Malevil, Page 6

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  April 1977: the last milestone.

  When I think back now to those last weeks of happy existence remaining to us then, I experience an almost piercing feeling of irony at the memory that for all the former Club members, as for myself, the great business of the moment, the all-engrossing thought, the supreme undertaking, the vast and important project we had then conceived, consisted in the overthrow of the local council in Malejac (population 412) and its replacement in office by ourselves. Oh, how disinterested we were! With nothing in view but the common good!

  That April, with the local elections imminent, we lived in feverish activity. On the fifteenth or sixteenth, but at all events a Sunday morning, I had summoned our anti-establishment band to a meeting at Malevil, in the great hall of the Renaissance house, since Monsieur Paulat, the primary school teacher, evidently had some scruple or other, he had informed us, about allowing us to meet in his school.

  I had just finished furnishing the hall, and as I waited for my friends I walked proudly up and down it contemplating my handiwork with glee. In the center stood a twenty-five-foot refectory table, around it twelve high-backed chairs upholstered in tooled leather. Between the two mullioned windows the wall bristled with antique sidearms. Against the opposite wall stood a big glass-fronted bookcase, and on either side of it two of the rustic Louis XV commodes from La Grange Forte, their feet and doors recently mended for me by Meyssonnier. Mathilde Meyssonnier had polished them with love, and the dark warmth of the walnut seemed to me perfection, set off by the golden stone of the wall. There was no less of a shine on the great flagstones of the floor, freshly scrubbed by La Menou. And despite the sunlight slanting in obliquely through the tinted glass of the tiny leaded panes, La Menou, affecting to believe that “the air struck cold underneath,” but in fact feeling that flames would add to the dignity of the general décor, had lit vast wood fires in the two monumental fireplaces that faced each other across the length of the room.

  I had asked La Menou to ring the bell in the gate tower as soon as she heard the Club members drawing up in the parking area outside the outer wall, and Momo had been posted as lookout in the square tower over the drawbridge with orders to lower it over the moat as soon as my friends appeared.

  I grant that there was a hint of the theatrical in these arrangements, but after all, this was not just any old castle, nor were my visitors just any old friends.

  The moment I heard the bell I ran out of the house and bounded up the steps to the drawbridge tower where Momo was turning the winch. Everything was working to perfection; with a muffled yet dramatic rumble of well-oiled chains the great pivoted beams swung down and out, the bridge hanging below them by two more vast chains. A series of pulleys and counterweights was used to gear down the winding up and brake the weight of the descent, and Momo, solemn-faced, thin body arched with effort, was holding back the capstan arms as I had taught him, so that the lip of the bridge should sink gently into contact with the ground.

  Through the square lookout window I could see my three friends approaching across the outer enclosure, walking in line abreast across the fifty yards still separating them from the moat, their eyes raised toward us. They too were moving slowly and in silence, as though they were aware of the role allotted to them in this scene.

  There was in fact a sort of solemn expectation hanging in the air, emphasized by the horses in their stalls, the long line of heads emerging from their half doors at the same height, and all those beautiful, sensitive eyes fixed with apprehension upon the drawbridge as they listened to its grating chains.

  When the wooden apron was finally at rest, I went down and opened the door for my friends, or to be precise, the small door let into the right-hand side of the large door.

  “Some entrance!” Colin remarked, smiling his gondola smile and looking at me with a malicious twinkle in his eyes.

  Big Peyssou, great round mug split by a happy smile, admired the vast diameter of the pivoting beams, the size of the chains, the solidity of the iron-studded bridge. Meyssonnier said nothing. There was no place for such childish enthusiasms in his austere card-carrying Communist’s heart.

  Peyssou insisted immediately on climbing up to the little square tower and winding the drawbridge back up again personally, a task he accomplished with a vast deployment of muscle that was clearly unnecessary, since little Colin, having insisted on taking over halfway through the operation, concluded it without any effort. But of course, once up, the bridge had to be lowered again forthwith, since Monsieur Paulat hadn’t arrived yet. But at that point Momo interrupted in no uncertain fashion: “Heevheeahone, hor Hodhake!” (Leave me alone, for God’s sake!) and insisted on resuming command of his machine. Meyssonnier had followed us up, though still without speaking or taking any part, disgusted by our reactionary delight in feudal architecture.

