Marina Farran
Article
Marina Farran lives in London but spends much of the year in France, where this novel extract is set.
Her novel explores themes of alienation: repressed homosexuality in a rural, traditional village; living as a Muslim in France; the ignominy of grief. Marina has worked in law, publishing, literary agenting and human rights journalism. She read Classics at Oxford, specialising in Ancient Greek and Latin literature. Her favourite writers include Homer, Christopher Logue, Cormac McCarthy and Philip Roth. She is interested in liminality, loneliness, sexuality and conflict in her writing.
Email: marinakfarran@gmail.com
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Jerome
Five
The vegetables here were huge and beautiful. She bought red, yellow, brown and green tomatoes, their skins plump. The green were the tastiest. She ate one right away, bent over the sink, skin bursting under her teeth.
There was a head of curly-leafed lettuce. It was so large, and had splayed open so generously, that she could have worn it on her own head like a bonnet. She washed it slowly, watched with pleasure the water turn black with mud. On a hook she hung a straw plait of garlic, its heads indecently bulbous. They shed veined paper over the kitchen surface.
She was going to make poule au pot for Jerome鈥檚 dinner. Infirmity had made his appetite weak, but his eating habits carried the shadow of a once-greedy man: in spite of himself, his eyes widened when she brought in a plate of something he liked. He would gobble fast, with relish. She thought of him as she stood there, surrounded by her vegetables, carefully unsheathing spring onions and slicing celery and scattering peppercorns. The chicken was huge and still held many of its feathers, which she plucked one by one, with care, thinking of Jerome鈥檚 delicate old white flesh.
She put everything in the pan, put it on to boil. The silence surrounding the hiss of the gas flames was absolute. She couldn鈥檛 even hear a breeze.
She had started to doze, sitting there in the kitchen as the stock bubbled, when footsteps on the gravel outside startled her. No one visited the house; without thinking, she rushed to lock the door.
But it was Suki鈥檚 face that appeared at the window. Her hijab today was deep, violent magenta, its vivid colour out of place against the silver-greys and greens outside.
鈥楧on鈥檛 be alarmed,鈥� she said, smiling as Marguerite let her in. 鈥業鈥檝e caught you off guard.鈥�&苍产蝉辫; She studied Marguerite鈥檚 face for a moment. 鈥榊ou鈥檝e been asleep.鈥�
鈥楴o, just 鈥� thinking,鈥� she said, rubbing her face.
鈥楽omething smells nice.鈥�&苍产蝉辫; Suki walked past her into the kitchen, approached the stove and peered into the pot. 鈥楢 casserole?鈥�
&苍产蝉辫;&苍产蝉辫;&苍产蝉辫;&苍产蝉辫;&苍产蝉辫;&苍产蝉辫;鈥榊别蝉.鈥�
鈥楬ow lovely.鈥�&苍产蝉辫; She turned around to face Marguerite, leaning back against the kitchen worktop and smiling as if she had been there hundreds of times. Marguerite didn鈥檛 know what to say. She wanted her silent kitchen back.
鈥楥an I get you some water?鈥�
鈥極h, please don鈥檛 trouble yourself. Actually, I can鈥檛 stay long.鈥�&苍产蝉辫; She took a box of cigarettes out of a little pink bag that she wore strung over one shoulder, so that it hung by her hip, and turned to light it on the gas stove. 鈥業 just thought I鈥檇 come to say hello and see how you鈥檙e getting on.鈥�
鈥業鈥檓 fine.鈥�&苍产蝉辫; She thought of the cigarette smoke floating through into Jerome鈥檚 room.
Suki cocked her head to one side and smiled again; her smile wasn鈥檛 quite friendly.
鈥榊es? Well, anyway, I thought I鈥檇 say hello. And I thought, you鈥檙e an outsider, I鈥檓 an outsider.鈥�&苍产蝉辫; She gesticulated vaguely.
鈥楢re you new to the village?鈥�
鈥榃ell, not anymore.鈥�&苍产蝉辫; She dragged on her cigarette; her fingernails had changed since the library from aubergine to pink. 鈥業鈥檝e been here 鈥� oh, seventeen, eighteen years now. But I鈥檓 not from around here. Guess where I鈥檓 from?鈥� Marguerite sat down. She didn鈥檛 want conversation, didn鈥檛 want Jerome to be woken by the noise. She wanted to go to her room and crawl into bed and sleep.
