The Avignon Quintet (8 page)

He even invented a diary for Piers to keep, describing him opening it each night to make a forlorn entry “by the grave light of two tall-stemmed candles”, if you please. And this is the sort of thing he wrote to attach as a literary pendant to our situation. “It was very late in the day to realise, but at last I did. It was imperative to send them away together, my sister and Bruce: or face losing both. For the lovers had moved into such a deep phase that they had become almost alarmed for themselves as well as for me. We were held in a kind of fixity of purpose, the three of us like the rings of Saturn. One can only love like this, to utter distraction, when one is young, altogether too young. A breath of real experience would cloud the mirror. They felt unable to extricate themselves from each other, from the triune bond. In them flowed a sort of tidal sadness – the equinox of a first and last attachment; the advancing and receding waters closed over their heads. And being swept away like this they found themselves drifting towards the falls.” All this was entirely imaginary; I have never been in Venice, but as he knew it well, he used a novelist’s licence to transplant us there. Our intensity was of another order, less literary. Yet “Even the physical envelope, lips eyes bodies seemed to have become somehow mental contrivances only; the three inseparables seemed to themselves all mingled up, like a plate of spaghetti. But Venice did the trick, Venice exorcised the act. So the three of them were able to walk silently arm in arm among the marble griffins and the swerving canals, or sit silently playing cards on the green tables at Florian’s. A strange trio, the brother and sister so lean and dark, like lizards, and their blond captive with his thickset form and rather simple peasant expression. The girl would obviously look a thorough shrew at forty with her long canny Mediterranean nose; the brother was slightly touched with romantic mountebank.” So that is how he saw us when it came to give us the definitive form of print. I have never recovered from my astonishment!

And he has the effrontery to add: “Real love is silent, or so they say. But never was the green Venetian silence of the trio so energetic, never did words whispered at night burn so deeply down, guttering like candles in the sconces of memory.”

None of this was as yet part of the present kiss, the present cold small nose; she had undone my shirt and placed her icy fingers over my heart. But the horses were restless now, for they had been very patient under the boredom of this long embrace and were longing for the warm stables which they knew must lie ahead, somewhere beyond the mist. Their hooves clicked, and the cold air turned their breath to pencils of spume. What could they care about the meeting of three separate solitudes? Meanwhile the imaginary romantic diarist had written, according to the novelist: “They actually dared to love, then, even though they knew that the end of all love was detachment or rancour or even horror; that it ended in despair, or even suic … But I dare not write the word.” This at least was a prophetic piece of invention on his part; but it is the only thing that touches the fringes of the truth. The so-called “infernal” happiness which he attempts to describe is altogether too theatrical to belong to us. We were babes in the wood, innocents abroad.

The horses drew away, delighted by the vague outlines of everything and aching for another canter; we set off down a ride and at that moment, deep in the mist, we heard the shrill but musical voices of children, chattering and chirping. It was so uncanny that, mindful of the folktales of the country, we wondered if we were approaching a band of mist-fairies in the obscurity of the tenebrous forest. “Nonsense,” I said robustly in the voice I use to reassure patients with terminal illnesses that they will live for ever. “Nonsense. It’s a school excursion.” But as we advanced the sound seemed to recede from us so that we quickened our pace in the hope of catching it up. And with the swaying of the horses and the meanderings of the paths the voices themselves seemed to change direction, coming now from this side, and now from that. And despite my hardened rationalist scepticism I confess that for a moment I hesitated and wondered about the provenance of those shrill voices. But on we went, picking our way and listening.

Then, rolling back like a curtain, the mist shifted aside and we came upon another path, at right angles to our own, down which poured a line of flesh-and-blood children of all ages, skipping and chattering, with their arms full of greenery. They were laden with crèche-making materials they had gathered – mosses, ferns, lichens, laurel and long polished branches of holly and mistletoe. The holly they carried like sceptres – the small-berried holly, the one they call still
li poumeto de Sant-Jan
in Provençal, or “the little apples of St. John”. With a cry of pleasure Sylvie now recognised the children of the chateau, and she dismounted to kiss and hug them all and to ask if her brother had arrived safely. They cheered when they knew that we were bringing the rest of the material for the crèche. It was also a surprise to realise how close the house was: the mist had been playing tricks of visibility on us, though we were comforted to find our direction-finding so good.

