It was on the eve of the Great War that the owners became more prosperous. They added one floor to their home and constructed two lean-tos on the sides. We will use one as a garage and the other as a sanctum for prayer. You can read what happened next on the backs of the photographs we found in the attic. They represent men. Enlisted boys in the trenches. The cards were addressed to the master. Feigning to have forgotten they could die at any moment, the boys sent him accounts of a joyful camaraderie that implied the war they were fighting far from home was just that. A moment of brotherhood. Warding off certain death by avoiding the future, they always ended their letters with a respectful farewell to the man who, in their absence, had still employed their mothers, wives, and sisters. With fondest memories and my utmost respect. See you soon. Hopeful that at their return, life would carry on like before.
No male heir took over the business. A very old lady accompanied by her daughter was the one to sign the bill of sale.
I pull my notebook of poetry from the shelf. Ode to the farmers is a text I wrote in red ink one February day in 1974. I read from it: Folded in half / You will die childless. It’s been over thirty years since I used to lean out my bedroom window and watch my neighbors lead their animals. They are my first friends. Sometimes I go with them to the nightly milking. I treat these farmers to whom I’m endlessly drawn as if they were my grandparents. I beg them for the kind of knowledge my parents are unable to give me. In France, the assumption that my elders should take an interest in my schooling doesn’t apply. My loved ones are confused and fearful about who I am to become. They prefer to ignore and avoid my future. I’m a threat to the cohesion of my family. So how can they help with my questions or problems at school? In reality, neither my brothers nor my sisters know. Yet they’re forced to teach me, to put on a painful masquerade without complaint. Out of fear of my father, my siblings improvise their role. It’s often brutal, lacking in judgment or recourse. They themselves are isolated from their peers and from a clear understanding of what they should be doing. My absences or withdrawals are momentary oversights. Until my father’s invariably stinging call to order.
On the farm, I enjoy rare happiness. An elderly couple whom nobody visits, whom people find taciturn when they are actually just lonely, always welcome me without ever stopping their chores. I leave my house, I arrive at the farm, I relieve them. With my quick arms and legs, I do my work. I spread the hay, I go back, I collect the alfalfa, I distribute it. I pour some water, I sweep. At the henhouse, I crouch down, I pick up the eggs, I feed the chickens. They don’t eat them. They collect them. Dwarf chickens in particular, which are the source of endless wonder for me. They come in every color. Same thing for the rabbits. Long-haired, short-haired, red, black, white, multicolored, tall, fat, small, they hop around in big families. I like to give them scraps. But I would never eat rabbit. At night, I sit at the table while the farmers do their tallies. I stay until sunset, the television on in the background. I understand that they aren’t making any money. That they’re working hard. That they’re under contract. That the land is rented from the one big shot at the agricultural bank. When he arrives, I leave. It’s a sad moment.
I don’t know why, but I am somewhat reluctant to write down their name. It’s the name of another time. A name that no longer exists. A French name that has disappeared. Saying it evokes an entire country. Monsieur and Madame Madou. That’s what they were called. No one here remembers them anymore. They’re dead. The barn smell, the animal droppings on the road, the mooing of cows going home, the children racing behind them, the wild brawls between turkey cocks and the rooster who did as he pleased, all that is gone. Now the street is smooth and runs one-way. The sidewalks decorated with flower boxes are as wide as avenues, and gas runs underground just like the electrical cables. The blissful silence came at the price of several disappearances. Rural France was finally repopulated, but its human activity can be summed up by the noise of lawnmowers. After a long period of mourning, our village prettied itself up, but rabbles of children no longer run through its streets. And the Mount, the sandy, wooded hill against which our houses lean, the spot where as a child I spent sleepless, fright-filled nights with my school friends, has become a protected natural site, one of France’s historical woods. No one sleeps on the Mount anymore, and parents no longer take strolls up there. When I’m struck by the urge to take a walk, I always return to the hollow of five oaks where we used to build fires and hang hammocks between the trees. Everything is picturesque, as is fashionable. A historic site, we say, an ancient forest, we believe. And yet never has nature been more abandoned by man. Now there are educational trails marked by arrows and reserved for nature enthusiasts. This sanctuary beckons me from up high.
As children, we would run up the Mount, afternoon snack in hand. A reflex handed down through a noble tradition drove the town’s inhabitants there. They would collect edible plants and firewood, cut frail, uprooted trunks, and dig up creeper plants that rarely exceeded a finger’s breadth, and which seemed suited for our small mouths as we imitated smokers. In winter, when the first snowflakes had barely fallen, we climbed up with large burlap bags and treated ourselves to sled rides down to the bottom. I began to dislike roads because of the existence of this lofty, nearby wood, which is prolonged by the national forest—a regional marvel that boasts even more majestic varieties of flora. The rampart of trees enveloping me like a gentle and humble mountain brings me peace, a soothing tranquility. She represents a need. The desire for a secular, reassuring feeling. I don’t like homes devoid of it. I need a landscape in order to live.
Few people pass through this place, now reduced to a cul-de-sac. There are no landscapes like it in Picardy. Typically everything is flat. And yet it’s here that our parents mutually decided to settle us. My father, who distrusted his emotional attachments, wasn’t interested in contemplation. So that’s not what guided his choice. He needed a dead end. Meaning a defined life. A bath of constant, untroubled water. For me, that expanse is named Rue du Général-Leclerc. After a World War II hero. I didn’t know he existed. When I discover who he is, I am overcome with pride. I live on the street of a noble man. A liberator. I learn the names of great men through their battles. At one end of our block lives my friend Hervé. At the other, Martine, Cathi, and Philippe. So there’s this street, the Mount, and the forest. Each morning, we take the bus to the junior high. Five kilometers away. We leave at 7:30, and at 4:15 the bus brings us back to the same road. The school day unfolds in the following way: Once in the schoolyard, we talk for fifteen minutes. At 8:00 we line up in front of the classroom, waiting for our teacher. At 12:00 or 12:30, according to the schedule, we have fifteen minutes to eat. Another fifteen minutes later we return to our classroom. Two ten-minute recesses punctuate our day. At 4:15 we all get on the bus. We say hello to our driver. Always the same one. We play, we sing, we talk during the ride. Once we get home, we have a snack. At 5:00, the village street is ours. I visit lots of houses. Those where my school friends live, the farm, and also the homes of Mia, Henriette, Yvonne, and Madeleine, widows or old maids whom I love for the gentle wave they give me as I cross the street.
I lived with them for ten years. Until I left for Paris. They endowed me with a strong sense of humility. All the villagers I spent time with were workers, but none of them owned a book. Entering their homes didn’t come easily. So why did I do it? I wanted to. I was suffocating. I crossed their doorsteps like a kitten searching for its mother. I entered. I didn’t have a choice. Those who now occupy these vast residential areas, who came from the Île-de-France region to encroach on our isolation, know nothing of this shared past. Unlike them, strangers here, I am an inhabitant. Family.