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  For Steven, Clémence, and Ivan.

  La petite famille.

  All love goes by as water to the sea

  All love goes by

  How slow life seems to me

  How violent the hope of love can be

  Let night come on bells end the day

  The days go by me still I stay . . .

  —GUILLAUME APOLLINAIRE,

  “Le Pont Mirabeau”

  1

  Dirty Words

  As the sun crested the dusky mountain, its golden rays glazed the street-side houses. Didier Falque stood beneath a linden tree well apart from his friends Sébastien and Eva, who held hands in the tumbledown lean-to that served as a bus shelter. A third boy, Jeannot Pierrefeu, was busy kicking pebbles down the road. Jeannot could never be still or watchful like Didier. Instead he was always moving, causing small disruptions even when they were in class, and now he began to do a wild dance with his own elongated shadow as the sun’s curve rose atop the crenellated peaks like a scoop of apricot sorbet delivered in a fancy dish.

  From the bus stop, their little village of Serret resembled a king’s crown inserted into the mountainside. A great stone rampart encircled houses perched like jewels one on top of the other. Above it all, a ruined garrison of white limestone shone opalescent in the early light.

  Didier could smell the fresh scent of buds that had recently appeared in the trees. Even a few daggerlike swards of iris now poked through the rough soil by the roadside. They all wore T-shirts that spring morning and had the same long hair in shaggy disarray that was so fashionable in the 1970s. Only Didier’s hair, wiry as steel wool, sat on his head like a helmet instead of lying smooth and flat. He pressed it with his callused fingers, hoping to coax it into place.

  “Didi, have you considered ironing that bush?” Jeannot twirled annoyingly close, his big feet flipping another pebble over the gritty road. “That’s what all the girls with frizzy hair do.” Didier threw out a muscular arm, his knuckles just grazing Jeannot’s bouncing shoulder. Unlike his friend, Didier was slow on his feet and that morning the big farm boots he wore felt like they were weighted by stones.

  “Stop with your little jokes, Jeannot,” Eva called from her seat in the shelter. But she smiled as she said it, knowing that it would be futile to try to stop the flow of Jeannot’s words or to quash his brimming energy. She merely wanted to spare Didier, who, though he showed a façade of brash masculine insouciance, had a sensitive side.

  But Didier barely heard Eva’s plaint. Berti Perra was rounding the hill below, toting her heavy book bag, Berti whose perfect girl’s body generally left him overwhelmed with the desire to say something, anything that would make her notice him. That morning her ebony hair glowed in the sun, giving her head a golden aura like the halos on the gilded saints in the village church. She was two years younger than Didier and, like him, born into a family of vintners, but they were from different worlds. Berti’s parents, Liliane and Clément Perra, were respected, even revered, because their well-known appellations of Côtes du Rhône wines were exported all over the world. Didier’s family barely eked out a living, though their vineyards, dotted over the hillsides in separate parcels, added up to a fairly important landholding. But their wine was considered a mere vin de table in comparison with the vintages from Domaine Petitjean, the Perras’ vineyard.

  When Jeannot skipped down the road and landed directly in front of Berti, an angry flush crept up the sides of Didier’s face. He had hoped to greet her first, but Jeannot beat him to it.

  “Salut, ma belle,” Jeannot said to her with a smile. “You’re late this morning.”

  “We had a crisis.”

  “A crisis! Was it exciting?”

  “Pati appeared at breakfast with a black eye.”

  “Did Philippe slug her?”

  “Neither of my brothers would ever touch us!” Berti exclaimed.

  Didier listened, silently wishing that he had a large family of five siblings like Berti. Perhaps the fact that he was an only child was the reason he often felt so uncomfortable with others.

  “So what happened?” Jeannot asked.

  “Pati says she walked into a door, but her eye was swollen closed. Maman took her to the doctor.”

