Liz Nugent - Unraveling Oliver

“But you need a child!” he pleaded. “When I am gone, there will be nobody! I am getting old and tired and you are here to care for me, but who will take care of you when you are old? Nobody! Who will take care of this estate?”

I had to concede his point. But looking at the potential gene pool in the village, I could not think of anybody who I would want as a father to my child, except Pierre, and he had married and moved north to Limoges.

It had now been six years since my liaison with Pierre. He was strong and handsome and was interested in old maps and books. I began to regret not accepting his proposal, which I think had been sincere. He had not ever met Papa, but they had shared interests, for example books and me, so they might have been friends.

Pierre visited his uncle once a year, and there was the small matter of timing within my cycle to be considered. I know it was deceitful of me, because perhaps I could have told him the truth and got the same result, but I was afraid that Pierre’s inherent decency would preclude him from cheating on his wife if I had baldly made my request. All Pierre’s qualities were of the kind one would want for one’s child, is that not so?

I set out to seduce Pierre, but my window of opportunity was brief, as he was only around for two weeks to take lessons from his uncle, the longest established charcutier in the region, and I had only four or five possible days within that frame to get pregnant.

At first Pierre failed to respond to my seduction, out of fidelity to his wife and concern for my welfare, but I knew he liked me, and although it took some persuasion, thank God he did not make me beg and I did not have to demean myself. The next three nights we spent together in the annex to his uncle’s abattoir. It was not the most auspicious of locations for a seed to be planted, but the breeze through the valley blew the smell of the slaughterhouse downwind, and a little pastis helped us to forget our circumstances. Pierre was a warm and tender lover, and I regretted that this affection was just temporary, that he would be returning to Limoges to his wife. I fell in love a little for the first time. Pierre was terribly sweet and had an innocence about him that I felt I had defiled by the time he left. He was practically apoplectic with apology for leading me astray, and I assured him that we would never speak of it again. I insisted that it would be best if he did not return to the village the following year, and that we both must move on from our folly, and that he must do his best to make it up to his wife. True to his word, Pierre stayed away, and I was glad and sorry.

I was able to confirm my pregnancy, to my father’s delight, and in 1967 my precious Jean-Luc was born, a big and healthy baby to our enormous relief. I realize that having a baby out of wedlock is shameful in some families, and I am sure that the village must have been alive with gossip, but I think that out of respect for my father and me, they started to refer to me as “the widow.” Better in those days to be a bereaved wife than a single mother. Papa, his mischievous spirit finally returning, was highly amused, as if we had played a successful prank on all our neighbors. “How is the widow this morning?” he might say, with a wink.

From the time of the birth, Jean-Luc and Papa were inseparable. Papa fashioned a harness out of leather straps and carried Jean-Luc on his back as he went about his business in the markets or at the mayor’s office or with the estate manager. As the boy grew, Papa’s general mood improved, although he was growing slightly frailer with each passing day. I tried not to be upset when Jean-Luc’s first word was Papi —Grandpa—particularly since he had been coached from birth to say it. We were completed by him, Papa and me. I had not realized how much I needed my boy until I had him and tried to think of life without him.

In the years that followed, my father returned to his former self, as if the war had never happened, with renewed vigor and spirit. A peach orchard was planted on one side of the struggling vineyard, an olive grove on the other. Jean-Luc’s arrival blessed the house in some way, and our finances began to improve. We began to employ migrant laborers, men and women, to work the land on a seasonal basis. Right up until the summer of 1973.

Nobody slept for days after the fire. Obviously, the vineyard work was canceled. I proposed going home to Ireland, but Oliver pointed out angrily that it was our duty to stay and help, and Laura agreed. I felt somewhat ashamed. Madame Véronique was discharged from the hospital a week later, in time for the funerals. She resembled a ghostly scarecrow, her arms and hands heavily bandaged, her face scorched, and what was left of her hair sticking out in tufts. I did my best to make her eat a morsel of this or that and helped her to apply ointments to her face and head as her skin slowly healed. The kitchens had been largely unaffected by the fire, and I took control of mealtimes for all the people who came to help; but her spirit seemed to have disappeared, as if her body were only carrying the functioning parts she needed for breathing.

Oliver changed on the night of the fire too. Drastically. I knew he had grown close to d’Aigse and the little fellow, but he was grieving as if he were family, seldom talking, his face pinched by sorrow. On the day of the funerals, he disappeared completely, only returning late at night, refusing to answer questions or to be comforted. Laura reckoned that Oliver had replaced his absent father with Monsieur. He undertook to salvage the contents of Monsieur’s ruined study—a job he oversaw with great diligence. Laura, already sidelined, was now ignored completely. After two weeks, the bulk of the clearing work was done. There was no question of being paid for our work; we stayed on and got room and board, the food often donated by neighboring families and prepared by me. The vineyard was abandoned once again, and there were whispers about the demolition of the east wing. There was nothing more for us to do. We had already missed the first couple weeks of college. It was time to go. Oliver packed his bags in silence and bade a stoic farewell to Madame, who thanked him for his loyalty and hard work. Some of d’Aigse’s map collections had been rescued, though Madame was devastated to lose so many of his books, of which nothing remained but ashes. I remember that Oliver seemed unable to accept the hug of commiseration and left Madame looking awkward and spare. I could have killed him for that, but it was apparent that Oliver was undoubtedly suffering too.

Laura then became a cause for concern once again. Unexpectedly, she refused to come home, insisting that she wanted to stay and help Madame. I couldn’t understand what she was thinking; it was just another example of her increasingly erratic behavior, as far as I was concerned. There were several long-distance calls back and forth to Dublin as my parents tried to order her return, but Laura was steadfast. Madame didn’t seem to care what happened one way or another, but she assured me that it wasn’t a problem if Laura wanted to stay. She could certainly find something for her to do. I had to be satisfied with that. Laura bade us a tearful farewell. She clung to Oliver hopefully, but he was as emotionless and detached as a tombstone.

The new academic year started slowly, the drab autumn grayness of Dublin seeming so dull compared to the sun-drenched brightness of Bordeaux. I tried to put the trauma of the summer behind me and get back into study and college life. I quickly linked up with some rather camp individuals, the ones I had shunned the previous year out of fear, and began to develop friendships in a different social circle. Even though I still met up with Oliver from time to time, we were clearly estranged, and any time I raised the topic of the summer we had just spent in Bordeaux, he quickly changed the subject, until after a few attempts I never raised it again. I don’t know if it was my sexuality, my relationship to Laura, or the fact that I reminded him of death that caused the distance between us. Perhaps he blamed Laura for taking us to France in the first place? Whatever was in his head, I needed to move on.