Slow Homecoming (18 page)
T
he mountain comes into sight before you even get to Le Tholonet. It is bare and monochrome, more radiance than color. The outlines of clouds can sometimes
be mistaken for high mountains: here it is the other way around. At first sight the shimmering mountain looks like something in the sky, an impression favored by what would seem to be the just congealed falling movement of the parallel rock faces, extended horizontally by the stratified fold at the base of the mountain. One feels that this mountain has flowed from above, out of the almost like-colored atmosphere, and condensed in midair.
he mountain comes into sight before you even get to Le Tholonet. It is bare and monochrome, more radiance than color. The outlines of clouds can sometimes
be mistaken for high mountains: here it is the other way around. At first sight the shimmering mountain looks like something in the sky, an impression favored by what would seem to be the just congealed falling movement of the parallel rock faces, extended horizontally by the stratified fold at the base of the mountain. One feels that this mountain has flowed from above, out of the almost like-colored atmosphere, and condensed in midair.
A strange phenomenon often occurs in the observation of distant plane surfaces; formless as they are, these backgrounds change when something, a bird, for example, appears in the empty space between us and them. The planes recede and at the same time take on discernible shapes, while the air between them and the eye becomes material. All at once, a localized and sickeningly familiar landmark (whose popular names have also distorted its reality) is placed at the right distance; all at once, it becomes “my motif,” which I now know by its real name. This applies not only here, where I am writing, to that gleaming snowy surface high up in the Tennengebirge, but also to the Sunday café on the Salzach, which a circling flock of gulls once identified as the “house across the river”; just as on another occasion, thanks to a single intervening swallow, the Kapuzinerberg unexpectedly opened up its depths and stood there, newly understood, as the House Mountainâalways open, never veiled.
In the seventeenth century, the Netherlands developed a type of “world landscape” designed to guide the eye into infinite distances; and to this end certain Netherlands painters used the trick of putting soaring birds in the middle ground. (“And there was not a bird to save the landscape for him,” writes Borges in one of his stories.) And can't a bus driving over a bridge, with its window frames and the silhouettes of its passengers, move
a distant sky closer? Doesn't a spot of tree brown suffice to give form to a patch of shimmering blue? But Mont Sainte-Victoire, without a flock of birds (or anything else) between us, was at once close to me and far in the distance.
a distant sky closer? Doesn't a spot of tree brown suffice to give form to a patch of shimmering blue? But Mont Sainte-Victoire, without a flock of birds (or anything else) between us, was at once close to me and far in the distance.
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It was not until after Le Tholonet that the three-pronged mountain proved to be a range extending from west to east. For a time, the road is straight and level, skirting the mountain; then it climbs in zigzags to a calcareous dome, which forms a plateau at the foot of the steep face, and then runs parallel to the mountain ridge.
It was midday when I climbed the zigzagging road; the sky was deep blue. The rock face formed an unbroken band extending to the horizon. In the red sandy clay of a dried brook bed I saw children's footprints. Not a sound except for cicadas screeching at the mountain. Pitch dripped from a pine tree. I took a bite out of a fresh green pinecone which had already been gnawed by a bird and smelled of apple. The cracks in the gray tree bark formed a natural polygonal pattern, which I ran into wherever I went, ever since I had seen it in the dry mud of a riverbank. From one of these cracks, very close to me, came a cheep, but the gray of the cicada that belonged to it so resembled the gray of the bark that I saw it only when it moved and began to climb down the tree trunk backwards. The long wings were transparent, with black thickenings. I tossed a stick at it, and it was two cicadas that flew away, screeching like ghosts that are given no peace. As I followed them with my eyes, the pattern of the cicadas' wings was repeated by the dark bushes that grew in crevices in the mountain wall.
On top, at the western edge of the plateau, lies the village of Saint-Antonin. (In his later years Cézanne, as
he says in a letter, often went there in his wanderings.) The place has an inn, where one can sit in the open, under the shade trees
(Relâche mardi);
the acacia branches form a kind of latticework against the shimmering mountain walls.
he says in a letter, often went there in his wanderings.) The place has an inn, where one can sit in the open, under the shade trees
(Relâche mardi);
the acacia branches form a kind of latticework against the shimmering mountain walls.
