in perfect peace between past and future, which blended into an eternal now, he added, “But some, I think, belong in Roussillon.”
Then, with a soft, contented breath, he slipped through and traveled on.
CHAPTER TEN
MAXIME’S LETTER
1939
A N OUTING ALL BY MYSELF ! W ITH MORE COINS IN MY DRAWSTRING bag than I ever had on market day in Roussillon, I approached place du Pasquier, where people boarded Maurice Chevet’s bus for the short trip to the Saturday market in Apt, the larger town to the east. Behind his funny-looking bus, Maurice hauled a wagon for engine parts, petrol cans, furniture, rabbits in cages, anything a person would want to transport.
We had been grieving over Pascal, and André had hoped that a trip on my own to a large market would lift my spirits. He had been paid for repairing the enormous carved dining table in the Palais des Papes in Avignon and was still working on the twenty-four matching chairs, a profitable project that kept us in Roussillon. For the first time since we had come here, he felt free with money, so I was bursting with anticipation.
O UTSIDE HIS BUS, M AURICE SAID , “Adieu, Lisette,” with the enthusiasm of a long absent friend. “You go to buy pastis today?”
“You guess wrongly, monsieur.”
“Then a new dress for madame? A pair of espadrilles?”
“A cotton tablecloth.” I wanted to replace the discolored oilcloth, cracked and torn from age where it bent over the edge of the table.
“ Eh, bieng . A Provençal tablecloth! Go to all the stalls before you buy.”
In the bus, Aimé Bonhomme, Pascal’s boules partner and the secrétaire de la mairie , lifted his bowler hat off the seat beside him and beckoned to me. I took his invitation. He and Mayor Pinatel, who was sitting behind him, agreed with a jolly laugh that they had official business in Apt, but it was Saturday, so I didn’t believe them. I suspected that they just wanted to get out of Roussillon for a day. It was more believable that Monsieurs Cachin and Voisin had business there—stocking the store and the café.
“We’re going to buy corks,” chirped Mimi, the little daughter of Mélanie Vernet, the vintner’s wife. “Lots of corks.”
The bus rattled down the winding road, swaying around the curves, everyone knowing instinctively when to brace themselves. In anxious voices, they speculated whether Hitler would stop with Poland or whether France would be next. To change the subject, I asked Monsieur Bonhomme how long Apt had held a weekly market.
“Oh, just short of eight hundred years.”
“You’re teasing me, monsieur.”
“Oh, no, madame. The Romans built the arcades where the tables are set up. Crusaders provisioned themselves there. Feudal lords, purchasing agents of Provençal counts, papal underlings when Avignon was the center of the church, they all went to Apt to buy or trade or just socialize.”
We passed vegetable fields along the nearly dry Calavon River, and trellised green beans on the low hills. One abandoned hilltop village had a newer village at its base, as though it had cheerfully slipped down its hill intact.
All the residents of Apt and the surrounding villages seemed to be out and about—petits bourgeois in suits and leather shoes, laborersin blue smocks, and women in flowered cotton dresses. Mélanie, a little older than I was, fell into step with me and told me to stay with her. I found that she was adept at elbowing her way through the crowds in front of fruit and vegetable stands and tables of herbs and spices, olive oil and vinegar, and cheese. Everything here was probably locally produced.
“The trick is to buy early and quickly for items with a set price, slowly for items you can bargain over,” Mélanie advised.
At a table where wooden utensils, string bags, lamp oil, and household goods were sold, I caught the sweet aroma of some handmade lavender soaps. They were without wrappers but stamped with L ’ OCCITANE , a curious name I wasn’t
Then, with a soft, contented breath, he slipped through and traveled on.
CHAPTER TEN
MAXIME’S LETTER
1939
A N OUTING ALL BY MYSELF ! W ITH MORE COINS IN MY DRAWSTRING bag than I ever had on market day in Roussillon, I approached place du Pasquier, where people boarded Maurice Chevet’s bus for the short trip to the Saturday market in Apt, the larger town to the east. Behind his funny-looking bus, Maurice hauled a wagon for engine parts, petrol cans, furniture, rabbits in cages, anything a person would want to transport.
We had been grieving over Pascal, and André had hoped that a trip on my own to a large market would lift my spirits. He had been paid for repairing the enormous carved dining table in the Palais des Papes in Avignon and was still working on the twenty-four matching chairs, a profitable project that kept us in Roussillon. For the first time since we had come here, he felt free with money, so I was bursting with anticipation.
O UTSIDE HIS BUS, M AURICE SAID , “Adieu, Lisette,” with the enthusiasm of a long absent friend. “You go to buy pastis today?”
“You guess wrongly, monsieur.”
“Then a new dress for madame? A pair of espadrilles?”
“A cotton tablecloth.” I wanted to replace the discolored oilcloth, cracked and torn from age where it bent over the edge of the table.
“ Eh, bieng . A Provençal tablecloth! Go to all the stalls before you buy.”
In the bus, Aimé Bonhomme, Pascal’s boules partner and the secrétaire de la mairie , lifted his bowler hat off the seat beside him and beckoned to me. I took his invitation. He and Mayor Pinatel, who was sitting behind him, agreed with a jolly laugh that they had official business in Apt, but it was Saturday, so I didn’t believe them. I suspected that they just wanted to get out of Roussillon for a day. It was more believable that Monsieurs Cachin and Voisin had business there—stocking the store and the café.
“We’re going to buy corks,” chirped Mimi, the little daughter of Mélanie Vernet, the vintner’s wife. “Lots of corks.”
The bus rattled down the winding road, swaying around the curves, everyone knowing instinctively when to brace themselves. In anxious voices, they speculated whether Hitler would stop with Poland or whether France would be next. To change the subject, I asked Monsieur Bonhomme how long Apt had held a weekly market.
“Oh, just short of eight hundred years.”
“You’re teasing me, monsieur.”
“Oh, no, madame. The Romans built the arcades where the tables are set up. Crusaders provisioned themselves there. Feudal lords, purchasing agents of Provençal counts, papal underlings when Avignon was the center of the church, they all went to Apt to buy or trade or just socialize.”
We passed vegetable fields along the nearly dry Calavon River, and trellised green beans on the low hills. One abandoned hilltop village had a newer village at its base, as though it had cheerfully slipped down its hill intact.
All the residents of Apt and the surrounding villages seemed to be out and about—petits bourgeois in suits and leather shoes, laborersin blue smocks, and women in flowered cotton dresses. Mélanie, a little older than I was, fell into step with me and told me to stay with her. I found that she was adept at elbowing her way through the crowds in front of fruit and vegetable stands and tables of herbs and spices, olive oil and vinegar, and cheese. Everything here was probably locally produced.
“The trick is to buy early and quickly for items with a set price, slowly for items you can bargain over,” Mélanie advised.
At a table where wooden utensils, string bags, lamp oil, and household goods were sold, I caught the sweet aroma of some handmade lavender soaps. They were without wrappers but stamped with L ’ OCCITANE , a curious name I wasn’t
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