The Olive Harvest (The Olive Series Book 3) Read online

  I thank him and, disappointed, cross the street towards the church, deciding that I must eat something before the opening service at three o’clock. As I enter the labyrinthine lanes of the old town, two weathered, brown-faced women in full-length skirts, boots and shawls approach me, rubbing flat cuts of shiny cobalt-blue glass between their thumbs and forefingers.

  ‘Give me your left hand, sweetie,’ demands one.

  I tell her no thank you.

  ‘Are you afraid of us? Afraid of gypsies?’ she challenges.

  ‘Not at all,’ I reply, ‘but I prefer not to have my fortune told.’

  ‘Today is a holy day, a saint’s day,’ the other calls after me.

  ‘Which is why I am pressed for time.’

  As I reach the side entrance to the church a small band of female manouches, as tattered and colourful as the first pair, descend upon me. Each holds the same blue charm between her dirt-encrusted thumb and finger and offers to bless me, read my fortune, sell me good luck, whatever will earn them a franc or two. All of which I decline.

  ‘It’s a saint’s day,’ they holler mournfully as I enter a restaurant that looks welcoming and bears the name Le Félibre – the Provençal word for a writer or poet working in the local language. Within, the resto is deserted. Evidently I am too late. Then, almost out of sight, in a darkened corner near an oblong fish tank, I spy an occupied table, cluttered with steaming dishes, where three women and a man are heartily engaged in lunch. They are the family who run the place and, yes, officially they are closed – it’s gone two o’clock – but they offer their home-made vegetable soup, which I accept gratefully.

  I left my dismal hotel almost as soon as I was out of bed without so much as a cup of coffee and now, after my lengthy promenade down by the sea, straining my body across the windswept dunes, I realise that I am ravenous and, with a gannet’s manners, gobble down everything brought to me.

  Afterwards, I ask the young woman who has served the soup, following it with a delicious dish of sliced aubergines lightly cooked in olive oil, dressed with warm garlic and freshly pulped tomatoes, if the name of the establishment was chosen to honour Provençal writers.

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘Do you speak it?’

  ‘No one does. Some of us get the drift when we hear it or see it written, but that’s not often. I don’t know a word of it really.’

  ‘Is it taught in the schools hereabouts?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Any programme afoot to initiate it?’

  Not that she is aware of.

  ‘A pity, non, after all the sterling work achieved by Frédéric Mistral and his colleagues?’

  She shrugs.

  Outside in the square elegant women in long dresses and men in dark velvet jackets and hats are gathering. The costumes are traditional Arlesian; yeoman farmers and wives. Another initiative of Mistral’s: to encourage the people of Arles to celebrate their authentic traditional culture, including their clothes.

  My hostess hands me my change. I thank her and she returns to the family table. I hurry across to the church and install myself on a bench at the front of the nave, but there was no need to rush: the place is almost deserted. Given that there is time and no jostling for places, I slip to the crypt, where the relics of Saint Sarah reside. It is illumined by hundreds of flickering candles; the flames’ heat has contorted many of them. On the far side is an imposing statue of the black-hued saint, dressed to kill in a dozen spangly cloaks: gypsy clothes. I place coins in a box, light a candle, add it to the forest of wax, cross myself, say a brief prayer – my Irish Catholic upbringing never resists these moments – and then return to my seat.

  Standing in a pew behind me is a man who, apart from bizarrely bleached hair, looks like a Camarguais cowboy – as the highly skilled horsemen, the gardians, who manage the bull herds are known. I find that I have two hymn sheets and he has none, so I hand him my spare. He frowns, nods his thanks and accepts it.

  To the left of the altar, a red-faced organist with crinkly curls leads the hymn-singing. Those present are already engaged in this scratchy prelude, but the church remains half-empty. Middle-aged women occupy the front three rows; each clutches an elongated candle. The opening of the service is signalled by a bell. From the rear doors a white-robed priest approaches, preceded by a one-armed altar boy holding aloft a large bronze cross. What is about to take place, the Cérémonie de la Descente des Châsses, the Descent of the Relics, is celebrated nowhere else in the world but in this single church.