鈥楾o me, you look like you鈥檙e from Asia.鈥�
鈥榊es!鈥� she cried. 鈥榊ou鈥檙e right! Well, not quite 鈥� I鈥檓 from Iran, actually. But the right continent, at least. You must be the only person who hasn鈥檛 guessed Algerian or Tunisian. Everyone just presumes I鈥檓 尘补驳丑谤茅产颈苍别. 惭补驳丑谤茅产颈苍别! Shit...鈥�&苍产蝉辫; She rolled her eyes, exhaling a long plume of smoke. 鈥極h, can I smoke in here?鈥�
鈥榃ell 鈥撯�� But Suki was stubbing it out already, in the sink.
鈥業 have to go, I was just dropping by. But you must visit me. I live right next to the doctor鈥檚 surgery.鈥�
鈥業 can鈥檛 leave Jerome.鈥�
鈥榃hat, you never go into the village? Not even to the library?鈥� She raised an eyebrow.
鈥業鈥檒l have to go in a few days, to get food.鈥�
鈥楾hen you can come to my house for a coffee. Not before 11, I never wake up before 11.鈥�&苍产蝉辫; She walked to the door. 鈥楪oodbye 鈥撯��
&苍产蝉辫;&苍产蝉辫;&苍产蝉辫;&苍产蝉辫;&苍产蝉辫;&苍产蝉辫;鈥楳补谤驳耻别谤颈迟别.鈥�
鈥楳arguerite. Of course. Goodbye, Marguerite.鈥�
Six
She expected him to be asleep when she went into his room to get the book. It was the hour after his lunch; after eating, he almost always fell asleep immediately, as suddenly as a child pretending, his mouth mordantly slack. But today he was lying with the sheets right up to his chin and his eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. His look was one of deep fear.
It was as if she had walked in on a stranger, naked.
鈥楧on鈥檛 you know how to knock?鈥� he snapped.
鈥業鈥檓 sorry to have disturbed you. I 鈥撯��
鈥榊ou what?鈥�
鈥業 thought you鈥檇 be asleep.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;
鈥業 see. And so you just wanted to skulk in here and watch me sleeping?鈥�
鈥極f course not.鈥�
鈥榃hat did you want then?鈥�
鈥楢ctually, I wanted to take the book for a few hours. I wanted to read it.鈥�
鈥榃ithout me?鈥�
鈥榃e would still go back to where we left off.鈥�
鈥楤ut then you鈥檇 be reading it twice?鈥�
鈥榃ell, I suppose 鈥撯��
鈥楧o you think you鈥檙e humouring me or something? Is that what it is you think you鈥檙e doing?鈥�
鈥極f course not.鈥�&苍产蝉辫; She braced herself for his next question but he looked suddenly weary. He sighed, deeply, and closed his eyes.
鈥業鈥檓 having some pain.鈥�
&苍产蝉辫;&苍产蝉辫;&苍产蝉辫;&苍产蝉辫;&苍产蝉辫;&苍产蝉辫;鈥榃丑别谤别?鈥�
&苍产蝉辫;&苍产蝉辫;&苍产蝉辫;&苍产蝉辫;&苍产蝉辫;&苍产蝉辫;鈥楨惫别谤测飞丑别谤别.鈥�
鈥業 can鈥檛 give you any more Tramadol yet.鈥�
&苍产蝉辫;&苍产蝉辫;&苍产蝉辫;&苍产蝉辫;&苍产蝉辫;&苍产蝉辫;鈥楧辞濒辞辫丑颈苍别.鈥�
鈥業 can鈥檛 give you that either.鈥�&苍产蝉辫; He groaned. 鈥楲et me give you a massage.鈥�
鈥楧on鈥檛 be ridiculous.鈥�
鈥業鈥檓 not.鈥�&苍产蝉辫; He opened one eye and looked at her warily, before closing it again. There was silence, and then:
鈥楢lright then.鈥�
She approached the bed, pulled the sheet down gently from his chin to his stomach and rubbed her hands together to warm them. Then she pressed his shoulders down firmly. She didn鈥檛 rub his skin, she pressed it: his shoulders, his slipped pectorals, the large crown of his thorax.
