The Horseman on the Roof (29 page)

“There are places in the Drôme where the birds have gone mad. At any rate, not very far from here, on the other side of the hills, the horses have refused everything. They've refused oats, water, stabling, the care of the man who usually looks after them, even when he seems perfectly well. It's been noticed, too, that when a horse refuses, it's always a very bad sign for the person or house it refuses. The sickness may not be apparent, but it's sure to turn up immediately afterward. The dogs: naturally there's the dogs belonging to all those who have died, and they wander all over the place, feeding on corpses. But they don't die; on the contrary, they grow fat and give themselves airs; they no longer want to be dogs; they change their appearance, you ought to see them; some of them have grown mustaches; they look so funny. But when you go by, they hold the middle of the pavement; you threaten them: they get angry; they insist on respect; they have swelled heads; it's no joke! Anyway, one thing's sure: they don't die, far from it.

“There's a little place not so far from here, in the hills; first the people sweated blood, then they sweated everything: green phlegm, yellow water, and a sort of blue cream. Of course they died. Later, it seems, the corpses began to weep. There's a woman from here who went to visit her sister-in-law. She says there was a lot going on all at the same time. She distinctly saw stars in broad daylight, next to the sun, not standing still like they do at night but toddling off to right and left, like the lanterns of people looking for something. Where it seems to be really bad is in the valleys, down behind there; and it's quick. They're eating in a farm, seven of them. All of a sudden all seven fall with their noses in their soup plates. Pass the nutmeg. Or else a man's talking to his wife and doesn't finish what he's saying. You can't be sure of anything. You're sitting down, will you ever get up? They don't even bother now to say: ‘I'm going to do this' or ‘I'm going to do that.' Does anyone know what he's going to do? They've stopped giving orders to servants. Orders to whom, to do what, and why? How long will the servants be there? People just sit and look at each other. They wait. But that's nothing to what's happening over Grenoble way. The people rot on their feet. Sometimes it's the belly; all of a sudden it's so thoroughly rotted that it won't hold any longer and bursts in two. But they don't die at once: that's where the pain comes in. Or else it's the leg: you're walking and it falls in front of you, or you leave it behind. You can't shake hands with anyone. To lift a spoon to your mouth is quite a business. You'd need to be sure of still having fingers and an arm. Naturally you get a little warning in advance from the smell. The trouble is, there's already a fine old smell of rotting with all the dead bodies and the heat. So you never know if what you smell is your own smell or the others!

“They say that if you went into Grenoble you wouldn't hear a sound. There's nothing to be done, is there? Haven't you heard about that shepherd who's made a remedy out of mountain herbs? Not just any old herbs. They say it's a job getting them. They grow in impossible places. But he got them. They cure completely. When they found him, he was the only one left alive. ‘You've been lucky!' they said. ‘I know the cure,' he said. He let some people drink from his bottle: they all recovered. It seems that a fat gentleman wanted to buy the whole bottle for a hundred thousand francs, but he said to him: ‘Since you're so rich, send your servants to fetch you some.' It was a good answer. Apparently it had a great effect on him. The gentleman said: ‘You're right. I
will
send my servants, but it'll be for everyone; show me the place and I'll pay you.' That was good, too. The shepherd has a cart and two horses now. He's got a regular setup. I think they're going to have some here—the medicine, I mean. Some people are attending to it.

“Then, there's another thing you can do. This happened at Pertuis. There's a priest who says masses, but not the usual ones. It seems he's got something that's a little more complicated but has better results. He's cured a lot of people, and what's so specially good is that he protects you in advance. No danger any more. You've no more need to worry. You give your name and, well, I don't know if you pay; I don't think so; he's an old priest with a beard. And that's that. Maybe you also repeat some words. Anyhow, it works. At Pertuis they've perhaps had less than a hundred dead in all. To my mind that proves it. Seems that all around that priest's house it's full of people camping, sleeping, cooking meals, waiting. As soon as he comes out, you ought to see it! The people climb on each other's backs to say: ‘Me, me, me!' And they shout out their names. Well, in the end, he writes them down on bits of paper and says: ‘Don't worry, it will be all right. I'll just go into the church.' Then the whole lot follows him. That seems very fine. A hundred dead all told since the start, that's nothing. And now that he's got things properly going, he has pictures that he can send in a letter, and they stop you from catching the plague, and even cure you.”