The plateau, over which the Départementale 17 plunges eastward as into an unexplored interior, seems barren and is almost uninhabited. On the whole elliptical patch of the map, the only village indicated is Saint-Antonin-sur-Bayon on the western edge. The nearest town of any size is Puyloubier, two hours' walk, and off the plateau, on the slope leading down to Lower Provence. I call this large platform raised above the landscape the Philosopher's Plateau.
Irresolutely, I started down over the deserted road. (From there there was no bus back to Aix.) But then I decided to go on to Puyloubier. Not a single car passed me. A silence in which every slightest sound suggested a spoken word. A faint generalized humming. I was in sight of the mountain all along; now and then, I stopped without intending to. I saw a trough-shaped gap in the crest as the ideal pass. The dry upland meadows extending to the foot of the cliffs were whitened by snail shells clinging to the grass. They formed a fossil landscape, to which for a moment the mountain belonged, for suddenly, at a glance, it disclosed its origin, a monumental coral reef. From one side came the afternoon sun, from the other a light fall wind. What had been written with a plow under the earth's surface the year before now blossomed and sent forth an intense glow. The grass blades by the roadside passed in majestic flight. My pace was deliberately slow, as I walked in the whiteness of the mountain. What was happening? Nothing. And there was no need for anything to happen. Freed from all expectation,
I was far from ecstasy. My even gait became a dance. I was an outstretched body, carried by its own steps as on a litter. In this perfect hour the walking dancer, who happened to be me, expressed “extension as a form of existence and the idea of this form of existence,” which, according to the philosopher, are one and the same thing, expressed in different ways. But the walking dancer expressed them in one and the same wayârule of the game and game of the ruleâas did the walker with the flapping trousers in Upper Austria. Yes, in that moment I myself knew “who I am”âand consequently felt a still undefined obligation. The philosopher's work, after all, had been an Ethics.
I was far from ecstasy. My even gait became a dance. I was an outstretched body, carried by its own steps as on a litter. In this perfect hour the walking dancer, who happened to be me, expressed “extension as a form of existence and the idea of this form of existence,” which, according to the philosopher, are one and the same thing, expressed in different ways. But the walking dancer expressed them in one and the same wayârule of the game and game of the ruleâas did the walker with the flapping trousers in Upper Austria. Yes, in that moment I myself knew “who I am”âand consequently felt a still undefined obligation. The philosopher's work, after all, had been an Ethics.
A photograph shows Cézanne leaning on a heavy cane, carrying his painting materials tied to his back, with the mythical legend: “Setting out for the motif.” But striding joyfully over the plateau, I was no longer concerned either with setting out or with a motifâfor I knew that this painter never needed a special “flock of birds” to hold the world together in his pictures. His only animals, and those only at the start, were the crouching mongrels in his demonic picnics and nude scenes, which have been interpreted as grimaces put in to counter his spiritual yearnings.
All the same, I was glad on reaching Puyloubier to sit under the plane trees of a Provençal village and drink beer among strangers. The roofs between me and the outline of the mountain had a soothing effect. A sunny street was named rue du Midi. On the café terrace an aged “war veteran” tenderly displayed his juniper-wood cane to the rest of us; he reminded me of the great John Ford. Two young women, setting out with knapsacks and hobnailed boots to climb the ridge and follow it westward, were straight out of his old movies.
B
ut Puyloubier was also the place where I encountered “my” dog. I'll have to get rid of him before I can go on.
ut Puyloubier was also the place where I encountered “my” dog. I'll have to get rid of him before I can go on.
There were no dogs in our house except when we took in a stray, to whom I became greatly attached. One summer he was run over. It was several days before we loaded him onto a little cart and started for the knacker's in the neighboring village. It was rather slow going, because we kept having to run away from the stink. In the end we abandoned the cart in the middle of a field. (That was the only time in my childhood that I felt anything like despair.) Later, in a city, I looked on as a black mastiff and an equally black Doberman pounced on a white poodle from behind and tore it in two.