鈥榊our hands are cold,鈥� he mumbled in a softer voice, his eyes still closed, and she smiled to herself and hummed quietly as she worked.
鈥榊ou鈥檙e always humming,鈥� he said absently.
鈥楧oes it annoy you?鈥� He didn鈥檛 answer for a while. She moved her hands to his head, pushed and pressed each side slowly and heavily. And then, so quietly she could barely hear it, he said:
鈥楴o. Not really.鈥�
She could see the olive trees from his bedroom window, their lighter branches swaying just slightly. She watched them as she massaged him. He seemed to doze, stirring when she stopped.
She lifted his thin left arm, wrapped it in a blood pressure cuff.
鈥楢nd?鈥� he asked.
鈥楩ine today. In fact, a little lower than usual.鈥�
He seemed satisfied.
鈥楶erhaps you鈥檙e relaxed from the massage.鈥�
鈥楬mmm,鈥� he mumbled. And then, in a casual tone, he said: 鈥榊ou鈥檙e Parisian, of course.鈥�
&苍产蝉辫;&苍产蝉辫;&苍产蝉辫;&苍产蝉辫;&苍产蝉辫;&苍产蝉辫;鈥榊别蝉.鈥�
鈥榃hy did you leave Paris?鈥� She sighed as she removed his cuff, the tear of the Velcro the only sound in the room.
鈥榃hy not? It is very beautiful here.鈥�
鈥楤ut boring. Very boring. Why would you leave Paris to come here? At your age? On your own?鈥�
鈥楤ecause I wanted to.鈥�
鈥楤ut why?鈥�
鈥榃hy not? This is my job. I came here to work.鈥�
鈥楤ut you didn鈥檛 have to work here.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;
鈥楴o. I can work where I like.鈥�
鈥楽o why did you choose here?鈥�
鈥榃hy not here?鈥�
鈥榃hy not Paris?鈥�
鈥楤ecause I did,鈥� she snapped. The words came out too loud and too fast. His eyes widened, his shoulders gathered. He watched her intently and she pretended not to notice his gaze, busying herself by going through the drug chart she鈥檇 left at the end of the bed. She made a few notes, put the pen in her pocket and tucked the blood pressure monitor under her arm. She made to leave the room.
鈥業 won鈥檛 ask again,鈥� he said, as she reached the doorway. She turned around.
鈥榊ou can ask me whatever you want.鈥�
鈥極h, I鈥檓 not sure about that.鈥�&苍产蝉辫; He closed his eyes, smiling just a little as she turned back around to leave. 鈥楴ot sure at all about that.鈥�
Seven
Henri liked most this time of the day, when the day鈥檚 work was largely done and he could afford to slow down a little, sit on the ground with his back against a fence or wall, feel the scratch of dried grass prickling through his trousers. He could close his eyes and enjoy the thinning of the day鈥檚 heat. His hairline was encrusted with sweat; he could rub it and bits of dirt, and desiccated grass, and what he imagined to be his own refined body salt would fly as if startled into the still twilight air.
The dirt, all of the dirt, was a source of pleasure to him. Meticulous and clean by instinct, he nonetheless enjoyed the day鈥檚 long accumulation of filth. It may as well build up to as utterly filthy a level as possible before he headed back to the house on weary legs to take his bath. He dragged the pre-bath moment out as long as possible to build up its eventual pleasure; he would stop at the basin in the kitchen and drank almost an entire beer, often his only drink of the day, in virtually one go.
Then he climbed slowly into the bathtub that was really too small for his long limbs and crouched there, only then turning on the taps. He watched with pleasure the water reach the roof of his foot, water that was already swirling brown with dried mud. It reached his ankles, it tickled his large, slack penis, was absorbed one hair by one into the frazzled pubic mess. When it reached the base of his back, he started to get to work; he scratched out the hard mud embedded behind his nails, scrubbed his large expanse of back and stomach till they were deep pink, till hairs were loosened and floated at the surface of the water. Then he emptied the bath, rinsed it out, and started again 鈥� as many times as it took for the water to be quite clear.
