The decision to flee came suddenly, or maybe not. Maybe I had been planning all along, Subconsciously waiting for the time to be right.- H. Thompson
Working at Marco’s had been a challenge. Days seemed passed by in a numb blur. Alone in a foreign country with no one to really call upon for support. Sure I could have appealed for phone access, but I tried to make as few demands as possible from my hosts. Just work hard and there would be no reason to dismiss me. They had provided me adequate clothes and food, so reasonably I could tolerate the everyday hardships of existing in a hostile environment.
Every party of my body was strained, all muscles were getting hard, and my hands were a sad sight. Once I had firm, supple hands with clean nails and smooth skin. This is a memory now. Persistent concrete burns combined with cold weather and never wearing work gloves left them dry, cracked, pealing and sandpaper rough. It became increasingly difficult to roll cigs because my fingers held no moisture and callused beyond sensation. One day the temporary ladder leading to the second floor bent in an unexpected way and my thumb took most of the force from the fall. That poor nail was still blue and purple by the time Jonathan arrived.
After one and a half months of lonesome toiling about that wreck, a second soul to witness the strain arrived. I had never wanted a witness for the fear that all the pain was really less than I imagined and this new person would present competition and acknowledgment of my weaknesses.
Jonathan arrived late on a Tuesday in the twilight of a cold day filled with moving rubble and liberating rusted nails from scrap lumber. He stood 5’11, my age, long boyish brown hair, and a young face hidden with a thin pleasant looking beard. His clothes looked fresh because they were the synthetic type favoured for outdoor recreation and they made the soft body they covered look even sloppier. We took a short tour of the land in the fading light. By the end, the moist grass had wet his feet through the light day hiking boots.
Making our way back to the trailer with his kit, we shared a few beers and a sense of relaxation filled me. He would be good conversion, a cultural bridge, and presented no threat. Jonathan was from the French island territory of Irun off the coast of Madagascar. He had come to France after finishing studies and then was employed in Normandy as an informatic for SNCF, the national rail company. He could talk the paint off the walls and had a fine taste in women. Among his clan of tech whinnies, he was envied at his ability to corral the fairer sort. Jon would have had plenty of pictures as evidence if there were electricity in the trailer for computing. Lack of electricity and internet would continue to be a complaint of his. These two things immediately made me suspicious.
A lifetime of experience working and surviving in the third world had endeared Marco with absolute ingenuity relating to construction. He was incredibly strong, fast, and dexterous. However, what he lacked was the ability to plan effectively and instruct a novice. I found myself fulfilling the later to insure that Jon didn’t damage those squishy small hands. Marco seemed to take notice of his informatic digits and put the two of us down to make insulated filling for small crevasse by breaking cork. The cork that came in 30mm, 80mm and 100m thicknesses had to be cut to fit angles required by the roof, therefore creating scraps. Our mission was to make a meditation of grinding, by hand, the scraps into walnut sized pieces. Of course insulation fill could be bought, but slave labour is much cheaper. Or is it?
Consider that the cost of housing and feeding a worker is between 10 to 15 euros a day. And two workers are dedicated to this task for four days… probably the effort broke even. What also broke were our hands. At least we had each other for conversation. .
Jon had embarked on his voyage because there was something romantic and lucrative involved in the restoration of old houses and he wanted a piece of the action. This, however, did not stem the flow of complaining about every trivial error of working. The French are an interesting bunch, especially in pursuits of business. They are exacting with matters of negotiation as it both parties want to clearly define the work to be accomplished through ample conversation. Conversation is the national sport of France… or to be more exact, complaining. They are fully aware that there is a culture of whining and they whine about that as well. Additionally, the French don’t contribute one minute more of work than is required unless it serves some momentary impulse. Accomplishing anything in France requires friends.
It was becoming more difficult to suppress my overwhelming discomfort with the Moulin.
France is an especially interesting country because of its geographical diversity and regional isolation that has given rise to distinct architecture and culture. Masions in the Averyon have a distinctive structure. Traditional dwellings are constructed of piece meal rubble masonry that was added onto as wealth and families grew. This, along with land policy and poor mobility, gave rise to small clusters of houses known called hamlets in English. When on a slope, the primary dwelling is usually built perpendicular to the hill creating a large garage underneath. This space below the house would have been essential for the storage of food items and domesticated animals during the winter. This situation to the slope is also preferred because it minimizes the edge of the structure that will, with out doubt, suffer from moister penetration. Barns are constructed in the same fashion so that hay can be easily carried in from the up hill side and space is provided below for animals. The uncommon existence of large planned farm houses is evidence
of extreme fortune. The latter was the form of our new friend Cedric.
