This particular hermit lived in a hut deep in the forest on the slopes of the Lubéron. He collected herbs, which he stewed in a giant pot, the traditional bubbling cauldron favored by witches, wizards, and alchemists. The juices left in the cauldron after boiling had remarkable properties, not only quenching the hermit’s thirst, but protecting him from an outbreak of plague that was threatening to decimate the population of the Lubéron. The hermit was a generous fellow, and shared his mixture with sufferers from the plague, who immediately recovered. Sensing, perhaps like Paul Ricard long after him, the wider possibilities for his miraculous drink, he left his forest hut and did what any businesslike hermit would have done: He moved to Marseille and opened a bar.
The less picturesque but more likely reason for Provence being the home of pastis is that the ingredients were easy to come by. The herbs were cheap, or free. Most peasants made their own wine and distilled their own head-splitting liqueurs, and until fairly recently the right of distillation was a family asset that could be passed down from father to son. That right has been revoked, but there are some surviving distillateurs who, until they die, are legally entitled to make what they drink, and pastis maison still exists.
Madame Bosc, Michel’s wife, was born near Carpentras and remembers her grandfather making a double-strength pastis, 90 percent alcohol, a drink that could make a statue fall down. One day he received a visit from the village gendarme. An official visit, on the official moto, in full uniform, never a good sign. The gendarme was persuaded into one of grandfather’s virulent glasses of pastis, then another, then a third. The purpose of the visit was never discussed, but grandfather had to make two trips to the gendarmerie in his van: the first was to deliver the unconscious policeman and his bike; the second, to deliver his boots and his pistolet, which had been discovered later under the table.
Those were the days. And somewhere in Provence, they probably still are.
The Flic
It was bad luck that I had no change for the parking meter on one of the few days that the Cavaillon traffic control authorities were out in force. There are two of them, well-padded and slow-moving men who do their best to look sinister in their peaked caps and sunglasses as they move with immense deliberation from car to car, looking for a contravention.
I had found a vacant meter that needed feeding, and I went into a nearby cafe for some one-franc pieces. When I returned to the car, a portly figure in blue was squinting suspiciously at the dial on the meter. He looked up and aimed his sunglasses at me, tapping the dial with his pen.
“He has expired.”
I explained my problem, but he was not in the mood to consider any mitigating circumstances.
“Tant pis pour vous,” he said. “C’est une contravention.”
I looked around and saw that there were half a dozen cars double-parked. A maçon’s truck, brimming with rubble, was abandoned at the corner of a side street, completely blocking the exit. A van on the other side of the road had been left straddling a pedestrian crossing. My crime seemed relatively minor compared with these flagrant abuses, and I was unwise enough to say so.
I then became officially invisible. There was no reply except a sniff of irritation, and the guardian of the highways walked around me so that he could take down the number of the car. He unsheathed his notebook and consulted his watch.
He was starting to commit my sins to paper—probably adding on a bonus fine for impertinence—when there was a bawl from the café where I had been for change.
“Eh, toi! Georges!”
Georges and I looked around to see a stocky man making his way through the tables and chairs on the pavement, one finger wagging from side to side in the Provencal shorthand that expresses violent disagreement.
For five minutes, Georges and the stocky man shrugged and gesticulated and tapped each other sternly on the chest while my case was discussed. It was true, said the newcomer. Monsieur had just arrived, and he had indeed been into the café to get change. There were witnesses. He flung his arm back toward the café, where three or four faces were turned toward us from the twilight of the bar.
The law is the law, said Georges. It is a clear contravention. Besides, I have started to write the form, and so nothing can be done. It is irrevocable.
Mais c’est de la connerie, ça. Change the form, and give it to that woodenhead who is blocking the street with his truck.
Georges weakened. He looked at the truck and his notebook, gave another sniff, and turned to me so that he could have the last word. “Next time, have change.” He looked at me intently, no doubt committing my criminal features to memory in case he might need to pull in a suspect one day, and moved off along the pavement toward the maçon’s truck.