Malevil, Page 23

  “And where would you have gone? How would you have fed her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And your grandmother? Would she have stayed at Malevil?”

  La Falvine, who had risen to her feet when the two men came in (a reflex acquired during her years with Wahrwoorde?), was still standing beside Miette, though now, obviously beginning to feel tired, she leaned forward and supported herself with her hands on the table.

  “I hadn’t thought about her,” Jacquet said in confusion.

  “Ah, I can well believe it!” La Falvine said, and a big tear brimmed out of one eye.

  I was fairly certain that she was an easy weeper, but all the same, Jacquet was certainly her favorite. She had the right to be a little upset.

  Miette laid her hand on Falvine’s, raised her face toward her, and gazed at her with a shake of the head that clearly said, But I’d never have abandoned you, don’t worry. I would have liked to hear Miette’s voice, but on the other hand I could understand why she didn’t bother to speak. Her eyes said everything. Perhaps it was during Wahrwoorde’s reign, during the long evenings of silence he must have imposed on them, that she had acquired her talents as a mime.

  I went on: “Jacquet, had you asked Miette whether she agreed to your plan?”

  Miette shook her head violently, and Jacquet looked at her, completely deflated. “No,” he said in a voice I could hardly hear.

  A silence.

  “Miette is coming to Malevil with us,” I said. “Of her own free will. Your grandmother too. And from this moment, as I speak to you now, Jacquet, no one has the right to say, ‘Miette is mine.’ Not you. Not me. Not Thomas. Nor anyone at Malevil. Do you understand?”

  He nodded to signify yes.

  I went on: “Why did you try to hide the fact that Miette was here?”

  “You know why,” he said in a faint voice.

  “You were afraid I would sleep with her?”

  “Oh, no, not because of that. If she wanted to, I mean, then that’s your right.”

  “Because I might force her to then?”

  “Yes,” he whispered.

  The distinction was wholly to his credit, it seemed to me. It wasn’t himself he’d been thinking of, it was Miette. However, I felt it incumbent on me to put on a display of sternness. I was letting him soften me up with those innocent dog’s eyes of his. It was a mistake. It was my job to teach him how to behave, since he was coming to live with us.

  “Listen, Jacquet. There’s something you have to get through your head. It’s here, at L’Étang, that people kill other people, commit rape, hit people over the head, and steal their neighbor’s horse. At Malevil we don’t do things like that.”

  Oh, the shame with which he took his dressing-down! And obviously I had no gift as a moral tutor. Which simply means, I suppose, that I’m no sadist. Jacquet’s shame certainly gave me no pleasure. I cut it short. “Your horse, what’s his name?”

  “Malabar.”

  “Right. Get out there now and harness Malabar up to your cart. We won’t be able to move more than one load over today. We’ll come back again with Malabar tomorrow, and Amarante too, with the Malevil cart. It may take several trips, but we’ll have the time.”

  Jacquet immediately made for the door, relieved at the prospect of physical activity. Thomas, rather unenthusiastically it seemed to me, swiveled on his heels and prepared to follow. I called him back. “There’s no point, Thomas. Not much chance of his making a break for it now!”

  Thomas retraced his steps, delighted at not having to deprive himself of the sight of Miette. He sank back into his contemplation of her without further ado. I thought he looked pretty idiotic, gaping at her with that hypnotized stare, quite forgetting that a moment ago I must have looked exactly the same. As for Miette, her magnificent eyes never left my own, or rather my lips, every movement of which she seemed to follow whenever I spoke.

  I began to speak again. I wanted everything to be quite clear. “Now, Miette, there’s one thing I want you to understand. Once you’re at Malevil, no one is going to make you do anything you don’t want to do.”

  Then since she didn’t answer, I went on: “Do you understand?”

  Silence.

  “Of course she understands,” La Falvine said.

  Impatiently I snapped at her, “Let her speak for herself, Falvine.”