  Jeannot waved his hand. “This bears further investigation!” And then he put his arm around Berti’s shoulders and walked her up the hill.

  Didier stood heavily in place, wishing he could enter into the conversation, but his mind went blank with the pressure of trying to think. Though all of them had known each other since they were small children, Didier was no longer interested in Berti as a schoolyard acquaintance. Whenever he had occasion to speak to her in the courtyard of the lycée, he got so excited that his voice grew louder and louder until finally he felt as if he was shouting. He knew each time that everything had come out exactly wrong when, after regarding him politely for several moments, she would give him a kind smile before turning away to join a group of friends.

  Of the three boys there that morning, Didier would have been considered the handsomest if they had been lined up and compared. He was better built than willowy Sébastien and had a strong, conventionally handsome face, unlike Jeannot, whose rubbery, clownish visage went along with his buoyant spirit. For an adolescent, Didier had the demeanor of someone much older. His family, the Falques, were all dark-haired and Semitic-looking despite the fact that their forebears had been powerful bishops when Avignon and the surrounding Comtat Venaissin had belonged to the pope. Though the Falques remained important landowners, they were in reality no more than simple farmers, his parents working daily in their vineyards and small orchards like most of the other village folk. Didier had inherited the Falque family traits, coarse dark hair and a beard already thick enough that he had to shave every day. He had the high, rounded chest of a young steed and his shoulders stood out like wooden portmanteaux, broad and well defined. To Didier’s chagrin, that manly aspect put off many of the girls at school, who seemed more attracted to the soft-skinned, fair boys like Sébastien, whose downy face and thin arms didn’t implicitly demand anything. Didier’s muscles and his shadowed jaw seemed to cry out that he would expect more from a young woman than she might be willing to give, so the girls in his class tended to behave skittishly when he was around and kept their distance.

  Didier sometimes felt a little flutter of jealousy when he watched the amorous Sébastien and Eva, who had been going steady since grade school, but the two more often reminded him of simple barnyard animals the way they rubbed their faces together, emitting soft, unintelligible noises. His friend Jeannot had an easy way with girls, but they rarely took him seriously because of his unrestrained joking. Didier only cracked jokes out of frustration, generally when the afternoon mathematics course with Madame Morin had become incomprehensible. But he didn’t have the ability or desire to keep up the flow of wordplay that Jeannot so easily employed, always just on the edge of going too far. It was unfair that Jeannot so effortlessly got good grades and seemed to always have the teachers on his side despite his irreverence, while Didier was accused of laziness and inattention, especially in trigonometry class, ruled over by the exacting Madame Morin. But being called lazy was better than being accused of being slow, something of which he had a horror because in his young heart he knew it was probably true, at least as far as school was concerned. Even if he had wanted to, he couldn’t have spen
t more time at his books because he had chores on the farm and his afternoons and evenings were spent outside in the vineyards, spraying, trimming, pruning, or harvesting, depending on the season. More than anything he loved his father’s tractor, loved the noise of the gears shifting, the big tires crushing rock and stone into the clay of the rough roads and field tracks. He adored noise and enjoyed the booming of his own voice that he exercised by hollering loudly above the sound of the tractor as if he was in competition with the roaring engine itself.

  With the exception of the gang on the morning bus, Didier didn’t have many friends. Boys his age didn’t particularly interest him. The girls in his class, however, and the others at school, older or younger, held a definite fascination. He preferred dark-haired girls, and above all, Berti Perra, whose shining black waves fell beneath her shoulders. His youthful ardor kept him interested in the goings-on of most of the girls, but he knew he was wasting his life at school and wished to be out in the real world, where real things might happen to him.

