Miraculously, nobody was injured. When we left, sometime after one o’clock, the music was still playing and the dancers, stuffed with food and awash with wine, were still dancing. Not for the first time, we marveled at the Provençal constitution.
We arrived back at the house the following day to find that its appearance had changed; there was an unfamiliar tidiness in front of the steps that led up to the door. The cement mixer, which had for months been an integral part of the façade of the house, was no longer there.
It was an ominous sign. As much as we disliked having its hulk parked outside, it was at least a guarantee that Didier and his masons would return. Now they had crept in and taken it—our cement mixer—probably to use on a six-month job somewhere the other side of Carpentras. Our hopes of having a finished house by Christmas suddenly seemed like a bad attack of misplaced optimism.
Christian, as usual, was sympathetic and reassuring.
“They had to go to Mazan … an emergency job … the roof of an old widow’s house …”
I felt guilty. What were our problems compared to the plight of a poor old widow exposed to the elements?
“Don’t worry,” Christian said. “Two days, maybe three, and then they’ll be back to finish off. There’s plenty of time before Christmas. It’s weeks away.”
Not many weeks away, we thought. My wife suggested kidnapping Didier’s cocker spaniel, closer to his heart even than the cement mixer, and keeping it as a hostage. It was a fine, bold scheme, except that the dog never left Didier’s side. Well, if not his dog, maybe his wife. We were prepared to consider almost anything.
The unfinished jobs—temporary windows and chinks in the masonry in particular—were made more apparent by the first sustained Mistral of winter. It blew for three days, bending the cypress tree in the courtyard into a green C, tearing at the tatters of plastic in the melon fields, worrying away at loose tiles and shutters, moaning through the night. It was malevolent and inescapable, a wind to lower the spirits as it threw itself endlessly against the house, trying to get in.
“Good weather for suicide,” Massot said to me one morning as the wind flattened his mustache against his cheeks. “Beh oui. If this continues, we’ll see a funeral or two.”
Of course, he said, this was nothing like the Mistrals of his boyhood. In those days, the wind blew for weeks on end, doing strange and horrible things to the brain. He told me the story of Arnaud, a friend of his father’s.
Arnaud’s horse was old and tired and no longer strong enough for farm work. He decided to sell it and buy a fresh young horse, and walked the fifteen kilometers to Apt market one windy morning leading the old nag behind him. A buyer was found, the price was agreed, but the young horses for sale that day were poor, thin specimens. Arnaud walked home alone. He would return next week in the hope that better animals would be on sale.
The Mistral continued all that week, and was still blowing when Arnaud walked again to Apt market. This time he was lucky, and bought a big dark horse. It cost him almost double what he had made on the sale of the old horse, but, as the dealer said, he was paying for youth. The new horse had years of work in him.
Arnaud was only two or three kilometres from his farm when the horse broke free from its leading rein and bolted. Arnaud ran after it until he could run no more. He searched in the scrub and in the vineyards, shouting into the wind, cursing the Mistral that had unsettled the horse, cursing his bad luck, cursing his lost money. When it became too dark to search any longer, he made his way home, angry and despairing. Without a horse, he couldn’t work the land; he would be ruined.
His wife met him at the door. An extraordinary thing had happened: a horse, a big dark horse, had come running up the track and had gone into one of the outbuildings. She had given it water and pulled a cart across the opening to block its escape.
Arnaud took a lantern and went to look at the horse. A broken lead rein hung from its head. He touched its neck, and his fingers came away stained. In the light of the lantern, he could see the sweat running down its flanks, and pale patches where the dye had worn off. He had bought back his old horse. In rage and shame he went up into the forest behind his farm and hanged himself.
Massot lit a cigarette, hunching his shoulders and cupping his hands against the wind.
“At the inquest,” he said, “someone had a sense of humor. The cause of death was recorded as suicide while the balance of the mind was disturbed by a horse.”
Massot grinned and nodded. All his stories, it seemed, ended brutally.
“But he was a fool,” Massot said. “He should have gone back and shot the dealer who sold him the horse—paf!—and blamed it on the Mistral. That’s what I’d have done.” His reflections on the nature of justice were interrupted by the whine of an engine in low gear, and a Toyota four-wheel-drive truck, as wide as the footpath, slowed down briefly to give us time to jump out of the way. It was Monsieur Dufour, the village grocer and scourge of the Lubéron’s sanglier population.