LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

says Jacques forebodingly, after a thoughtful inspection of the star-filled sky.

      “Pourquoi pas?”

      “Why not?” he repeats in English, castigating Bliss for daring to ask. “The wind, naturellement. Le mistral,” he declares, as if he has the power to summon the fearsome wind that will strike a chill into the hearts of les patrons of the beach restaurants, sweeping with little warning down the valley of the Rhône to toss beach mattresses and umbrellas into the sea, leaving nearnaked sun worshippers sand-blasted and wind-sore.

      The skepticism on Bliss’s face is palpable — this is not the first time Jacques has forecast an ill wind. And, despite the fact that the local man loftily declared, “I am a fisherman — un pêcheur,” at their first meeting some two weeks earlier, most of his meteorological predictions have been way off course.

      “Bof,” says Jacques, shrugging. “You will see.”

      The squeal of tires signals a narrow escape, and turns a few heads, as Angeline cheats death to deliver a tray of drinks to a sombre group assembling a few tables into a huddle. “What’s happening?” Bliss whispers to her as she passes.

      “It is zhe meeting of les hôteliers — zhey are crazy. Zhe potier makes zhem crazy,” she explains. And it’s significant that in an area renowned for potters — the pottery capital of France, if not the world — Bliss immediately knows which potter she is talking about. It can only be the bearded man, his battered straw hat perched on a bush of grey hair, throwing small vases and candle holders for a fascinated crowd at the other end of the promenade.

      Bliss has paused most evenings, watching the man’s deep-set, piercingly blue eyes constantly sweep the crowd as he moulds the revolving clay, noticing the way he works the crowd as he works the piece, watching the girls and women entranced by his powerful, yet tender, fingers sensuously massaging the malleable paste into pretty pots just for them.

      Spellbound by his eyes and hands, the women hang back to watch; their menfolk, uneasy at the potter’s power, try unsuccessfully to pull away, heading for the bar. The adroit fingers mesmerize and the eyes ensnare as he works pot after pot. Two pots a minute — two hearts a second. Who could not fall in love with this gentle man with the blue eyes? And the women make themselves tall in the crowd as they try to catch his eye with a smile.

      “Combien? How much?” they ask, as he singles out a recipient and tenderly hands her a pot balanced on a little cardboard tray.

      “Gratuit. Nothing — it is free,” he answers softly, speaking French or English as appropriate, but his begging bowl overflows with notes and coins.

      Beaming, they walk away with a little masterpiece forged in wet clay. Who would not leave a large tip for such an exquisite pot? And, pot in hand, they parade their delicate prize along the promenade until they tire. Then, “Papa,” or “Mon chéri,” they snivel, “please carry my pot.” If they are lucky it will still be in shape when they return to their hotel room. “He made it just for me,” they imagine boasting to their friends back home in England or America — but how to get it home?

      The monthly meeting of L’association des hôteliers de St-Juan (founded 1903, according to the bronze plaque on the wall of the Hôtel Napoléon) is about to address that issue, as the last of the twelve members mutters an apology for his tardiness and pulls up a chair.

      “C’est un emmerdement,” mumbles the président, before calling on the local priest to say a few solemn words at the commencement of the meeting.

      “He says it is a shitty mess,” explains Jacques, seeing the confused look on Bliss’s face.

      “What is?”

      “Merde — zhe pottery, of course,” Jacques says, as if Bliss could have worked that out by himself. “Zhey say zhat since zhe potter started giving away his little pots, zheir toilets are always stuffed up.”

      It is a full turnout, the first in years. Not since the government tried to introduce a uniform and understandable rating system for hotels have they been so united — no snobby suit from Paris is going to tell us how many stars we can put on our signs — mon dieu!

      Ten men and two women, faces and voices taut with determination, are deliberating the problem of blocked plumbing with more passion than jurors in a contentious homicide. No one seriously articulates a murderous suggestion, though a few moments of solemn consideration are given to ramming a wet pot down the bothersome artisan’s throat — a taste of his own medicine. “Salaud,” mutters one, and the black-robed priest tactfully withdraws to commune with Bacchus at the bar as he decides on the penance for calling someone a bastard.

      “I have asked, begged, and pleaded,” explains the président. “But no — he will not stop.”

      “I even offered him free dinners for a month in my hotel,” says one, a dustbin-bellied man.

      “What did he say?” asks another.

      “Zhat he would rather eat his own pots,” he mutters weightily as he forks most of an onion and anchovy pie into his mouth, adding as he chomps, “He said … my food … tastes like la ragougnasse — pigswill — but what does he know? … He is Anglais, n’est-ce pas?”

      “The potter is English?” Bliss queries of Jacques, surprised. “Is that true?”

      Jacques shrugs. “Perhaps.”

      The meeting disintegrates into animated discussion groups as the président, lacking answers, loses control, and a few passers-by become embroiled, most in defence of the popular artisan.

      “What harm is he doing?” complains a young woman carrying a pot. “He makes me smile.”

      “You’d think differently if you had to dig the shit out of the toilets every morning,” replies one of the hoteliers, although the look on the woman’s face suggests otherwise.

      The answer appears simple to Bliss. “Just put a notice on each toilet,” he mumbles, unaware Jacques is listening.

      “Do you zhink zhey haven’t tried?” he demands, one ear tuned to the proceedings. “Autant pisser dans un violon. How you say? It is as much use as pissing into a violin.”

      “We don’t say that,” protests Bliss, but he gets the drift.

      The raised voices dwindle to an angry murmur as a pretty teenager walks by with two freshly minted pots. “Look what I’ve got,” she calls, beaming, balancing a pot in each hand as she rushes to show her prize to her father.

      “Someone’s gonna have a bunged-up toilet tomorrow,” mutters one of the hoteliers in French, and no one smiles.

      “Oh-oh! Here comes another pot headed for zhe toilet,” says Jacques, giving Bliss a nudge. Bliss turns, spotting another outstretched hand heading their way, but then his eye is caught by a familiar face hovering in the mid-distance.

      “Excusez-moi,” he says to Jacques, tosses a handful of coins on the table, and takes off.

      She’s gone by the time he gets there; Marcia, he’s certain, was standing alone looking thoughtfully in his direction, but she has been swept into the wash of latenight promenaders, leaving him perplexed.

       chapter two

      Bliss wakes to another postcard day and wanders, coffee in hand, onto the balcony. Short flecks of cloud, like fleece, turn puce in the first rays of the sun, then shift through red to pink before evaporating in the day’s gathering warmth. Ahead, the blue waters of the Mediterranean sparkle with sun diamonds as the gentlest of breezes tickles the surface, and the mistral, foretold so forcefully by Jacques, is stillborn in the mountains.

      “This isn’t real,” he breathes, taking in the sweep of the bay, thinking: It’s a setting for a movie, a scene of perfection

Скачать книгу