Letters From My Windmill (8 page)

They were months away from going home, tacking and reaching around
those dangerous coasts. For nourishment they had to make do mainly with
mouldy bread and wild onions; they never once tasted wine or meat;
these were expensive items and they only earned five hundred francs a
year. Yes, five hundred francs a year. But it didn't seem to bother
them! Everybody there seemed somehow content. Aft of the deckhouse,
there was a tub full of rain water for the crew to drink, and I recall
that after the final gulp went down, every last one of them would
finish off his mug with a satisfied, "Ah!…"; a comic yet endearing
indication of all being well with him.

Palombo, a small, tanned, thick-set man from Bonifacio was the
merriest, and the most well at ease of all of them. He was always
singing, even in the very worst weather. When the seas were high, when
the sky was overcast, dark, and hail filled, everyone was all agog,
sniffing the air, their hands cupped over their ears, listening and
watching out for the next squall. Even in this great silence of anxiety
on board, the voice of Palombo would begin the refrain:

No, dear Sir,
It will cause a stir.
Wise Lisette will stay,
And never ever go away….

And the gust could blow, rattle the tackle, shake and flood the boat,
still the customs' man's song continued, rocking like a seagull on the
crests of the waves. Sometimes the wind's accompaniment was too loud,
and the words were drowned, but between each breaking wave, in the
cascade of draining water, the little ditty was heard once again:

Wise Lisette will stay,
And never ever go away

One day, when it was blowing and raining hard, I didn't hear him. This
was so unusual, that I was moved to emerge through the boathouse hatch
and shout:

—Hey! Palombo, you're not singing, then?

Palombo didn't reply. He was lying apparently motionless under his
bench. I went up to him; his teeth were chattering and his whole body
was trembling feverishly.

—He's got a pountoura, his comrades miserably informed me.

This was what they called a stitch in the side, pleurisy. I had never
witnessed a more miserable sight. There was an overwhelming, leaden
sky, the boat had water cascading everywhere, the luckless, fevered man
was wrapped in an old rubber coat which glistened like a seal's skin.
The cold, the wind, and the jolting of the waves, soon made his
condition worse. He became delirious; something had to be done.

After doing all we could, and as evening was approaching, we put into a
small, silent, lifeless port, only animated by circling seagulls. The
beach was shut in by steep-sided, high rocks, impassable scrub and
sombre, unseasonably green shrubs. Nearby, close to the sea there was a
custom's post, housed in a small white building with grey shutters. It
was given a rather sinister air, this official outpost, numbered like
the cap on a uniform, by its position, in the middle of such a deserted
spot. We took the ailing Palombo down to it, though it was a despairing
sanctuary for a sick man. We found the custom's man eating by the
fireside with his wife and children. Everybody had a gaunt and
jaundiced look, and they were pop-eyed and feverish. The young mother,
suckling a baby, shivered as she spoke to us.

—It's a terrible post, the Inspector barely whispered to me. We have
to replace our Customs' men here every two years. The marsh fever eats
them away….

Nevertheless, the main thing was to get hold of a doctor. There wasn't
one this side of Sartène, many kilometres away. What could we do? Our
mariners were done and could do no more, and it was too far to send one
of the children. Then the woman, leaning outdoors, called:

—Cecco!…Cecco!

And in came a large, well-built chap, a typical specimen of a poacher
or Corsican bandit, with his brown wool cap and his goatskin sailors
jacket. I had already noticed him, as we disembarked; he was sitting in
front of the door chewing his red pipe, with a rifle between his legs.
He made off as we came near; I don't know why. Perhaps he thought we
had gendarmes with us. When he entered, the Customs' woman blushed.

—He's my cousin, she told us. There's no danger that this one will get
lost in the Corsican scrub.

Then, she whispered something to him, indicating the sick man. The man
bent forward but said nothing. Then he left, whistled his dog, and was
gone, leaping from rock to rock with his long legs, with the rifle on
his shoulder.

