We have a new parishioner. A Vianne Rocher, a widow, I take it, with a young
child. Do you remember old Blaireau's bakery? Four years since he died, and the
place has been going to ruin ever since. Well, she has taken the lease on it,
and hopes to reopen by the end of the week. I don't expect it to last. We
already have Poitou's bakery across the square, and besides, she'll never fit
in. A pleasant enough woman, but she has nothing in common with us. Give her two
months, and she'll be back to the city where she belongs. Funny, I never did
find out where she was from. Paris, I expect, or maybe even across the border.
Her accent is pure, almost too pure for a Frenchwoman, with the clipped vowels
of the north, though her eyes suggest Italian or Portuguese descent, and her
skin ... But I didn't really see her. She worked in the bakery all yesterday and
today. There is a sheet of orange plastic over the window, and occasionally she
or her little wild daughter appears to tip a bucket of dirty water into the
gutter, or to talk animatedly with some workman or other. She has an odd
facility for acquiring helpers. Though I offered to assist her, I doubted
whether she would find many of our villagers willing. And yet I saw Clairmont
early this morning, carrying a load of wood, then Pourceau with his ladders.
Poitou sent some furniture; I saw him carrying an armchair across the square
with the furtive look of a man who does not wish to be seen. Even that
ill-tempered backbiter Narcisse, who flatly refused to dig over the churchyard
last November, went over there with his tools to tidy up her garden. This
morning at about eight-forty a delivery van arrived in front of the shop.
Duplessis, who was walking his dog at the usual time, was just passing at that
moment, and she called him over to help her unload. I could see he was startled
by the request--for a second I was almost certain he would refuse--one hand
halfway to his hat. She said something then--I didn't hear what it was--and I
heard her laughter ringing across the cobbles. She laughs a great deal, and
makes many extravagant comical gestures with her arms. Again a city trait, I
suppose. We are accustomed to a greater reserve in the people around us, but I
expect she means well. A violet scarf was knotted gypsy-fashion around her head,
but most of her hair had escaped from beneath it and was streaked with white
paint. She didn't seem to mind. Duplessis could not recall later what she had
said to him, but said in his diffident way that the delivery was nothing, only a
few boxes, small but quite heavy, and some open crates containing kitchen
utensils. He did not ask what was in the boxes, though he doubts such a small
supply of anything would go very far in a bakery.
Do not imagine, mon père, that I spent my day watching the bakery. It is
simply that it stands almost immediately opposite my own house--the one that was
yours, mon père, before all this. Throughout the last day and a half there has
been nothing but hammering and painting and whitewashing and scrubbing until in
spite of myself I cannot help but be curious to see the result. I am not alone
in this; I overheard Madame Clairmont gossiping self-importantly to a group of
friends outside Poitou's of her husband's work; there was talk of "red
shutters" before they noticed me and subsided into sly muttering. As if I
cared. The new arrival has certainly provided food for gossip, if nothing else.
I find the orange-covered window catches the eye at the strangest times. It
looks like a huge bonbon waiting to be unwrapped, like a remaining slice of the
carnival. There is something unsettling about its brightness and the way the
plastic folds catch the sun; I will be happy when the work is finished and the
place is a bakery once more.
The nurse is trying to catch my eye. She thinks I tire you. How can you bear
them, with their loud voices and nursery manner? Time for our rest, now, I
think. Her archness is jarring, unbearable. And yet she means kindly, your eyes
tell me. Forgive them, they know not what they do. I am not kind. I come here
for my own relief, not yours. And yet I like to believe my visits give you
pleasure, keeping you in touch with the hard edges of a world gone soft and
featureless. Television an hour a night, turning five times a day, food through
a tube. To be talked over as if you were an object--Can he hear us? Do you think
he understands?--your opinions unsought, discarded ... To be closed from
everything, and yet to feel, to think ... This is the truth of hell, stripped of
its gaudy medievalisms. This loss of contact. And yet I look to you to teach me
communication. Teach me hope.
A Man Called Intrepid author dies aged 89(Dec 03 2013) William Stevenson, a journalist and author who drew on his close ties with intelligence sources to write two best-selling books in the 1970s, A Man Called...