I got out, pain stabbing me all over my body. The
please
reassured me a little, but when my eyes got used to the darkness and I could make out more of where we were, my anxiety level shot back up.
In front of us, tall and imposing, stood the ruins of an abandoned castle. The partially collapsed walls, lit from afar by the Mercedes’ headlights, were silhouetted against the black sky. A medieval tower with battlements was still standing, as if by magic, since its base was missing stones, leaving dark, gaping holes.
A deathly silence haunted the spot, broken only by the occasional gloomy call of a barn owl.
“Come,” he said.
He made a way for us through the scattered stones and weeds. The brambles tugged at our trousers, slowing us down.
My final hour had come. It was obvious that he would finish me off, in the middle of nowhere, with no one to see or hear us.
After a few yards, he turned around.
“Arms up.”
“What?”
“You, arms up, please.”
The bastard was going to shoot me like a dog, and he had the gall to be polite about it. I felt the blood beating in my forehead.
I raised my arms.
He came over and frisked me from the shoulders to the knees. Twice he stopped and searched my pockets, emptying out their contents. He took my wallet with my ID, my money, my credit cards, and my Métro tickets, stuffing them in a black bag that he carefully zipped shut. No one would be able to identify my corpse, and as I had no family, no one would claim it. I would end up in a communal grave.
He glanced around furtively to check that there were no witnesses and then reached in his pocket.
I looked around us one last time, hoping to take with me some final images of the world, but the place was so dreary I shut my eyes.
“Take this,” he ordered.
I half-opened my eyelids. He was holding something out to me. Surely he wasn’t going to ask me to do the job myself?
“Here!”
I leaned forward, unable in the darkness to see the small object he was holding out. A coin. A one-euro coin.
“What am I supposed to do with that?”
At that moment, a guttural noise made me jump. In a horrible rustling of wings, a flock of bats flew out of a narrow slit in the tower.
Imperturbable, Vladi went on, “Take, please. You allowed this. It’s all.”
“But … I … don’t understand.”
“Monsieur Dubreuil say you learn cope all alone. All alone. One euro, it’s all. Monsieur Dubreuil expect you for dinner tonight seven o’clock. You be on time. Monsieur Dubreuil hate late dinner.”
His mission accomplished, he turned around.
An enormous weight lifted from my shoulders, from my whole being. I felt … empty. My legs shook. I couldn’t believe it. I would have hugged him if I had had the strength.
“Wait!” I called out.
He didn’t even glance back but got in the car and started the engine. He did a risky U-turn, stirring up a cloud of dust that seemed to catch fire in the headlights, then the Mercedes pulled away, shaken in every direction by the ruts in the track. It disappeared and silence fell again, a heavy, leaden silence. The darkness was almost total. I turned toward the castle and shivered. In the weak light of the waning moon, the ruins were even more frightening. The place gave off a deep malaise, not just the natural fear that you might legitimately feel in this sort of place. I had the inexplicable feeling that these ruins were charged with heavy emotion, past suffering. Horrible things had happened here, and the stones bore their invisible marks. I could have sworn it.
I ran down the slope, in a hurry to leave this frightening spot as quickly as possible. Several times, I nearly twisted my ankle on the loose stones. Out of breath, I came to some old, gray stone houses with roofs covered in strange round tiles. I slowed down.
Hunger was beginning to overtake me. I mustn’t think about it. I hadn’t eaten anything earlier that evening, waiting to get home to have dinner. Now I bitterly regretted it.
Walking on, I came to an old village, clinging to the side of a hill. There was nothing I could do before sunrise. I sat down on a stone bench worn smooth by time and took deep breaths, allowing my hands to run over its coarse surface. I imagined, behind the thick, stone walls of the houses, the slumbering villagers, sleeping peacefully in beds with rough sheets smelling of the sun that had dried them. I was glad to be alive.