The children, who seemed terrified by the Inspector, quickly scoffed
down their dinner of chestnuts and white Corsican goat cheese. Then
there was the inevitable water; never anything but water on the table.
And yet, a sip of wine would have really done the children some good.
Oh, what complete and utter misery! After a while, their mother saw
them off to bed, while their father lit his lantern and went out to
check the coast. We stayed by the fireside looking after the invalid,
who was tossing and turning on his pallet, as if he was still at sea
being buffeted by the waves. We warmed up some stones to put on his
side to ease his pleurisy. Once or twice the hapless man recognised me
as I approached his bed and put out his hand with great difficulty by
way of thanks. His broad hand was as rough and hot as one of the bricks
from the fire.

It was a miserable vigil! Outside, as night fell, the bad weather
picked up again, and there was a crash, a rumble, and a great spurt of
spray, as the battle between rocks and water broke out again. From time
to time, the gusts from out at sea blew into the bay and enveloped the
house. The flames suddenly flared and lit up the blank faces of the
sailors around the fireplace. They had the calm expression of those who
routinely experience wide open spaces and horizons. Occasionally,
Palombo moaned gently, and their eyes would turn towards the wretched
place where the poor man was dying, far from home, and beyond help.
Only their breathing and sighing could be heard. This was the only
reaction you would get out of these workmen of the sea who were just as
patient and accepting of their own misfortune. No rebellions, no
strikes. Only sighs. Just sighs. And yet, perhaps I'm kidding myself.
One of them, on his way to putting wood on the fire, whispered almost
apologetically to me:

—You see, monsieur, there can be much suffering in our line of work….

Every year, at the feast of the presentation of Jesus, the Provencal
poets publish a wonderful little book overflowing with beautiful verse
and great stories. I've only just received this year's copy, and inside
I found this adorable little fable which I am going to try to translate
for you, albeit in a slightly abridged version…. Men of Paris,
prepare yourselves for a treat. The finest flowering of Provencal flour
is to be laid before you, right now….

* * * * *

Father Martin was the Cucugnan priest.

He was as wholesome as fresh bread, as good as gold, and he had a
paternal love for his Cucugnanians. For him Cucugnan would have been
the nearest thing to paradise on earth, if only the people had given
him a little more, shall we say, business. But, sadly, his confessional
remained unused except as a larder for spiders. On Easter day, the
hosts remained secure in their holy ciborium. It hurt the good priest
to the very centre of his soul, and every day he prayed that he would
live to see his missing flock back in the fold.

Well, as you will see, the good Lord was listening.

One Sunday after the Gospels, monsieur Martin took his place in the
pulpit.

* * * * *

—Bretheren, he said, believe me, or believe me not, the other night, I
found myself, yes me, a miserable sinner, at the very gates of paradise.

"I knocked. St. Peter himself opened the gates!

"—Well! It's you, my dear monsieur Martin, he began, which fine
wind…? And what can I do for you?

"—Dear St. Peter, keeper of the key and the great book, if I may be so
bold, could you tell me how many Cucugnanians are in heaven?

"—I can refuse you nothing, monsieur Martin. Sit down, we will look it
up together.

"St. Peter then took up his thick book, opened it, and put on his
spec's:

"—Now then, let's see: Cucugnan, you say. Cu…Cu…Cucugnan. Here we
are. Cucugnan…. My dear monsieur Martin, the page is purest white.
Not a soul…. There are no more Cucugnanians than there are fish bones
in a turkey.

"—What! There's no one from Cucugnan here? No one? That's impossible!
Look again, more closely….

"—Nobody, Oh, holy man. Look for yourself, if you think I am joking.

"—My, oh my! Dear, oh dear! I stamped my feet, clenched my hands and
cried,—Mercy me!—Then, St Peter continued:

"—Believe me, monsieur Martin, you mustn't take on so, you could
easily have a stroke. After all, it's not your fault. You see, your
Cucugnanians must, without fear of contradiction, be doing their spell
in purgatory.

"—Oh! for charity's sake, great St. Peter, make it so that I can at
least see them to give them solace.

"—Willingly, my friend…. Here, put on these sandals, quickly, for
the rest of the way is none too smooth…. That's right…. Now, keep
going straight on. Can you see a turning over there, at the far end?
You will find a silver door completely covered with black crosses….
On the right hand side…. When you knock, it will be opened unto
you…. Bye-bye! Be good and, above all, stay cheerful."