  High above the altar in the bell tower is the chapel of Saint Michael Archangel, where the relics of the two saints, Mary Salome and Mary Jacob, are stored. (Frédéric Mistral set the very last scene of his famous poem, ‘Mireille’, in this upper chapel.) The bones of the two exiled saints were uncovered in the church’s vault in the fifteenth century and on 4 December 1448 were put on display for the first time. To this day they are kept in the attic chapel, in what is known as la châsse, the reliquary or shrine. Today’s service is about bringing the shrine out of storage, down to altar-level, and blessing it. The hymns and prayers are spoken and sung in French and, occasionally, to my delight, in Provençal.

  On high, where the châsse is stored, a trapdoor has opened and a wooden chest, painted sea-green with images of the female saints adorning either side of it, is sliding forward in fits and starts. Two men lean out from behind it and attach the chest to a hook on a pulley. The chest hangs in mid-air, swaying rather alarmingly to and fro, metres above the altar and the priest’s pate.

  The instant the chest appears, the congregation begins to shout: ‘Vive les Saintes Maries!’ repeating their chant over and over. More hymns are sung, more shouting takes place and at some point, while my attention is elsewhere, a woman steps from behind the altar, where there are several other rows of pews, and lights the candles of the front-bench supplicants. They, in turn, pass the flame to the row behind and so on until the church is aglow with lighted candles.

  I am fascinated by what is going on above. The chest has tipped sideways. It looks precarious. The priest beneath continues his sermon, ‘From the shores of Palestine gifted to us were the Olive Tree and the Marys.’ Then he sings and chants, ‘Long live the Saint Marys!’, blithely unaware of the danger that could befall him. I suspect that only myself and the two men leaning far out beyond the trapdoor, looking mighty anxious, have foreseen the potential accident.

  The fervour in the church is mounting to a pitch not far short of hysteria. A woman across the aisle breaks down and begins sobbing loudly. Another trots forward from alongside the altar to embrace and comfort her. The supplicant sisters cling to one another, still clutching their burning candles.

  A squeaking from above draws my attention back to the marshalling of the relics. The chest, swinging in small circles and still perilously tilted, has begun its jerky descent. Slowly, as it inches and lurches downwards, the two men attach bunches of flowers to the chains of the pulley. These, I learn later, are prayers, votives, supplications. Everyone is shouting. A forest of arms is raised in invocation towards the sea chest bearing the bones of the Saint Marys, candles held aloft. A bunch of flowers not properly secured plummets from overhead and lands on the priest. The workmen stare altarward with expressions of cartoon horror, but the man of God continues as though nothing has happened. Another woman seated by the altar flashes forward and snatches away the offending bouquet.

  Behind me, a couple of rows back, a gravelly female voice shrieks for Sarah. ‘Vive Sainte Sarah! Vive Sainte Sarah!’ Heads turn and an aged, plump gypsy grins and winks mischievously, but no one seems offended. The sobbing woman is now on her knees, forehead pressed against the stone floor, wailing, but still managing to keep her candle upright.

  ‘Provençau e catouli,’ the churchgoers sing in rousing voice. ‘Nosto fe, nosto fe n’a pas fali …’

  ‘Provencaux and Catholics, our faith, our faith has not faltered …’

  When the
hymns are sung in Provençal, as this one is, and the sermon spoken in the native language, it does all seem to fit together. The passion is quite contagious and I really do have the impression that I am experiencing something unique. Beyond that, however, I cannot get to grips with what the woman at my side might be howling about, or what the contents of this sea chest, which has now reached the altar, evokes in these faithful that it can ignite such displays of emotion. The parishioners begin to swarm the altar, extinguishing their candles against the chest and then kissing it. The priest holds up a silver hand with a photograph set into it, of whom I don’t know, and the congregation queues to kiss it.

  I lift my head. The men have gone, the trapdoor has been closed. The sea chest will remain where it is until tomorrow morning, when it will be transported to the beach and carried into the Mediterranean, and I will return to participate.

  After this curious service, in the lane outside, the green-shirted, bleach-haired cowboy, whose jawline is as square as a street lamp, catches my eye. He is brandishing the hymn sheet. ‘What made you give me this?’

