When the Mistral wind blows
The sky was rapidly getting darker. It had been cloudy all day, but since the Mistral wind had come in, the clouds covering the sky were being blown away. Close to the horizon line in front of us, I could see the setting sun breaking free from its bed of clouds and spreading its golden light into the air. By lunchtime, we had made too long a stop and ended up delaying the trip. We fell behind the wave of tourists and gypsies heading for Saintes-Marie-de-la-mer, and ended up crossing the marshy Camargue plain without coming across a single living soul.
- What a chance! Nature is putting on a private show just for the two of us," I remarked, as I marveled at the flocks of wild horses galloping past, driven mad by the wind that whistled non-stop. I opened the window and a breath of cold, dry wind invaded the car, ruffling our hair and renewing the still, warm air we had been breathing.
- It's going to be a beautiful moonlit night!
- Hum! - he replied, without showing any emotion, his gaze fixed on the road.
Suddenly, I realized that I was feeling nauseous. "It must be because of the mixture of seafood and rosé wine that we consumed with avidity just now and which is now rattling in my stomach with the rocking of the road," I thought.
- Can you stop by the side of the road? I need to stretch my legs and breathe some fresh air," I asked him as I searched my bag for an Alka-seltzer tablet and a bottle of mineral water. Without saying a word, he stopped the car and took out his cell phone to check the latest messages. I went down for a walk, hoping that the wind and the medicine would ease my nausea.
The last rays of the sun were disappearing over the horizon, and the moon was rising shyly. A few meters from where I stood, a beautiful white horse grazed peacefully, its mane fluttering in the wind. I slowly approached him, holding in my outstretched hand the apple I had forgotten in my coat pocket. He looked at me calmly with his huge brown eyes, while keeping his muzzle turned towards his chest to protect it from the wind. A warm steam came out of his nostrils and enveloped my hands before he carefully took the apple in his mouth.
Tonight, my nerves were on edge. The horses, the moon and the wind all brought to mind my favorite poem by Neruda. I'm not in the habit of reading poetry, but El viento en la isla took root in my soul when my body was invaded by hormones as a teenager. At that moment, by the side of the road, the wind seemed to blow Neruda's sonnets into my ear. On the screen of my memory I was reliving scenes from my first experiences of adult life, to the sound of chords strummed by a curly-haired boy on his guitar.
- Ahh adolescence... - I murmured to the foal in front of me, running my fingers lightly over its muzzle and back, which quivered under my touch. I woke up from this reverie feeling the salty taste that the wind had left behind and the cold through my thin coat. I started walking back towards the car and, looking through the windshield, saw my companion's face illuminated by the bluish light of the cell phone screen. "I wonder what he's reading so intently," I thought.
- Did you see the full moon rising over the horizon? - I asked him, trying to draw his attention to the real world around us, but he didn't seem interested. Showing obvious ill will, he turned off the screen on his cell phone, put it in his pocket next to his chest and restarted the car's engine
- Let's go," he replied. Otherwise we won't find anyone to hand over the keys to the Pigeonnier we've reserved for ourselves.
- Okay," I replied, slamming the car door, and he finally looked at me, full of accusation.
It was already nine o'clock when the sun broke through the bedroom window and bathed our bed in a puddle of light. I felt his body move on the bed next to me, I smoothed my hair with my fingers, moistened my lips with my tongue and stretched out, rubbing my body against his.
- This morning sun is delicious," he commented before turning over and pulling the sheet over his chest. You can go and have a shower first, because I'm going to stay in bed for a while.
After a quick shower, I started preparing breakfast and decided to serve it on the small table outside in the shade of the olive trees. I worked in concentration, remembering our stay here in Camarga in previous years: the town full of gypsies, musicians and tourists, celebrating together the arrival of the three Marys - Magdalene, Salome and Jacob - and their slave Sarah on the village shore, safe and sound from persecution by the Romans. Almost without realizing it, I started whistling gypsy songs, only stopping when I noticed that the guest in the next hut was watching the scene with a slightly jocular look on his face.
- How cute is our little dovecote! - said my companion when he appeared in the courtyard, fresh from his bath.
- Yes, I thought so as well. But come to the table soon, because today is going to be a long day. I can't believe it's the day of the procession after all. I've been looking forward to it all year," I replied, my heart pounding.
The churchyard was full of tourists and gypsy riders. The latter, dressed in colorful silk shirts and black felt hats, were waiting for the procession to begin, sitting on their white mounts. Among them stood out a gypsy with a more haughty bearing than the others, dressed in a worn black shirt, his chest adorned with chains of thick rings. His horse, more excited than the others, made a racket with the impact of its hooves on the pebbles of the sidewalk. The rider, impassive, gazed intently at the crowd who had come to pay homage to Sara-the-Kali, the black saint.
The procession finally began, with the gypsies carrying the statue of their patron saint on their shoulders towards the sea. Soon the moment everyone had been waiting for would arrive, when the small stalls set up in the streets of the town would serve local delicacies and, on every corner, musicians and mambembe artists would perform their shows.
I soon spotted my favorite group of musicians: all dressed in black and dusty, their long hair matted as if they had just dismounted their horses. They played their instruments with a mastery and vigor that would make a chamber orchestra envious. The music, which had started out quieter, soon became fast, and the violinist, hunched over the bow of his violin and marking the wild beat with the tap of his foot, stared at me as if there were no one else in the world but me. My God!
When it was time for the interval, the group of musicians and the audience dispersed. My companion decided to join the queue to buy a galette bretone and a glass of cider, and I wandered off in the direction of the toilettes. Halfway there, however, I spotted the gypsies' trailers and, sitting on the steps in front of the door of one of them, the violinist was watching me with his magnetic gaze, in mute invitation.
- Where have you been? I thought you'd lost your way. I queued for crepe twice and still had to wait for you! - my companion asked in a distressed voice.
- You know what the queue at the ladies' room is like, it never seems to be our turn," I replied, my voice soft and my gaze downcast.
- Come on, let's go," he said as he held my hand tightly and examined my face carefully. We set off slowly towards the car, with the sun still high on the horizon and a light breeze caressing our faces.
Translated with DeepL.com (free version)
To listen to the poem El viento en la isla, by Pablo Neruda, please click here
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