inoffensive ghosts, far from the world inhabited by incredulous ears and offensive mouths. At five oâclock, Fiéfié dropped his bottle and capsized, slept on a bench or the ground with his head on some sacks, and leaning over a bit, Toussaint watched him sleep, maybe tenderly, maybe with indifference.
Finally one day the clown did not come.
It was summer, I imagine. Let us say it was in August. A beautiful, mechanical sky bent over the harvest and the heather, threw harsh shadows over the house of Peluchet. The old women still left in the village, all in black, keeping watch from their doorsteps, oracular, patient as the day, saw Toussaint framed once or twice in the dark doorway. He searched the bright sky for the bluer flight of crows; he entered the cowshed on who knows what errand or thought, gazed at the ancient, useless oxen doomed to the shadows there; he called them by their names; he remembered that Fiéfié, in former times, had hopped about happily at the shaft. He returned to the small courtyard where he stayed put, near the cold well. With those old women, let us contemplate one more time, but in the sunlight, the heraldic, proletarian cap protruding above the ivory moustache of the old survivor. By noon, his waiting reminded him, with a sudden pang, of another waiting that he had forgotten; because surely he loved Fiéfié even though he often abused him, Fiéfié who called him boss, who had drunk badcoffee with him and kept vigil over the dead Juliette, who had stubbornly stood by the son through his metamorphoses; who each Sunday suffered for the dead and for one nearly dead, in disgrace and wine, under crushing blows, that is to say, among the living; who had had an appalling childhood and a worse life, which a borrowed memory had nevertheless so ennobled that now he dealt only with angels and shades, in the chaos of a founding myth that carried him along yelping and made sport of his sickly life up to and including, necessarily, his martyrdom; Fiéfié Décembre, splayed full length under the heavy sun, was lying dead in the brambles of La Croix-du-Sud.
An old woman discovered him there in the hottest part of the afternoon, two steps from his hovel, face down among the swarming wasps. The cuts on his head bled with the blackberries; âthe meadows painted with butterflies and flowersâ embalmed the evening, brushed lightly against him; a corner of his jacket, caught in his fall and held taut by the intractable thorns as though starched, cast a delicate shadow over his limp neck. Maybe he had received blows, but just as likely, he could have stumbled drunk into the brambles, thick and cruel as tropical vines in the New World, and smashed his forehead triumphantly on the stones; no one ever knew. The old woman, who was going down to Chatelus, alerted the police; they arrived in their trimmed hats, their two-horned demon or ruffian shadows stretched long and overlapping in the low sun; they saw the old man on his knees in the early night, without his cap, flannel belt hanging from his pants; in his arms he clasped the dead puppet and, weeping, repeated in a stubborn, surprised voice full of recognition and reproach, âToine. Toine.â Ahorse blanket was thrown over the corpse; the open eyes that would never water again disappeared, a rough charm adorned the poor beggarâs badly covered hair; the old man called to his son softly until the burial in the cemetery in Saint-Goussaud, over which the wind was blowing.
The rest can be told in a few words. Toussaint no longer called out to anyone. He survived Fiéfié as he survived the others; perhaps he merged them together and together molded and remolded their shadows to increase the large shadow upon which he lived, that shrouded him and gave him strength; to it he added the slow, easy-going shadow of the oxen, who also died. What are a few more years of life, when one is rich with so many losses? He was left
Finally one day the clown did not come.
It was summer, I imagine. Let us say it was in August. A beautiful, mechanical sky bent over the harvest and the heather, threw harsh shadows over the house of Peluchet. The old women still left in the village, all in black, keeping watch from their doorsteps, oracular, patient as the day, saw Toussaint framed once or twice in the dark doorway. He searched the bright sky for the bluer flight of crows; he entered the cowshed on who knows what errand or thought, gazed at the ancient, useless oxen doomed to the shadows there; he called them by their names; he remembered that Fiéfié, in former times, had hopped about happily at the shaft. He returned to the small courtyard where he stayed put, near the cold well. With those old women, let us contemplate one more time, but in the sunlight, the heraldic, proletarian cap protruding above the ivory moustache of the old survivor. By noon, his waiting reminded him, with a sudden pang, of another waiting that he had forgotten; because surely he loved Fiéfié even though he often abused him, Fiéfié who called him boss, who had drunk badcoffee with him and kept vigil over the dead Juliette, who had stubbornly stood by the son through his metamorphoses; who each Sunday suffered for the dead and for one nearly dead, in disgrace and wine, under crushing blows, that is to say, among the living; who had had an appalling childhood and a worse life, which a borrowed memory had nevertheless so ennobled that now he dealt only with angels and shades, in the chaos of a founding myth that carried him along yelping and made sport of his sickly life up to and including, necessarily, his martyrdom; Fiéfié Décembre, splayed full length under the heavy sun, was lying dead in the brambles of La Croix-du-Sud.
An old woman discovered him there in the hottest part of the afternoon, two steps from his hovel, face down among the swarming wasps. The cuts on his head bled with the blackberries; âthe meadows painted with butterflies and flowersâ embalmed the evening, brushed lightly against him; a corner of his jacket, caught in his fall and held taut by the intractable thorns as though starched, cast a delicate shadow over his limp neck. Maybe he had received blows, but just as likely, he could have stumbled drunk into the brambles, thick and cruel as tropical vines in the New World, and smashed his forehead triumphantly on the stones; no one ever knew. The old woman, who was going down to Chatelus, alerted the police; they arrived in their trimmed hats, their two-horned demon or ruffian shadows stretched long and overlapping in the low sun; they saw the old man on his knees in the early night, without his cap, flannel belt hanging from his pants; in his arms he clasped the dead puppet and, weeping, repeated in a stubborn, surprised voice full of recognition and reproach, âToine. Toine.â Ahorse blanket was thrown over the corpse; the open eyes that would never water again disappeared, a rough charm adorned the poor beggarâs badly covered hair; the old man called to his son softly until the burial in the cemetery in Saint-Goussaud, over which the wind was blowing.
The rest can be told in a few words. Toussaint no longer called out to anyone. He survived Fiéfié as he survived the others; perhaps he merged them together and together molded and remolded their shadows to increase the large shadow upon which he lived, that shrouded him and gave him strength; to it he added the slow, easy-going shadow of the oxen, who also died. What are a few more years of life, when one is rich with so many losses? He was left
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