Getting back in my apartment I made a quick cup of espresso to jolt me into action and prepare me for the rest of the workday. Heading back to the Assistant's house I stopped along the roadside on several occasions to investigate the wild plants growing over one another. They were very different from anything I'd ever seen in Ohio and I took careful notice of them wondering what the evolutionary advantage was to all their twisted alien forms. I wanted to take some to draw latter on and grabbed a few of the unusual ones as specimens. I got to the house before Serge and felt refreshed in spirit and eager to get back to cleaning my future residence.

 

Serge pulled up to the front of the house and I went to the door to greet him. "Salut Serge!" I called out before he had even gotten out of the car. He waved from inside and gathered a few things as the neighbors dog awoke from his own siesta and went quickly back to his job of protecting his masters home. "Ca va Serge?" I asked to see how his siesta went. "Su-Per!" he replied picking up where I left off in the kitchen I returned to finish sweeping the living room and move on to the bedrooms. With the first wave of cleaning done I decided to find some stones for the entryway that Thaddeus asked me to patch. Serge told me I'd find some stone slabs on the other side of the road that had been left there from the last Fall semester. Crossing the road our neighbor's dog didn't even notice me this time and I descended a small sloping decline to find a makeshift barbeque made from three slabs of limestone.

 

Trying to move them apart they barely budged as I tugged at one of them so I decided to kick it over with my shoe. Serge must have seen me struggling from the kitchen window trying to drag it up the slop when he came out across the street to help me "Mais, Quest-ce que tu fais Terrence? You can't carry that by yourself, wait for me, lets do it together". We each grabbed an end and carried it across the street to the entryway leaning it against the house. "Thanks Serge, it didn't look that heavy" I said. "Well don't try to move it on your own, you'll hurt yourself, call me when you need help again." Serge replied looking somewhat worried by the idea of such a frail bodied young man trying to carry such a large stone. "OK, thanks" I replied walking back into the house to get the broom. Clearing off the area where the stone would go I leaned the stone back on one end walking it from end to end into place letting it fall with a loud thud. Serge called out from inside "What was that? You alright?". "Everything's fine" I said "Just putting the stone down". That was what it needed now it really felt like a proper entryway.

 

My obsession for the front of the house continued for several hours. Cleaning up the weeds in the front of the house and gathering small stones and rocks I made a small flower garden in front of the living room window. Now all I needed was something to plant. I went around the side of the house and discovered what appeared to be some flowers peeping out from underneath some scraps from the roof reconstruction. Lifting the metal away I realized there was a small rose bush only slightly mashed and in generally good health. I gathered all the stems together and wrapped them carefully with a piece of canvas and then dug a wide hole around the bush to protect its roots as best as possible.

 

I transplanted it in front of the living room window and was pouring water all around the bush and didn't even notice that my neighbor had come out of his house and was standing in his courtyard right next to me. He rang out in a rolling musical French that was typical of the South but which was much harder to understand. I told him my French wasn't that good and called for Serge. From a window up above Serge peered out and had a quick verbal exchange with my new neighbor looking down at me with surprise as he saw the rose bush. "Where did you find that Terrence?" Serge seemed to ask on the part of the neighbor and after I told him he translated back to the neighbor my response. Serge's conversation toggled loosely back and forth with my new neighbor, until I heard a pronounced "Au revoir" to which I added in my own salutation. Later Serge came down and said he was calling it quits for the day, and asked if I needed a ride back to the village?. I told him that I was just going to hang out for a while and try to figure out which room I'd like best for myself.

 

Alone in the house I went up to the first floor. My room was rather small with a window that overlooked the rose bush below. The wall next to the window slopped gently back in a curve that narrowed the room tucking away a small desk and bed. Sitting at the desk I heard a commotion of muffled voices and yelling coming from the window. The sound of a car alarm became increasingly clear as the pattern of familiar piercing punctuations filled the room. As my attention shifted to the sound I heard a drunk yelling out in Spanish at a passing bus as it slammed its weight over the steel plates covering the street. Then I realize I'm still in my apartment in New York writing about some village in France I knew so many years ago and yet I was so deeply captivated in thought by the memories of France I was completely buffered from the noise and gritty commotion of the street.

