Tin Man(37)

Because of this, I’ve grown calm. I rise early with the sun, open the shutters and rest my arms on the ledge and let my eyes gaze out on to that shimmering sea of yellow. I sit outside with a small Calor gas stove with a coffee pot boiling on top, and as the morning lightens, I watch the sunflowers lift up their heads and learn to decipher their whisper.

A month has passed. At night, exhausted after long hours of physical work, I cocoon myself in darkness and heat, barricade myself against mosquitoes that are heartless and ravenous. When I come back from the shower room, I lie naked and damp on the thin white sheet, and listen to the sound of a guitar playing upon the night. The cat nestles around my arm. I like this cat, he’s good company and I name him Eric. Sometimes, when holidaymakers sleep, I creep back through the gardens and climb the gate to the pool, and swim backwards and forwards, proving my wellness. But gently so.

And, some days, I’ve noticed, I don’t check my skin in the mirror, don’t check the sheets for the damp outline of my body. Trust that my sweat is merely a response to the ragged heat. My limbs have become brown, and my skin has softened, and my beard grown. I drink in the early morning light and feel content as I begin to launder and iron crisp white sheets.

I was given two days off and decided to take the bus to Arles to catch the Rencontres de la Photographie before September brought it to an end. I got out at the Place Lamartine and to my right was the River Rh?ne, to my left the site where Van Gogh’s Yellow House would once have stood – now a nondescript car park and roundabout struggling under the weight of holiday traffic.

I walked through the gateway to the old Roman Town where bars and cafés were preparing for the long hours of feasting ahead. Through the winding back streets, caged birds sang on windowsills under the shade of flowers. I saw a sign for my hotel and tiredness quickened my stride.

I lay on the bed with the shutters open wide. The sounds I heard from the street were comforting – an occasional whine of a moped, the faint corner chat of locals, squeal of swallows. I took out a cold beer from the mini bar and held it against my forehead before I opened it.

I woke to twilight and hunger and a ragged thirst. I closed the windows and lit a mosquito coil. I turned the overhead fan on and it purred quietly. I took out a small bottle of Evian from the fridge and poured it over my chest. The movement of air against my skin felt invigorating and cleared my head of the dull haze of afternoon sleep.

I followed the chatter of voices down the road until the incessant hum got louder and the streets busier, and I entered the Place du Forum, and found the world congregating there. Restaurant tables and bars were packed. I found it disorientating, and suddenly wished I had a cigarette, a French one, of course. I went back to the small tabac and bought a packet of Gitanes. I stood and smoked. The nicotine made me high and my throat burned, and yet I was grateful for such a stylish prop.

From my vantage point, I could see the café terrace that Van Gogh had painted one night. I could see beyond the yellow sprawl of its vulgar commercialism, the vivid proof that the man had once walked across these stones and sat amidst this setting, seeking inspiration or simply company. I followed his footsteps across the square to a small bar with a mute TV and a bull’s head hanging from the wall. I sat down at a table by myself. I felt self-conscious and profoundly alone but for that there was no easy cure. I ordered a pichet of rosé and a plate of bull stew. I smoked, I wrote. No cure, but it helped.

The following day, I woke early. Outside, terracotta roofs were already baking under the bluest sky and the heat funnelled through alleyways when I least expected it to. I constantly sought relief in the cool heart of churches and hidden courtyards where I discovered the work of photographers I’d never heard of. (I made a note of Raymond Depardon.)

By lunchtime, I was becoming agitated by the crowds and couldn’t face the battle for a restaurant table, and I bought a bottle of water and a sandwich, and headed out across the main road, to the Roman necropolis of Alyscamps.

There were no queues at the ticket office, and waiting at the entrance were four pilgrims with packs on their backs and shells around their necks. Santiago de Compostela, I learnt, was 1,560 kilometres away. Their journey would start one footstep past the gates. It was too momentous not to watch them as they went on their way.

I ate my sandwich in the shade of pine trees, and by the time I got to the church of Saint-Honorat, the rabid sun had chewed hard on my neck. Inside, there was nobody about. Pigeons had taken over the highest ledges and their call echoed in the gloom. Suddenly, a pigeon took flight and startled me. Another launched out, then another, a domino-effect of pigeon flight, the sound reverberating against the stone, the swish of feathered shadows, an occasional bird darting out into sunlight. And then silence. The air settled. From outside, the sound of a train rumbling in the distance, the sirocco dance of wind in the trees, the song of the cicadas and a story of transformation.

I suddenly needed to write. I reached down into my rucksack but my notebook wasn’t there. I panicked when I couldn’t find it. It has become my best friend. My imaginarium. My staff. And I cried. Writing has become my discipline, my comfort. Oh, clever doctor. I see what you were up to, all those months ago.

I didn’t stay in Arles that afternoon, I couldn’t. I was so affected by the sudden loss and, there, maybe, is a clue to my fragility. I hurried to the station and took the first bus back to Saint-Rémy. The journey felt tedious and overly long and the heat inside felt unbearable. I reached into my rucksack for water and found my notebook there, hidden at the bottom by a fold of fabric. What can I say? I don’t think this was about a book.