This evening鈥檚 bath was particularly welcome, partly because today had been hot work. Spring was coming; the sun was gathering intensity. Henri imagined vaguely the great star鈥檚 rotation, its heat slowly spreading over Earth, from the Sahara to the Maghreb, over the sea, soaking through the Mediterranean mile by fish-filled mile, reaching the French Riviera and moving, an inverted shadow, towards the resilient, winter-bitten land around his farm. He had always envisaged it this way, as he long as he could remember.
But the bath held a further charm today: the metallic gurgling of the tap, the clunks and creaks the running water set going through the walls of the house, the lightly hissing hum of the rising water level all worked together to drown out the women鈥檚 voices downstairs. It was one of each week鈥檚 two or three unannounced visits from Laure, the village 产辞耻濒补苍驳猫谤别&苍产蝉辫;and Brigitte鈥檚 confidante. He found her not just irritating and exhausting, but actually repellent. Returning from the fields this evening, he had caught the small woman鈥檚 nasal voice just in time to avoid entering the house through the kitchen. That meant no long draught of water, no beer, but it was worth it.
鈥楬enri鈥檚 bath routine,鈥� he imagined Brigitte saying to Laure in the kitchen below, as she so often did amongst their friends; 鈥楬enri鈥檚 e-lab-o-ratebath routine.鈥�&苍产蝉辫; She always gave special emphasis to words over three syllables long. 鈥楾here are families without water in India and Africa and here is our Henri, using enough water each day to fill an aquarium!鈥�
But she also took pride, he knew, in his appearance. When they married, each straight out of school, no one could believe that Handsome Henri 鈥� the village鈥檚 nomenclature, he might add, not his own 鈥� had chosen Brigitte Marguier. Plain Brigitte, big Brigitte, bossy Brigitte, dumbBrigitte. Because that was the other thing: Henri was first in the class, had always been. 鈥楢 way with words and a head for numbers鈥�, his mother had always said, a regular refrain in the Brochon household as he grew up.
He cupped the warm water in his great, calloused hands and let it trickle out between his palms. Their courtship and engagement had unfolded so quickly. He closed his eyes and imagined the tall young man, Handsome Henri, knocking on the Marguiers鈥� door every evening, his hair combed tidily back. Every day was the same; he would bow to enter the house through its diminutive doorframe and greet Brigitte鈥檚 parents, sit down and find his bride-to-be sitting nervously in the gloom. He couldn鈥檛 imagine now what it was they had talked about, sitting each evening in her parents鈥� warm salon,drinking milk from her father鈥檚 cows. Her parents were mistrustful; it was as if he were playing some sly trick. His own mother had been the first to voice in his presence the question on everyone鈥檚 lips: 鈥楬enri, for God鈥檚 sake, why Brigitte?鈥� He had not felt cross, or slighted; he had understood her consternation. It鈥檚 not as if he somehow saw beauty in Brigitte鈥檚 scant charms 鈥� how could he? When he spoke to the girl her face and neck came out in livid purplish patches, she could not meet his eye. He had not failed to notice the great width of her feet, nor the fair but not insubstantial whiskers around each corner of her lips 鈥� lips that were, incidentally, neither luscious nor delicate. But there were things about Brigitte that appealed to him that he couldn鈥檛 explain to his mother, who was so tidily and precisely her opposite.
At eighteen, when he had just left school, he chose Brigitte because she made him feel safe from scrutiny. He liked the silence and reverence she reserved for him, she who was otherwise the loudest and most domineering of girls. He liked her simple way of speaking, her literal reading of everything, her lack of coquetry. And her broad bosom 鈥� although exceptionally large even at the age of seventeen 鈥� did not scare him, unlike the budding breasts, both big and small, of the other girls in his class.
With Brigitte he had sensed refuge, a life unscrutinised and undisclosed. And, hearing her flat, loud voice now rise and fall below the din of the pipes and the water, he had to acknowledge that he had that. In spite of the small-minded prurience with which she had grown to view the rest of the world, despite her endlessly repetitive chiding, he still lived in a home devoid of judgment and enquiry.
After their first abortive attempts at love-making 鈥� he twisted his face involuntarily at the memory of her large pink thighs straddling his hips, the fumbling of her hand around his retracted penis 鈥� she had barely grumbled or complained about the largely sexless partnership they maintained. There was the odd time, still, perhaps three or four times a year: in the total dark of night, thankfully free from foreplay or words, when he was driven by privation to indiscriminate urgency. But physical intimacy beyond the most purely anatomical was something poor Brigitte had learnt to do without, and for her acceptance he had grown to love her, in his way.
