Elena Poniatowska - Leonora

The country vineyards enchant Leonora. The peasants care for their vines as if they were children. Wine is the reason the soldiers decided to follow Joan of Arc; wine was what crowned Saint Louis King of France, with the kegs stacked in the cellars, his throne was made from the biggest barrels of the finest wood. Ever since the Middle Ages, peasants have hung vine leaves over their front doors so the good spirits would look kindly upon them, and the harvest prove abundant.

‘The best vintages were 1914 and 1932,’ Alphonsine tells her. ‘Some people in these parts bury a live frog underneath each vine because it enhances the quality of the wine.’

At the next table a couple are talking in strong Marseilles accents.

‘Are you camping near here?’ Max asks them.

‘Yes, just across the river. The locals say that it is dangerous …’

‘And you wouldn’t like to sell us your tent?’

Three days later, Max becomes a camper.

In the shade of the bluff, on the river bank of the Ardèche, the tent resembles a bundle of washing deposited there by a washer-woman. Leonora sits down at the edge of the water to brush her teeth. A few little fish breakfast on toothpaste and drink her saliva. She raises her eyes and spots a village clinging to the mountainside, with white houses and black cypresses.

‘I think we should walk up there.’ Leonora points it out to Max, who is busily pretending to be a cobra lying in the sun.

‘Today is far too hot, I really don’t like to walk so much in the heat.’

‘We could swim there,’ and Leonora indicates the mountain.

‘A mountain can only be climbed,’ replies Max, his head breaking the water, surrounded by a halo of fishes.

Whenever he emerges from the water, his eyes are two incredibly beautiful blue fishes, and his head is crowned with frothy white plumes. He stretches himself out beside Leonora.

‘What in the world could I love more than water and hot stones?’ he murmurs, rubbing his stomach. ‘How sweet our life is now, Leonora … and next of all, I would like to catch a few of those little fishes and fry them,’ he continues with a cruel smile. ‘You squeeze lemon over them before crunching them between your teeth. I’m hungry, go and open one of those boxes and get at the cheese. Bring bread and tomatoes. Oh — and don’t forget the wine.’

‘Does sir require anything further?’

‘Grapes, bring them all over here.’

Leonora returns as asked and they eat in the midst of a cloud of flies before falling asleep. When Leonora wakes up, feeling stifled by so much sun, she sees the mountain has turned dark with shadow. Her lover is emitting a series of strangely sad sounds she can’t decipher.

‘It wouldn’t worry me in the least to climb your mountain now, Leonora.’ Max yawns and stretches his arms.

A path leads them to a ruined arch and, the more they climb, the more isolated they feel. The streets are as black as night and fig trees grow inside the houses. A goat emerges from a doorway and stares haughtily down at them.

‘It is not a goat, it is a reptile,’ Leonora advises Max.

Either way, it is the only living being they encounter. Across a crevice, they find themselves overlooking a little garden at the end of which is a wall — all that separates them from the void where, many thousands of metres down, the river runs.

At the summit of the mountain, the castle with its three sharply pointed turrets scrapes the sky. The owner is Viscount Cyril de Guindre who lives immured among the books of his library, in the company of an eccentric daughter who enjoys riding in the nude. Her name is Mlle. la Vicomtesse Drusille.

‘We could dress up as bishops and offer solemn black masses on the rock.’

Leonora closes her eyes in ecstasy and sees herself beside her lover clothed in a purple chasuble, a mitre on his head, wielding a crosier capable of exorcising the Devil himself.

The canter of horse’s hooves rouses her from her pontifical daydream. An Amazon wearing only a cropped jacket dismounts and kisses Max.

‘Good evening, my precious little lovey-dovey poo poo,’ is how she addresses Max. It is astonishing that a woman who looks every bit as strong as a man can produce such a sickly and affected voice. ‘Oh my poor little one, you are tired. Would you like to come and dine at the castle?’

‘Not today. Tomorrow.’

Drusille kisses Max on the nose and spurs on her horse.

‘You may bring her with you if you choose.’ She points towards the English Lady Bishop who offers her a blessing by way of farewell.

‘Have you emerged from your pontifical daydream?’

‘Yes, that woman of Lawhore woke me up.’

Leonora observes Max gathering spiky leaves that smell incredibly sweet.

‘What are you going to do with those flowers?’

‘According to legend,’ he tells her as he picks another handful, ‘an extremely ugly young woman, Miralda by name, used to go out wearing a veil so that no-one could see her face. Even so, a wizard fell in love with the scent of her hair, and possessed her. When he awoke and saw her face, he was so horrified that he buried her alive, leaving only her hair outside the grave. They became these flowers, thereafter called Miralda’s Curls.’

Leonora inhales the aroma of her fingers impregnated with the scent of Miralda’s Curls, then throws back her head: ‘What an intense perfume!’

‘Let me see. I think that now we have enough. We are going to need two stones, one flat and the other round. And we also need to get a move on before it gets dark.’

Leonora again inhales the scent on her fingers, impregnated with Miralda’s Curls. Near where they have set up camp, Max asks her to light a candle and, on his knees, smashes the flowers against the flat stone.

After crushing them, he puts them on to boil. The odour is delicious.

‘Do you see?’ he explains. ‘With this type of herb you can make cigarettes that are better and cheaper than Gauloises. The only thing we still need is the rice paper in which to roll them. Let’s go and find some. If we leave the fire burning it’ll all be ready on our return.’

Barely have they got to the square when Alphonsine calls out to them: ‘It’s three days since I last saw you. Come over to dinner!’

And she rails at Leonora: ‘Why do you abandon me? Go and get some vegetables and I’ll make you aubergines gratinées. Marie can pick them for you straight from her garden.’

Marie selects two purple globes dangling in the midst of some prickly leaves and holds them out to Leonora.

‘How many tomatoes would you like?’ She carries on searching in the dark. ‘And I’ve got some good lettuces somewhere here.’

Leonora and Max sit down on the terrace. The other dinner guests are a grave-digger, a goat herd, a blind girl who smokes constantly, and elderly Mathieu, who has become part of the furniture, and keeps rolling cigarette after cigarette. Before long, Fonfon is setting a platter of aubergines in a ruby-red sauce down in front of them.

‘Leonora, if you would like the grave-digger to take measurements for your coffin, now would be a good opportunity.’

The grave-digger rises and advances on her. Alphonsine, seated next to the painter, picks her teeth with a stick. The rest of the company disappear, leaving only Mathieu. Alphonsine takes delight in speaking ill of the neighbours, particularly the drunk, lazy and abusive ones.

‘Maybe they are just poor?’ Max springs to their defence. ‘In any case, I don’t believe in work.’

‘Where does Mathieu buy the papers you use to roll your tobacco?’ Leonora asks.

‘Aaaa!’ grunts the old man.

Fonfon translates for him: ‘At the tobacconist.’

Leonora and Max bid their farewells.