catch a passing goat to milk. And there was always some garlic
mayonnaise or bouillabaisse on the hob.

The Corsicans, however, did absolutely nothing over and above their
duties. They regarded themselves as Civil Servants and spent whole days
in the kitchen playing cards only pausing to perform the ritualistic
relighting of their pipes or using scissors to cut up large wads of
green tobacco in their palms.

Otherwise, all three, Marseillais and Corsicans, were good, simple,
straight-forward folk, and were full of consideration for their
visitor, although I must have seemed a very queer fish to them….

The thought of someone coming to stay in the lighthouse for pleasure,
was beyond their grasp. These were men who found the days interminably
long and were ecstatic when their turn came to go ashore. In the warm
season, this great relief came every month. Ten days off after thirty
days on; that was the rule. In the winter, though, in rough weather, no
rules could be enforced. The wind blew strongly, the waves ran high,
the
Sanguinaires
were shrouded in white sea spray, and they were cut
off for two or three months at a time, sometimes in terrible conditions.

—I tell you what happened to me, monsieur,—old Bartoli told me one
day, while we were eating,—it was five years ago, at this very table,
one winter evening, just like this one. That night, there were just the
two of us, me and a fellow keeper called Tchéco…. The others were
ashore, or sick, or else on leave…. I can't remember, now…. We were
finishing our dinners, quite contentedly…. Suddenly, my fellow keeper
stopped eating, looked at me with strange eyes, and fell forward onto
the table with outstretched arms. I went to him; I shook him; I called
his name:

"—Hey Tché!… Hey Tché!…

"No response! He was dead!… You can't imagine how I felt! I stayed
there, idiot-like and trembling, next to the body for more than an
hour. Then suddenly, I remembered,—The Light!—I only just had time to
climb up to light the lantern—it was already getting dark….

"What a night, monsieur! The sea and the wind, they just didn't sound
like they usually do. All the time somebody seemed to be calling to me
from down the stairway…. I became frenzied; my mouth dried. But you
couldn't have made me go down there again…. Oh no! I was too scared
of the dead body. However, in the small hours, some of my courage
returned. I went down and carried my mate back to his bed, covered him
over with a sheet, said a short prayer, and then ran to raise the alarm.

"Unfortunately, the sea was too heavy; I shouted as loudly as I could,
again and again, but to no avail, nobody came…. So, I was alone in
the lighthouse with poor Tchéco, and for God knows how long. I was
hoping to be able to keep him close to me until the boat came, but
after three days that became impossible…. What should I have done?
Carried him outside? Buried him? The rock was too hard and there are
murders of crows on the island. It was a shame to leave a Christian to
them. And then I decided to take him down to one of the lodges in the
lazaretto…. That sad duty lasted a whole afternoon and, yes, it took
some courage…. Look here, Monsieur, even today, when I go down to
that part of the island through an afternoon gale, I feel that the dead
man is still there, on my shoulders…."

Poor old Bartoli! Sweat ran down his forehead just thinking about it.

* * * * *

And so, our meals passed in long conversations about the lighthouse,
and the sea, with tales of shipwrecks, and Corsican bandits…. Then,
as night fell, the keeper of the first watch lit his hand-lamp, took
his pipe, flask, and a red-edged, thick volume of Plutarch, which was
the sum total of the
Sanguinaires'
library, and went down out of
sight. A moment later, there was a crash of chains, pulleys, and heavy
weights as the clock was wound up.

While this was going on, I went to sit outside on the terrace. The sun,
already well down, hurried its descent into the water, dragging the
whole skyline with it. The wind freshened; the island turned violet. In
the sky a big bird passed slowly near me; it was the eagle homing to
the Genoese tower…. Gradually, a sea mist got up. Soon, nothing could
be seen except a white ridge of sea-fog around the island. Suddenly, a
great flood of light emerged above my head from the lighthouse. The
clear ray left the island in complete darkness as it fell far out to
sea, and I, too, was lost to sight in the night, under the great
luminous sweeps which barely caught me as they passed…. But the wind
was freshening again. Time to go indoors. I groped to close the huge
door, I secured the iron bars, and then, still feeling my way, took the
small cast-iron stairs, which trembled and rang under my feet, to the
top of the lighthouse. Here, as you can imagine, there was plenty of
light.