Cedric was the 5th generation of family to own a beautiful hotel and restaurant that had the only local Michelin stars. He was a calm, smart fellow and a gracious host. But I can’t speak for his friends. Najac is well known for hippy types and broken people, those that stayed evidently had lost the plot.
No matter. Jon and I were invited to celebrate the coincidence of Cedrics Birthday and All Hallow Eve. In Santa Barbara Halloween is a glorious event. The population of the small student suburb of Isla Vista swells to 100,000. The streets are amassed with young bodies clad in the minimal vestments with the hint of something ghoulish. A true sight to behold. In Najac there were only trees, rain, Marco’s bad temper, and a hot water bottle to keep the bed comfortable. We weren’t going to pass this one up.
The party was in the refurbished barn. Cedric had hired a local hippy gypsy and child to decorate the interior with Indian tapestries, paintings, and all little equtemon such as correctly weighted cardstock for rolling spliffs. She was also doing face painting for those of us that came lacking costume. A nice addition, but all the men looked like peacocks.
So I sauntered around admiring the décor, covered food, and alcohol. After a number of polite moments and hacked conversations, I made a bee line for the booze. France is sadly the only country in Europe that doesn’t have a drinking culture, I’d guess it’s because they are afraid to make a fool of themselves. Which is understandable and they are one of the most diminutive populations, but it’s a sad sight when the normal size of a bottle of beer looks more like a child’s apple juice. However I was in no situation to complain, and poured a cup of straight rum to set the nerves right.
To be honest, I don’t recall much of the night. For some period I was the DJ and people seemed to like the music although the mixing it was completely by luck. All that stands out is that everyone was really impressed to meet someone from Long Beach. There were a few bad MCs and one good one, people gave me their number, a few sexy ladies, and when I couldn’t stand any longer, a cute brunette walked me to a bed. She insisted I remove my boots and jacket, pulled the covers up and pulled my hat over my eyes.
When I awoke there was the reminisce of a naught school girl lying in the bed. One breast had fallen from a dirty blouse revealing a tempting nipple almost exactly the same colour as her skin. She looked cold and I thought about doing the nice thing and warming up those smooth legs extending from under a plaid skirt. I started to get aroused by admiring her well balanced curves but decided that the leather jacket, that covered her head, was a strong sign that early morning groping was not welcomed. Besides, the rum had burned a hole that needed patching. I checked my watch. Shit, 7:20. Three hours sleep. She stirred a bit when I carefully mounted her to get out of bed.
All I could find down stairs for immediate consumption was foul tasting baguettes, butter, and pickles. Standing there in a stupor, I remembered that somehow I was going to have to get back to the Moulin and finish one promised task. Jon had gone home when, like usual, no one was interested hearing him talk.
I was still trying to get my mind around having to walk a mile to the main road when my blonde bedfellow stumbled into the kitchen. The breast was half covered, but what now protruded were huge snaggle teeth that probably made taking off clothes difficult. Oh Christ, what did I do. Trying to feel out the situation, I offered some pickles which she looked at in confused disgust. So I tried some French, which she looked even more confused at. Then I tried English. “Ughg…Angle,” she murmmered and slithered off.
As the day wore on, more ghouls emerged first in costume and then removed makeup to all our horror. There had been about a half dozen ladies that showed up unattached. One tall brunette, that stole the spotlight, was dressed as a cat with black leathers. She prowled the party while her friends lurked in dark corners, monkeys in the mist. I remembered the blonde school girl vaguely giggling at me and running off. But I distinctly remember thinking those huge glasses and Billy-bob teeth were part of the disguise.
Would there be little buck-teethed, peacock nerds hatched in the future? Only god knows. She showed me no regard for the rest of the day and that was comforting.
Jon arrived sometime in afternoon just when I gathering the nerve to start moving. The other revellers were in the same state as myself. Languid bodies strewn around the patio and kitchen talking quietly while smoking and trying to regain some sense of self. Gaby’s girl friend worked at a pharmacy and thus had the means to pass around a mirror with lines of chopped up opiates. It didn’t help their case any.
The French are known as smoking culture. While there are cigar and pipe smokers amongst the oldest generation and among 5 member of French parliament, the French prefer cigarettes and most often the hand rolled variety because of economics and well twisted tobacco is a proper accessory in showing off ones grace. This usually means perching in just the right posture to look thoughtful and letting the cig burn out only to relight it.