  ‘I had two and I thought you might like to take part in the service,’ I reply, moving on. He accompanies me, intent on striking up a conversation. I learn that he was born on a farm on the outskirts of this fishing village and that his mother and sisters are still residing in the same mas, but he himself is living in Bethlehem. I am fascinated to know what he is doing in Israel, but there is a disturbing aura about this man and so I bite back my curiosity. I make my excuses and he bows a stiff farewell.

  The day has turned horribly cold and I wonder how I will pass the rest of it. Another walk or back to my hotel to scribble down my impressions of the service? I wander through the lanes, feeling lonely, trying not to notice families out shopping together. Black-skinned dolls are on sale in many of the boutiques. The trinketed streets are narrow and winding, medina-like, and many return me to this place, set back from the beach, where the church is situated.

  I take the sea route to the hotel and stop at the only open café on the front to order tea. While I await its arrival, I browse the hymn sheet, trying to find familiar roots that will help me penetrate the Provençal words and then, lost, I dig out of my pocket the various leaflets that were given to me earlier at the tourist office. One explains the history of this unusual weekend. As I open it up, another falls to the ground and I bend to retrieve it. It is advertising a gypsy flamenco evening, this very evening, to be held at a privately owned mas. I read on and see that it involves a dinner and so I dismiss the idea as surely prohibitively expensive and possibly unsuitable for a woman travelling alone, though such considerations have rarely held me back in the past. I drink my tea and make my way back to my hotel, which is as lively as a graveyard. The room is freezing. I try to keep warm by burying myself deep beneath the bedclothes, but fail. I get up and pace to and fro, wrapping myself in yet more pullovers. I lean against the window, wondering how Michel is spending his Saturday, and ask myself, ‘What am I doing here?’

  During the tail end of the afternoon, while I am still idle at the window, it begins to rain. The wind sheets and lashes against a tormented ocean and the weather shows no sign of letting up. Should I call him? I don’t want to disturb him. Does he miss our life together at the farm? Eventually, I return to the bedside table, pick up the phone, hesitate and then dial the number of the mas.

  ‘I want to enquire about the flamenco fête …’

  After a brief conversation with a friendly young woman, during which I discover that the ranch has rooms to let and one is still available, I am packing my bag, checking out of this disgruntled place and streaking across the street in the pelting rain.

  ‘Where are you? Is it difficult to find?’ I had had the presence of mind to ask before replacing the receiver.

  ‘We’re out of town. Drive past the port and head for the swamp areas towards Aigue-Morte.’

  The wind is whipping along the seafront, the waves spray the street and there is not a soul in sight, but I am on my way to see flamenco dancing out amongst the mosquito-infested reedbeds.

  The roads throw up muck which obliterates my visibility. I am driving slowly, wipers slapping to and fro but achieving little besides shunting the slushy grime back and forth. I am lost somewhere in the marshes where there is no street lighting, headlights on, making little progress. I should have requested more precise directions. It is by chance and good fortune that I spot a sign signalling the ranch and I turn off the road on to a narrow lane which leads me past two small white cabined homes. Both face out across the potholed track to the waterlogged pastures where, in the distance, I make out the spherical silhouettes of a small troupe of grazing black bulls, les taureaux, their curling horns aloft. I slow the car to standstill and open the window. A blast of cold wet air, rich with wood smoke, slaps my eager senses. The image of these bulls in this murky October dusk is quite spooky, Hallowe ’enish. Humpbacked hags with billowing cloaks.

  In the far distance I hear the blunt ring of rifle shots. The ring of death. One, two and then a third. Gibier à plume, they’ll be gunning here. Feathered game. Migrating birds are also at risk. It is late; the hunters will have been buried in the mire of the reedbeds for a couple of hours, rifles cocked on their forearms, retriever dogs panting at their haunches, hungrily anticipating the evening flight, la passée. It is at this hour that the birds leave the protected areas and bird sanctuaries and make for open pastures. Little do they know that lead pellets, not supper, await them. During strong weather, such as tonight’s, the fowl are forced to fly lower, which gives their predators the advantage.