He heard one of Laure鈥檚 whinnying laughs from downstairs, and turned the tap on more fully to drown it out. He leant back against the cool tub, his legs bent at their extreme right angle in the bath that was too small. He closed his eyes again and rubbed his hands over them, down his cheeks to his mouth; he could taste his salt. Letting his mind drift away from Brigitte, away from Laure, he ran his hands slowly down his torso and felt himself swell and stiffen.
Brigitte cracked an egg into a bowl and tilted it to show Laure.
鈥楧o you see the colour of that yolk?鈥�
鈥楾here鈥檚 nothing like your eggs, I always say that.鈥�
鈥楾hat is the yellowest yolk you can find.鈥�
鈥榊ou鈥檇 have to be crazy to get your eggs from Intermarch茅 when there are ones like these around.鈥�&苍产蝉辫; Out of habit, Brigitte snorted at the word 鈥業ntermarch茅鈥�.
鈥榊ou know I鈥檓 not one to brag, Laure, but our eggs really do make such bright omelettes. You can tell from an omelette alone how fresh your eggs are.鈥� She continued to crack a further three. 鈥榊ou know, the secret to a really excellent quiche lorraine is whisking the eggs as long as you can. Whisk them to hell and gone.鈥�&苍产蝉辫; Laure nodded and watched Brigitte start whisking with a force that was almost alarming.
鈥楽o Jerome鈥檚 latest girl was in the shop again today,鈥� said Laure, 鈥榖uying his usuals. Two Ancienne loaves and one aux c茅r茅ales to help things get going downstairs...鈥� She poked her stomach suggestively.
鈥楲aure, you鈥檙e disgusting,鈥� chided Brigitte, though she loved a good bowel joke as much as the next woman. Then she grew serious. 鈥業鈥檓 surprised she hasn鈥檛 been chased away yet, to be perfectly honest.鈥�
鈥榃ell apparently not. Though I wouldn鈥檛 be surprised if she didn鈥檛 last much longer. She doesn鈥檛 look like she鈥檚 cut out for the job.鈥�
鈥楧on鈥檛 I know it.鈥�&苍产蝉辫; Brigitte wiped her hands on her apron and settled her bottom on the edge of one of the stools. Her ankles ached; she rolled them from side to side. 鈥楽he needs a good meal and a stint on the farm. That would sort her out in no time at all.鈥�
鈥楶erhaps I鈥檒l throw in a few brioches with her next order 鈥� she could do with the extra butter.鈥�
鈥楧o that, then send her my way. I鈥檒l show her how we work over here. There鈥檚 no room for airs and graces when you鈥檙e having to clear out Vanille鈥檚 latest blockage.鈥�&苍产蝉辫; Vanille, their eldest cow, had to be 鈥榬ectally excavated鈥� 鈥� as Henri put it 鈥� on a regular basis.
鈥楩orget Vanille鈥檚 blockages 鈥� you鈥檇 frighten her away with your egg-whisking alone, Brigitte.鈥�
鈥榊ou bet I would!鈥� cried Brigitte, brandishing the gloopy whisk as if to hit someone with it. A little egg ran down her strong forearm; she wiped it over her stomach.
Laure was silent for a moment, and then said, more quietly, 鈥業 heard she received a visit from our local mystic.鈥�&苍产蝉辫; Brigitte looked up.
鈥楴ot LaChaise?鈥�
鈥楴one other.鈥�&苍产蝉辫; They both pursed their lips at the thought of Suki.
鈥業 told you how that woman used to turn her eyes at Henri?鈥�
鈥業 could never forget it,鈥� affirmed Laure, who had been there at the time of that great scandal, some fifteen years ago. Nothing had happened, but Brigitte had never forgotten Suki鈥檚 repeated visits to the farm, the stubbed cigarette ends she found in a little pile outside the house, the swish of exotic colours and jangling of metal in her kitchen, and the woman鈥檚 wretched laugh, false as anything.
鈥榃ell let鈥檚 be hoping she doesn鈥檛 get Jerome鈥檚 nurse under her wing.鈥�&苍产蝉辫; She poured cream and milk into the bowl of eggs.
