The Avignon Quintet (9 page)

To the right of the fireplace was the wide stone sink with rows of shelves above to take a brilliant army of copper pots and pans – a real
batterie de cuisine
. To the left a covered bread-trough above which hung the large salt and flour boxes of immediate use together with the bread-holder – a sort of cage or cradle in dark wood, ornamented with locks and hinges of polished iron.

On the opposite side of the room was the tall curiously carved Provençal buffet, solid and capacious, and shining under its glossy varnish, the colour of salad oil. Then, to the left of it, the grandfather clock – a clock which was so much of a martinet that it assertively struck the hours in duplicate. Some old rush-bottomed chairs stood about awkwardly – for there was no real thought about luxury or even comfort here. The order of things was ancestral, traditional; history was the present, and one did not conceive of altering things, but simply asserting their traditional place in life, and in nature. As well try to alter the course of the planets. Beyond the bread-trough hung a long-shanked steel balance with a brass dish suspended by delicate brass chains, all brilliant with scouring by soap, flour and sand. Then among a straggle of farm implements standing against one wall was an ancient fowling piece resting in wooden crutches driven between two broken flags. The walls were heavily decorated with sentimental lithographs and oleographs, depicting scenes from the local folklore of the region; and, inevitably, with numberless old family pictures, now all faded away into a sepia anonymity – faces of unforgotten people and events, harvests, picnics and bullfights, tree-plantings, bull-brandings, weddings and first communions. A whole life of austere toil and harmless joy of which this room had been the centre, the pivot.

But the wine was going about now and the most important supper of the whole year was in full sail. By old tradition it has always been a “lean” supper, so that in comparison with other feast days it might have seemed a trifle frugal. Nevertheless the huge dish of
ra
ï
to
exhaled a wonderful fragrance: this was a ragout of mixed fish presented in a sauce flavoured with wine and capers. Chicken flamed in Cognac. The long brown loaves cracked and crackled under the fingers of the feasters like the olive branches in the fireplace. The first dish emptied at record speed, and its place was taken by a greater bowl of Rhône pan-fish, and yet another of white cod. These in turn led slowly to the dishes of snails, the whitish large veined ones that feed on the vine-leaves. They had been tucked back into their shells and were extracted with the aid of strong curved thorns, three or four inches long, broken from the wild acacia. As the wine was replenished after the first round, toasts began to fly around.

Then followed the choice supporting dishes like white
cardes
or
cardon
, the delicious stem of a giant thistle which resembles nothing so much as an overgrown branch of celery. These stems are blanched and then cooked in white sauce – I have never tasted them anywhere else. The flavour is one of the most exquisite one can encounter in the southern regions of France; yet it is only a common field-vegetable. So it went on, our last dinner, to terminate at last with a whole anthology of sweetmeats and nuts and winter melons. The fire was restoked and the army of wine-bottles gave place to a smaller phalanx of brandies, Armagnacs and Marcs, to offset the large bowls of coffee from which rose plumes of fragrance.

Now old Jan’s wife placed before the three lovers a deep silver sugar bowl full of white sugar. It lay there before them in the plenitude of its sweetness like a silver paunch. The three spoons she had placed in it stood upright, waiting for them to help themselves before the rest of the company. The toasts and the jests now began to subside, sinking towards the ground like expiring fireworks, and the time for more serious business was approaching. By tradition every year Piers made a speech which gave an account of the year’s work, bestowing praise or censure as he thought fit. But this time his news was momentous and would affect the fate of everyone in the room. I could see that the idea worried him as much as it did his sister, who glanced at him from time to time with affectionate commiseration. After many hesitations – for he changed places more than once to have a private word with this person and that – he rose and tapped for silence, to be greeted with loud applause and raised glasses by the very people whom his speech would sadden.

He stood, resigned and a little pale, while he allowed it to subside, before beginning with the Christmas wishes. He then went on by saying that he had been a trifle sad and preoccupied that evening because of the news he had to give them. Not that it was downright tragic, far from that; but all change made one sorry and sad. “But before I speak of the journey I must make let me speak of the new arrangements which will come into force when I leave. First, I raise my glass to old Jan, closer to me than my father. He will become the
régisseur
of Verfeuille while I am absent
en mission.”
The whole speech was most skilfully executed, and touched everywhere with feeling and thoughtfulness. He reassigned the role of each of the servants, stressing the increase in their responsibilities and according each one a small rise in pay. This caused great joy and satisfaction and much kissing and congratulation followed each announcement. It was a good augury for his diplomatic role to follow – for by the time he came to the sad part of his speech his audience was cheerful, fortified by all this Christmas bounty. This enabled him to come firmly and honestly to the root of the matter and explain without equivocation that the choice before him was to find a financial way of keeping on the property or else to sit and watch it slowly swallowed up by debts. He had decided to seek a post in a profession which he knew, but, he added, there was one promise to be made. We three would always come back to Verfeuille in the summer, to spend whatever holidays we got there. Everyone cheered and approved these robust sentiments, but for my part I foresaw that we might be forced to separate, for my medical finals were coming up that autumn, and I did not know what the future might hold in store. It would not have been possible to foresee the extraordinary fluke that landed me in the Foreign Service post within three months of passing them. At that moment I was possessed by a deep, numbing nostalgia for the land where I had spent the happiest hours of my life – in Aramon, say, among the cherry trees, on green grass, with summer round the corner; or Fons or Collias, or a dozen other spots where we had camped. A sombre sadness possessed me as I watched the preoccupied face of Sylvie.