Day finally broke and, along with it came the scents of nature at dawn. Before my eyes, an enchanting view unfolded. The village I was in was perched on the side of a small mountain with steep slopes covered in trees. A few hundred yards away was another small mountain, rising up to more or less the same height as the one I was on. At its summit was another village made up of old gray stone houses. Everywhere, covering the sides of the hills down to the bottom of the valleys, were bushes and trees and scrub, mostly prickly, in varying shades of green tinged with blue. The sun appeared, awakening the perfume of the umbrella pine that was covering me with its protective dome.
I set about exploring the village. It was immediately apparent that there was only one main street. I walked the length of the village without meeting a soul. But here and there through the open windows, I could hear voices, speaking with a regional accent.
I had to gather, as soon as possible, the information I needed to organize my return. Rounding a bend, I saw a café that seemed to be the last house in the village before the road dropped off into the valley. The doors were wide open, so I went in.
The ten or so people in the room instantly stopped talking. The barman—mustachioed, 50-ish—was wiping glasses behind the bar. As I headed across the room, I said a timid “hello” that got no response. The customers were suddenly absorbed in their thoughts, looking down at their glasses.
Reaching the bar, I again said hello, this time to the barman, who merely looked up without responding.
“May I have a glass of water, please?”
“A what?” he said loudly, looking around the room.
I turned just in time to see the derisive smiles, before the faces looked down again.
“A glass of water. I have no money on me, and I’m dying of thirst.”
The barman didn’t answer but reached for a glass on a shelf, filled it from the tap, then banged it down on the bar.
I took a few gulps. The silence was heavy. I had to break the ice.
“It’s going to be a lovely day, isn’t it?”
No answer. I went on, “I hope it won’t be too hot, though.”
The barman looked at me slightly mockingly as he continued wiping his glasses. “Where are you from?” he finally asked.
A miracle. He’d said something.
“Right now, I’ve arrived from the castle … up there. I just came down this morning.”
He looked up at the other customers, then back at me. “Look, we all know no one lives up there.”
“No … but … well, I was left at the castle last night, and I came down this morning. That’s all I meant. I’m not trying to be funny.”
“You’re from Paris, right?”
“Yes, you could say that.”
“Are you from Paris or aren’t you? It’s not a question of whether or not you could say that.”
His accent was so musical I couldn’t work out if this was his ordinary tone or he was annoyed. I needed information, so I had to keep the conversation going.
“Actually, this castle, how old is it?”
“The castle,” he said, wiping the glasses more slowly. “The castle used to belong to the Marquis de Sade.”
“The Marquis de Sade?!” I couldn’t suppress a shudder.
“Yes.”
“And where are we, exactly?”
“What do you mean, where are we?”
“Well, what place are we in?”
Amused, he looked around the room, before saying, “You’ve been drinking more than water, haven’t you?”
“No, I haven’t!” I insisted. “It’s a long story. Just tell me where I am.”
“You’re in Lacoste, in the Lubéron. You’re on another planet.”
Suppressed giggles spread around the room. The barman was pleased with himself.
“The Lubéron. So we’re in Provence, is that right?”
“Well, I never! See what you can do when you try!”
Provence. I must be 500 or 600 miles from Paris.
“Where’s the nearest train station?”
Again, he shot a look around the room.
“The nearest station is in Bonnieux,” he said, pointing to the village perched on the opposite mountain.
I was saved. An hour or two’s walk, and I would be on my way home.
“Do you know what time the next train for Paris leaves?”
Laughter in the room. The barman was jubilant.
“What’s so funny?” I asked. “Has it already left? Is that what’s funny?”
The barman looked at his watch. More laughter.
“But it’s very early!” I said. “There must be another one later in the day. When does the last train leave?”
“The last train left … in 1938.”
Guffaws all around. I swallowed hard. The barman was enjoying his success. While he was at it, he offered a round of drinks. Conversations picked up where they had left off when I came in.
“Here, let me offer you a drink,” the barman said, putting a glass of white wine on the bar in front of me. “To your health.”
We clinked glasses. I wasn’t going to tell him I didn’t drink on an empty stomach. I’d had my bellyful of mocking for the day.
“Look, the station at Bonnieux has been shut down for seventy years. Trains for Paris all leave from Avignon now. You’ll find nothing nearer.”
“Is it far to Avignon?”
