Saturday, September 5, 2015
I have mentioned that two young men, Pierre and Martin, drive their vans along the easement behind the garage of my house to tend to a chicken coop and vegetable gardens. I knew Pierre, tall and blond, was a neo-ruralien, escaping the dense outskirts of Paris for a more tranquil life. Martin I knew nothing about, save that he, too, is pleasant and polite. As they pop by several times a week and park within sight of my terrace, I wanted to know more about the set up that brings them to my secluded part of Caunes.
The opportunity presented itself this morning, as I was having coffee on the terrace and looking at the news reports on my computer. Martin pulled up and exited his truck, pulling out gardening tools when I assailed him from my perch. After the preliminary formalities, I asked him whether he would like a cup of coffee, which he did. So I went inside and made some for the two of us while he fed the birds. I brought the coffee down started with my questions. It turns out that Martin, too, is from the outskirts of Paris, that he came to Caunes because in Australia he met a Frenchman from Caunes with whom he exchanged apartments. And having come to Caunes four years ago and seen that he could make a living working in the vineyards, he decided to settle here.
That was my preliminary question, but I followed it with my main one:
Are you and Pierre squatters, or do you own the land you cultivate?
Neither, Martin explained. The land belongs to two women: Alice, who owns the stationery store in the village, Le Bazaar d'Alice; and Isabelle, who lives on my street. The mairie saw that the land was overgrown, not having been cultivated for years. This gave rise to concerns that the brush could catch fire, endangering the houses in the area, a serious concern. So Alice and Isabelle offered the land to Pierre and Martin to cultivate, in return for anything they could harvest from it. That was three years ago.
While we were talking, the chanticleer who rules the roost in the poullailler strutted around his domain, the chickens backing off as he strode. I saw his beautiful plumage and commented on it, which prompted Martin to tell me
We're going to eat him soon.
This pretty bird wakes me every morning at 6:30 a.m., so I received the news of his demise soon with mixed emotions. Perhaps indicative of my true feelings, I suggested that they might give his feathers to Chantal, my friend who makes purses out of patches of fabric and feathers, then asked solemnly why he had to be killed. For which there is only one answer, which Martin gave:
He's nice and fat.
I expressed some regret at the news, hypocritically. Then Martin said,
But we'll probably get another one.
And, at that, the truth came out:
But not too soon! I said quickly.
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