A short and thoughtful silence fell upon the banqueters as they took in the full import of the words; as if in their minds they were trying out the absence of Piers, to see how it would feel without him. At that moment there came a light but peremptory knocking on the door of the room which made us all look at each other and wonder who could knock at this time and on this evening. The rapid knock was repeated after a pause and old Jan rose and clicked across the flags to throw open the door into the hall.

Outside it was shadowy, but framed in the winking firelight was someone whom I took to be a gipsy for she wore the motley patchwork of one, with a brilliant headscarf and cheap but very heavy ear-rings; nor was the supposition so farfetched for Avignon had a large gipsy colony encamped about its walls, Salon was not far away, and today would be a suitable day to beg for alms … But the apparition moved a step forward into the light and said huskily: “Piers, I heard you were back.” The deep voice and the cultivated accent at once belied the trappings, and excited one’s curiosity. Her feet were bare and dirty, and one ankle had a grubby bandage on it. Hers was a massive head with small black eyes and a long nose – at first blush one would say an ugly face. But the mobility of expression which changed continuously and the thrilling deepness of the voice were magnetic, startling. There was something authoritative and superb about the woman. Piers embraced her warmly.

This was my first glimpse of Sabine about whom I then knew little enough; indeed I only knew her name when Piers used it and Sylvie repeated it as a greeting. Later I learned to know her and to admire her – but never as much as Piers who had a regular passion for the girl. She was the daughter of Lord Banquo, the Jewish banker of international repute, and their chateau was at Meurre, a dozen kilometres away. After brilliant studies the girl had abandoned the university, and had all but taken to the roads with the gipsies on whom she professed to be basing an ethnographic work. She disappeared for long periods only to reappear at the chateau without any warning, and resume her old civilised life of a well-groomed and well-spoken only daughter. Her mother was long dead and her father lived from one mistress to the next, for the most part minor actresses. He tired of them rapidly, and replaced them frequently. He was always delighted to have his daughter back, largely for selfish reasons, for she was an excellent hostess and he entertained a great deal. From time to time, when she was in trouble, she turned up at Verfeuille and asked Piers’ help and counsel. They had met out riding.

She was an unforgettable sight that first evening and I watched her curiously and rather jealously, so evident was Piers’ attachment for her. On this occasion, as in the past, it was something to do with the gipsies, I do not recall what, but some sort of trouble concerning a man who was then lurking about in the grounds as far as I could gather. After listening to her low voice for a moment Piers, without a word, took up a lantern and gestured her to lead him out into the forest. They disappeared with startling abruptness through the front door. I noticed that the prudent old Jan went to the gun cupboard and produced a short carbine which he loaded before he too went to the door and stationed himself to wait there, peering out into the night, waiting perhaps for a cry for help. But none came. We could hear a sort of altercation between two male voices; then the deep voice of the girl. At last Piers reappeared swinging the lantern. He was alone. “It’s all right,” was all he said by way of explanation. “He won’t harm her.”

By now the old man had discovered that it was nearly time for the village mass. “We will have to hurry up,” he said consulting the old clock, “we must set a good example on the day of the days.” The company donned hats and scarves and we straggled out into the night with its washed-out late moon trying to guide us. Our feet scratched the flinty path which led away to the tiny hamlet of Verfeuille whose ancient church was now so ablaze with candles that the whole fragile structure seemed to be on fire. I walked arm in arm with the brother and sister, silent and preoccupied and wondering about the future – the future which has now become the past.

The telephone beside the bed shrilled. Bechet was as good as his word. “Everything has been arranged for this evening,” he said in his fussy-complaisant manner. “And I myself will drive you over if you will be ready for me about six. Waiting in the hall, please, because of difficult parking on that narrow street.” I drowsily agreed. There was a comfortable margin of time in hand which would enable me to have a bath and dress in leisurely fashion. I lay back on the pillows for a moment to recover from this welter of ancient memories – a patchwork quilt of history and sensation. And Sylvie? I rang through to Jourdain and told him what was afoot. He was surprised and also very glad that Bechet had acted promptly and that the authorities had decided to co-operate. As for Sylvie, there was for the present nothing to be done but to let her rest. Nevertheless I promised to come up and visit her on the morrow when everything to do with the funeral had been taken care of. On the one hand I felt a certain elation to think of everything formal being over that very day; but on the other hand I felt certain misgivings, for after all this … What? I had decided on nothing, what was I going to do with the rest of my life? I was living from moment to moment. Half my mind was plunged in the past, and half contemplated the future with a sense of disorientation and blankness. And Sylvie?

Much of this passed once more through my mind when at last that evening I sat beside Bechet in his stuffy little car, watching the twilight scenery unroll along the valley of the Rhône; the same opalescent packets of mist about which I had dreamed in the afternoon brimmed the lowland fields. Darkness seemed unduly late for the time of the year but as the time of the ceremony (or non-ceremony) had not been specified there was little cause for anxiety on this score. The old Abbé was driving up in his own car from some village further to the east. Bechet rather dreaded the meeting because of this infernal injunction of Piers about a religious service. “I have put it to him most forcibly,” said the lawyer more than once, “and it is my duty as a lawyer to see that his last wishes are complied with. And I shall do it. If he so much as mutters a Hail Mary …” He made a vaguely threatening gesture with his chin and drove on with his features composed in a martial expression. As a driver he was a slow and jerky one, and was obviously rather concerned about mist.