 

The drunk who I met a couple times would yell out at passing cars, at buildings, at the sky above, or at God only knows what. Sometimes when I see him in the street I'll buy him a beer in support of his efforts. There he was shouting out in retaliation at the infinity that precedes and surpasses us. Shouting at everything that continues on beyond our exhausted bodies and continues forever expanding through the sea of flesh and fertility that disregards our sorrows, stories and memories. Despite the insurmountable futility of our life we are still able to wake up and get dressed and do our duties for the day. The only solace in facing such an intolerable existence is that we may share love and that we may feel joy and wonder in the offering before us. Without this there is nothing.

 

The next morning in Lacoste I woke up late and was hurrying to get my things together before meeting Thaddeus and Serge as I looked out into the courtyard and saw Serge waiting there. I opened my door and called out "Salut Serge!" and he told me that the boulanger was dead. Did I miss understand him, his vacant glance suggested otherwise. He began to tell me about the boulanger who had been suffering from a depression, one that could easily have been attributed to the long hours and social isolation that many of the bakers feel in such working conditions. They work all week in the boulangerie and because of their schedule, a kind of grave-yard shift, they rarely see anyone outside of their own family. Its the kind of trade that everyone depends on but know one is eager to do those jobs. Often it is a family run business and most times it passes from generation to generation. On top of these hardships the boulanger had discovered that his wife had been fucking another man in the village over the past year. Sometime last night he decided to take his own life in the boulangerie. "They found him there this morning in the storefront window with the curtains open. "He hung himself." Serge said. I was shocked and couldn't imagine that this could have happened and I thought back to my visit there. I was speechless as Thaddeus descended from his place and immediately asked Serge what was wrong. Serge began to retell the story to Thaddeus when I remembered the croissants and bread from the previous day. I began to imagine the bakers hands needing out the dough in contemplation his own suicide. I felt death reaching inside me through the communion of his bread. My stomach felt sick and hollow. Thaddeus and Serge were speaking in French as I went back into my kitchenette looking for remains of the bread but all that was left was the waxed paper envelope with the sun rising over a golden orange croissant.

 

That day went on very slowly and after sharing a ride down to Lumieres with Serge to get some bread we went back to the Assistants house to continue with the work but we barely said a word throughout the morning. The one greatest aspect of living in Lacoste was that everyone knew everyone else very closely and probably for the majority of their lives. Like setting off a firecracker in a mailbox, there is no where for the pressure to escape, no ananymity. There were many scars left on people of that village from jealousy and rage. This was my introduction to the darker side of village life and to the tragedy that was veiled behind every stone and in the beauty of that place waiting for the opportunity to tear a hole through your picturesque daydream.

 

In the weeks prior to the arrival of the other assistants I worked close with Serge on many projects and gained an insight into that place and those people that you couldn't get by just observing them. The Provencal were by any American observation curt and rude, but better understanding of this behavior revealed that they were in fact a staunchly independent group of people that just didn't go around giving their trust and confidence to just anyone, you had to earn it. All first time American travelers abroad run around with a grin ear to ear expecting the world to welcome them with open arms and at the least sign of resistance they condemn that culture as being snobbish and aloof. I was lucky to have a guide into that place and a broker of trust, Serge.

 

Gradually over that time I began to mingle with the villagers at the Cafe de France. One of two bars open in the village. Although I had very little to offer in conversation or opinion as to the discrepancies of the rules of "Petanque", the French version of bacci, the locals were beginning to warm up to me and were curious about this tall thin framed American boy who always showed such a keen interest in their past times and language. After spending so many conversations at the Cafe de France unable to really contribute or partake in discussions I decided to really invest my time in learning more French. I began by starting to read a book in French and writing down each word I didn't recognize along with its definition in French. Later I would go to the school office and type out all the words and definitions on the computer. I did this all through the semester until I finished the book and by that time I had enough vocabulary and confidence to throw in a comment or two at the cafe before the subject matter changed and I was scurying to formulate another response.

