1
Already from far I could see the Marennes church tower. Towering tall and slender it could be seen from far in these lowlands. Glistening light was fleeing about it in a bizarre way, seeming almost unreal.
The scene appeared to me like a Flemish landscape painting. Memories came into the picture. As familiar as the tower was to me since childhood days, as distant it always seemed to be. I drove and drove, but hardly came any closer. The road was as straight as the landscape was flat, and bypassed the town. Next to me was my traveling bag, with things for only a few days. Three days I wanted to stay, three days and not a single day longer.
To pay my uncle Yanis the last respect was a matter of honor. He was always in a good temper and a good-humored man. If the funeral eulogies would turn out exceedingly favorable, none of them would have been exorbitant. He was a real benefaction for his entire surroundings, correspondingly deep the mourning about his parting should be.
I had no problems with my relatives, not with a single one of them. But all together - this unavoidably had to cause innuendos, discussions, antipathies or dramas. It always ended like that. I would have liked to come just for the funeral, leaving right after the funeral feast. But my journey was just too long and my parents would be miffed about such a short stay. It had to become a mission of diffidence and balancing.
The tower still stood overpowering in the landscape, as if I had not come closer. I completely forgot how long the Marennes bypass was dragging out. For me it was a landmark; I entered the area of my growing up. Funny games with other kids, the first kiss, benders and hangovers, and Maria, my unfulfilled great love. Goodness gracious! I haven’t been here for a very long time! This I also realized when seeing all the other drivers wearing sunglasses. In the north, where I had found work, you only need them for a few days in midsummer, when no Atlantic depression can compete against the continental heat.
The road ran for a short while through a forest, actually just a piece of land with some trees on it – what people here call a forest. People in the north can only laugh about it – and I become more and more like them. I eat lots of chips and sausages, hang around in dim pubs for a beer or play darts with my buddies. Forgotten were oysters, mussels, calamari, fine sauces and good dessert wines.
The trees ended and I could see the tower to my left. I could hardly believe that it went forward. The mainland’s end was getting closer; I could already smell the sea and the salty air. Soon the stalls of the oyster farmers would be within sight. Along the road wooden stalls in front of the tanks were attracting the customers. It was the only highway to the island, so business here was best. Tourist’s cars were parking in front of the stalls, even two light trucks, coming for today’s catch. Only 3 kilometers to the bridge, 2 to the last roadhouse on the mainland. I slowed down and headed towards it.
Of course there would be coffee back home. But before my first sip all relatives at my parent’s house would want to see me and talk to me. Only then there would be cake, served with hundreds of questions. It would be a hard time until I got my coffee. I guess the roadhouse was my last station in anonymity. I enjoyed the late August sun on the terrace.
2
The best fruit always grew 10 m from the entrance. Little boys used to run straight to the end of the field, little girls to the fence left and right, housewives used to stay in the center. Nobody expected fruit at the very beginning; that’s where I usually found it. Red and mellow they were hanging right in front of me, so I just needed to reach for them. It was more nostalgic than necessity, but it got me a breather.
I should have rather been in my parent’s house, but there was intense activity going on, my relatives were caught in deep discussion. It were, as usual, old topics and recriminations. However, I preferred not to take part. I was at the end of my rope, but there was nothing I could do. To cool down, grandma Zoé had suggested ice cream with raspberries – that was my chance to get out.
Since it was a weekday, it stayed clear on the raspberry field. The old Haussmann couple passed on bikes, an elder lady asked me about my success. I guess she made a pass at me. So I showed her the contents of my basket, she wished me good luck and went to the check out. The raspberries at ground level sparked my interest a lot more, so I toddled in my haunches to and fro. My basket was filling, also with memories. Untroubled days on the island, blue skies, some white clouds, like painted in the sky, a warm wind, gathering raspberries in the afternoon, for freshly baked cake, no thoughts wasted on school or even the next exams. Just music and pretty girls on my mind, life was feeling so easy. But was everything really this rosy? Does man realize that he is living without worries or does he need a certain measure of doubt? Am I good enough for the coming exams; am I attractive enough for Mrs. so-and-so? Alas, I really got sentimental thinking of the old days.
Certainly not all has been rosy, even if it seems like it in the retrospective. I was unhappily in love with Maria, and it felt disastrous at the time, like the end of everything. Today I could only smile about it. I could not even remember the looks of her. Would I recognize her if our paths crossed today? These thoughts amused me, so I let them wander across the plain island.
On special occasions my parents had taken me to church. There I had seen Maria more often. She had been dressed in bright colors, looking straight ahead in confidence and she had been turning her pretty head towards me. How have I yearned for her! I caught myself smirking. Of course, afterwards our family had been going home briskly. How could I ever say ‘hello’? But I was seeing her more often, otherwise my longing would not have been lasting for that long.
In the morning at the bus stop I was seeing her often. Of course not on “my” side but diagonally opposite. Should I simply cross the street and talk to her, while all who were waiting could see me? And possibly miss my bus for it? Never before had I guessed how hard waiting for the bus could be. She went to a fine arts school, so much I found out, while I just went to a “normal” school. How often had I been dreaming of her, when lessons became boring? And they had been boring rather often. Then I had seen her, in my thoughts, playing piano, while a warm summer breeze played with the curtains and carried butterflies through the skies.
Once I even waved to her when she crossed street. I thought recognizing a twinkle in her eyes. Two classmates had pulled me into the bus.
And then happened, what had to be. I had found an apprenticeship and moved to the mainland, living in a hostel. The island had not offered us sufficient prospects and most of us had left. I haven’t seen her since. But thoughts of her had kept me warm when winter storms were sweeping through the hostel, when I was going to the office in darkness and rain, when I was sitting with the coarse guys in the dining room or when I had been lying in bed jittering, because the heating installation was down again.
Romanticized I grinned into a face that showed up on the other side of raspberry bushes. “Oh! Good afternoon”, I was laughing to it.
The shapes and images of my fantasy were captured, a bit at a time, by the features of a real face. Bit by bit I synchronized it with my faded memories. The brunette, medium-length hair, the pale face, the watery warm eyes confidently looking straight ahead – everything matched.
“Oh ... good ... afternoon ...”
Translation by: New Core Translation
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