(Passage removed so that I can seek employment in the future.)
The day was cold. I had tried, with little conviction, to convince Jon that the correct course would be to thank our hosts and seriously apply ourselves to finishing the work that was promised to Marco. The windows for the roof would be arriving on Monday and we had been tasked to preparing the beams. This preparation would required hours of chiseling in awkward positions. But Jon sat there, a great pudding of a man, and proudly confided, “No, I think we stay here. We finish when we return.” We finally headed for home one hour after dark.
The Moulin was dark. No lights.
“Oh, it is dark. Putsth…They sleep,” Jonathon pouted
“I don’t think so, dude.”
“You think there is dinner?”
“No. Bread and cheese. Let’s be quick.”
“Eweh… Because ahh I prefer something warm now. Ah look at the basch.”
The roof tarp had not been replaced. In fact, it hung off the scaffolding like underwear from a ceiling fan.
From the kitchen window we could see the wood rubble pile was burning with ferocity in the black night. I had thought that strange noise had been the tarp flapping in the evening breeze.
“Ouh, they have fire. Hum, there is no dinner. I really would prefer something warm. Maybe some tea.”
“Jon, eat some crusili and yogurt. And be quick.”
He shoveled a bowl with this glancing shuffle like he was the martinet of an unsettled stomach.
Walking around the lower edge of the house towards the fire we both looked with confusion at the basch. There were Marco, Saskia, and Alya sitting on a blanket, their silhouettes charcoal against the inferno. Teapot began barking and I greeted him loudly.
“Bon soir.”
No response…that means death in France.
We tried to converse but there was no use. Marco had gone to war.
Jon and I walked back to the trailer. Obviously he didn’t understand the gravity of the situation. Perhaps I’m guilty of not being honest enough to adequately warn him of Marco. Perhaps I should have been more insistent about returning on time. Perhaps I am of devious nature and not man enough to do my own bidding. Perhaps. But now had everything I needed.
“I think we are in the shit.”
“Yes Jon, we are. Good night.”
The next morning was very quiet. As custom, we took some bread, cheese, and crusili to the table. I strained my ears for evidence of Marco in the adjoining bedroom. Marco and Saskia entered from the front door. They went briefly to the kitchen and then Saskia went to Alya’s room and Marco the table.
I can’t with any accuracy recall what unfolded because it was all in French. But Jon had some flimsy excuse that we intended on finishing the job when we returned and besides it was Sunday. When Marco pressed him, I could tell Jon was lying. A storm raged. Marco’s voice rose with absolute indignance, throwing hands about like a turrets patient while Jon parlayed unconcerned, brushing away imaginary flies. All the while I silently tucked into the crusili.
There was a short solid exchange and Marco asked Jon in French if I was tracking.
“I understand enough,” I said measuring my syllables.
“You understand!”
Shit, I hope I did.
Marco thoughtfully switched to English to finish the tirade directed at Jon.
“You can stay, but you work. That’s it. You work, no more questions. Learning time is over.” Jon had used a hand saw for the first time two days before. Marco seemed to turn in space as if his anger had provided powers of levitation. “And you, you sit there and say nothing! You never say anything!”
This was directed at me with the bulging eyes of a fish. I picked my tone and measure to be as placid yet firm. No anger, just confidence.
“Okay Marco. We should talk. Why don’t you have a seat so we can talk about this. Please..”
“You”, he exploded again, “you have no thoughts, uh! You think …”
“SIT DOWN. If you want to talk with me we will sit like gentlemen and discuss this. But I WILL NOT be talked to like an insolent child by a man acting like an opera star. SIT DOWN.” My tone and volume had moved to Marine Drill Sergeant.
Marco hovered, moving away from me. Head down, shoulders drawn, fists clenched. I grabbed a fork.
“Okay you think your man. Then leave the boots and jacket and get out.”
He floated to the kitchen, Jon and I filed out. Alya was asking her Mom, “Why does this always happen with WWOOFers?”
When we were 30 yards off Marco hollered, “And clean the trailer. Clean the trailer and then you can use MY phone.”
Jon cleaned the trailer like an obedient bitch while I packed my bags and grabbed anything useful. I was ready to leave in less than five minutes but waited for Jon to finish. We agreed to meet at the café in Najac by 4pm. He said it was very bad to take Marco’s clothes. Blow me, I had everything I needed to get through a winter in France plus a dough boy with wheels. But there was still an issue with a borrowed bike to resolved.