In this way they arrived at the foot of a cliff. The almond-tree hill was up above. Gazing upward, one could see foliage black against the stars. A path climbed up through the rocks.

“All you have to do now is to take this path,” said the boy. “You don't need me any more. I turn off here. You see? I knew the way all right.”

The sentinel posted under the big oak let Angelo go past, then said to him: “Hey there, artist, where are you off to?”

Once more he began to explain that he was looking for a man called Giuseppe, but this time he received the answer: “If that's it, it's easy; come over here. I'll take you.”

As they passed a brazier, Angelo saw his guide. He was a young laborer who had strapped a belt over his blouse. The trigger-guard of his rifle glittered.

“The weapon's well kept,” thought Angelo.

Giuseppe lived in a handsome reed hut with a fire burning before its door. He was evidently not asleep, for as soon as Angelo moved into the light of the flames he shouted from inside: “Ah! Here's his mother's son, at last!”

They chewed each other's muzzles like two puppies. Giuseppe had half risen from a low bed on which a young woman was asleep, with all her extremely opulent bosom uncovered. Giuseppe rubbed her belly, which was broad and supple, calling out: “Lavinia! Here's My Lord!” And he burst out laughing because she swiftly crossed herself before opening her eyes, still pouting adorably with lips darkened by a faint down.

“You see,” said Giuseppe, “he isn't dead and he's found me.”

The young woman had a round head and huge, startled eyes; however, she narrowed them knowingly when she was thoroughly awake.

“No,” said Giuseppe to Angelo, “first you're going to sleep. I shan't tell you a thing tonight. Only this: you're lucky. If I'm not dead, it's because I've nine lives like a cat: but it's sheer good sense that keeps me going. I lead a regular life and I'm going to make you lead one. Come over here. There's room for three in this bed. It'll be a bit of a squash but that's the right thing when you're fond of each other.”

Angelo pulled off his boots and, especially, his breeches, which he had been wearing for more than a month.

“Have you been sensible?” Giuseppe asked at last, in a solemn voice.

“What d'you mean by sensible?” said Angelo.

“Have you taken the precautions you should against falling ill?”

“Yes,” said Angelo. “At any rate, I don't drink the first thing I see.”

“That's at least something,” said Giuseppe. “But,” he added, “
I
could make you drink anything, if I wanted.”

“How?” said Angelo.

“I'd say you were afraid; then you'd drink!…”

“Of course,” said Angelo.

CHAPTER NINE

All was well on the almond-tree hill. Everyone seemed to feel at home there. The women were strong women, the men decidedly hale and hearty. The women were massive, built for hard work: thick arms, throats, full, often even heavy, and baked to a tan by the sun; broad hips, solid legs, slow of gait, dragging crowds of children with each hand.

“Come to think of it,” said Angelo to himself, “who was that sentinel who greeted me? And what was he guarding?”

It did no good to search: there was no infirmary on the top of the cliff. It wasn't a place for harmoniums either. But there was a markedly heroic atmosphere. Numerous workmen, with belts round their blouses and rifles slung over their shoulders, were moving about on every side. There were just as many old men as young; some with sharp girlish faces under peaked caps; others sporting long, wide, curling beards, red or black or even snow-white, and wearing felt hats or broad, swaggering berets. They were walking about with the air of gamekeepers on a private estate, or even like the owner, quietly dropping a word to right or left, here to have the garbage collected and taken to a trench, there to organize fatigues whose job it was to fetch water or wood for everyone.

They even had a guardroom, a meeting-place in a grove of oaks, where one of them with no gun, only a naked saber hanging from his belt, issued orders. Angelo was much affected by the saber, which was a handsome and noble weapon.

