Read Fire in the Blood Online

Authors: Irene Nemirovsky

Tags: #Fiction, #General, #2007

Fire in the Blood (6 page)

BOOK: Fire in the Blood
8.83Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

"Hello there, Monsieur Sylvestre."

They speak in the slow, gravelly accent that this region has borrowed from neighbouring Burgundy.

I take off my clogs, order some wine and sit down at my usual place, on the left-hand side of the room near the window, from where I can see the hen-house, the laundry and a little garden being drenched by rain.

Everything is permeated by the silence of an autumn evening in a sleepy little village. In front of me is a mirror that frames my wrinkled face, a face so mysteriously change
d o
ver the past few years that I scarcely recognise myself. Bah! A sweet, sensual warmth seeps into my bones; I warm my hands at the sputtering wood-burning stove whose smell makes me feel sleepy and slightly sick. The door opens and a young man in a cap appears, or a man in his best Sunday clothes, or a little girl who's come to fetch her father, calling out in a shrill little voice, "You in there? Mum's wantin' you," before she disappears with a burst of laughter.

A few years ago old Declos used to come here every Sunday, like clockwork; he never played cards, he was too mean to risk his money, but he would sit beside the card table, his pipe gripped in the corner of his mouth, and look on silently. Whenever someone asked his advice, he would gesture to them to leave him alone, as if he were refusing to take alms. He's dead and buried now, and in his place is Marc Ohnet, bare-headed and dressed in a leather waistcoat, sitting at a table with a bottle of Beaujolais.

The way a man drinks in company tells you nothing about him, but the way he drinks when alone reveals, without him realising it, the very depths of his soul. There is a particular manner in which a man turns the stem of the glass in his hand, tilts the bottle and watches the wine pour, brings the glass to his lips, then winces and puts it down again when someone calls out to him, picks it up again with a false little cough and downs it in one go, eyes closed, as if seeking forgetfulness at the bottom of the glass-a manner that shows he is preoccupied with something or troubled by worrying thoughts. Marc Ohnet has been spotted; my eight farmers continue to play cards, but now and then they cast furtiv
e g
lances in his direction. He feigns indifference. It's getting darker. Someone lights the large brass gas lamp hanging from the ceiling; the men put away their cards and begin getting ready to go home. That's when they start talking. First about the weather, the cost of living and the harvest. Then they turn towards Marc Ohnet.

"We haven't seen you in quite a while, Monsieur Marc." "Not since old Declos's funeral," someone else says.

The young man makes a vague gesture and mutters he's been busy.

They talk about Declos and what he left: "the most beautiful land in the region."

"Now, he knew about farming ... A miser. A penny was a penny to him. No one round here liked him much, but he knew about farming."

Silence. They've given the dead man their greatest compliment and, in some way, they've made it clear to the young man that they take the side of the dead man and not the living, the old not the young, the husband not the lover. For certain things are known, of course . . . where Brigitte is concerned, at least. They stare at Marc, curiosity burning in their eyes.

"His wife," someone says finally.

Marc looks up and frowns. "What about his wife?" Cautious little comments slip from the farmers' lips along with the smoke from their pipes:

"His wife . . . She was very young for him, of course, but then, when he married her, he was already rich, and she ..." "There was Coudray, but it was falling to bits."

"She should have left these parts, of course, it was only thanks to Declos that she kept what she had."

"No one ever knew where she came from."

"She was Mademoiselle Cecile's illegitimate daughter," someone said with a crude laugh.

"I might have thought the same as you if I hadn't known Mademoiselle Cecile. The poor woman wasn't like that, that's for sure. She only ever left the house to go to church."

"Sometimes that's all it takes."

"Maybe, but not Mademoiselle Cecile . . . she didn't have an ounce of wickedness in her. No, the girl she took in was a charity case. Took her as a maid and then got attached to her, adopted her. Madame Declos isn't stupid."

"No, not stupid at all. Just look at how she got her way with the old man . . . Dresses and perfume from Paris, holidays. Anything she wanted. She knows what she's doing. And not only in that way either. You've got to be fair. She knows about farming. Her tenants say you can't fool her. And she's nice to everyone."