He drank a sip of white wine, then wiped his moustache with the back of his hand.
“Forty-three kilometers.”
Almost 37 miles. That was a lot.
“Perhaps there’s a bus?”
“During the week there is, but not on Sunday. Today, apart from me, nobody is working here,” he said, lifting his glass to his lips.
“You wouldn’t know someone who could take me to Avignon?”
“Today? With this heat, people don’t go out much, you know. Except to church. Can’t you wait till tomorrow?”
“No, I absolutely have to be in Paris this evening.”
“Oh! Parisians are always in a rush, even on Sunday!”
I left, saying good-bye to all present, who this time returned my greeting.
I walked along the street in the direction the barman had indicated. “The road to Avignon is on the left, at the bottom,” he had said. I was bound to get a lift.
The lane meandered prettily down the hillside, which was covered in aromatic thorn bushes. I was in Provence! I’d heard so much about Provence. It was even more beautiful than I had imagined. I had pictured an arid region, beautiful but parched. But now, in front of me as far as the eye could see, was vegetation of amazing richness: Holm oaks, pine trees with their trunks glowing red in the sun, cedars, beech, cypress raising their bluish tint to the sky, and on the ground, thistles, broom, great clumps of rosemary, bushes with varnished leaves shamelessly showing off their gaudy beauty, and countless other varieties of plants. I was filled with wonder.
The sun, although still low in the sky, was beginning to beat down, and the heat revived the perfumes of nature, spreading a thousand exquisite scents that accompanied me through this paradise of the senses.
At the foot of the mountain, the road wound around the valley amidst orchards and groves of trees. I had been walking for more than an hour without seeing a single car. Hitchhiking wasn’t going to be easy. I was famished and had a slight headache as well. It was beginning to get really hot. I wasn’t going to be able to continue walking much longer.
Another 20 minutes had gone by when I heard the sound of an engine. A gray van came around the bend behind me, traveling at a moderate speed. It was at least 20 or 30 years old, the van version of the Citroën 2 CV, the Deux Chevaux, that I had seen in picture books of France when I was a kid. I stood right in the middle of the road, arms stretched wide. The driver jammed on its brakes with a screeching noise, and the van coughed, then stalled. The driver got out, a short man with a belly, gray hair, and a red complexion, obviously angry with me and perhaps also annoyed at having stalled.
“What a stupid thing to do! What are you playing at, for Christ’s sake? It hasn’t got the brakes of a Ferrari on it, you know, I nearly ran you over! And who’d pay for the repairs? You can’t get spares for love or money!”
“I’m sorry. Look, I’ve got a problem: I absolutely must get to Avignon as quickly as possible. I’ve been walking two hours in this sun. I haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, and I’m at the end of my rope. You’re not going that way, by any chance, are you?”
“Avignon? What the hell would I be going there for?”
“Perhaps where you’re going would bring me a bit closer?”
“Well, I’m going to Les Poulivets. It’s a bit in that direction, but look here, I’ve got to stop on the way. I’ve got things to do.”
“No problem! The main thing is to get me closer. Then I’m bound to find another car.”
I could feel he was about to give in.
“Please …”
“Okay, get in the back, I’ve got lots of things in the front, and I’m not going to clear it all out for you. I don’t even know you.”
“Great!”
We went around the vehicle, and he opened one side of the back door.
“Sit there,” he said, pointing to two wooden crates that took up the tiny space inside.
I had barely climbed inside when he slammed the door shut, throwing me into complete darkness. I fumbled my way to the crates and sat down as best I could.
He had two tries at starting before the engine sputtered to life and the van moved off, vibrating all over. A strong odor of diesel surrounded me.
I had great difficulty remaining seated. The top of my crate was strangely sloped, and I nearly slid off each time he accelerated, took a bend, or braked. I blindly felt around the sides of the van but could find nothing to hold onto. The situation was so absurd I had a fit of the giggles. It was the first time in my life I had laughed by myself.
The van finally stopped. The motor choked, and I heard the driver’s door slam. Then, nothing. Silence. Surely he wasn’t going to leave me in here?