One day, this sort of militia made some of the encampments move. These were set up in a rather deep gully congested with rocks and undergrowth, forming the dry bed of a stream. A storm was threatening. Already thunder was rolling at the back of the hills. The sky had not changed color. It had remained chalk-white; it had barely lost that satin brilliance lent to it by the crushed sun. It wasn't growing black merely where the thunder came from, under the approaching clouds; it was darkening uniformly all over and, had it not been for the hour and the sudden flashes of lightning, one might have supposed it was the onset of night. The guards in blouses made everybody decamp from the stream-bed. They were extremely obliging; they lent a hand; they carried pots and pans, kettles, infants, without letting go of their guns.

Giuseppe had handed over to Angelo, with much ceremony, a letter from Italy. “I've had it in my coat pocket for at least two months,” he said. “It's from your mother. Look at the envelope well and get ready to swear on your life that I've kept it with the utmost care. It's not
your
mother I'm afraid of: it's mine. I'm sure she'll ask me, with her eyes of fire, if I didn't stuff it in with the handkerchief I spit my tobacco into. Swear you'll tell her. I am scared to death of my mother when she digs her nails into my arms. And when it has anything to do with the Duchess or you, she always digs her nails into my arm.”

The letter was dated in June and ran: “My dearest child, have you found any chimeras? The sailor you sent to me told me you were foolhardy. That reassured me. Always be very foolhardy, my dear, it's the only way of getting a little pleasure out of life in this factory age of ours. I had a long discussion about foolhardiness with your sailor. I like him very much. He watched for our Teresa at the side door as you told him to, but, as he mistrusted a tall lad of fifteen who has been playing hopscotch every day in the square from seven in the morning till eight in the evening ever since you've been in France, he smeared a poor dog's muzzle with shaving-soap, and the hopscotch-player took to his heels shouting: “Mad dog!” The same evening General Bonetto suggested a dog hunt to me because of this dragon. So now I know exactly where the hopscotch-player comes from, and I gave the right sort of look to let the General know I know. Nothing is more fun than seeing the enemy shift his batteries. There's a lot of rabies in Turin. All the young people who have unprepossessing faces and stand less than four and a half feet high are rabid. The same epidemic is ravaging the envious and those who have never known how to be generous to their tailor. The rest are well and full of plans. There are even some who are so crazy they want to adopt that English fashion, bad for organdy and tight breeches, of going picnicking in the country. They even say: as far as the Roman tombs. Which I find excessive, at any rate, as an ambition. But the roads are open to all. Let them go where they please. Good hikers wander away at every detour to see the landscape around the next bend, and that's how they sometimes turn a simple walk into a military march. It would be all right if there were not fewer and fewer people able to rely on their hearts. It is a muscle people no longer make use of, except for your sailor, who in this respect seems to me a pretty remarkable gymnast. A negligible kindness of mine toward his mother quite overwhelmed him, and he went off and got into uncomfortably close quarters with the two over-decorated men responsible for your sudden journey. As a result, they became grievously ill the same day. A pity. I thought your sailor was a bit quick on the trigger. I gave him some very involved reasons for making another voyage. I was so mysterious that he was beside himself with joy. I like taking a long time to aim.

“And now let's talk of serious matters. I'm afraid you may not be doing enough crazy things. This doesn't interfere with either gravity, or melancholy, or solitude—those three passions of your character. You can be grave and crazy, what's to stop you? You can be anything you like and crazy into the bargain, but it's essential to be crazy, my child. Look around you at the ever-increasing number of people who take themselves seriously. Apart from making themselves hopelessly absurd to minds like mine, they condemn themselves to a dangerously constipated life. It's exactly as if, at one and the same time, they stuffed themselves with tripe, which is a laxative, and with Japanese medlars, which are binding. They swell, swell, then they burst, and that makes a bad smell for everybody. I couldn't find a better image than that. Besides, I like it very much. One should even add three or four dialect words so as to make it even more foul than it is in Piedmontese. You who know my natural distaste for everything coarse will see from this search for the right image how great is the danger run by people who take themselves seriously before the judgment of original minds. Never become a bad smell for a whole kingdom, my child. Walk like a jasmine in the midst of them all.