  That morning when the bus arrived, Jeannot pulled Berti next to him and Didier groaned softly as he slid by himself into a seat by the window. Blooming apple trees lined the route to school, and in the distance Didier saw the mother of a former schoolmate wheeling a bicycle by the side of the road as she made her way up a steep hill. She was wearing a skirt, and through the school-bus window Didier noticed that she had nice legs in addition to a wild twist of black hair, thick as a pony’s mane, unsuccessfully bound by a loose cotton scarf. When she stepped back to watch the bus go by, her eyes met Didier’s. She raised her hand in a wave and gave him a dazzling, openmouthed smile that revealed pointy white teeth like those of a fox. Sabine Dombasle. Surprised by her warm greeting, Didier inadvertently lifted his own arm in response, but then quickly lowered it, hoping that no one had seen.

  Sabine Dombasle’s son, Manu, had dropped out of the lycée two years before and now worked in his father’s vineyard, just the way Didier would work full-time for his father after he graduated. But the families, both winegrowers, weren’t friends due to a land dispute several years before.

  “Bruno Dombasle has gone and planted half a hectare of vines on that little bout of land we own by the forest on the Plaine du Diable,” Didier’s father, Guillaume, had told the town’s notary, who acted as the local lawyer when property was involved. But after carefully going through the necessary deeds and documents, the notary admitted he couldn’t be truly sure of the actual boundary that marked the edge of each family’s terrain. There had been an unfriendly back-and-forth for several years, and finally, after a bitter wrangle, Didier’s father had grudgingly ceded the land to Dombasle.

  Nearly seven years later, the families still didn’t speak. But Didier would nod when he saw Manu or his parents. The Dombasles had well-located vineyards that were, for the first time, bringing in real money. Because of his expanding sales, the paterfamilias, Bruno, suddenly found himself able to indulge his passions. Leaving Manu in charge, he had begun to travel to central France to fish, and in game season he visited various places in Eastern Europe where deer and other wildlife were plentiful. Still, the Dombasles lived like most farmers in a ramshackle stone house beneath the village rampart. Manu had recently moved into the family’s grange, located in a copse of live-oak trees on the plain. In front of his parents’ house, a morning-glory vine twisted up a drainpipe, the sole floral ornament, as Sabine was not a gardener and didn’t care for flowers. Every spring, the same plant reseeded with no one’s help and covered the façade with a generous array of dark indigo blooms.

  Getting off the bus that day, Didier couldn’t understand the feeling of happiness that pervaded him. Maybe it was just the beautiful morning, the warm sun beating on his shoulders, the girls who made their way through the enclosed courtyard dressed in their light cottons. But when Jeannot came up behind him and, in the high, squeaky voice of a mewling baby, said, “Maman! Maman!” Didier realized that he must have witnessed Sabine Dombasle’s wave and his own impulsive response. In a rush of shame, the truth came to him; it had been Sabine’s gesture that had been the reason for his nebulous thrill and now it had all been destroyed, trampled beneath the feet of the joker, Jeannot, who would henceforth give him no peace. But Jeannot didn’t mention it again that day and Didier felt relieved, hoping his friend had forgotten the incident.

  It was odd that in the days that followed, Sabine Dombasle, whom he’d never noticed in particular, seemed to be constantly out and about in the village. One afternoon he saw her sitting at the door of the tea shop near the central fountain, whose grotesque heads spouted forth water fed by mountain springs. Sabine’s white legs were crossed and Didier saw a flash of pale thigh as he passed on the way to his father’s field just beyond the town.

  “Didi, how do you manage to work so hard and go to school too?” she asked him. “My son, Manu, never could!” Didier shrugged, not sure what to say. “Why don’t you sit down a minute. Here, have a piece of cake.” Sabine held out her plate to him. He shook his head, and mumbled something about no time. She smiled and tilted her face up at him, revealing her sharp foxy teeth, and Didier felt he’d made a mistake, as he would have enjoyed eating the cake and passing a few moments with her. But he’d missed the opportunity and it was too late to say yes.

  When he was working, especially on weekends, he often saw Sabine in her garden above, hanging up laundry or slashing back spring flowers and blooming bushes with a small scythe. Sometimes she simply leaned over the parapet, gazing into the distance, but Didier had the feeling that her eyes were often directed right at him.