Several weeks earlier a Scottish man had loaned me an ancient, powder blue road bike. Colin did all but admit his extreme dislike for Marco and had given me the bike to spend more time away from the Moulin. It was simple honesty to return the velo because it would be plainly rude to make Colin recover my debt.
When I was 2 km away I took shelter under a tree to check a map gathered from the trailer. It included minor roads, building, paths, and elevations. I wasn’t going to give Marco the benefit of the doubt and take the roads. So I charted a heading as direct as possible. It was 10km across cow pastures crossed with barbwire and raining. The easiest way to deal with barbwire is to crawl under it.
Colin was in England working, but his wife Chris(Christina) came to the door.
“Oh Jason, would you like to come in, it’s cold out there. How are you dear? Did something happen with Marco?”
We chatted for a few minutes with me standing on the porch getting wetter. I was soaked and covered with mud and, probably, cow shit. Eventually I had to tell her that I really would prefer to talk inside, where it is warm, if she didn’t mind.
I took a place by the fire, telling her lightly what had occurred, not really saying anything of substance. Chris, as an Englishwoman, could have taken the polite Anglo directive to kill emotion as to preserve the stiff upper lip. But as a counselor of troubled youth and serious convicts, chaos was something she needed to feel useful. She stepped directly to the edge of that imaginary personal bubble and confronted the emotional reality of the situation. All locks rusted to dust in a short huff of tears that glossed the room for an instant. She lifted her left arm a slight three inches and that was enough for me to fall on her shoulder and acknowledge to myself that ignoring pain would only make it hurt worse later. I’d been packing away so much emotion, so much fear and hate under the guise of security.
The sunshine of Southern California was 5000 miles away. Year round people sleep on the streets, dozens of couches have my name, and then there is always family. Here it was cold, wet and French. So much fear revolved around having to survive a winter without job or shelter that I would have taken any abuse. Fear wasn’t something that I was going to admit then, but it was the source of my decision making.
Once there was this boss that talked incessantly about money, power, and future fortune. But his monologues always came back to a fear, an overwhelming disgust for the homeless. He told me to kill him if I ever caught him walking the streets. He was driving a trash truck, covered in junk juice, but still feared moving lower. However course his words may have been, there was something human in those emotions. We spend each day fighting decay, trying to retard entropy with cash, creams, exercise, and family. But in the end it’s all going to go away and our lives will vanish with the last person that remembers our name. It’s a hard reality, an imperceptible logical drop to forego the responsibility of being that I was not ready to make.
Maybe there was a time when I would have been bolder. Maybe I would have used his power drill for a worthy cause or just let those infamous lips flap. But I didn’t. I was getting conservative, slow, old. Giving up the fight for greener pastures and securities. The rational mind really is a pitiful burden.
(Jesus, What the hell am i getting on about here. I recall it making sense at the time, but it doesn't fit with anything else.)
The tears didn’t last long, but they felt good. Leaving the Moulin was liberation. Half planned and half luck, but it worked. She moved away to fix some soup and my tears dried quickly next to the fire. What also dried up was any pity for myself. I just shut it off and turned to the practical. It was warm inside, but I was still shivering. Shit, mild hypothermia.
Line break
Chris and Cole were to be another fantastic piece of luck. In their 60’s now, they had between them three marriages, four children, and sixty years of counseling troubled youths, drug addicts, and sex offenders in detention and communes. Chris was now retired because an illness that made exhausted after any exertion and filled her day cooking buttery British cuisine and tending to the small flock kept for wool production. She was admittedly a scatter brain which along with her need for crisis intervention (edited to be civil). She lived in a state of hyper sensitive crisis which probably caused her illness.
Chris drank, smoked weed, and her speech was filled with expletives. She referred the junk drawer as the glory hole. I loved her.
Cole was a very calm Scott that dealt with Chris’s crisis. A quiet man of precise and practiced tongue though something was wearing on him. It wasn’t just her particularly, but the situation that was taking the humor out of him. He was still working in England and traveled for several months out of the year. Eight years ago the British Pound was almost double to the Euro and they bought into a cheap French property. Colin had worked hard to make the wreck a home and Chris had concentrated on getting the land and goats in order. But while Chris had her animals to love and talk with, Colin could find no French equivalent to his English pubs.
(this needs completion)