  La Falvine turned and stared at me. “But she can’t. She’s dumb.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  That return to Malevil in the dusk! I rode at the head, bareback on Amarante, my rifle slung over my shoulder with its barrel across my chest. Miette was behind me with her arms around my waist, because just as we were about to set off she had made me understand, with one of her mimes, that she wanted to ride pillion with me. I kept Amarante down to a walk, because Malabar, who would have followed my mare to the end of the world now, began to trot as soon as she got too far ahead, and that made things uncomfortable on the cart behind, which was loaded to the brim, not only with La Falvine, Jacquet, and Thomas, but also an incredible heap of mattresses and perishables. And above all, tied to the back with a rope, lurching along as best she could, there was a cow, encumbered by a vastly swollen belly, that La Falvine had refused to leave behind at L’Étang, even for one night, because, she said, the poor thing might calve at any moment.

  We took the track up the hillside, past the former Cussac farmhouse, now just a pile of ashes, because there was no question, with the cart, of getting past the dry-stone walls across the little plain leading down to the Rhunes. Moreover Jacquet had assured me that the hill track, though longer, wasn’t cluttered with charred tree trunks. He had been along it several times on his way to Malevil, under orders from his father to spy on us.

  As soon as we had maneuvered the cart up the slope of the meadow to Cussac, no mean feat, we found ourselves on the tarmacadammed road, and since it was already beginning to get dark I was tempted to ride on ahead in order to reassure the others in Malevil. But when I saw, or rather heard, Malabar breaking into a gallop on the metaled surface behind Amarante, and the cow bellowing as the halter attaching her to the cart began to strangle her, I reined in the mare and kept her down to a walk from then on. The poor cow took a long time to recover from her shock, despite the consolations showered on her by La Falvine, leaning dangerously over the back of the cart. I noted that she was named Marquise, which put her some way below our Princesse in bovine rank. Uncle Samuel had always claimed that it was during the Revolution, when the peasants began throwing out their erstwhile masters, that they had begun lumbering their animals with such titles in a spirit of mockery. “And no wonder,” La Menou once said, “after all the terrible things they did to us. Even under Napoleon III, you wouldn’t believe it, Emmanuel, but there was a count at La Roque who hanged his coachman just because he hadn’t obeyed an order. And what happened to him? Nothing. Not even a day in prison.”

  I went much further back in time than the Revolution at that moment when I glimpsed Malevil in the distance, its great keep lit with torches. My heart was filled with a warm glow, seeing it again like that. And I knew exactly what a baron felt in the Middle Ages, when he had been waging war in some far place and was riding home again, unharmed and victorious, bringing back the carts piled high with booty and with captives to his castle. Of course it wasn’t quite the same. I hadn’t raped Miette, and she wasn’t a captive. On the contrary, I had freed her from captivity.

  But we did have booty, and a goodly amount too, certainly enough and more, far more, to compensate for the three extra mouths to be fed: two cows, one of which, Marquise, was about to calve, the other, in full lactation, temporarily left behind at L’Étang together with a bull, a boar, and two sows (without counting the pigs already processed into edible form), two or three times as many hens as La Menou already had, and above all a large quantity of wheat, thanks to Wahrwoorde’s insistence on making his own bread. His farm had always been dismissed as a poor one, because Wahrwo
orde never spent anything. But in fact, as I have said, it included a fair amount of good land on the hill toward Cussac. And that evening I wasn’t bringing even a tenth of L’Étang’s riches back with me to Malevil. I calculated that it would take all next day and the day after that as well, ferrying to and fro with both carts, to bring in everything, tools and stock included.

  It was odd how much the disappearance of the internal combustion engine had changed the whole rhythm of our life. On a horse, at a walk, it took a good hour to reach Malevil from Cussac, when in my station wagon I could have done it in ten minutes. And what a wealth of thoughts during that long, slow, swaying progress, bareback on Amarante, whose warmth and sweat filled my nostrils, and behind me Miette, her arms wound around my waist, her face pressed against my neck, and her breasts against my back. What gifts she was showering on me! And how sane, how wise our very slowness was!