"She is. She may be proud of the way she dresses but she's not proud when she talks to you."

"Still, people around here criticise her. She'd do well to be careful."

Suddenly, Ohnet looks up. "Be careful about what?" he asks.

Another silence. The men pull in their chairs, bringing them closer together and at the same time further away from Marc, to demonstrate their disapproval of everything they've guessed is going on, or think they've guessed.

"Careful about her behaviour."

"I think," says Marc, turning his empty glass between his fingers, "I think she couldn't care less about how people see her."

"Be reasonable, Monsieur Marc, be reasonable . . . Her land is hereabouts. She's got to live in these parts. It wouldn't do for people to be pointing their finger at her."

"She could sell her land and leave," one of the farmers says suddenly.

It's old Gonin; his land is right next to Declos's estate. On his patient face appears the harsh, stubborn expression that betrays the men around here when they covet their neighbour's possessions. The others say nothing. I know the game; they've tried it on me. They use it against anyone who isn't from the area, or who's left it, or anyone whom, for some reason or another, they consider undesirable. They didn't like me either. I'd abandoned my heritage. I'd preferred other places to where I'd been born. As a result, everything I wished to buy automatically doubled in price; everything I wanted to sell was undervalued. Even in the smallest things I was aware of a malicious intent that was extraordinarily vigilant, always ready to pounce, calculated to make my life unbearable and force me out. I held my ground. I didn't leave. But my land, well, that they did get. I see Simon de Saint-Arraud sitting near me, the one who got my meadows, his large dirty hands resting on his knees, and Charles des Roches, who has my farms; while the house where I was born now belongs to the fat farmer with rosy cheeks and a tranquil, sleepy expression who says, with a smile, "Madame Declos would definitely be better off selling. She might know a fair bit about farming, but there's some things a woman can't do."

"She's young; she'll get married again," Marc replies defiantly.

They've all stood up now. One of them opens his big umbrella. Another puts on his clogs and ties a scarf around his neck. When they are at the door, a voice calls out with feigned indifference, "So you think she'll get married again, Monsieur Marc?"

They're all watching him, their eyes wrinkling to hide mocking laughter.

As for Marc, he looks from one to the other, as if he's trying to guess what they're thinking, what they're not saying, as if he's getting ready for a fight. He ends up shrugging his shoulders and saying wearily, with half-closed eyes, "How should I know?"

"But of course you do, Monsieur Marc. Everyone knows you and the old man were pals. Cautious and mistrustful as he was, seems he let you come round any time you wanted, day or night, and sometimes you didn't leave until midnight. You must've seen the widow once or twice since he died, eh?" "Now and again. Not often."

"How upsetting for you, Monsieur Marc. Two houses where you were well liked and always welcome, then the man of the house dies in both."

"Two houses?"

"Coudray and the Moulin-Neuf."

And, as if satisfied by the way he couldn't help but flinch (so badly that he dropped his glass on to the tiled floor wher
e i
t shattered), the farmers finally leave. They make a big show of saying goodbye to us: "Goodnight to you, Monsieur Sylvestre. Everything going well for you? That's good. Goodnight to you, Monsieur Marc. Say hello to Madame Declos for us when you see her."

The door opens on an autumn night; you can hear the rain falling, their wooden clogs on the damp ground and, further away, the rustling of a stream. In the grounds of the nearby chateau, water drips from the branches of enormous trees; the firs weep.

I sit there, smoking my pipe, while Marc Ohnet stares into space. Finally he sighs and calls out, "Bartender! Another bottle of wine."

AFTER MARC OHNET LEFT this evening, a car full of

Parisians arrived and stopped in front of the Hotel des Voyageurs, just long enough for them to have a drink while a quick repair was made. They came into the cafe, laughing and talking loudly. A few of the women glanced at me with distaste; the others tried to fix their make-up using the cloudy mirrors that distorted their features, or went over to the windows and looked out at the rain drenching the little cobbled street and the sleepy houses.