  Toward the end of April, Didier spent all of Saturday morning in the vineyards. There was spraying to be done and his father helped him to fill the enormous metal container attached to the back of the tractor that dispensed what was needed to treat the newly budded grapes. By midday, he’d completed about a third of the work to be done, so at lunchtime he parked the tractor at the edge of their property just below the village. He decided to walk up through town and then descend the cobbled streets through the ancient Porte de la Bise. In the old days, the arched stone gateway had not only been closed and locked at night to keep out marauders, it also helped to block the fierce mistral, the buffeting wind of the north that threatened to sweep away everything in its path. The mistral was called la bise, the kiss, and the old, north-facing gate had been named after it. That day, his mother, Patou, had told him that she would leave his lunch in the oven since she and his father would be out. As he mounted the steep hill, Didier guessed the meal would be the cassoulet made with beans and preserved goose they’d eaten the night before, and his empty stomach twisted in anticipation.

  He passed by the Dombasles’ long stone farmhouse. The dried-up stems of last year’s morning glory would soon be replaced by a new young vine that had already sprouted and was twisting up the base of the metal drainpipe. As he made his way up the dirt track, the farmhouse door opened and Sabine appeared in the dark rectangle of the embrasure.

  “Salut, Didier,” she said to him.

  “Salut,” he replied. Sabine’s hair, bound by no scarf that day, was loose and wild. She wore a light white shift that in the shadow could have been a nightgown or even an underthing. As he slowed, his shoulders seemed to turn of their own accord toward her and he noticed her feet shod in lavender espadrilles. His eyes rose up her nicely shaped legs, over the luminous shift, and then to the pale face surrounded by the lion’s mane of pitch-black hair.

  “I’ve been watching you,” she said. “You always work so hard.”

  “There’s a lot to do,” Didier replied.

  “I’ve made strawberry tartlettes. Come in for a second and have some,” she said, stepping back. “You must be hungry.”

  He jerked his head, indicating the uphill climb. “I’m on my way home for lunch.”

  “All right, then, I’ll give you one to take with you.” She opened her mouth and her teeth were once again revealed in that dazzling, eager
smile. Sabine stepped back to make room for him as he walked through the doorway. When she closed the door behind him, only a gray, filtered light came through the shuttered windows, the air thick with an aroma of warm fruit and honey. Sabine turned and put her hands on his shoulders. “You’ve turned into a real man, Didier,” she said. “The girls must all be after you.” He shook his head, trying to think of how he might respond, but nothing came. She ran her hands slowly down his chest, still smiling.

  Didier stepped back and stammered, “Where is your husband . . . Monsieur Dombasle?”

  “Bruno? He’s fishing in the Morvan. He comes back Wednesday.” She again approached, letting her hands glide over Didier’s chest. Though he felt a swell of desire, Didier turned away and in two steps found himself in front of the doorway, his hand already on the iron latch.

  “I better go,” he told her.

  “All right,” said Sabine. “But come back later for your dessert. It will be even better when it’s cool.” Sabine again gave him her strange smile and Didier opened the heavy timbered door and let himself out onto the street.

  When he returned to the field that afternoon, Didier kept glancing up at the Dombasle house. His work made him breathe deep and he smelled the earth release a living scent as he broke up clods of clayey soil with his heavy-soled boots while moving down the rows of vines. He became aware of the wild thyme that plunged long roots into the dry earth and now, blooming a delicate purple, released its perfume along with that of rosemary and other herbs that grew hither and thither on the rough ground. In late afternoon when the sun was low, a breeze blew up over the plain and there came a chilly bite, but Didier didn’t notice it. He felt only the exiguous rays of the sun that pulsed around him, over the vines, up onto the hillside and the house on the hill where the shutters remained shut tight.