I eat it all, leaving only the apricot’s stone and stalk, then sit back and pine for a cigarette. The spicy food has made me thirsty, so I go to the tap inside the barn. The faintly sweet air around the disused wine vats smells better than the wine itself. Crossing the rectangular patch of concrete in the cobbles, I catch my crutch on a deep crack running across its surface. Not enough cement, I think, prodding at the crumbling edges with my crutch. If this was the same builder who worked on the house, he made an equally bad job of it.
I run the tap water and drink from my cupped hands. It’s cold and clean, and I splash some on my face and neck as well. Wiping it from my eyes, I come out of the barn and almost bump into Gretchen.
‘Sorry,’ I say.
She smiles. She’s wearing a short T-shirt and cut-down denim shorts I’m surprised Arnaud lets her get away with. She’s carrying a bucket, this one plastic rather than metal like the ones I saw Georges using. The springer spaniel accompanying her fusses around me, tail wagging. I scratch behind its ears.
‘I’m taking some scraps down for the sanglochons. But I think I overfilled the bucket.’ She holds it in both hands, making hard work of it. ‘You could help me, if you’re not doing anything.’
I try to think of an excuse. Her father’s warning is still fresh in my mind, and I’m not sure how I’ll carry the bucket that far with my crutch anyway. Gretchen’s smile widens, emphasizing her dimples.
‘Please? It’s really heavy.’
At her insistence, we carry it between us to start with, each of us with one hand on the bucket handle. After we’ve struggled for a few yards, Gretchen giggling all the time, I lose patience and carry it by myself. It’s nowhere near as heavy as she made it look, but it’s too late to change my mind now. Hopefully even Arnaud can’t object to my helping feed his pigs.
‘Are you growing a beard?’ Gretchen asks as we follow the track through the vines.
I self-consciously feel the bristles on my chin. ‘Not really. I just haven’t shaved.’
Gretchen tilts her head, smiling as she considers. ‘Can I touch it?’
Before I can say anything she reaches to stroke my cheek. The burnt-caramel smell of sun-heated skin comes from her bare arm. Her dimples are deeper than ever as she lowers her hand.
‘It suits you. I like it.’
The dog bounds ahead of us as we walk through the chestnut wood. Gretchen takes a dirt path that forks off from the main track. It leads through the trees to a clearing, in which a large pen has been built from wire and rough planks. Standing off by itself is an unlovely cinderblock hut, but Gretchen passes that without comment as she heads for the pen.
The air in the clearing hums with flies. The ammoniac stink is so strong it hurts my sinuses. A dozen or so animals are lying prostrate on the churned-up ground, the only sign of life the occasional bass grunt or flap of an ear. They aren’t like any pigs I’ve seen before. They’re vast, darkly mottled, with a coarse, bristly pelt. Slumped in the shade of corrugated-iron shelters, they look as if they’ve been dropped into the mud like unexploded bombs.
Gretchen opens a gate in the fence and goes in. ‘Where’s Georges?’ I ask, looking uneasily at the basking creatures. There’s no sign of the old pig-man.
‘He goes home for lunch in the afternoon.’ She holds the gate open for me. ‘Aren’t you coming in?’
‘I think I’ll wait here.’
She laughs. ‘They won’t hurt you.’
‘I’ll still wait.’
I’m still a little uneasy about being here, but limping all this way with the bucket has winded me. I need to catch my breath before heading back up the track. Taking the bucket — she doesn’t seem to find it heavy now — Gretchen pushes back the dog as it tries to dart through the gate, and goes to the trough. Some of the pigs lift their heads and make inquisitive grunts when she empties the bucket into it, but only one or two can be bothered to get up and come over. I’m struck again by how big they are, sacks of flesh balanced precariously on ridiculously dainty legs, a horse’s body on cocktail sticks.
Gretchen comes out again, closing the gate behind her.
‘What did you say they are?’ I ask.
‘Sanglochons. Wild boars crossed with black pigs. Papa’s been breeding them for years, and Georges sells the meat for us in town. It’s very popular. Much better than ordinary pork.’
One of the creatures has ambled over. Gretchen picks up a wizened turnip that’s rolled under the fence and drops it back over. The pig crunches it easily in its jaws. It makes my foot hurt again just seeing it.
But Gretchen isn’t concerned. She scratches behind the sanglochon’s ears as it noses hopefully for more food. The curve of its mouth gives it the appearance of a sweet smile.
‘Doesn’t it bother you?’ I ask. ‘Having to kill them, I mean?’
‘Why should it?’ She sounds genuinely bemused. Her hand rasps on the heavy bristles as she rubs its head. ‘You can stroke it if you want.’
‘No thanks.’
‘It won’t bite.’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’ I’ve noticed there’s a smaller fenced-off area at one side of the main pen. It looks empty, except for a solitary corrugated shelter. ‘What’s in there?’
Gretchen straightens, wiping her hands together as she goes over to it. Some of the fence panels here look new, the wood pale and fresh compared to the older sections.
‘This is where Papa keeps his boar.’
‘You make it sound like a pet.’
She pulls a face. ‘It’s not a pet. It’s horrible. I hate it.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s got a bad personality. Georges is the only one who can do anything with it. It bit me once.’ She extends a tanned leg, twisting it slightly to reveal where the smooth skin of her calf is marred by a white scar. She smiles. ‘Feel it. It’s all rough.’
‘So I see.’ I keep my hands to myself. I’m not interested in flirting. Even if she weren’t Arnaud’s youngest daughter, there’s something about Gretchen that makes me want to keep my distance. ‘If it’s that bad why doesn’t your father kill it?’
She lowers her leg. ‘He needs it for breeding.’
‘Can’t he get another?’
‘They’re expensive. Besides, Papa likes this one. He says it does what it’s supposed to.’
As if on cue a sudden noise comes from the pen. Gretchen turns towards it.
‘He’s heard us.’
For a second I think she means Arnaud before I realize she’s talking about the boar. There’s a movement inside the shelter, a shifting of shadows. The tip of a snout emerges. Gretchen picks up a handful of soil and throws it to clatter on the corrugated roof.
‘Pig! Come out, pig!’
No wonder it’s bad-tempered, I think. Another handful of dirt follows. There’s an angry grunt from inside, and then the boar bursts out.
It’s even bigger than the sanglochons. And uglier. Small tusks jut from its lower jaw, and ears big as dock leaves flap over its eyes as it peers around myopically, trying to see where we are. Then it charges.
‘Christ!’ I say, hopping backwards as the boar slams into the fence. My crutch slips and I sit down, hard, in a patch of dried mud. I scramble to get the crutch under me again as the fence shudders. Gretchen hasn’t budged. She’s found a length of stick, and as the boar shoves at the fence she jabs at it over the top.
‘Go on, pig! Pig! Go on!’
The boar squeals, enraged. The spaniel sets up its own commotion as Gretchen lashes at the pig’s back with the stick, the impacts meaty but insignificant against its bulk.
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ I tell her.