For almost a thousand years, until after the Second World War, the bay had lacked a church. For Sunday Mass the natives had gone up the hills through the woods to the plateau of Velizy. When the church there was destroyed by bombing in 1944, the inhabitants of the bay built themselves a chapel out of wood, with their own hands, dedicated to Joseph, the carpenter. The wooden tower, standing apart, went for years without bells. Attendance in the postwar years, far above the country average, required expansion of the barracklike structure, which thus acquired a transept, and then the decision was made to erect a proper church, a basilica, of stone and concrete; the chronicler cited the precise day and even the house where the decision was reached, complete with street and number.
The bay at that point was not yet an independent parish, only an apostolic zone, provisionally. The photograph of the cornerstone laying on the edge of a cleared stretch of forest even showed a sight particularly disconcerting here, the figure of a bishop, with his crooked staff, something hardly ever seen before in the bay (“1857: ConfirmationâFor the First Time in Thirty Years a Bishop”), and at any rate never again since; and that great crowd, according to the caption present for the celebration: has anything like it ever gathered here again, no matter where?
For this church an architect had to be called in, and it was the same one who had designed the low-income apartment houses right next door, and since I discovered that, I have viewed both structures somewhat differently. The cross, of iron, was made by a locksmith/stove fitter. The Sunday offeringsâthis I gathered by way of additional information from the parish newsletter, appearing more and more irregularlyâwere meager
and steady in the bay, the same expression used by the chronicle for the donations of churchgoers through the centuries.
There is no connection with the fact that no Pope, neither the present one nor any other, will ever kiss the ground of the no-man's-bay. And no conqueror or liberator will ever place his boot on one of the former royal border markers (the few remaining ones are, by the way, not mentioned in the chronicle; are as obvious as secret; the crown chiseled into them looks fake at first sight).
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he wood crickets seemed to have finally fallen silent for the year, after unexpectedly announcing their presence time and again on the occasional warm, sunny day far into the fall, sometimes after an absence of weeks, the last time being in the middle of November, though only as a little fading chirp somewhere, to which no second voice responded.
Or was I merely imagining that? Even when I now walked the wintry paths, the summery cricket calls piped up, especially if I stood still now and then, and also in the dead of night, in my house, I heard them recently, impossible to tell whether outdoors or in my head; it woke me up, more easily and instantaneously than usual, and in the dark I allowed the sound to spin on.
During the summer, what the crickets were engaged in seemed in fact to be the creating of a web. With their voices, as it sounded to me, they were knotting the silence into a tissue. Noise-sick, as I so often was when I got to the woods, I promptly felt, once in their realm, a wonderful soothing. More gently and reliably than the rustling of the trees, they healed my noise-worm-eaten head. Although the chirping of the crickets emanated from the ground, from the earth's interior, it drew me upward. I had a visual image of the sound: a Jacob's ladder, knotted from the most delicate ropes. And thus I also had an image of the crickets themselves: thousands and thousands of them rocking in a heavenly wheat field. No other animal, no bird could call this way, so monotonously and intensely, and in even, sonorous unison; more than an image, an infinitely repeating ornament, which, to be sure, broke off at once as I approached or made my presence felt.
The crickets were most likely to be heard in the more inaccessible and
at the same time sparse parts of the forest, on the steepest crest of the sunken roads, behind seven-kindling-bundle obstacles, and on still days. Often there was nothing for miles around to be heard but them, whom, however, I never actually got to see. But even among so many other sounds theirs remained the penetrating and decisive one. I felt when I heard it as though I were standing on tiptoe. It summoned me to listen, as silence alone could hardly do anymore, and that then appeared to me as the task to be completed, a sweet one. The cricket concert was moving, and in its furtiveness spoke to my heart like no other sound in this year. Yet I often found myself thinking only of a clock, or rather of the winding of one, as quietly as possible, on and on, close to the limit of audibility.
I have no reason to miss the cricket music now; but I would have liked to play it for my friends when we celebrate our reunion. But did it even come from crickets? Didn't it sound more gentle and at the same time more choral, more far-flung than the shriller, as it were more constricted, Austrian chirping that I have in mind from my childhood? And why am I also unable to imagine as its source the crickets from those days, black as they were, roundish, robust, armored? Isn't it more likely those particularly tiny grasshoppers or locusts of which I found one on an already cold evening in my chimney corner, grass-root-pale and fragile, perching motionless and silent on the side of my finger? And that is how the animal remained when I held it up to the full moon; except that for the moment its silhouette became gigantic.
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n the first months of the year there was a particular group of itinerant workers in the bay who were cutting down and sawing up trees in the windbreak sections of the forest. They not only worked in the forest; they also lived there, in huts on wheels (not the same as house trailers).
During almost my entire time here I had been running into them, and always there was at least one woman among them, often children and dogs as well. But this year's workers had no family members along, and, as far as I could tell, there were never more than two of them together. Laundry hardly ever hung out to dry, and since they had only the one unit of housing, there was no circle or kraal as in previous years. They were either at work, with their one-man chain saws, often at a
considerable distance from one another, or in the evening in the hut, by kerosene light behind the always drawn curtain over the doorway, smoke eddying from the pipe in the roof (or not, as the case might be), a teakettle, slim as a minaret, with two spouts!, on a camp stove outside, and incessantly piping Arab music, audible far off at the edge of the forest, yet not turned up loud at all.