  For the first time since the day it happened I was happy. Well no, not happy, not entirely. I thought of Wahrwoorde under the ground, mouth and eyes filled with the earth that was also blocking the hole in his chest. A wily fellow that! A rough, tough outlaw! Living according to his own law, refusing to accept any other. A collector of male animals too. Because so many of them on so small a farm represented an altogether exceptional extravagance: a boar, a stallion, a bull. In a part of the world where all the other farms kept none but females—because all our cows were virgins, inseminated artificially—Wahrwoorde had indulged his respect for the male principle. It wasn’t just a determination to be sole ruler of his own life. There must also have been an almost religious cult of virility itself, embodied in the dominance of the male animal. And he himself had been the super-male of L’Étang’s human livestock, confident that every female in the family was his property, stepdaughters included, once past the age of puberty.

  We were approaching Malevil now, and I was having difficulty holding Amarante in. She was constantly trying to break into a trot. But because of our poor Marquise behind the cart, her great belly banging to and fro between her short legs, I kept her firmly reined in, elbows tight to my sides. I wondered what she must think, my mare, of the day she’d just spent. Kidnaped, deflowered, and brought back again to the fold. No mystery now as to why she followed her kidnaper: she had smelled the musk of the stallion on him. And now, Bel Amour in the Maternity Ward must have smelled our approach, because a distant neigh reached our ears, answered immediately by Amarante, and after a brief moment of surprise (What! Another mare!) by the deeper voice of Malabar. The falling dusk was full of animal odors floating, calling, answering one another.

  It was only we who could sense nothing. With our noses at least, because I could certainly feel Miette as she hugged herself tight against the whole length of my back, her thighs, her belly, her breasts all flattened against my flesh. Whenever Amarante succeeded in breaking into a trot, Miette would press herself against me even harder, cling even more tightly with her two hands clasped around my belly. It was probably the first time she’d ever ridden bareback. And she would never forget it. Nor would I. All those soft curves behind me, keeping me warm, quivering with life. I felt buried in them, padded, softly embedded. If only I could neigh too, like Malabar, instead of thinking. And not fear the future in the womb of that present pleasure.

  They had been prodigal with their torches in Malevil. Two up on the keep, two stuck in the arrow slits of the gate tower. My heart thumped as I looked up at my marvelous castle, so strong, so well guarded. And as we climbed the steep slope up to it, I gazed in wonder at the vast vertical keep in the background, lit and shadowed at the same time by the torches, at the gate tower in front of me, and running away from it on either side the ramparts, on which quite soon, craning their necks between the crenelations, shadowy figures appeared, not yet recognizable. One of them brandished a torch above the parapet. A voice cried, “Is that you, Emmanuel?”

  I regretted not having stirrups. I could have stood up in them as I answered, “Yes, it’s me! And Thomas! We’re bringing visitors!”

  Exclamations. A confused medley of voices. I heard the muffled cracking as the two heavy oak doors swung open. Their great hinges were well enough oiled, it was the wood itself protesting at being awakened. I rode over the threshold and recognized the torchbearer. It was Momo.

  “Momo, close the gate again when the cow is in!”

  “Ehanooel! Ehanooel!” Momo shrieked, wild with excitement.

  “A cow!” La Menou cried with a laugh of pure pleasure. “So he’s brought us home a cow!”

  “And a stallion!” Peyssou cried.

  What a heroic figure I was! What acclaim all around me! I could see black silhouettes moving and bustling about. I couldn’t make out any faces yet. Then Bel Amour, now only a few yards away in her stall, smelled the stallion and began neighing for all she was worth, kicking against her door, carrying on as though possessed by devils, while Malabar and Amarante took turns in answering her. Outside the entrance to the Maternity Ward I halted, hoping Bel Amour might quiet down at the sight of our horses. I don’t know whether she could actually see them, but she did stop neighing. I personally couldn’t see a thing, because Momo, the torchbearer, was behind us shutting the great oak doors, and La Menou, who was holding the flashlight (the first time she had used it since it had been entrusted to her), was inspecting the cow at the rear of the convoy.

