Salques opened the door and shone the flashlight into the borie. Against the walls were banks of sandy soil, sloping down to an inflatable plastic paddling pool in the middle. Hanging from the ceiling above the pool was a microphone, but there was no sign of any of the artistes.
“They are asleep in the sand,” said Salques, gesturing with his flashlight. “Here”—he shone the flashlight along the bank at the foot of the left wall—“I have the species Bufo viridis. The sound it makes resembles a canary.” He puckered up his mouth and trilled for me. “And over here”—the torch swept across to the opposite bank of soil—“the Bufo calamita. It has a vocal sac capable of enormous expansion, and the call is très, très fort.” He sunk his chin into his chest and croaked. “You see? There is a great contrast between the two sounds.”
Monsieur Salques then explained how he was going to produce music from what seemed to me to be unpromising material. In the spring, when a bufo’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of mating, the inhabitants of the sandy banks were going to emerge and frolic in the paddling pool, singing their songs of love. For reasons of genetic modesty, this would only take place at night, but—pas de problème—every birdlike squeak and manly croak would be passed via a microphone to a tape recorder in Monsieur Salques’s study. From there, it would be edited, remixed, leveled, synthesized, and generally transformed through the magic of electronics until it became recognizable as the “Marseillaise.”
And that was only the beginning. With 1992 soon to be upon us, Monsieur Salques was composing a completely original opus—a national anthem for the countries of the Common Market. Did I not find that an exciting concept?
Far from being excited, my reaction was deep disappointment. I had been hoping for live performances, massed bands of toads with their enormous vocal sacs swelling in unison, Salques conducting from his podium, the star contralto toad delivering a poignant solo, the audience hanging on to every squeak and gribbet. That would have been a musical experience to treasure.
But electronically processed croaking? It was eccentric, certainly, but it lacked the fine untrammeled lunacy of the living toad choir. As for a Common Market anthem, I had serious doubts. If the bureaucrats in Brussels could take years to reach agreement on simple matters like the color of a passport and the acceptable bacteria count in yogurt, what hope was there of consensus on a tune, let alone a tune sung by toads? What would Mrs. Thatcher say?
In fact, I knew what Mrs. Thatcher would say—“They must be British toads”—but I didn’t want to mingle politics with art, so I just asked the obvious question.
Why use toads?
Monsieur Salques looked at me as though I was being deliberately obtuse. “Because,” he said, “it has never been done.”
Of course.
During the months of spring and early summer, I often thought of going back to see how Monsieur Salques and his toads were getting on, but I decided to wait until July, when the concerto Bufo would have been recorded. With luck, I might also hear the anthem of the Common Market.
But when I arrived at the house, there was no Monsieur Salques. A woman with a face like a walnut opened the door, clutching the business end of a vacuum cleaner in her other hand.
Was Monsieur at home? The woman backed into the house and turned off the vacuum cleaner.
Now. He has departed for Paris. After a pause, she added: For the celebrations of the Bicentenaire.
Then he will have taken his music?
That I cannot say. I am the housekeeper.
I didn’t want to waste the trip entirely, so I asked if I could see the toads.
Non. They are tired. Monsieur Salques has said they must not be disturbed.
Thank you, Madame.
De rien. Monsieur.
In the days leading up to July 14th, the papers were filled with news of the preparations in Paris—the floats, the fireworks, the visiting heads of state, Catherine Deneuve’s wardrobe—but nowhere could I find any mention, even in the culture sections, of the singing toads. Bastille Day came and went without a single croak. I knew he should have done it live.
No Spitting in
Châteauneuf-du-Pape
August in Provence is a time to lie low, to seek shade, to move slowly, and to limit your excursions to very short distances. Lizards know best, and I should have known better.
It was in the high eighties by 9:30, and when I got into the car I immediately felt like a piece of chicken about to be sautéed. I looked at the map to find roads that would keep me away from the tourist traffic and heat-maddened truck drivers, and a bead of sweat dropped from my nose to score a direct hit on my destination—Châteauneuf-du-Pape, the small town with the big wine.