Stone Bruises (11 page)

‘You don’t have to start just yet. Not if you don’t feel up to it.’

It isn’t my health that worries me. Trying to keep my weight off my foot isn’t easy, and the climb down has set it throbbing again. But it’s bearable, and anything’s better than inactivity.

I shrug. ‘Only one way to find out.’

‘I’ll show you where everything is.’

She goes to the doorway where Arnaud confronted me a few days earlier. The warped door’s hinges creak as she opens it, letting light into what I now see is a small, windowless storeroom. A wave of cold, damp air rolls out from it, and as my eyes adjust I make out an untidy sprawl of building equipment with bags of sand and cement. Like the platform at the top of the scaffold, there’s a touch of the
Marie Celeste
about the way everything’s been left. A trail of cement spills from a slash in a paper sack in which a trowel still stands, while a spade protrudes from a mound of rock-hard mortar like a builder’s Excalibur. Judging by the cobwebs clinging to it all, nothing in here has been disturbed in months.

There’s a groan from the hinges as the door starts to swing shut behind us, cutting off the light. I turn to stop it, and jump as I see someone standing there. But it’s only a pair of overalls hanging from a nail. At least Mathilde hasn’t noticed my nerves. She stands to one side of the doorway, as though reluctant to come any further.

‘Everything should be in here. There’s cement and sand, and a tap for water. Use whatever you need.’

I look at the mess in the small room. ‘Was your father doing the work before?’

‘No, a local man.’

Whoever he was, he left in a hurry. I give the spade handle a tug. It quivers but doesn’t budge, stuck fast in the solidified mortar.

‘Why didn’t he finish?’

‘There was a disagreement.’

She doesn’t enlarge. I go to examine the cement. Damp has made the grey powder from the split bag clump together, and when I prod the unopened bags they’re hard as stone.

‘I’ll need more cement.’

Mathilde’s standing with her arms wrapped tightly across her chest. ‘Do you need it straight away? Isn’t there something else you can be doing?’

I consider the piled bags, knowing I’m just stalling for time. ‘I suppose I can hack out more of the old mortar …’

‘Fine,’ she says, and goes back out into the courtyard.

I take a last look around the dark room with its abandoned tools, then follow her into the sunlight. Mathilde is waiting in the courtyard, and though her face is as hard to read as ever she looks pale.

‘Everything OK?’ I ask.

‘Of course.’ Her hand goes to her hair, absently tucking it back. ‘Is there anything else you need for now?’

‘Well, I’m out of cigarettes. Is there somewhere nearby I can buy some?’

She considers this new difficulty. ‘There’s a tabac at the garage, but it’s too far to—’

The front door opens and Gretchen comes out. She’s carrying Michel on one hip, and her lips tighten when she sees us. Ignoring me, she gives her sister a sullen stare.

‘Papa wants to see him.’ She lifts her chin with malicious satisfaction. ‘Alone.’

It’s the first time I’ve been inside since I asked for water. The kitchen is low-ceilinged and dark, with thick walls and small windows built to stay cool in the summer heat. There’s a smell of beeswax, cooked meat and coffee. An old range dominates one wall, and the heavy wooden furniture looks as though it’s stood here for generations. The scratched white boxes of the refrigerator and freezer look gratingly modern in this setting.

Arnaud is cleaning his rifle at a scarred wooden table. The half-moon glasses perched on his nose give him an incongruously bookish air, difficult to reconcile with the man who kicked me down the steps. He doesn’t look up, continuing to work on the rifle as though I’m not there. I catch a whiff of gun oil and what I guess is cordite as he threads a long wire brush, like a miniature chimney sweep’s, into the rifle barrel. It makes a fluted whisper as he pulls it through.

I shift my weight on the crutch. ‘You wanted to see me?’

He unhurriedly squints down the barrel’s length before lowering it. Folding his glasses, he puts them in his breast pocket then sits back in his chair. Only now does he look at me.

‘Mathilde says you’re looking for a job.’

That’s not how I remember it, but I don’t bother correcting him. ‘If there’s one going.’

‘That’s the question, isn’t it?’ Arnaud’s jaw works as if he’s trying to crack a nut. Below it, the flesh of his throat has loosened with age, like an ageing weightlifter’s. ‘My daughter can tell you what she likes, but I’m the one who’ll decide who works here. Ever worked on a farm?’

‘No.’

‘Any building experience?’

‘Not much.’

‘Then why should I take a chance on you?’

