John Berger - Once in Europa

In the afternoon when the cows were chewing the cud, Marius would lie down on the grass, take a newspaper from his pocket, read it for ten minutes, and then fall asleep. I had noticed this several times when I was spying on him from the pass at St. Pair. One day I visited him whilst he was sleeping. As I approached I made a bet with myself that I would take the newspaper out of his hand without waking him. The difficulty was going to be the dog. I would have to deal with Johnny.

The two of them were side by side, sheltered from the sun by sweetbriar bushes. The dog was wagging his tail, and I beckoned him to come. The old man was still asleep. He was on his side, his knees slightly drawn up, his hat over his ear. His head rested on a stone covered with moss. In his throat Johnny was moaning a little with pleasure. I gave him my sleeve to bite on. One of his hands lay, palm uppermost, on the grass — he had unexpectedly long fingernails. The newspaper was against his stomach where his belt held up his gaping trousers.

All the cows were lying down. There was no chorus of bells for they were too still. Just one bell rang, as one cow slowly turned her head, followed, after a pause, by another. It was as if everything had slowed down like the old man’s pulse whilst he slept. I bent down and took his newspaper. It was easy. I had won my bet. Now why should I wake him? So I left the paper on the grass and very lightly I touched his open hand because I did not want to leave furtively. I touched his palm with my fingers, as lightly as if with a feather.

Why don’t you get a husband? Marius asked Danielle the next time she visited him.

I’m in no hurry.

You won’t marry a boy from the village.

Why shouldn’t I?

Because you are too independent.

Is that a fault?

Not if you have enough money!

I shan’t get rich looking after Papa’s goats.

That’s not your job in life.

Are you saying I’m lazy?

No. I have a considerable admiration for you. The old man spoke formally as if making a speech. A considerable admiration for you, Danielle. You are clever and you are thoughtful — you let sleeping men lie!

It was then that she knew he had been feigning sleep. He must have felt it when she touched his hand. And he knew that she knew, but they did not speak of it.

So the weeks passed and so they learnt more about each other.

One night at the end of July a little before dawn when it was still dark, a car drove uphill, over the grass, towards the Tête de Duet and stopped a hundred metres away from Danielle’s chalet. The car was a 1960 Mercedes Berlin-18, and it had been painted silver grey with a brush, not a spray gun. Six men got out of the car, each with a sack. They were careful not to slam the doors. The eldest, who wore a beret and a leather waistcoat, placed a huge hand around the neck of the youngest, who was yawning.

All the best things in life before you, boy!

Cut it out!

Do you see that peak? No, not that one. The one with snow on it, that’s where we’re felling today.

Christ! It’s a good ten kilometres away.

The other five burst out laughing. Once again the boy had been taken in. Because it was early and the air was cold, laughing made some of them cough.

And it was this coughing which woke up Danielle. By the time she got out of bed and pulled on a skirt, all she could see from the door in the first light was an Indian file of men with sacks over their shoulders climbing towards the forest at St. Pair, and, before the chalet where her goats grazed, the shadowy silhouette of a car.

Later she tried each of the car’s four doors. They were locked. Through the windows, which looked bullet-proof, she admired the leather upholstery and the wooden dashboard of teak, with its dials like those on instruments made specially for doctors.

Afternoons she let the rabbits out of their cage. That day, after they had eaten, they hopped under the Mercedes, happy to find shade there. When she half-shut her eyes the rising heat waves along the ridges of the mountains opposite formed a blue halo. All day she heard the drone of the woodcutters’ chain saws.

In the evening, through the little window of the chalet, she watched the same six men with sacks over their shoulders coming down from St. Pair. The light was already fading. They were walking slowly, as if they were blind and were forced with each step to feel their way forward with their feet. They had a dog with them whose antics they were too tired to notice. Slowly they approached the chalet, each walking at his own speed, exhausted and alone.

When they saw her in the doorway, they became a little jauntier. The first sight of a woman — with the prospect of nine hours’ respite from their backbreaking work — was a reminder of the other sweet side of the world.

I heard your saws.

Forty heads, miss.

Father’s the one who counts, said a thickset one with sawdust in his hair. They all laughed and then fell shy.

You think it’ll rain? one of them asked.

No, the birds are flying high.

Not tomorrow.

Forty!

Forty of ’em, shining like fish!

We strip ’em as we fell ’em.

It’s steep, your Pair.

Pair? That’s how you call it? asked the thickset one with sawdust in his hair.

St. Pair, she said.

Everywhere, on their arms, faces, vests, shoulders, they were smeared with a grey dust stuck to sweat and resin. This covering was so thick that in the half-light it looked as if their faces were covered with fur.

Steep and hot, said the boy.

In the trough there’s running water, she said.

The men turned to look where she was pointing. A little distance from the chalet was a massive, scooped-out tree trunk, placed horizontally on some stones. In front of it waddled four geese, phosphorescent in the half-light, and above the trough was a water pipe which came directly out of the grassy mountainside behind.

It’s a spring … if you want to wash.

We’ll be home in twenty minutes, said the one they called Father, who wore a beret and a leather waistcoat.

Home?

The geese came towards the house in single file, breasts stuck out.

We’re sleeping in the Chalet Blanc, explained Father.

There’s no spring there, she said, only rainwater.

We’ve got jerry-cans.

Wash there, it’s a spring, she said, a spring that never stops. You got soap?

Sure — and pyjamas! said a tall one.

In that case, I’ll get you some.

She went inside. When she came out she handed a large cube of soap to Father. The men left their sacks on the ground and went over to the trough, which was long enough for them to stand side by side.

In the early night breeze she could smell the smell of their washing: a mixture of soap, stale shirts, petrol, smoke, pine resin, sweat. She observed them, stripped to the waist. The backs of the younger ones were suntanned. The elder ones always wore vests and their backs, in contrast to their arms and shoulders, were white. The Father had taken off his beret. They were throwing the soap to one another and laughing. They found the two brushes she kept there for scrubbing the churn. A woman, she thought, washes herself quite differently from a man; a man washes his body like he washes down a wheelbarrow; it’s not by washing himself that a man learns to caress.

By the time they had put on their shirts it was dark. Under the eyes of Father each of them solemnly shook Danielle’s hand, thanked her, and pronounced his name. The name she remembered was that of the thickset one with sawdust in his hair. When he arrived he was the dirtiest, and she sensed that this was because he worked the most ferociously. Pasquale was his name.