  We had barely seated ourselves around the monumental refectory table when Peyssou asked me what the news was about Birgitta, and when he would be seeing that strapping lass again. “At Easter. At Easter, eh?” Peyssou said. “Well, make sure you don’t let her go wandering about in the woods on one of your old hacks. Because if I happen to run into her I shall certainly give her a good how do you do. ‘Mademoiselle,’ I shall say, very polite of course, ‘that horse of yours is dropping a shoe.’ ‘Oh, that can’t be,’ she’ll come back, all surprised, and down she’ll leap. And once down, allez-oop. I don’t need to tell you, I shall have her down on the moss in a trice, boots and all.”

  “Better watch out for her spurs then,” Colin put in.

  General laughter. And even Meyssonnier raised a smile. Not that the Birgitta-in-the-woods joke was by any means new. In fact, Peyssou came out with it every time we were all together. In reality, of course, Peyssou was by now a middle-aged farmer, sedate and settled, who never deceived his wife. But he still remained faithful to the image of him we had collectively created in the days of the Club, and we all loved him for that fidelity to our past.

  At the arrival of Monsieur Paulat, my successor at the school, the conversation took a more serious turn. Monsieur Paulat was dressed in black, hollow-cheeked, sallow-complexioned, his badge of academic office on his lapel. We greeted him courteously, itself proof that he was not one of us. His acid accent, contrasting so sharply with our own broader Southwestern (with a hint of Massif Central) sounds, created an uneasiness in us, heightened even further by his flat, insipid phraseology. Besides which, we were aware that though he had associated himself in principle with our efforts, he was nevertheless hedged on all sides with reservations and ulterior motives where we were concerned.

  When he shook hands with Meyssonnier, for example, it was barely more than a touch with the tips of his fingers. Meyssonnier was a member of the Communist Party, and as such the devil incarnate. There was the constant threat that he was going to inveigle his allies into a Communist cell, steal away their souls (so enamored of formal liberties) while they weren’t looking, then keep them there bound hand and foot until the victory of the Party made it feasible to eliminate them physically. Colin, though undoubtedly a man of sound sense, was just a plumber, Peyssou an ignorant and somewhat stupid farmer, and as for myself, giving up a headmastership in order to breed horses, I ask you!

  “Gentlemen,” Monsieur Paulat began, “permit me to begin by thanking Monsieur Comte, in your name as well as my own, for having been so kind as to extend us this hospitality, since I was of the opinion, as a matter of conscience, that the school, being dependent upon the town hall for its maintenance, was not a suitable place to hold this meeting.”

  He fell silent, pleased with this beginning. We were considerable less so, since everything in his little speech, tone as well as content, seemed to us ill-considered. Monsieur Paulat was forgetting a great Republican principle: The state school belonged to everyone. Which opened the way to a suspicion that while lending his support to us, the opposition, in secret, Monsieur Paulat was at the same time maintaining the best pos
sible relations with the mayor in public.

  I watched my friends while he spoke. Meyssonnier was leaning forward, his narrow forehead and knifelike profile bent over the table. His close-set eyes were invisible, but I knew exactly what he was thinking of the man opposite him just then.

  I could also tell from Peyssou’s pleasant, guileless face that he didn’t think much of him either. Monsieur Paulat was correct in thinking that Peyssou was not very intelligent. Nor had he ever had much education. But he did possess a quality that I suspect Monsieur Paulat himself had never heard of: a native sensitivity that served him instead of intellectual subtlety. Monsieur Paulat’s hare-and-hounds side had not escaped him, and furthermore he was perfectly aware of the teacher’s low opinion of him. As for little Colin, his eyes began to sparkle the moment I caught them.

  There was a heavy silence, the significance of which evidently escaped Monsieur Paulat, since he immediately made himself spokesman once again.