"It's so quiet," a young woman said, laughing, then turning away.

Later on their car overtook me on the road. They were going towards Moulins. How many peaceful little places they'll drive through tonight, how many sleepy villages . . . They'll pass silent, sombre country estates and will not begin to imagine the dark, secret life within--a life that they will never come to know. I wonder how Marc Ohnet will sleep tonight, and whether he will dream of the Moulin-Neuf and its green, foaming river.

it shattered), the farmers finally leave. They make a big show of saying goodbye to us: "Goodnight to you, Monsieur Sylvestre. Everything going well for you? That's good. Goodnight to you, Monsieur Marc. Say hello to Madame Declos for us when you see her."

The door opens on an autumn night; you can hear the rain falling, their wooden clogs on the damp ground and, further away, the rustling of a stream. In the grounds of the nearby chateau, water drips from the branches of enormous trees; the firs weep.

I sit there, smoking my pipe, while Marc Ohnet stares into space. Finally he sighs and calls out, "Bartender! Another bottle of wine."

AFTER MARC OHNET LEFT this evening, a car full of
Parisians arrived and stopped in front of the Hotel des

Voyageurs, just long enough for them to have a drink while a quick repair was made. They came into the cafe, laughing and talking loudly. A few of the women glanced at me with distaste; the others tried to fix their make-up using the cloudy mirrors that distorted their features, or went over to the windows and looked out at the rain drenching the little cobbled street and the sleepy houses.

"It's so quiet," a young woman said, laughing, then turning away.

Later on their car overtook me on the road. They were going towards Moulins. How many peaceful little places they'll drive through tonight, how many sleepy villages . . . They'll pass silent, sombre country estates and will not begin to imagine the dark, secret life within-a life that they will never come to know. I wonder how Marc Ohnet will sleep tonight, and whether he will dream of the Moulin-Neuf and its green, foaming river.

WE THRESH THE WHEAT around here. It's the end of summer, time to do the last of the heavy farm wor
k f
or this season. A day of labour and a day to celebrate. Enormous golden flan cases bake in the oven; since the beginning of the week the children have been shaking plums off the trees so they can decorate them with fruit. There are a huge number of plums this year. The small orchard behind my house is buzzing with bees; the grass is dotted with ripe fruit, the golden skin bursting with little drops of sugar. On threshing day every household takes pride in offering their workers and neighbours the best wine, the thickest cream in the region. To go with them: pies crammed full of cherries and smothered with butter; those small, dry goat cheeses our farmers love so much; bowls of lentils and potatoes; and finally coffee and brandy.

Since my housekeeper had gone to spend the day with her family to help with the meal, I went over to the Erard 's. Colette needed to go and visit one of her tenant
s w
ith Francois, in a place called Maluret, not far from the Moulin-Neuf. They invited me to come with them. Colette's little boy, who is now two, was to stay at home with his grandmother. Colette found it difficult to leave him. She feels a kind of anxious love for her child that is more a source of torture than joy. Before leaving, she gave Helene and the maid a thousand instructions, insisting in particular that the child mustn't be allowed to run along the river's edge. Helene nodded in her usual tender, reasonable way.

"Don't let yourself worry so much, I beg you, Colette. I'm not asking you to forget poor Jean's accident, my darling, I know that's impossible, but don't let it poison your life and your son's life. Think about it. What sort of a man will you make of him if you raise him to be afraid of everything? My poor child, we can't live life for our children, even though we may want to sometimes. Everyone must live and suffer for himself. The greatest favour we can do for our children is to keep our own experiences secret. Believe me, believe your old mother, my darling." She forced herself to laugh to lighten the seriousness of her words.

BOOK: Fire in the Blood
8.83Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

My Haunted House by Angie Sage
Beauty by Daily, Lisa
Jack of Ravens by Mark Chadbourn
My Own Miraculous by Joshilyn Jackson
LeftInTheDarkness by Stephani Hecht
By The Sea, Book One: Tess by Stockenberg, Antoinette
Paint the Town Dead by Nancy Haddock
American Girl On Saturn by Nikki Godwin