I can’t actually think of a reason. So I remain silent, trying not to look at the rifle. Arnaud sniffs.

‘Why are you here?’

It’s on the tip of my tongue to say it’s because of his traps, but that would only provoke him. Even if I’m no longer quite so worried that he’ll shoot me, I’m uncomfortably aware that any job offer depends on his good graces.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I
mean
what are you doing wandering around a foreign country like a tramp? You’re too old to be a student. What do you do for a living?’

I can tell from his manner that Gretchen’s been talking. ‘This and that. I’ve had a few jobs.’

‘This and that,’ he mocks. ‘You don’t give much away, do you? Got something to hide?’

There’s a moment when I feel weightless. I’m aware of my colouring betraying me as blood rushes to my cheeks, but I make myself stare back.

‘No. Why should I?’

Arnaud’s mouth works, either ruminating or chewing some titbit he’s found between his teeth. ‘I expect people to respect my privacy,’ he says at last. ‘You’ll have to stay down at the barn. You can eat your meals down there. I don’t want to see you any more than necessary. I’ll pay you fifty euros a week, if I think you’ve earned it. Take it or leave it.’

‘OK.’

It’s a pittance but I don’t care about the money. Still, the glint in Arnaud’s eyes makes me regret rolling over so easily. Showing him any weakness is a mistake.

He looks me up and down, weighing me up. ‘This is Mathilde’s idea, not mine. I don’t like it, but there’s work needs doing and since she seems to think we should hire some English deadbeat I’ll let her. I’ll be watching you, though. Cross me so much as once and you’ll regret it. Is that clear?’

It is. He stares at me for a few moments more, letting his words sink in, then reaches for the rifle.

‘Go on, get out.’ He begins wiping it with an oily cloth. I limp to the door, angry and humiliated. ‘One more thing.’

Arnaud’s eyes are glacial as he stares at me over the rifle.

‘Keep away from my daughters.’

IT’S TOO HOT
to even consider going back up the scaffold after my audience with Arnaud. Besides, it’s lunch time, so when Mathilde comes back I wait outside the kitchen until the food’s ready and then take my plate down to the shade of the barn. I need to cool off, in every sense. I’m still smarting, already questioning whether I wouldn’t be better taking my chances out on the road. But my own reluctance at the prospect is all the answer I need. The only thing waiting for me beyond the farm’s borders is uncertainty. I need time to work out what I’m going to do, and if that means abiding by Arnaud’s rules then I can live with that.

I’ve put up with worse.

Lunch today is bread and tomatoes, with a chunk of dark and heavily spiced sausage I guess is homemade. There’s also what on examination I find are pickled chestnuts, and to finish a small yellow apricot. I don’t think I’ve eaten anything since I’ve been here that hasn’t been grown or produced on the farm.

I eat it all, leaving only the apricot’s stone and stalk, then sit back and pine for a cigarette. The spicy food has made me thirsty, so I go to the tap inside the barn. The faintly sweet air around the disused wine vats smells better than the wine itself. Crossing the rectangular patch of concrete in the cobbles, I catch my crutch on a deep crack running across its surface. Not enough cement, I think, prodding at the crumbling edges with my crutch. If this was the same builder who worked on the house, he made an equally bad job of it.

I run the tap water and drink from my cupped hands. It’s cold and clean, and I splash some on my face and neck as well. Wiping it from my eyes, I come out of the barn and almost bump into Gretchen.

‘Sorry,’ I say.

She smiles. She’s wearing a short T-shirt and cut-down denim shorts I’m surprised Arnaud lets her get away with. She’s carrying a bucket, this one plastic rather than metal like the ones I saw Georges using. The springer spaniel accompanying her fusses around me, tail wagging. I scratch behind its ears.

‘I’m taking some scraps down for the sanglochons. But I think I overfilled the bucket.’ She holds it in both hands, making hard work of it. ‘You could help me, if you’re not doing anything.’

I try to think of an excuse. Her father’s warning is still fresh in my mind, and I’m not sure how I’ll carry the bucket that far with my crutch anyway. Gretchen’s smile widens, emphasizing her dimples.

‘Please? It’s really heavy.’

At her insistence, we carry it between us to start with, each of us with one hand on the bucket handle. After we’ve struggled for a few yards, Gretchen giggling all the time, I lose patience and carry it by myself. It’s nowhere near as heavy as she made it look, but it’s too late to change my mind now. Hopefully even Arnaud can’t object to my helping feed his pigs.