They had hammered together a table of birch logs outside, the seats consisting of oil canisters, the Islamic half-moon on their sides indicating their origin. Yet I never found them there, and only once outside the forest, at night down in the settlement, or only one of them, the older one, when he joined us in a bar. The woodsman said something, in sounds that were incomprehensible not because they were in Arabic or Berber, but unlike any language ever heard; and without even raising his voice in the racket of the bar. All that was certain was that he was not placing an order, or begging, also not asking a question, but rather making a request, a large, plaintive one, in which the only clear thing was the movements of his mouth and his eyes, at the same time half in shadow, because of the distance between those standing at the counter and him, which he made no move to reduce. He addressed everyone that way, from a distance, except me, probably the only one he recognized, from our daily exchange of greetings up there in the woods. I was dying to have him finally turn to me, as if I alone could have been of service to him, and on the other hand I acted as though I did not know him, and as if in his eyes I was supposed to behave this way. The old man left; the others had long since focused their attention elsewhere. He also hardly gave me time, and I missed the moment. And out on the streets, whose darkness was so different from that of the woods, where I subsequently ran into him as he continued his roaming around on that one evening, it was too late. He did not need anything now, or did not show it, or could not show it anymore.
A little while ago, almost a year since that evening, when I again passed the two woodsmen's campsite, not the slightest trace remained, neither the birch table nor even a spot of oil. Nothing but a feeling, as broad as the cleared ground, was there, for which I sought the fitting image for writing about it, but in vain.
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nd what happened later with the birds' sleeping tree, that one plane tree on the square in front of the railroad station?
The sparrows spent the night there all through the summer, merely becoming invisible in the dense foliage. They could be heard, however, in early evening, from far away on the side streets, through the sound of the trains and the noise of the cars, jockeying for position or conducting other negotiations. When the square underwent repairs in August, they at first stayed away because of the jackhammers, also at night, but toward Assumption Day they returned and when the asphalt was put down, they were the first (not, as is usually the case, dogs) to leave their tracks in the still-soft material, in the form of large loops and suggestions of meanders, made not by hopping but by running.
Late at night it happened sometimes, and without one's clapping one's hands down below, that they, or a couple of them, would fly up out of their foliage, which would suddenly crash apart, and like a swarm of flying fish would plunge into one of the neighboring tree crowns, though every time soon returning, each separately, to the original tree; likewise none of the new plantings on the square became a second sleeping place; though the new bamboo stalks served during the day as swings.
In late fall, in the bare time of year, the best place to observe the sparrows perched in their limb forks was indoors behind the high glass façade of the Bar des Voyageurs, from its counter. Several steps led up to it, and thus I had the birds, at least those in the lowest story of the plane tree, at eye level, without making myself conspicuous by craning my neck, as I would have out on the sidewalk. On one side they were sharply illuminated by the café's neon sign (and brightly daubed by its three-coloredness), and on the other side lit by the strong yellow lighting on the railway platform behind them on the embankment, which projected their shadows, close enough to touch, onto the glass door, very distinctly and larger than life, with blackbird or even raven beaks.
With this view of the more or less sleeping birds, I received indoors from the bar, and also from outside, more stimuli than I had probably ever received from any observations of whatever kind. I participated in the video gamesâin whose variations I then saw nothing much different from the sparrows' jerking of their headsâas well as in the hurrying home of those who arrived by train, which occurred in batches, with
their classic light brown baguettes, across the dusky square. On Sunday evenings the silhouettes of large, heavy suitcases crisscrossed each other there, almost always carried by single passersby, unaccompanied, and the duffel bags of young soldiers called up for duty, who often set out on foot through the forest to the fighter-pilot base on the plateau.
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he inhabitants of the bay, with the exception of those standing at the bar, almost always the same people, also showed nothing but their silhouettes. It was something else again with those without a permanent residence here, who, until the first cold weather, often even after dark, even in the rain, perched together on a bench next to the station entrance, they, too, very visible in the lighting of the square. The majority of them looked to me pretty much like those everywhere, although in the course of the year at least one had joined them, who, still young, was different.
I first ran into him in the woods, always alone, either as a mushroom seeker, rushing along, his head constantly twisted to one side, or as a tree-stump anchorite, sitting there as still as if he were studying entrails in the sand at his feet all day long. He had thick, curly hair, a narrow, stern face, wore a windbreaker, and he made me think of an anthropo-sophic teacher or an apprentice, who, to complete his course of study, had to spend some time voluntarily in this remote spot.
Once, when I wished him good day in a clearing, he even answered me, with a hardly noticeable but all the more noteworthy nod, while his eyes, unchanging in their sternness, showed me his pure, undimmed color of sorrow. Then, still in summertime, I saw him for the first time sitting with the suburban vagrants by the station, much larger than they, erect, with the most balanced face, but in his hand a beer bottle like the rest. Yet it was not completely natural to him; among the others he seemed rigid and wooden, without their melodramatic gestures and voices, and his head constantly jerking to one side, where no one was sitting.
In the months there on the bench, a transformation then began to take place in him. At the same time it seemed to me as abrupt as those in an animated cartoon. In the twinkling of an eye his smooth skin
erupted in grayish-bluish swellings, his lips elongated into a trunk, his ears grew into his skull, his forehead was flattened, his hair stuck to his head, and finally he joined the chorus, reverberating over the entire square, of bleating laughter typical of
clochards;
not even the jerking of his head, away from the group into the void, is there anymore.
But from time to time he also unexpectedly came striding out of the darkness past the glass bar, with an elegant, slow stride, in his clean blue windbreaker, his face unmarred as before, the handsomest person in the bay here since the disappearance of the woman from Catalonia, a figure of light, and threw me such an impudent or amused look that I wondered, as I had initially, whether he wasn't actually engaging in a masquerade, for instance with the intention of writing a book about the region, among whose characters one, and a fairly odd one at that, would be me.