Tin Man(32)

The sound of bleating makes me look up, and I see a small abandoned monastery ahead. I think it’s abandoned, as part of it is clearly in ruin and has become shade for a small herd of white goats. But as I get closer, I see that the building is, in fact, a home of sorts. I drop my rucksack and sit down on the smooth front steps that have already absorbed the heat of the day. I unlace my boots and take off my socks, and know immediately, I won’t be travelling any further that afternoon. I’ll share shelter and shade with goats and will fall asleep to the music of their language.

I doze. For how long, I’m not sure. The heat hasn’t lessened at all. I’m aware of company, though, and thought it may have been an inquisitive goat seeking me out. But I open my eyes and see a priest. A little older than me, maybe, it’s hard to tell. But he has a kind face, benevolent eyes, and the dark skin of the South. He’s carrying a large terracotta bowl of water, and floating lavender heads release a subtle scent. He places the bowl next to me and goes back inside. I put my feet in the bowl and the sensation’s heavenly. He comes back out and I notice a quiver of a smile on his lips. I suddenly realise the water is for my hands and face.

The room I’m taken to is dark and still. The slight smell of damp stone remains, frankincense too. I move the shutter away from the window and look out on to rows of purple lavender. The sound of bees and cicadas is the faint musical backdrop to this scene, the goats, too, and their bells. I turn around but the priest has gone. My rucksack has been placed next to a small iron-framed bed and above the bed is a crucifix. Next to the bed a desk and on the desk an altar candle. I lift the crucifix off the wall and put it on the desk and cover it with my shirt. I hear footsteps climbing the stairs. I open the door slightly and catch a glimpse of two backpackers heading towards the room above. I can’t see if they’re men or women. The packs are big.

Night falls and, with it, my anxiety. I watch the shift of light through the window, the orange lights from farms in the distance. When the sky reaches the blackest navy, stars appear, mostly white but sometimes I see pink. Above me, the sound of a body falling on to a bed. A sliver of light seeps beneath my door. A shadow across the floor, the low rumble of thunder. A knock at the door brings me to my feet.

Light floods in. The priest carries a tray of bread and fruit and cheese and an opened bottle of wine. He places the tray on the desk, lights the candle and turns to go.

I reach out for his arm. Eat with me. Please. There’s enough, I say.

The priest stays. We eat. We don’t speak, but we drink from the same glass. The long walk has reinstated my appetite and my mouth comes alive to the sourness of the bread, the musty ooze of the cheese, the succulent sweetness of the apricots. Thank you, I say. Merci. My head shaking slightly, in disbelief and in gratitude.

Forks of lightning touch low across the horizon but still no rain. The bats have claimed the sky from the swallows and the smell of lavender and sweetness rises from the earth. I stand at the window. Occasionally, the scent of honey from the candle falls on my nose.

I sense the shifting sound of movement behind me. Was that breath? The feel of a body up close against me. I don’t move because I have nothing to offer anyone any more. I sense buttons being unfastened and fabric peeling away from skin.

I turn round. The priest is nowhere near me and I feel ashamed by my mistaken desire. The room cools sharply as the first of the rain falls. The priest comes towards me now, and he holds me by the shoulders. His eyes are gentle, his eyes are wounded. It’s as if he knows. I hold on to his arms and let my head fall. I’m broken by my need for others. By the erotic dance of memory that pounces when loneliness falls.

I awake early to the sound of a bell ringing. I walk across to the window and look out on to the landscape. The backpackers are on their way, and the goats continue to feast, unconcerned, in the scrub. I hobble over to the dinner tray and eat some bread and cheese. I pour out the last of the wine before I shower.

I leave money on the table and replace the crucifix on the wall. There are to be no goodbyes, just an open door leading to sunshine. The overnight rain, I find, has released the scent of a benevolent earth. I’m grateful to his God and care.

The chaine des Alpilles at the southern edge of Saint-Rémy are strung out blue in the early light, and mist rises from these hills. I begin my walk. Roads and scrubland and farmland. Olive trees scattered along the way, their grey-green leaves catching every ripple of June’s seductive breath.

I sit on a stone and face the ascent of the sun and revel in the light of the South. The cicadas are loud and their song unrelenting.

I remember telling G the story of the cicada song and he was as unimpressed as ever by the arbitrary knowledge that used to escape my lips. I said that ancient Greeks were so besotted by these little fellas that they used to keep them in cages so they could fawn over them and listen to them whenever they wanted. G said he thought they did that to young men, too. You have a point, I said. But . . .

And I continued.

I said, they live underground for most of their lives in a kind of larval stage, drinking sap from roots. Then, after about three years, they emerge into the heat of midsummer, climb out on to a nearby plant and shed their skin. That’s when the transformation begins, I said. And it’s only during the last three weeks of their lives that they live above ground and the males call out their song. And sometimes it’s for mating and sometimes protest. So what d’you think? I said.