But now we were engulfed in this happy throng, so that we hand-led our horses – perching the singing children on their backs. And so at last in triumph we came to the main portal of the chateau where their parents waited anxiously, peering out into the forest from time to time, watching for their return.

The familiar smiling faces were all there – old Jan, clad in his sheepskin jacket, the firelight behind him in the great hall turning his silver hair into a halo. A little behind stood his quiet and sturdy wife Elizo. Marius was their son and the apple of their eye – a man of forty with broad shoulders and sweeping black moustaches. A younger man, Esprit, came out to help us unpack our luggage. Then all the girls streamed out to embrace us, the children and the grandchildren with names like Magali, Janetoun, Mireille, Nanoun. Here after the ceremonial embrace we were offered the traditional posset of red wine with its mulled spices, the old warmer-up for winter travellers. In the ensuing babble, with all of them trying to talk at once, we hardly noticed the absence of Piers. But he was far from absent, for when at last we reached the great hall with its blazing logs we saw him standing looking down from the first landing, smiling in shadow and delightedly watching. Then he came skipping down the broad staircase with its carved balustrade, but a trifle shyly, as if to control his ardour, his affection. When all the greetings were given and all the questions answered we were free, just the three of us, to mount the staircase arm in arm and take the long white corridors which led to his room which lay beyond a small gallery of pictures, for the most part ancestors, smoked black by time and the wood fires. At the end of the gallery, in a somewhat disconcerting fashion stood an easel on which was propped a large cork archery target, plumped full of arrows with different-coloured feathers. Piers spent a good deal of time practising here with the great yew bow he had bought in London. The whipple of the flying arrows sounded throughout the house when he did so. His private rooms, so full of books and masks and foils and shot-guns, had old-fashioned vaulted ceilings. The petroleum lamps and the tall silver candlesticks threw warm shadows everywhere. In the tall fireplace bristled furze, olive and holm-oak which smelt divine. Everything had been timed exactly for the Christmas feast and Piers was beside himself with joy because there were no unexpected hitches or delays. Moreover in two days’ time Toby and Rob (the Gog and Magog of our company) were due to arrive and bring with them the light-hearted laughter and inconsequence which made them such excellent company.

We sat now, the three of us cross-legged on the floor before the fire, eating chestnuts and drinking whisky and talking about nothing and everything. Never had old Verfeuille seemed so warmly welcoming. If we had an inner pang as we remembered Piers’ decisions for the future we did not mention them to each other. It would not have been fair to the time and the place to intrude our premonitions and doubts upon it. But underneath the excitement we were worried, we had a sense of impending departure, of looming critical change in our affairs – in this newly found passion as well. As if sensing this a little Piers said, during a silence “Cheer up, children. Yesterday we went out and selected the Yule Log – a real beauty this year.” He described to me the little ceremony in which the oldest and the youngest member of the whole household go out hand in hand to choose the tree which will be felled for Christmas, and then return triumphantly to the house bearing it with, of course, the assistance of everyone. It was paraded thrice around the long supper table and then laid down before the great hearth, while old Jan undertook to preside over the ceremony of the libation which he did with great polish, filling first of all a tall jar of
vin cuit
. Describing it Piers acted him to the life, in half-humorous satire – his smiling dignity and serenity as he bowed his head over the wine to utter a prayer while everyone was deeply hushed around him, standing with heads bowed. Then he poured three little libations on the log, to Father, Son and Holy Ghost, before crying out with all the vigour he could muster in his crackly old voice:

Cacho-fio!

Bouto-fio!

Alègre! Alègre!

Dieu nous alègre!

Yule Log Burn

Joy Joy

God give us Joy.