‘Are you growing a beard?’ Gretchen asks as we follow the track through the vines.

I self-consciously feel the bristles on my chin. ‘Not really. I just haven’t shaved.’

Gretchen tilts her head, smiling as she considers. ‘Can I touch it?’

Before I can say anything she reaches to stroke my cheek. The burnt-caramel smell of sun-heated skin comes from her bare arm. Her dimples are deeper than ever as she lowers her hand.

‘It suits you. I like it.’

The dog bounds ahead of us as we walk through the chestnut wood. Gretchen takes a dirt path that forks off from the main track. It leads through the trees to a clearing, in which a large pen has been built from wire and rough planks. Standing off by itself is an unlovely cinderblock hut, but Gretchen passes that without comment as she heads for the pen.

The air in the clearing hums with flies. The ammoniac stink is so strong it hurts my sinuses. A dozen or so animals are lying prostrate on the churned-up ground, the only sign of life the occasional bass grunt or flap of an ear. They aren’t like any pigs I’ve seen before. They’re vast, darkly mottled, with a coarse, bristly pelt. Slumped in the shade of corrugated-iron shelters, they look as if they’ve been dropped into the mud like unexploded bombs.

Gretchen opens a gate in the fence and goes in. ‘Where’s Georges?’ I ask, looking uneasily at the basking creatures. There’s no sign of the old pig-man.

‘He goes home for lunch in the afternoon.’ She holds the gate open for me. ‘Aren’t you coming in?’

‘I think I’ll wait here.’

She laughs. ‘They won’t hurt you.’

‘I’ll still wait.’

I’m still a little uneasy about being here, but limping all this way with the bucket has winded me. I need to catch my breath before heading back up the track. Taking the bucket – she doesn’t seem to find it heavy now – Gretchen pushes back the dog as it tries to dart through the gate, and goes to the trough. Some of the pigs lift their heads and make inquisitive grunts when she empties the bucket into it, but only one or two can be bothered to get up and come over. I’m struck again by how big they are, sacks of flesh balanced precariously on ridiculously dainty legs, a horse’s body on cocktail sticks.

Gretchen comes out again, closing the gate behind her.

‘What did you say they are?’ I ask.

‘Sanglochons. Wild boars crossed with black pigs. Papa’s been breeding them for years, and Georges sells the meat for us in town. It’s very popular. Much better than ordinary pork.’

One of the creatures has ambled over. Gretchen picks up a wizened turnip that’s rolled under the fence and drops it back over. The pig crunches it easily in its jaws. It makes my foot hurt again just seeing it.

But Gretchen isn’t concerned. She scratches behind the sanglochon’s ears as it noses hopefully for more food. The curve of its mouth gives it the appearance of a sweet smile.

‘Doesn’t it bother you?’ I ask. ‘Having to kill them, I mean?’

‘Why should it?’ She sounds genuinely bemused. Her hand rasps on the heavy bristles as she rubs its head. ‘You can stroke it if you want.’

‘No thanks.’

‘It won’t bite.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’ I’ve noticed there’s a smaller fenced-off area at one side of the main pen. It looks empty, except for a solitary corrugated shelter. ‘What’s in there?’

Gretchen straightens, wiping her hands together as she goes over to it. Some of the fence panels here look new, the wood pale and fresh compared to the older sections.

‘This is where Papa keeps his boar.’

‘You make it sound like a pet.’

She pulls a face. ‘It’s not a pet. It’s horrible. I hate it.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s got a bad personality. Georges is the only one who can do anything with it. It bit me once.’ She extends a tanned leg, twisting it slightly to reveal where the smooth skin of her calf is marred by a white scar. She smiles. ‘Feel it. It’s all rough.’

‘So I see.’ I keep my hands to myself. I’m not interested in flirting. Even if she weren’t Arnaud’s youngest daughter, there’s something about Gretchen that makes me want to keep my distance. ‘If it’s that bad why doesn’t your father kill it?’

She lowers her leg. ‘He needs it for breeding.’

‘Can’t he get another?’

‘They’re expensive. Besides, Papa likes this one. He says it does what it’s supposed to.’

As if on cue a sudden noise comes from the pen. Gretchen turns towards it.

‘He’s heard us.’

For a second I think she means Arnaud before I realize she’s talking about the boar. There’s a movement inside the shelter, a shifting of shadows. The tip of a snout emerges. Gretchen picks up a handful of soil and throws it to clatter on the corrugated roof.