But it was only when I took to going about the country on foot that I conceived an undying hatred for most dogs. Now, however friendly a countryside may be, I expect to meet a monster like the one in Puyloubier. Cats lurk discreetly in meadows; fish scatter darkly in brooks; the buzzing of hornets is a mere warning; butterflies will always be “my dead”; dragonflies display Easter colors; birds: an ocean in the morning, by evening reduced to a whirring in the ferns; snakes are just snakes (or empty skin). But oh, the dog standing motionless in the darkness, which turns out, as you come closer, to be a fence post, and then, after all, a dogâ
On the outskirts of Puyloubier there is a Foreign Legion post. Circling around the village on my way back, I passed it. The grounds are paved in concrete, without tree or
bush, and surrounded by a high barbed-wire fence. Both grounds and buildings seemed deserted, as if the soldiers had just moved out.
bush, and surrounded by a high barbed-wire fence. Both grounds and buildings seemed deserted, as if the soldiers had just moved out.
But then I heard a jangling of metal, like somebody running with a drawn sword. Then came a growling, or rather a distant muttering, and scarcely an instant later a roar directly in my ear; the most evil of all sounds, death cry and war cry, springing straight to the heart, which for a moment bristles like a cat. No more colors or forms in the landscape: only white fangs, and behind them, bluish-purple flesh.
Yes, behind the fence stood an enormous dogâa kind of mastiff. I immediately recognized my enemy. Other dogs from all over the post came running, scratching the concrete with their claws. But the others remained at a distance from me and the first dog, whose voice and stance marked him as the leader.
His body appeared to be motley-colored; his head and face were deep black. There stands evil, I thought. The skull was broad and seemed foreshortened despite the drooping chops; the triangular ears were drawn like small daggers. I looked for the eyes and found a glow. During a break in the roaring, while he was struggling for breath, slaver dripped soundlessly. Meanwhile, the others barked, but their efforts seemed dispirited and rhetorical. His coat was shorthaired, smooth, and streaked with yellow; the anus was a papery white circle; the tail flagless. When the evil sound started up again, the landscape vanished in a whirl of bomb craters and shell holes.
Looking back at the dog, I saw that I was hated. But I could also see the beast's torment; a damned soul was rattling around inside him. No part of his body could hold still. Only once, as though bored with me, he stopped moving, blinked hypocritically to one side, and even
played patronizingly with his acolytes (whom he could just as well have bitten to death)âand in the next moment he leapt cinematically at the fence, so high that I actually recoiled.
played patronizingly with his acolytes (whom he could just as well have bitten to death)âand in the next moment he leapt cinematically at the fence, so high that I actually recoiled.
After that, he stood menacingly still. He stared at me long and attentively, but all he was looking for were signs of fear and weakness. I realized that his hostility wasn't directed at me in particular; here on Foreign Legion territory, where military law reigned supreme, his bloodthirstiness was trained to attack anyone who, bearing neither arms nor uniform, simply
was who he was.
(At least one person in the world ought to remain unarmed, a mere “I” of this kind once wrote.) He, the watchdog inside the army post, and I outside (in a realm for which he, by definition, had no eyes, because for him only his restricted territory had reality); between us, as in the old poem, the barbed wire like an
everlasting, accursed, cold, heavy rain
, through which I, dreaming but alert, viewed the enemy and saw how in his homicidal frenzy, possibly exacerbated by the ghetto he lived in, he lost every characteristic of his race to become, exclusively, a brilliant exemplar of the species executioner.
was who he was.
(At least one person in the world ought to remain unarmed, a mere “I” of this kind once wrote.) He, the watchdog inside the army post, and I outside (in a realm for which he, by definition, had no eyes, because for him only his restricted territory had reality); between us, as in the old poem, the barbed wire like an
everlasting, accursed, cold, heavy rain
, through which I, dreaming but alert, viewed the enemy and saw how in his homicidal frenzy, possibly exacerbated by the ghetto he lived in, he lost every characteristic of his race to become, exclusively, a brilliant exemplar of the species executioner.
I remembered how once, when I was out walking with my grandfather, he showed me how to keep dogs at a distance; even when no stone was available, he would bend down as if to pick one up, and the beasts would shrink back every time. Once he even threw earth into a dog's mouth; the dog swallowed it and let us pass.