鈥楲ook at that cream,鈥� Laure muttered approvingly.
鈥楳ind you, his nurse won鈥檛 have time for new friendships. Jerome鈥檚 getting worse and worse. He can鈥檛 move himself anymore.鈥�
鈥楢nd still no sign of his children?鈥�
鈥楴one. They asked me to get hold of this replacement when the last nurse couldn鈥檛 hack it anymore, and so I did, and that鈥檚 the last I鈥檝e heard from them. Not that I鈥檓 surprised. I did tell them a few months back now that he wasn鈥檛 doing too well and they鈥檇 be well advised to come and see him at some point, but they weren鈥檛 having any of it. They were rather rude, if I鈥檓 honest. Told me to get on with my job, and that I was theguardienne and not their counsellor.鈥�
鈥楾hey did not,鈥� said Laure in a shocked tone, though she had heard this story before.
鈥楾hey did!鈥� She was beating the cream and eggs now. 鈥業 said to the eldest boy on the phone, I said, 鈥渉e is your father, you know,鈥� and he told me it was none of my business and that I wasn鈥檛 his counsellor.鈥�&苍产蝉辫; She let the whisk rest for a moment and wiped her forehead. 鈥楢nd he鈥檚 a lawyer! A lawyer, but so rude! He鈥檚 obviously got too big for his boots.鈥�
鈥榃ell, I鈥檓 not surprised really. I suppose he takes after Jerome. They鈥檝e always thought they鈥檙e too good for this village.鈥�
鈥楽till, it鈥檚 dreadfully sad. Their father at death鈥檚 door and they won鈥檛 even come and see him.鈥�
A rare silence fell between them for a moment. Brigitte stirred the chopped bacon into her quiche mixture, and Laure leant over to inspect it.
鈥榊our pigs?鈥�
鈥楾hat鈥檚 right.鈥�
They heard water gurgle in the bathroom upstairs; Brigitte rolled her eyes knowingly and sighed. But her mind was elsewhere; she realised she had barely thought about the girl she鈥檇 left with Jerome, and that she must check in on them. She hadn鈥檛 been in touch other than a few phone calls to give instructions about things like the fuse box鈥檚 location and how to open the jammed shutter at the back of the house. But she trusted her gut, and her gut had said: this girl is flimsy. She won鈥檛 last long. She鈥檇 reminded Brigitte of a doll she was given by her uncle when young, which had broken too quickly. She鈥檇 been washing its hair and the head just came clean off, with a pop.
This was surely a particularly beautiful evening. As Henri towelled himself, absently, one leg up on the side of the tub, he surveyed his land through the bathroom window. The view was so drenched in familiarity that he barely noticed it 鈥� no more than the small portrait of Brigitte鈥檚 mother hanging in the dark corner at the top of the stairs, or the cup above the sink that held their toothbrushes. But today he couldn鈥檛 help but notice: all was a dark golden, the sun falling but still far from gone, and he could see Marc and Jean-Paul, the two latest 鈥榝arm-boys鈥� 鈥� he and Brigitte called them that, even though they were in their early twenties 鈥� still working on the perennially crumbling walls of the olive groves, although their shifts were over. In this light, only at this point of the day, the silver of the olive leaves was a dark grey 鈥� just as only at the searing heat of midday could they appear quite white. The sky was clear and cicadas whirred and one of his goats let out a shout like a deep hiccup.
He strode over to the window, tucking the towel neatly around his waist, and called out:
鈥榃hat are you two doing still at work?鈥� Marc and Jean-Paul looked up immediately, scanning the garden, the porch, trying to find the source of the shout. They were smiling in anticipation. He waved and leaned out, feeling with some satisfaction the breadth of his shoulders fill the slim window frame: 鈥極ver here!鈥� They frowned against the falling light, holding their hands up over their eyes.
鈥榃e鈥檙e just too damn hard-working, sir!鈥�
鈥榃e can鈥檛 get enough!鈥�
Henri laughed theatrically. 鈥極h, you can鈥檛 fool me!鈥� The boys laughed and turned back to the wall with some awkwardness, as if uncertain whether to end this dialogue or not. He turned too and sighed deeply. As he combed his hair in the mirror above the sink, he noticed how deep the creases by his eyes looked in the slanting light.