  “We are here to discuss certain recent events in Malejac and to consider what steps should be taken in view of them. But first of all, I think it would be best to set out the facts, since I for my part have heard two versions of the matter, and I should be glad to have some light thrown on the subject.”

  Having thus placed himself above the crowd and assigned himself the expedient role of arbiter, Monsieur Paulat was silent, leaving the honor of wading into the muck and accusing the mayor to others. “Others” in this case clearly meaning Meyssonnier, whom the teacher had given a meaningful glance at the words “it would be best to set out the facts,” as though Meyssonnier’s “version,” coming from a Communist, must inevitably awaken mistrust a priori in any respectable citizen.

  None of which escaped Meyssonnier. But unfortunately Meyssonnier suffers from a certain rigidity of mind that is echoed in his speech by an undoubted lack of flexibility. So the ill feeling he was unable to conceal in his reply seemed almost to prove his adversary in the right.

  “There aren’t two versions at all,” he said in an arrogant tone, “there’s just one, and everyone here knows it. The mayor, an entrenched reactionary, openly approached the bishop with a request that he should appoint a parish priest in Malejac. The bishop’s reply was ‘Yes, on condition that you repair the parish house and put in a water supply.’ Whereupon the mayor immediately complied. A trench was dug, water was piped in from a spring, and a large sum of money was sunk in improving the house. And all this, needless to say, at our expense.”

  Monsieur Paulat half closed his eyes, rested his elbows on the table, and laid his fingertips gently together, including the thumbs. Having erected this symbol of balance and moderation, he swayed back and forth slightly and said with devastating fairness, “So far I see nothing very damnable in all this.”

  He permitted himself a subtle smile on the word “damnable” to convey that he did not himself wholly subscribe to such clerical terminology.

  “Monsieur Nardillon is supported by a Catholic majority, albeit a rather small one, which it is our hope to overthrow. It is normal enough that he should try to procure them the satisfaction of having a full-time priest [another smile] at Malejac, instead of having to share a priest with La Roque as they have had to do up till now. Moreover the parish house is a genuine seventeenth-century structure with carved gables and a pediment over the door, and it would have been a pity to let it fall into ruins.”

  Meyssonnier went red and lowered his razor-sharp profile as though he were about to hurl himself to the attack. I didn’t give him time however. I began to answer myself. “Monsieur Paulat,” I said politely, “if the majority of Malejac’s population wants a resident priest, and if that majority is prepared to repair the parish house in order to achieve that end, then I am certainly of your opinion. I don’t find anything very ‘damnable’ in it [an exchange of subtle smiles]. And I would also agree that any local council has a duty not to let the buildings under its jurisdiction fall into disrepair. But nevertheless there are certain priorities that must be respected. For one thing, the parish house was not about to collapse in ruins. In fact, its roof was in an extremely good state of repair. And it is a pity that its flooring should have been renewed before repairing the school playground, which is open to all the children in Malejac, no matter what their beliefs. And similarly, it is a pity that a water supply should have been provided in the parish house before providing running water in all the other houses in Malejac, as should have been done a long time ago. And it is even more regrettable, since the pipeline to the parish house passes directly in front of a house at present occupied by a widow who has neither a well nor a water tank, that it did not occur to the mayor to add a small branch pipe in order to spare that widow, who has five children, the labor of fetching all her water from the town pump.”

  Monsieur Paulat, eyes lowered and fingertips joined, nodded his head several times, then said, “Of course.”

  Meyssonnier wanted to say something at that point, but I signaled to him to refrain, wishing to allow Monsieur Paulat all the time he needed to give clear-cut and public expression to his disapproval. But he did no more than nod his head once more and repeat with a saddened expression, “Of course, of course.”

  “And the worst part of all, Headmaster,” little Colin put in, the respect in his tone given the lie by his smile, “is that all the money spent on the parish house might just as well have been saved. Because when the old curé at La Roque left, which was no more than a week ago, the bishop simply appointed another parish priest with one foot there and one in Malejac. There was a recommendation to reside in Malejac, it’s true. But the new curé plumped for La Roque all the same.”