 

Serge familiarized me with the back roads of Lacoste and showed me the schools own limestone Quarry and how to take the back roads up behind the Chateau as the Marquis must have done himself. I was introduced to the crude dashboard-mounted gearshift and gradually got the hang of driving old Gus around through the narrow passageways of Lacoste. Later the other Assistants arrived and I could see what I must have looked like immediately upon my own arrival. Some of them were from my own school in Cleveland but I didn't really know them all that closely. In school I was know as the ghost painter, no one ever saw me in my studio but paintings kept appearing and things kept happening. Besides not sharing much comradery with these fellow alumni we didn't share the same passion for this place and its people. Some of them were just there to fill in the missing assistant positions. The school was so late in preparing for the semester that they barely had enough Assistants to fill all the positions in time. The Cleveland Institute of Art was taking over the running of the school from its founder and director and already had made a mess of application deadlines and was forced to pick some candidates from their own student body to go to Lacoste as filler. It seemed I was the only one who actually applied for the position and planned to go there by taking French. Besides this there was a complete temporal displacement in seeing old classmates getting settled into the village. I was so used to seeing them in Cleveland and now they were here, I wondered if I would ever escape these people?

 

When we were getting near to the arrival of the students one of my jobs was to drive Gus down to Lumieres to pick up the new students. My favorite trick with the new arrivals was to repeat my own first entry into the village by my anonymous driver bolting through the lower archway entry. In doing so I would say that I had seen someone else do this once and then just gun the gas through the lower gate of the village saying "don't stick your hands out the window!". Arriving at the top of the village added that much more of a thrill for them, I hope. Some of the first students to arrive didn't look the artist part too much but it didn't bother me it was just a welcome sight to see new faces. Some had designer handbags others army sacks and there didn't seem to be one common uniting factor in the whole group. We showed everyone their room, the dining hall and how to find the office in case of an emergency.

 

The student body consisted of mainly American students visiting France for their first time abroad. The enthusiasm and excitement of their experience coupled with the fact that the school served wine with dinner provided the fuel for many exuberant discussions and declarations that drifted well beyond the dining hall and out into the garden at twilight. During one such evening I was compelled to follow the sound of jazz music from a tinny stereo in the garden where sat a cocky yet reserved artist named Tristan. He was French really, but lived in New York, although he actually grew up in Brazil, the order of which depended on who was asking. Smoking a cigarette and quite content with sitting on the ledge of the garden by himself I approached asking what the music was. "Maiden Voyage" he said taking a drag from his cigarette and leaving a long silence as he exhaled. I felt a little uncomfortable in the silence and followed up, "Who is it?". He told me it was Wynston Marsellis and then came a steady flow of his own experiences of studying with Jazz greats at Bennington college accompanied by his own insights into the field of jazz and music in general. I was amazed he seemed so sure of himself and knowledgeable and I wondered what his interest in art was and to that came a one word answer, painting, after which he put out his cigarette and saying goodnight walked off carrying his tinny jazz music away. The sound softening as he disapeared in the distance.

 

Now that the semester had begun the Assistants had moved out of the village to the house I had worked on with Serge. The walk home provided a view along the foothills of the Luberon mountain range silhouetted by a cast of stars sweeping the night sky. Coming closer to the house I could hear the other assistants talking and see the yellow light of the kitchen window casting diamond-shaped silohettes out onto the street in front of me. As I passed the window I could make out individual voices and could hear them talking about their respective professors. There was always some gossip going on in that place. The school was a breading ground for gossip. You were constantly together during classes, for breakfast, lunch and dinner, in the studios, and even in the cafe at night when you went to seek solace from the constant flow of American banter. There was no place you could go in the village without running into other students or professors and it was too far to walk to the next village. I tried to abstain from any of the gossip sessions which generally ended in someone's demise. But sneaking past the kitchen and saying good night I had an odd feeling as I ascended the stairs and a silence fell over the kitchen activity. I didn't want to be paranoid and assume the worst and besides I had to get to bed early as I had planned to go riding the next morning with Thaddeus.