Like a wild thing and prepared to abandon herself to the elements… THE MISTRAL by Rose Boucheron THE village of Les Ennes lay bathed in the hot midday sunshine. Nestling into the side of a hill, it slept in the burning Provençal countryside. Everything was still, the houses were shuttered against the fierce heat and the few shops closed, the square deserted. Without people and movement of any kind, it looked like the abandoned set of a film studio. In the fields, the ploughs lay idle, the bullocks and donkeys rested in their stalls. The village lay at the foot of the hill, while towards the top, the houses clustered steeply to the sides until they reached the tower, which stood like a sentinel against the vivid blue sky. Entirely constructed of local stone, the tower, like most of the houses, had been there for nearly a thousand years. It looked down over the sleeping community, disused now except for the peal of bells which warned villagers of approaching danger, or fire. Just below lay the old church, grass growing thickly through the roof, the great doors eaten away by woodworm. Figs grew, small ripe and black against the old church walls, and a thick grey dust hung over everything. Antonina stirred restlessly beside her sleeping husband. He had come in from the fields and eaten well of crusty new bread, tomatoes and cheese, followed by peaches which grew on the hillside. Together they had drunk the rosy pink wine, the produce of their own small vineyard, then rested on the rough straw mattress. Antonina was quite used to the enforced afternoon siesta. In her home town in Italy, it also was hot. But then the similarity ended. There, too, they worked extremely hard, but after the work came the play. Here, life was pleasant, but sadly lacking in gaiety. ‘Why were they all so very serious?’ She wondered. Pierre, her French husband, lay snoring gently on the bank beside her. How good he was, she thought, but how dull. Antonina hated this part of the day. If she could sleep, well and good. If she lay awake, it was misery to be endured. The nagging started, and the doubts. Had she done the right thing to come here? She knew the women of Les-Ennes resented her. Pierre’s mother had been part French, part Italian, with many relatives in Antonina’s village, so it followed that sooner or later, on one of his visits to stay with relatives, they should meet, and that Pierre should fall in love with a warm, beautiful Italian girl. Antonina was the most beautiful girl in her village. Black-eyed, haughty, plump and luscious as a plump peach, her black hair fell thickly about her shoulders. These days, she wore it pinned to the top of her head. The women of Les Ennes threw disapproving glances at her when she came to the door with her hair down. Antonina in turn, admired the Frenchman who was so different. Lacking the brashness of the Italian male, he was calm, almost serious in his manner. She liked his narrow brown eyes, his short cropped hair, his flat face, so smooth and square. And then, there was the fact that he owned his own little house, and had a small plot of land. Where else Antonina asked herself, would she find such an attractive proposition as Pierre? As the belle of the village, Antonina had had her choice. But she was fast tiring of the eligible males in that summer two years ago when Pierre had come to stay with his aunt. So the time was opportune. After two weeks spent working by her side in the fields of Tuscany, Pierre married her and took her back to his village. At first, it had been very exciting. Even the language barrier had its own attraction. A small house of her own, a husband to look after, fresh fields to explore, and new friends to make. But there, Antonina thought, lay the root of the trouble. The village women were against the marriage; they felt Pierre should have chosen a local girl. After all, he had been one of the most eligible bachelors in the district. Still, they welcomed her, if somewhat coolly, with the natural politeness inherent in their make-up. With a new basket over her arm, Antonina would walk to the village, her head held high, the tight white blouse showing her ample bosom off to perfection. Her eyes flashed with Italian warmth, her golden ear-rings gleamed in the sunshine. This was a great delight to the local menfolk, but Antonina had been turning men’s heads ever since she could remember; she was hardly aware of them. In the shops, the people were polite but cool, and no amount of fun or play-acting on Antonina’s part could jolt them out of their reserve. Now, in the second year of her marriage, Antonina found the time hanging heavy. With no bambino to keep her occupied—and how she longed for a baby! – her thoughts turned frequently to the native land which was so near, and yet which seemed so far away. Glancing at the clock, she was surprised to find it was already two-thirty, and that her husband had gone back to work. She must have dozed off. Stretching herself like a cat, Antonina washed her hands and face in the china bowl, and pushed open the shutters. Down the hillside, the grapes clustered like paws of tiny glistening jewels in the sun. The air was thick with the smell of peaches already ripe against the walls below. Antonina took a deep breath, and looked up towards the tower. It would soon be time for the men to return to their work. She listened intently as the sound of a jeep in low gear climbing the track beneath reached her. For the first time, the narrow, tortuous roads were being used by motor traffic. Roads which had never seen anything heavier than donkeys or mules were now reverberating to the sound of vans and jeeps. The enterprising mayor of the village had had the foresight to invest money in rebuilding the old walls and cottages which clung to the hill in the shadow of the tower. He hoped to sell these to rich families from Paris or busy provincial cities, or wealthy foreign tourists in need of a quiet retreat. Eight times a day, the small gang of