Provence je t'aime. Gordon Bitney
with a dialect and a mixture of old provençal words not found in dictionaries. I was forced to resort to more basic communication—that international language of gesticulating combined with exaggerated facial expressions. So body language took over, and before long I found myself interpreting gestures, the roll of the eyes, and where a finger was pointed. When Albin pointed at a tool and said marteau a second time, I reached for the hammer. Before too long the words began to fall into place. Dealing with artisans, however, is easier as there is something to point at. Social conversation is different again. I learned to hear the nouns first and to fill in the words in between later.
I learned ‘bof’ quickly enough, as it summarized our gardener’s rejection of one of my gardening ideas. It often accompanied or was used in place of a dismissive shrug. ‘Merde’ was a categorical dismissal mixed with hints of contempt.
With Albin ‘oui’ became voui, and ‘vingt et un’ became vantay ay eon.
‘Pas d’accord’ meant strong disagreement, while ‘beh voui’ seemed to indicate agreement or at least the acceptance of a suggestion.
I had a lingering fear of mistaking the meaning of just one word and it leading to mirth, personal embarrassment or some more serious blunder. I learned there can be a subtle difference in the sounds of two words, but a serious difference in meaning. Baiser means either to kiss or to make love, baisser to lower. Poisson is a fish and poison is poison. It was wise to stay away from some words.
The garden took up much of my time. One day I was working on one of the last areas that needed weeding. Long before a motorcycle appeared in sight, I could hear the deep thrum of a powerful engine. I looked up from the rosemary shrub I was pruning, my nose filled with its sharp, resinous scent. The machine came into view as it rounded the bend in the road and I recognized the black cycle and the rider in black leathers and helmet. While I couldn’t see his face through the tinted visor I detected a nod of his head and I raised my hand in response.
The motorcyclist continued on by, and then a hundred metres up the road he slowed, moved to the edge of the road and then swung across to make the sharp turn up the driveway to Faustin Buisson’s house. Last year I had become familiar with the thrum of this engine and the cautious approach the rider made on the road. I assumed that he must be Faustin’s son. In time I learned that he had moved to Aix-en-Provence to find employment. The family farm was far too small to support him and he probably wanted to get away and explore new opportunities not available in Nyons, as so many other youths had done. Like his father, he arrived alone and left alone. However, that was soon to change, and we were to see more of him that summer.
Acknowledgements
This book would never have been written except for the suggestion of Tom Johnston, and then the enthusiastic support of my wife, Marie-Hélène. The first outline of the story was read by Nancy McNeill, who said she wanted to read more. Eileen and Paul Dwillies and Lucie Desrochers made their full share of contributions, and I thank David Freeman for his sense of humour.
Finally, I received endless support and encouragement from the publishing team of Jo Blackmore, Victoria Gibson, Christine Laurin, Neall Calvert, Lauren Ollsin and Rebecca Davies to bring the book together.
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