And as he reached the last words of the incantation which were “Christmas has arrived” a huge bundle of vine-trimmings was set alight under the ceremonial log and the whole fireplace flamed up, irradiating the merry faces of the company, as if they too had caught fire from sympathy with the words; and now everyone embraced anew and clapped hands, while the old man once more filled the ceremonial bowl with wine, but this time passed it about as a loving-cup, beginning with little Tounin the youngest child: and so on in order of seniority until at last it came back to his hand. Then he threw back his head and drained it to the dregs, the firelight flashing on his brown throat. Suddenly Piers, despite himself, was seized with a pang of sadness and tears came into his eyes: “How the devil am I going to leave them, do you think? And what is going to happen to us, to It?” It was not the time for such questions and I told him so. I finished my drink and consulted my watch. In a little while it would be in order to tackle the second half of the ceremony which consisted in decking out the crèche with the candles and figurines. I was glad of the diversion, for this little aside of his had wakened all kinds of doubts in me – about the future which awaited us, the separations … Sylvie appeared with her arms full of things, dressed now in the full peasant dress of Avignon and looking ravishing. Everyone clapped her. “Hurry and dress”, she told us, “before we do the Holy Family.”

It did not take long. My own rooms were on the eastern side of the house. Thoughtful hands had placed a copper warming pan full of coals in my bed, while a small fire, carefully shielded by a guard, crackled in the narrow hearth. I lit my candles and quickly put on the traditional black velvet coat which Piers had given me, with its scarlet silk lining; also the narrow stove-pipe pantaloons, dark sash and pointed black shoes –
tenue de rigueur
for Christmas dinner in Verfeuille. Piers himself would wear the narrow bootlace tie and the ribbon of the
fèlibre
, the Provençal poet. I hastened, and when I got downstairs Sylvie was already there trying to bring some order into the candle-lighting ceremony which was almost swamped by the antics of high-spirited children flitting about like mice. She managed to control the threatened riot and before long they were all admiring the colour and form of the little figurines as they were unwrapped one by one. Soon a constellation of small flames covered the brown hillsides of Bethlehem and brought up into high prominence the Holy Family in the manger, attended by the utterly improbable kings, gipsies, queens, cowboys, soldiers, poachers and postmen – not to mention sheep, ducks, quail, cattle and brilliant birds. Then came the turn of Piers, who exercised a bit more authority, to unwrap and distribute the wrapped presents, all duly labelled, so that nobody should feel himself forgotten on this memorable eve. Great rejoicing as the paper was ripped and torn away; and so gradually the company drifted slowly away to dinner. This had been laid in the great central hall – the long table ran down the centre with more than enough room for the gathering of that year. We three were seated at a cross-table which formed the cruciform head with Jan and his wife on our right and left respectively. Candles blazed everywhere and the Yule Log by this time had begun to thresh out bouquets of bright sparks into the chimney.

It was not a place or time easy to forget, and I had returned to it so often in my thoughts that it was no surprise to relive all this in my dreams. I must have unconsciously memorised it in great detail without being fully aware of the fact at the time. I know of no other place on earth that I can call up so clearly and accurately by simply closing my eyes: to this very day. Its floor was laid with large grey stone slabs which were strewn with bouquets of rosemary and thyme: these helped to gather up the dust when one was sweeping, as well as things like the bones which were often thrown to the hunting dogs. The high ceiling was supported by thick smoke-blackened beams from which hung down strings of sausages, chaplets of garlic, and numberless bladders filled with lard. More than a third of the rear wall was taken up by the grand central fireplace which measured some ten feet across and at least seven from the jutting mantelpiece to the floor. In its very centre, with room each side in chimney-corners and angles stood old wicker chairs with high backs, and wooden lockers for flour and salt. The mound of ash from the fires was heaped back against the back of the fireplace which itself was crossed by a pair of high andirons which flared out at the top, like flowers, into little iron baskets, so often used as plate-warmers when filled with live coals. They were furnished with hooks at different levels destined for the heavy roasting spits. From the mantelshelf hung a short red curtain designed to hold the smoke in check when the fire became too exuberant, as it did with certain woods, notably olive. Along the wide shelf above the fire were rows of objects at once utilitarian and intriguing because beautiful, like rows of covered jars in pure old faience, ranging in capacity from a gill to three pints, and each lettered with the name of its contents – saffron, pepper, cummin, tea, salt, flour, cloves. Tall bottles of luminous olive oil sparked with herbs and spices had their place here. Also a number of burnished copper vessels and a giant coffee-pot. And further along half a dozen tall brass or pewter lamps with wicks that burned olive oil – as in the time of the Greeks and Romans – but rapidly being superseded by the more modern paraffin-burning ones.