building labourers led by the foreman, Salvador, a handsome Italian, trundled up and down the cobbled slope. For the past six months they had gone back and forth up the hill, and each time Antonina would hurry to the small window at the sound of the jeep, and wave. Salvador would put his head out of the window, and look up, his face wearing a big grin. “Buon giorno, signora.” “Buon giorno signor,” Antonina would reply, waving, and then watch them disappear round the sharp corner. Today, flushed prettily pink Antonina caught the eye of her opposite neighbour, who was sitting outside busily knitting and scowling heavily. “Madame,” she said. Mme le Brun nodded severely in the direction of the jeep. “Idiots. Fools,” she said. “Can no one get any peace?” Antonina retreated into the bedroom, and went downstairs. She gathered up her crochet work and her kitchen chair, and clattered through the bead curtains towards the group of women outside. Now there were four of them sitting in the shade, gently tanning themselves against the heat, and gossiping. When Antonina joined them, they looked narrowly at the dark mane of hair caught back with a large bow. “Madame,” said Mme le Brun. “Why do you wear your hair in such a way? It is not seemly in France for a young married woman to wear her hair down her back.” “I’m sorry if it offends you.” said Antonina politely. “Madame Croix was delivered of a sixth child this morning.” another woman said, looking at Antonina keenly. Now Antonina looked embarrassed. They had caught her in a tender spot. But she would die rather than show it. “How very fortunate for her,’ said Antonina. “Her husband must be very pleased.” “He is delighted,” they said. “The mother is overjoyed. And what of you, madame, is there any news yet?” Really, thought Antonina. They seem to ask me this every other day. Have they no pity? “No,” she said brightly, busy with her crochet. “But we go on hoping.” I wish they would realize she thought that it is just as much a disgrace in Italy to be married for two years without child as it is in France. “Your husband is having a good year with the raisin harvest?” asked another woman politely. “Yes” answered Antonina. “I am happy to say he is.” She smiled. “You should be helping him at harvest-time,” said Mme le Brun. “I offered.” said Antonina, “but my husband refused. He said he could manage by himself, and that he wishes me to learn to cook the French way, and keep the home clean and tidy.” She knew this would placate them a little. “Indeed.” Mme le Brun said. “That you certainly must do. Still, it is a woman’s, place to work beside her husband.” Antonina did not like to tell them that Pierre still treated her like a bride, someone to be cosseted and adored. He wished her to stay pretty, to keep her hands as soft and delicate as the day they married. Antonina was well aware that she was as strong as an ox and capable of working in the fields, but time would bring about a change, of that she was sure,—then she would have plenty to do. “How is the new building going along at the top of the hill?” she asked in her odd mixture of French and Italian. “The whole thing is nonsense.” said Mme Lemesurier. “He will not see those places, that mayor. And I hope that he will not. We do not want strangers coming to the village, interfering with us.” “It will bring prosperity to the village,” suggested Antonina. “But they will bring cars and modern contraptions to Les Ennes,” retorted Mme le Brun. “We are happy as we are. He should not do this to the people who have lived here for hundreds of years.” Antonina glanced up at the tower, which stood against the clear blue sky. “At least he is leaving the tower alone,” she said pleasantly. They were horrified. “Leaving it alone? The tower is Leg Ennes. That is the oldest thing here, older even than the church. It was built before anything else in this village, to mark a great victory in 1150.” “Yes, yes, I know,” said Antonina quickly. “You have told me before. I am glad we don’t hear the bells very often. I have heard them once only and then it was for the fire in the forest.” They chatted, and observed, watching the long, thin cats lying at their feet, and the short-legged dogs, which ran wild in the village. No one owned them, but everyone fed them, so they multiplied pro-fusely. Presently, Antonina excused herself and went indoors. She left suddenly irritable, with herself, with Pierre. It is not a bit like me, she thought, to be so moody. It was odd too, how these villagers seldom laughed. Quite unlike her own people. Yes, that’s what she missed, the noise of the Italians shouting, arguing, singing. These people argued, they loved to ta1k, to debate, but it was more serious, quieter. She did so want to be a good wife to Pierre, but she felt the village was smothering her; she longed for wide open spaces, for mouths open wide in laughter and song. She thought again of Salvador. She shook herself. Where was her loyalty, her love for Pierre? Suddenly she heard outside the sound of a strong wind blowing. She went outside into the street where the women and children were gathered together. The wind was howling against the clear blue sky and burning sun. “There is only one hour to go,” called Mme le Brun. Antonina nodded. She had lived long enough in Les Ennes to know the old story that if the mistral would not ceased by six o’clock, it would last for three days. She went indoors, and made sure the shutters and windows were closed against the gale force wind. It moaned around the house, eerily, without ceasing. That night, the shutters creaked and the wind blew through the doors. Pierre and Antonina clung together under the feather quilt. In the morning, the mistral was blowing hard. The women of Les Ennes were superstitious about the mistral. Sometimes, they said, if it went on long enough, people went mad. Most of Antonina’s neighbours stayed indoors on their beds with nervous headaches. At the end of the third day, Antonina felt as tightly