* * * * *

"And I kept on going … and kept on going. I was dead beat, and
covered in goose flesh; there was nothing to take my mind off things. A
small footpath, full of brambles, and shining rubies and hissing
snakes, led me to the silver door.

"I knocked twice.

"—Who is it? asked a hoarse, deathly voice.

"—The priest of Cucugnan.

"—Of…?

"—Of Cucugnan.

"—Ah!… Come in.

"I entered. A great, beautiful angel, with wings as dark as the night,
a robe as radiant as the day, and a diamond key hanging at his waist,
was scratching something into a great book even thicker than
St.Peter's….

"—Well, what do you want; do you have a question? said the angel.

"—Dear angel of the Lord, I would like to know, I am dying to know, in
fact, if you have the Cucugnanians here?

"—The?…

"—The Cucugnanians, the people from Cucugnan…. I am their prior.

"—Ah! Abbot Martin, is it?

"—At your service, monsieur angel."

* * * * *

"—Cucugnan, you say….

"The angel then opened his great book and leafed through it, licking
his finger to turn the page….

"—Cucugnan, he gave a long sigh…. Monsieur Martin, we have no one
here in purgatory from Cucugnan.

"—Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! No one from Cucugnan! Oh, Good Lord! So,
where, forgive me, in heaven's name, are they, then?

"—Well! holy man, they are in paradise. Where on earth did you expect
them to be?

"—But I've just come from there.

"—You've come from there!… And?

"—And! They're not there!… Oh, dear Mother of God!

"—What can I do monsieur priest? If they're neither in paradise not
purgatory, there is no half way house, they are….

"—Holy Cross of Jesus, son of David! No, no, no, can it be?… Could
it be that the great St. Peter himself lied to me?… I never heard the
cock crow. Oh, we are lost! How can I possibly go to heaven if my flock
aren't there?

"—Listen, my poor monsieur Martin, as you want to be sure about all
this, no matter what, and to see for yourself what you have to do to
turn things round, take that footpath, and run along it, if you know
how to run…. You will come across a large gate on the left. There, it
will all be made clear to you. And by God himself!

"And the angel closed the door."

* * * * *

"It was a long pathway covered in red-hot embers. I staggered as if I
had been drinking; I stumbled at every single step; I was covered in
sweat, a drop on every single hair of my body, and I was gasping for
something to drink…. But, thanks to the sandals St. Peter lent me, I
didn't burn my feet.

"After stumbling and limping along for some time, I saw a door on the
left…. No, it was more a gate, an enormous, yawning gate, like a huge
oven door. What a fantastic sight, my children! No one asked my name,
even there at the reception area. I went through the cavernous door in
batches, my brothers, just like you sinners as you go to the cabaret on
Sunday night.

"I was sweating profusely, and yet frozen to the spot, I was trembling
fearfully. My hair stood on end. I smelt burning, roasting flesh,
something like the smell that spread around Cucugnan when Eli, the
marshal, burned the hoof of an old ass while shoeing it. I couldn't
breathe in that foetid, burning air; I heard a frightful clamour. There
was moaning, howling, cursing.

"—You there! Are you coming in, or are you staying outside? scorned a
horned devil, prodding me with his fork.

"—Me? I'm not going in. I am a friend of Almighty God.

"—So, you're a friend of God…. Eh! You damned fool! What are you
doing here?…

"—I have come…. Oh! don't bother me, I can hardly stand up…. I
have come … I have come from a far away … to humbly ask … if …
if, by any chance, you have someone here from Cucugnan….

"—Oh! God's teeth! you're playing the idiot, you; it's as though you
didn't know that the whole of Cucugnan is here. Well, ugly crow, watch
and you will see how things are here with your precious
Cucugnanians…."

* * * * *

"And I saw, in the middle of a terrible, flaming vortex of flame:

"The lanky Coq-Galine—you all knew him, my brothers—Coq-Galine, who
was regularly drunk, and so often knocked ten bells out of his poor
Clairon.

"I saw Catarinet … that little vixen … with her nose in the air …
who slept
alone
in the barn…. You remember that, you rascals!…
But let's move on, I've said too much already.