  Another shot blasts the damp night sky, followed by a short, sharp volley. I picture the descent of half a dozen teal, floundering, plummeting into the ice-cold water, and the hounds, following their master’s bidding ‘Va chercher! Apporte!’, splashing through the mudbanks to retrieve the dying or dead prey.

  Here in the Camargue there is a great debate raging between ecologists and animal protection organisations on the one hand and, across these swampy waters, as it were, the long-established hunting societies who claim that this is their territory and who do not accept that they are duty-bound to adhere to the recent changes in hunting protocol served on them by Marseille, Paris and the European Union. ‘This is our home,’ they retort, ‘chez nous, and we’ll do what we bloody well like.’

  I close my window and move on. Thank heavens the wild boar have found other tracts of land to hunt and are no longer on our farm.

  I have no idea what to expect as I swing through the open gate of the ranch into a very puddled car park sheltered by wooden poles roofed over with dried reeds. The mas is painted white in the traditional Camarguais fashion. I splash through the rain to the front door. A tug at the bellrope brings a shuffling manservant who must be eighty if he’s a day. With scarcely more than a nod, he takes my sodden jacket and leads me through to a fashionably decorated, low-ceilinged salon. It is enormous with a full picture window at the far end looking out across the dismally opaque countryside.

  A log fire crackles its welcome in the wide hearth. Apéritifs – it is now almost half-past seven – are being served by the octogenarian retainer, Hermès, assisted by a very ample Arab woman. A gathering of people, sixteen in total, all French but probably not locals, are sitting hugged up by the fireside conversing by candlelight. A bald-headed fellow is cross-legged on the rug sipping champagne with the smile of the cat who has got the cream. Suddenly, I spot the stranger from the church, seated apart and further into the room. He is wearing a dark suit with collar and tie and is the only guest so formally attired. A livid green drink in a crystal flute rests on the round coffee table in front of him. He waves me over. I hesitate, preferring not to settle in his company. Mercifully, the arrival of our hostess, Annette, rescues me. She is an attractive, slender young woman with fashionably highlighted, shoulder-length hair, sporting Armani jeans, to-die-for cowboy boots and a white rollneck sweater. Lumbering along at he
r side is a hefty, alabaster-blond Labrador whose name, I learn later, is Ghost. I introduce myself and explain that I telephoned earlier to request a place at the party. She waves such niceties aside. I am here, and that is good enough. ‘I instructed the girls to make up the downstairs suite for you in the main house. No one’s using it. You might as well be deliciously comfortable,’ she smiles. I try to protest but she won’t hear a word of it. I am offered a coupe of champagne, which I gladly accept.

  ‘Ah, you’ve met someone,’ says Annette as the cowboy waves eagerly to us both. ‘I find him a little strange, don’t you?’ she whispers, smiling an acknowledgement at the man. ‘He has attended several of these soirées but I haven’t quite worked out who he is. It can be worrying sometimes because my husband is away frequently and so I am often alone here.’

  A coloured photograph of a thirty-something, dark-haired man is standing in a frame on the coffee table near the fireplace. A cursory glance had led me to assume that he was Annette’s husband, master of this establishment, but a closer inspection reveals the lead singer of the gypsy group, strikingly handsome with eyes that burn into the viewer and a guitar pressed proudly against his breast.

  Dinner is announced and Annette disappears.

  I make my way through to the dining room which opens, via sliding glass doors, out on to a tiled terrace where a swimming pool is lit by underwater spot-lamps. This evening, of course, the terrace has been closed off. A dance-floor beyond the pool, raised on bricks or wooden blocks and facing out over the marshy flatlands, is hung with white muslin curtains which are whipping furiously in the wind. All around the terrace, bunting has been slung between the trees and from it hang swirling, soft-hued Chinese lanterns.

  ‘It’s a pity,’ says Annette, who has arrived at my side. ‘You should see the marshes from out there on a fine evening. They are spectacular. The illuminated rose in the lanterns reflects the light of the sun setting across the swamp waters, which in turn reflects the rose-pink feathers of the flamingos.’