He died on February the ninth, 1953. The next Ascension Day the band came to play in our orchard in his honour. They played a march from Verdi’s Aïda and a tune called “Amazing Grace.” Men from the factory lined the fence of the orchard listening to the music. Mother stood by the stable doors, arms folded across her bosom, looking up at the sky. And suddenly Papa’s house with its three rooms, its hayloft, its little wooden balcony, its chopped wood, dwarfed the factory which was the size of six cathedrals.
“Amazing Grace” begins sad and gradually the sadness becomes a chorus and so is no longer sad but defiant. For a while I believed he was there. Later the music listens to itself and discovers that something has fallen silent. Irretrievably. He had left.
Whilst I was listening to “Amazing Grace” on that afternoon in May 1953, I touched something which I wouldn’t be able to name until twenty years later. I touched the truth that the virility which women look for in men is often sly, slippery, impudent. It’s not grand, what they’re looking for. It’s cautious and cunning, just like Father was.
The men on the other side of the fence started to clap and Michel waved at me. I turned away, saying to myself that only a communist would wave at a moment like that!
Michel’s motorbike was red and was made in Czechoslovakia. The spare parts for it were cheaper than for any other bike, Michel said, because Czechoslovakia was communist and the communists didn’t put profit before everything else. On several Sundays he asked me if I’d like to go for a spin with him and each time I refused. He was too sure of himself, he thought he knew better than anybody else in the valley. He had called my father a Chopping Block. Not to me. I heard about it from a friend. Achille Blanc has been a chopping block for others all his life! Those were his words. So I said no to him.
The sixth time he asked me was in August. We were both on holiday. The hay was in the barn. Régis had bought an old third-hand Peugeot and was painting it in the orchard. Emile was there in the house when Michel came. He drives well, Odile, said Emile, you’ve nothing to be frightened about. On Wednesday morning early, Michel announced, I’ll pick you up at five. At five! I protested. Five’s not too early if we’re going to Italy! Italy! I screamed. Yet, however loud I screamed it, the word was having its effect. If we were really going to drive to Italy, everything was beyond my control. I said nothing more. And on Tuesday night I prepared my trousers, my boots, and a haversack with a picnic for us both.
We went over the Grand St. Bernard a little to the east of the Mont Blanc where the wind now is blowing the snow like my chiffon scarf against the blue sky. Neither of us knew what life had in store. Nothing happened. Michel had brought a thermos of coffee which we drank from for the first time near Chamonix. We passed a factory which, Michel said, was like a copy of ours. It took up less space. On the bike we climbed higher and higher. We ate our picnic above the tree line. I never breathed so much air in my life. Mouth, nose, ears and eyes all took in air. At the summit we threw snowballs at each other and saw the dogs. They were as big as ponies. There was a lake. A lake at that height was as surprising as tears at a victory. When the wind was too cold I put my head down against his leather jacket. I tucked my knees under his legs and held on with one hand to his leather belt. Around the hairpins I lay down with the bike like grass blown by the wind.
She overheated a bit on the last stretch, he said. You probably smelt the burnt oil?
Motor oil, I said, I don’t know what it smells like.
On the red 3 5 °CC two-stroke twin motorbike made in Czechoslovakia we came down into Italy, on the other side of the mountain. The cows looked poorer, the goats thinner, there was less wood and more rocks, yet the air was like a kiss. In such air women didn’t have to be like we were on our side of the mountain. Where we have wild raspberries in ruined pine forests, I told myself, they have grapes on vines which grow between apple trees! For the first time in my life I was envious.
Did you notice the Saumua coming down to Aosta? he asked.
No.
It’s the biggest truck since the war. Takes a load of thirty tons.
We arrived back before it was dark. I was in time to shut up the chickens and take the milk on my back to the dairy. My behind was sore, my hands were grimy, my hair was tangled. It took me hours to untangle it before I went to sleep. But I was proud of myself. I’d been to Italy.
We’ll do another trip, Michel proposed.
School begins next week.
You’re a funny one, Odile, there’s no school on Sunday.
No, I said, thanks for this time.
You’re a good passenger, I’ll say that for you.
Are there bad ones?
Plenty. They don’t trust the driver astride the machine. You can’t ride a bike if you don’t let go. I’m willing to bet you weren’t frightened for a moment, Odile. You had confidence, didn’t you? You weren’t frightened for a moment, were you?
Maybe yes and maybe no. His sureness made me want to tease him.
A weekend, two months later, I was coming home from Cluses and the bus driver said:
Have you heard what happened to Michel?
Michel who?
Michel Labourier. You didn’t hear about his accident?
On his motorbike?
No, in the factory.
What happened?
Lost both his legs.
Where is he?
Lyons. It’s the best hospital in the country for burns. A military hospital. They used to fight wars with lead, now they fight them with flames. Both legs gone.
I stared through the bus window and I saw nothing, not even the factory when we passed it. The next day I went to see his mother.
Perhaps it would have been better, she said, if it had killed him outright.
No, I said, no, Madame Labourier.
He’s not allowed visitors, she said, he’s in a glass cage.
I’m sure you’ll be able to visit him soon.
It’s too far. Too far for anyone to go.
Is he still in danger?
For his life, no.
Don’t cry, Madame Labourier, don’t cry.
I cried when I thought about it every evening for a week in Cluses. For a man to lose both legs. I thought too about what the boys call their third leg. When you’re young and both your legs are supple your third leg goes stiff … when you’re old and your legs are stiff, your third leg goes limp. And this silly joke made me cry more.
New Year’s Eve, 1953, I spent at home. Father’s chair was empty. After supper Régis and Emile got up to go to the dance in the village. Come on, Odile, said Emile. I’ll stay with Mother. You like dancing! insisted Emile. There’s no boy in the village good enough for our Odile now, said Régis. They left. Mother sewed and went to bed early. I heard the bells pealing at midnight on the radio and the crowds cheering. I wasn’t sleepy and so I let myself out and walked once round the orchard. The grass was as hard as iron. The bise had been blowing for several days and the sky was clear. Looking up at the stars, I thought of Father. Nobody can look up at the stars when they are so hard and bright and not think that they don’t have something to say. Then I thought of Michel without his legs and the Red Star he wore on his leather jacket. In their silence I missed his jokes and his cough. I went to check that the chicken house was well shut. When it was minus fifteen for a week on end, the foxes would cross the factory yard looking for food. A month earlier the night shift had killed a wild boar behind the turbine house. Suddenly the wind changed and to my amazement I heard dance music. A tune from a band wafting towards me. It seemed to come in waves, just as the stars seemed to twinkle. Distance and cold can do strange things. I made up my mind. I returned to the house, put my hair in a scarf, and found an old army coat. I would go and see what was happening at the Ram’s Run.