  “Where did you hear that story?” Monsieur Paulat asked Colin with a stern glare.

  “Why, from the new curé himself, from the Abbé Raymond,” Colin said. “As you know, perhaps, Monsieur Paulat, I live in Malejac, but I run a little plumbing business in La Roque, and the mayor of La Roque commissioned me to do some work for the council in the parish house there.”

  Monsieur Paulat frowned. “And the new priest is supposed to have told you...”

  “I don’t think there was any supposition in it, Monsieur Paulat. He simply told me.”

  This rebuff was administered with a sweet smile, and with no raising of the voice. Paulat’s thin, sallow face visibly twitched.

  “He told me,” Colin went smoothly on, “‘In the matter of residence I was given a choice between Malejac and La Roque, with a nod in the direction of Malejac. But Malejac, you will agree, is more dead than alive. At least in La Roque there are some youngsters about. And I feel my place is with the young.’”

  There was a silence.

  “Of course,” Monsieur Paulat said.

  And that was all. At which Meyssonnier began talking about the “reply” called for by these events, and I allowed my attention to relax, since I had already prepared our “reply,” and it was of a nature to cause Monsieur Paulat some embarrassment. I therefore waited for the discussion to run down before putting it forward, and I needed no more than half an ear to tell me when that moment arrived.

  I smiled across at Colin with my eyes. It had given me pleasure to see him score off the headmaster, and to score off him moreover in such an academic tone.

  While Meyssonnier talked I played quiet scales on the tabletop with my fingers and allowed myself a moment’s nostalgic regret. Before Monsieur Paulat’s arrival on the scene things had been so clear-cut: At the next municipal elections the opposition would have put up a list of Progressive Union candidates against the mayor’s men and won by a narrow majority. Colin, Peyssou, Meyssonnier, myself, and two other local farmers who shared our views would have become local councilors, and Meyssonnier would have been appointed mayor.

  Because, despite his partisan connections, Meyssonnier would make a good mayor: dedicated, disinterested, devoid of all personal vanity, and not half as intolerant as he appeared on the surface. With him in office we would be able to provide Ma
lejac with water in every home, street lighting, a football field for the youngsters, and a pumping station by the Rhunes that would enable all the farmers to irrigate their tobacco and field corn.

  Momentarily at least, Monsieur Paulat was threatening our applecart. He had an urban conception of politics and was secretly pursuing a vision of himself as the fulcrum of a balance of power. He saw himself keeping a foot in each camp in order to get himself elected by the left so that he could rule with the right. But in Malejac we had not progressed to such perversions.

  Since Monsieur Paulat was sitting directly across from me, I was able to watch him while the debate continued. He had a caramel complexion, a broad fleshy nose, and there was something soft and rubbery about his face in profile. His tongue seemed to be too big for his mouth; you were constantly glimpsing it appearing between his thick lips, reducing his diction to a bubbling mess and causing him to sputter the whole time. There were deep lines radiating from his mouth that betrayed a bad digestion, and I noticed that the skin of his scrawny neck, just above the white collar, was reddened by a number of tiny boils. I foresaw further crops of such little boils by the time I had finished with him.

  Yet at the same time I felt a certain pity for him. I have noticed that men of his sort—sallow, dyspeptic, and boil-prone—are never happy in life. They become the slaves of ambition; in other words they devote themselves to things that other people consider important instead of to those that would really bring them pleasure.

  There are times when it is essential to listen to people and times when the ear becomes irrelevant and it is enough to watch them. Colin, I could see at a glance, was all asparkle like a good wine. Monsieur Paulat was looking like a slug. Meyssonnier made me think of one of those efficient by-the-book youngsters who are the backbone of armies and political parties. Peyssou, despite that burly carapace, was reacting to every word with the sensitivity of a young girl. Except that suddenly I realized he was no longer reacting at all. He had sagged down on his Louis XIII chair, and just from the way he was now picking his nose with his thumb I could see that he was suddenly fed up with the whole thing and that the debate had finally died on them.