Summer in the Countryside
by Henri Delpeux
translated from the French by Don Bapst
Time: 198?
Place: Eastern France
The house wasn't extraordinary. From the outside anyway. It wasn't even typical of the region--the east of France where stone and brick mix so elegantly. "One doesn't look a gift horse in the mouth," as the Germans say. The house had not been sold to him, nor rented, nor given (of course not), but loaned to him for the summer by an unknown man he had never seen. He had abandoned his place in the outskirts of Lyon as he'd had no work prospects and had just gotten through a "bad spell." It was the friend of the boyfriend of the owner's cousin who had arranged it. Perfect timing. He jumped at the proposal. There was no contract to sign, no papers, no nothing. The neighbor, a middle-aged woman who seldom smiled and spoke little, handed the keys over to him without asking any questions. Questions? He had hardly asked himself any when he took the tour of the big neglected garden, stopping before the front door (in a handsomely diluted shade of blue he would always remember) before entering.
But who lived here?
Was it a second home? A summer house? For a couple? No. He understood that the proprietor was single, and that he had had to go away on a three-month trip. A person who was certainly trusting and generous.
Anyway, he was so tired that he wanted only one thing: rest, then maybe some sun, a swim... He wasn't sure yet. First he'd have to forget those nasty last months. He had no more ties anywhere. He was free, free, free! Yes, but freedom... to do what?
In roaming around the house, first the ground floor then upstairs, he noticed a series of papers—sheets torn from a notebook and hung on the walls, on the antique furniture—bearing instructions:
"Water this plant once a week."
"Cut the wilted flowers and burn them behind the house."
"Feed the cats once each day. The cat food is in the refrigerator. One cup per cat. There are four. There is the mother: white; her son and daughter: white and tiger; and the stray: black, black."
That last note seemed worthy of an old English lady. He would have preferred taking care of a dog, but the dog was obviously on vacation with its master. The doghouse near the gate was empty.
And then more papers with more orders: "Do this. Don't do that."
"The telephone is cut off. That's the way it goes. The village is three kilometers away. There's a post office and a few stores."
"In the garage, there is a bicycle in more or less good shape. But walking is excellent exercise."
"Go ahead and tuck into the provisions stacked up in the buffet."
And still more notes, giving away a practical, somewhat obsessive personality.
The decor of the house went badly with its large rustic rooms; very little furniture, most of it rattan with rare rugs, assorted baskets, and wallpaper reminiscent of the hippie style that invaded France around May, 1968.
Happily, he also found some excellent bottles of wine in the cellar.
There was a downright archaic stereo system with a bunch of old record albums: Baroque, Billie Holiday, and Gregorian chants.
The books? Marcel Proust, Jean Cocteau, André Gide, stuck between guides to gardening and bird watching.
"Geez," he said to himself. "I'm in the house of an old queen. He's probably off to spend three months in the Marais in Paris. The old dog! But I don't give a... as long as..."
In his bedroom was nothing but a large foam mattress set on the ground. The walls were bare except for traces—quite visible on the old wallpaper—of framed pictures that had probably been removed and stored.
He saw few people. He spoke to no one. The days passed. The mailman had no mail to bring. That was one of those intensely hot, stormy summers broken up with happy little moments. One day three of the neighbor's geese arrived and moved into the shed in the yard. Happy to snack on endives, they replaced the absent dog, serving as excellent guardians against nonexistent visitors.
At the bathing area on the riverbank, he didn't have a chance to meet anyone that summer; the girls were too young, the men too rough and loud. Only one guy, dirty blond, wanted to start a conversation. But he was so indiscreet the encounter fell flat. Plus, he was too effeminate, powdered, lisping. Might as well do it with a girl as with a guy like that!
It soon seemed to him that the people of the village and along the route looked at him with a little smile in the corner of their mouths. One day, in front of the church, he asked for directions from a group of young people and they responded with their hands on their hips, in a shrill yet lagging voice, making those hand gestures made by those who want to imitate fags... homosexuals. He was shocked and asked himself what he'd done to provoke such a parody. He admitted to himself that his voice sometimes ascended into... No! He didn't have the timber of a deep bass; that had always bother him when he was in theatre in Lyon, but he was no... They must have been associating him with the resident of that house with its bad reputation. He felt caught in a trap.
One night, dying of boredom, he explored the house from the cellar to the attic and discovered a bookcase hidden behind an Indian cloth.
Aha! I knew it!
There were several albums of male nudes, books from America that must have been expensive. Superb photos. Superb men...
So I live in the house of a fag. And this guy is the laughing stock of the village. Why? Did he live a scandalous life? Did he shout it to the wind? The foam bed, so big.... the paintings removed from the walls of his room... Did he organize orgies? Did he try to pick up all the young guys in the village?
He wanted to leave. But to go where? He had nowhere to go and could stay three more weeks in that house... that house that belonged to a man... Was he old, ugly, unpleasant, vicious? Tall, blond, dark, clean-shaven? Stocky or delicate? Mustached, hairy, smooth, or...
Why was I the one who was chosen to watch the house this summer? He must have had a ton of candidates. Why me?
In the last days of September, a letter arrived. The proprietor was coming back Saturday and asked that his "tenant" wait for him. The handwriting was large and bold. The man wanted to meet him. He didn't want to the keys to pass through the hands of the neighbor, as they had in July. Did he want to take "inventory"? Would there be an inspection?
Yes, I will wait for your return... No, I won't wait; I will give the keys to the neighbor... If the white cat falls asleep near the bathtub, I will leave... If the three geese have left the shed, I will stay... If the last rose in the garden is open tomorrow, I will leave. Goodbye and thanks!
And then, when I saw him get out of the taxi, just catching sight of his back, his manner of walking even a few steps, I knew that I'd been right to stay. This little man with grey hair, neither handsome nor ugly, neither young nor really old... was stronger than me.
"You were in theatre in Lyon?"
"I stopped two years ago. I don't have any real talent, and then that world is so... faggy."
"When you say that you have no talent, I don't agree."
"What do you know about it?"
"I saw you several times. Don't look at me like that. Yes, my cousin who was renting this house from me frequented all the theatre companies of Lyon. I saw you in Tartuffe. You were very good."
"I don't believe it. I can't do the classics..."
"And you were very handsome. You are handsome. One day, I went to congratulate you backstage after a performance. Don't you remember?"
"Sorry."
"Hey, let's walk the dog."
And so, I am spending the winter in the countryside. I was warned: fog, snow, ice, solitude. Just the two of us alone. But he's fun to be around, and he has a lot to teach me. He wants to take me to Italy, to introduce me to his friends. He brought out the photos of male nudes he had taken off the walls...
I hope I will come to love him.
Henri Delpeux left France just after the German occupation of World War II, attempting to explore his sexuality in Scandinavia and discovering it not long afterwards in Morocco. Love came later. The author of many popular French children's books, he worked on children's puppet theatre in Paris for thirty years. Today, tired of children, Henri lives in Etigny, a small town in the French countryside, surrounded by animals. (Not all the French turn their geese into foie gras!)
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