  The others had all gathered around Amarante, and now I could make out Peyssou by the white bandage around his head. Someone—Colin I imagined, because he was quite short—had taken hold of the mare’s reins, and as she lowered her head I threw my right leg over her neck and leapt off, a practice I don’t normally indulge in, since I feel it’s rather theatrical, but how was I to do otherwise just then, with Miette still behind me, even though I had managed to unclasp her hands. Scarcely had my feet hit the ground when Peyssou seized me in his arms and without the slightest reticence began kissing me.

  “Ugh! That’s enough, you great slug! Stop slavering over me will you!” Laughter, joy, punches, insults, tremendous nudges. At last I remembered Miette. I took her by the waist and lifted her down. No lightweight! I said, “This is Miette.”

  At that point Momo returned, brandishing his torch, and Miette suddenly leapt out of the darkness, every curve highlighted, haloed by her great black mane. Dead silence. All three of them stood like stone. Momo too, though his torch, held out at arm’s length, began to shake. All eyes fixed and gleaming. No sound but breathing. And also, a few yards away, that of La Menou soliloquizing at the back of the cart, welcoming the new cow with a string of endearments in patois. “Ah, my lovely, ah, my pretty! Look how big you are, all ready to calve, I see, and sweating like that. Ah, poor thing, have they been making you run, my dear, and you in that state? Look at you, with your calf down already inside!”

  Since my friends’ silence remained unbroken, and none of them seemed able to stir hand or foot, I took it upon myself to introduce them one after the other. This is Peyssou. This is Colin. This is Meyssonnier. This is Momo. Miette shook them each by the hand as I spoke the names. Not a word was exchanged. Their petrifaction still persisted. Except in the case of Momo. Suddenly he began jumping up and down, shouting Miette’s name as nearly as he was able. Then he rushed off, leaving us in darkness, to tell his mother about the new arrival. She soon appeared. And since Momo’s torch had vanished with Momo, heaven knew where, perhaps to contemplate the new cow, La Menou directed the beam of her flashlight on Miette and inspected her from top to toe. The well-fleshed shoulders, the high round breasts, the strong buttocks, the strong legs, nothing escaped the descending circle of light.

  “Well, well! Well, well!” La Menou said.

  Not a cheep from anyone else. Miette, being dumb, was dumb. The men still standing like stone statues. And from the way La Menou let the beam of her light linger over Miette’s robust body, I sensed her approval. At least with regard to the girl’s physical vigor, her reproductive capacities, her usefulness as a work
er. In the moral sphere, La Menou was not going to commit herself. Apart from that first “Well, well! Well, well!” she said nothing. Not a word. I recognized her habitual caution. And her misogyny. I knew perfectly well what she was thinking: Better not let those titties go to your heads, my lads. A woman is always a woman. And where women are concerned, there aren’t many you aren’t better off without.

  I don’t know if Miette was troubled by that double silence—the gaping speechlessness of the three men, and the discourteous lack of greeting from La Menou—but Thomas saved the situation just then by jumping down from the cart. I watched him—how things had changed!—turn and take the two guns that our prisoner, still perched on the cart, was handing down to him. And then he was among us, hung about with weapons. He was greeted warmly. Perhaps not as enthusiastically as I had been. Or with the breathless surprise Miette had produced. But he received his share of punches, slaps on the back, and nudges. In fact it was the first time I’d ever seen the other three bang him about like that, a sign that he was really accepted into the group at last. That pleased me a great deal. And Thomas himself, delighted by their effusions, responded to them as best he could, still a little stiff, a little awkward about it, still the townsman, his gestures not quite relaxed enough or spontaneous enough, no friendly insult ready on his lips.

  “And you, Emmanuel, how are you?” La Menou asked.

  I saw her smiling way down below me, her little skull face turned up to me, her tiny body drawn up to its full height, not an ounce of fat anywhere. But it did me good to see it, that emaciated little body, after La Falvine’s monstrous lardy bulk.

  “Very pleased to see that you’re only interested in the cow!” I said in patois.

  Then I took her by her elbows, lifted her into the air as though she were a feather, kissed her on both cheeks, and condescended all the same to give her a brief account of L’Étang, Wahrwoorde, and his family. She wasn’t much surprised to hear about the troglodyte. She had heard about his wicked ways already.