I attempted something of the kind with the mastiff of Puyloubier, but he simply roared at me out of a vastly magnified mouth. As I bent down, a yellow Paris Métro ticket, canceled and covered with my jottings, fell out of my pocket; in a moment of exuberance I tossed it through the fence. Instantly, the dog turned himself into
a marten (a marten, as everyone knows, will eat anything) and bolted my paper: greed, but also revulsion incarnate.
a marten (a marten, as everyone knows, will eat anything) and bolted my paper: greed, but also revulsion incarnate.
In my fancy, the worms inside him that lived on him flung themselves in dark turmoil on the ticketâand, lo and behold, the dog excreted an inverted little tower, as pointed as its dagger ears. It was only then that I noticed that he had staked out his official territory on the concrete with comparable dried and bleached formations (a grandiosely scribbled hieroglyphic).
Gentle suasion (or speech of any kind) would have been inconceivable in the face of such unreasoning animosity. I therefore crouched resolutely down, and the Legionary mastiff fell silent. (Actually, he was only startled for the moment.) Then our faces moved so close to each other that they vanished as in a cloud. The dog's eyes lost their glimmer, and the dark head turned blacker than crepe. Our eyes metâor rather one eye met another; one-eyed, I looked into his one eye. Then we both knew who the other was, from then on we could only be mortal enemies forever; at the same time, it dawned on me that the beast had long been mad.
The dog's next sound was not a bark but a desperate panting, which increased in violence and finally became the whirring of the wings he had just sprouted and with which in another moment he would fly over the fence. It was accompanied by the general howling of the pack, no longer directed against me alone but against the white of the mountain wall in the background, or perhaps against everything outside the animal kingdom. Yes, now he was out for my blood, and I, too, was looking for a magic word that would make him dead and gone.
Speechless with hatred, I left the Legion post. At the same time I was conscious of guilt: “With a project like
mine, I have no right to hate.” Forgotten was my gratitude for what I had seen thus far; the beauty of the mountain was expunged; only evil was real.
mine, I have no right to hate.” Forgotten was my gratitude for what I had seen thus far; the beauty of the mountain was expunged; only evil was real.
Thus stricken dumb, I had difficulty in walking. The enemy within me quivered for a while, then began to stink. Nothing recognizable and, worse, nothing namable was left in nature. The word that now occurs to me for my bewildered, one might say war-haunted, stare is a Germanism taken over into French:
“vasistas”
(from Was ist das); this word is said to have originated with the Prussian occupation troops in 1871, and refers to the transoms they foundâthey had never seen anything like themâin certain attic rooms.
“vasistas”
(from Was ist das); this word is said to have originated with the Prussian occupation troops in 1871, and refers to the transoms they foundâthey had never seen anything like themâin certain attic rooms.
Outside Puyloubier, now heading westward, I sat down on a grassy path leading through a vineyard, and basked in the sun. Tired no doubt from so much walking, I dropped off to sleep. I dreamed about a dog who turned himself into a pig. Light in color, firm and plump, he was no longer a caricature of a man, he was an animal as he should have been. I grew fond of him and fondled himâyet awoke unreconciled and, in the words of the philosopher, “purified for holy works by orgies of knowledge.”
In the still day-bright sky, the moon was rising. That helped me to imagine the “Sea of Silence,” and Flaubert's “appeasement” made its way into my heart. The clayey path smelled refreshingly of rain. As though for the first time, I saw the white of a birch. Every row of vines was a path leading somewhere. The vines were beacons of peace; the moon, an ancient sign for the imagination.
I walked with the last rays of the sun, refreshed by the wind on my face; the blue of the mountain, the brown of the woods, the carmine red of the clay embankments were my color guides. From time to time I ran. Once on
a bridge over a ravine I even took a jump, a pretty high and long one, gave a roguish laugh, and named the place Wolf's Leap; then I went calmly on, looking forward to the food and wine that awaited me in Aix.
a bridge over a ravine I even took a jump, a pretty high and long one, gave a roguish laugh, and named the place Wolf's Leap; then I went calmly on, looking forward to the food and wine that awaited me in Aix.
When I got there late in the evening, I saw crabs crawling on what was left of the cobblestones of the Cours Mirabeau, and cigarette smoke that turned out to be a blue balloon buffeted by the night wind. I was so tired I didn't think much more than “Long-Day Blues.”
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