strung as a violin. Her head ached, she felt jumpy and irritable, and couldn’t settle to anything. At long last in desperation, feeling she couldn’t bear to stay in the house a moment longer, Antonina threw a shawl around her shoulders and made her way to the top of the hill. Up by the tower, the wind was even stronger, but nevertheless it was very hot. Antonina licked her lips to find them salty and dry. Her skirts blew against her legs, and the wind whipped her silk blouse like a small ship in full sail. Her hair became loose and tumbled around her shoulders. She felt like a wild thing, and was prepared almost to abandon herself to the elements. Suddenly, through the archway, an enormous figure appeared; it was Salvador. His moustache was carefully trimmed, the tanned skin was exposed through his open shirt, and the chain around his neck gleamed in the sun. For a while they stood and looked at each other. Then he came over and looked down at her from his great height. And his arms reached out for her. She felt herself trembling when he said softly: “Signora?” But before he could touch her the spell was broken. At that moment the great bell pealed behind her, followed by another and another. Then Antonina’s eyes were drawn to the thin trickle of smoke appearing from below them in the fields. Suddenly, both were galvanized into action. Salvador because he was one of the reserve village fireman and would have to answer to call, and Antonina because she had one though in her head, her husband Pierre. She turned and fled. Down and down the shallow steps, winding round the village, and out into the vineyards, where she knew Pierre was working. Behind the vineyard, flames and smoke were belching up into the sky with great rapidity, fanned by the strong wind. Tying her hair into a plait as she ran, she reached Pierre’s side. In no time, place was alive with people, the firemen, the villagers with brooms, anything to fight off the approaching flames. Pierre looked at her. “Go home immediately,” he said sternly. “This is no place for a woman.” She gave him a long look, at the perspiration pouring down his face, at the short stocky strength of him, fighting for everything he loved. “I’m staying,” she said. She began to pick the precious grapes, moving from the back end nearest the flames, where the fire had the greatest hold. The heat was excessive, and the wind blew the smoke in all directions. Finally, her face blackened, her blouse scorched and her hands burned, she and Pierre turned and looked at each other. “Is it all right?” she asked. “It is all right,” he said grimly, and still the mistral blew on. He came over to her and seemed near to tears as he took her hands. “How you have worked,” he said,” and your poor hands. We must bandage them.” “And yours too,” she said. The mornings later, they awoke very early. It was quiet. They sat up and looked at each other questioningly. “The mistral,” Antonina said laughing. “It’s finished. Oh, Pierre.” She hugged him. “Antonina,” said Pierre looking at her bandaged hands. “How do they feel?” Antonina jumped out of the bed. “Better,” she said. She put the coffee on the stove, and the sudden smell off coffee irritated her nostrils. She felt most dreadfully sick. She sat on the chair for a few moments, then reached for the bread to warm in the oven. Ugh! She thought. Food. And then she smiled a big Italian smile. It was as she had suspected for the last few days. She pushed aside the curtains into the bedroom. “Pierre,” she said, “I have some news for you…” A few days later, she knew there was something she must do. Slipping a headscarf over her hair, now pinned neatly to the top of her hair, she climbed to the top of the hill. Reaching the first house to be completed, she called one of the workman. “Is Salvador there?” I would like a word with him. The workman eyed her up and down, but at the proud set of her head called him foreman. Salvador appeared and looked at her quizzically. “The other day, unfortunately, I was disturbed by the fire, remember?” she said. “I had walked up the hill to inspect the new houses. Is it convenient for me to look over one now?” “Si, si, signora. A pleasure. This way.” “Thank you,” Antonina began to follow him into the building. Inside the house, two workman were putting the finishing touches to the red-tiled floors. “It is very beautiful,” said Antonina. “May I see the kitchen? My husband and I,” she stressed the words, “are going to have house built down in the valley, close to the vineyards, and I told him I would inspect these.” “It is beautiful down in the valley,” he said politely. “Perhaps you would consider my employer when you have decided where to have your house. He is a fine man, and we are good workmen.” “I am sure,” said Antonina, enjoying every moment, and completely mistress of the situation. We would like it to be finished by the time our baby is born on the summer,” she said. “That is wonderful, signora,” he said. “And now I must go. I will tell my husband I have seen your houses.” With quiet dignity, she walked slowly down the hill. A little later, Antonina collected her kitchen chair, and sat outside in the shade, conscious that in a very few minutes the women who have been closely watching her progress down the hill would join her. She began to knit. The women could not join her quickly enough. They greeted each other, then Antonina said: “I have just inspected the new houses on the hill. They are quite charming. Pierre and I thinking of building a small house ourselves down in the valley. Some on the hill have beautiful kitchens, and some may have refrigerators. The foreman told me.” She looked straight at them and finally three pairs of eyes dropped on her handwork. “No crochet, today, madame? You are knitting—for a change?” “Yes” Antonina said simply. “Baby clothes. My husband and I are very pleased.” She went on knitting, leaving them to sigh contentedly. She smiled. She had at last conformed. THE END © Rose Boucheron 1965