He got his motorbike out of the van and said to Violette, “I’m going for a ride.”
77.
It’s better to mourn you than not to have known you.
October 22nd, 1996
Most precious Violette,
It’s already two months since your husband forbade you to return here. I miss you. ‘Say, when are you coming back?’ as Barbara sings.
This morning I listened to some Barbara, and it’s amazing how perfectly her voice goes with autumn, the smell of wet earth, not the sort roots grow in, but that they gently sleep in to return stronger, preparing to draw on that strength in winter. Autumn is a lullaby for the life that will return. All those leaves changing color, it’s like some haute couture fashion show, just like the notes in Barbara’s voice are. Personally, Barbara amuses me. When you really listen to her, you can hear that, for her, nothing is that serious, despite its seriousness. I could have fallen madly in love with her, especially if she’d been a man. What can I say, like her, ‘I don’t have the virtue of sailors’ wives.’
Thanks to this late season being mild, and no frost yet, I’ve actually just picked the last tomatoes, peppers, and zucchini. All Saints’ Day approaches, it’s like an invisible line: once it’s over, no more summer vegetables. My lettuces are still as fine, in a month’s time, there’ll only be my sugarloaf chicory left. The cabbages are emerging from the soil. While awaiting the first frosts, I’ve already turned over some beds, which I’ve covered in manure—where we picked the potatoes and onions together last August. My farming friend brought me five hundred kilos of shit, which I stored under the tarpaulin beside the shed. I cover it because, if it rains, the best of the manure gets washed away, leaving just the straw. It stinks a bit, but not too badly (it’s always better than those ghastly chemical fertilizers). I don’t think I’m bothering my closest neighbors. Speaking of whom, Edouard Chazel (1910–1996) was buried three days ago—died in his sleep. Sometimes I wonder what one can see at night to want to die of it.
I heard about Geneviève Magnan, a very sad end. I think it’s best to forget, Violette. I think you need to keep going and stop trying to find out how, why, who. The past isn’t as fertile as the shit I spread on the ground. It’s more like quicklime. That poison that burns stumps. Yes, Violette, the past poisons the now. Forever turning things over means dying a little.
Last month, I started pruning the old rosebushes. The weather has been too nice for mushrooms. Usually, at the end of summer, if there have been two or three storms with lots of rain, the chanterelles appear seven days later. Yesterday, I went into the woods, that secret spot where I usually find plenty of them, and I returned home like a Parisian, almost empty-handed. Just three chanterelles taunting me at the bottom of the basket. Like a litter of maggots, they were. I still ate them in an omelette. Serves them right! Last week, I saw the mayor, and spoke to him about you, highly recommended you. He wants to meet you and isn’t against the idea of you replacing me. I warned him that you wouldn’t be alone, that you had a husband. At first, he grimaced, because it means an extra salary, but since there used to be four gravediggers, and now there are only three, as a couple you should come within budget. So, if I were you, I wouldn’t hang around. Before some person comes begging to him—there’s always a nephew, cousin, neighbor after a municipal position. Admittedly, people aren’t exactly lining up to become cemetery keepers, but all the same, let’s not be complacent! It’s out of the question that I leave my cats and my garden to anyone other than you!
Come back here so I can organize for you to meet the mayor. Generally, one has to be wary of elected officials, but him, he’s a pretty decent sort. If he gives you his word, you won’t have to sign an offer of employment. So, you urgently need to think of some lie to get here as soon as possible. Have I already told you about the virtue of lying? If I forgot to, tie a knot in your hankie.
With fondest love, precious Violette,
Sasha
“Philippe, I have to go to Marseilles!”
“But it’s not August.”
“I’m not going to the chalet. Célia needs me for a few days, at her house. Three or four at the very most . . . If there are no complications. Without counting the journey.”
“Why?”
“She’s going to the hospital and has no one to look after Emmy.”
“When?
“Straight away, it’s an emergency.”
“Straight away?!”
“Yes, it’s an emergency, I tell you!”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Appendicitis.”
“At her age?”
“There’s no age for having appendicitis . . . Stéphanie will take me to Nancy and then I’ll get a train. Until I arrive, Emmy will stay with a neighbor . . . Célia begged me, she’s only got me, I have to go, and go fast. I’ve left you all the train timetables on a sheet of paper beside the phone. I’ve done the shopping, you’ll only have to heat up your blanquette or gratin in the microwave, there are two of those pizzas you like in the freezer, I’ve filled the fridge with yogurts and ready-made salads. At lunchtime, Stephanie will drop off a fresh baguette for you. I’ve put the packets of cookies in the drawer, under the cutlery, for
