Provence: Sade and lavender
His charm, restrainedly rustic and self-projected, was thick with Saint-Remy . I had made a reservation at a hotel I stayed in years ago. In my memory it still gravitated the calm of the garden and the sweet smell of fig trees , but the decoration had undergone an unexpected metamorphosis.
On the terrace of Cafe du Lezard, Justine made it clear to me that she was not going to put up with the kitsch rave of the room not one more day.
Fortunately, it was still low season. I found a country hotel in Orgon that matched expectations: stone walls, cypresses, lavender. her name, Le Mas de la Rose , gave content to Village Fleuri Warnings that happened on the road.
This is the view that fascinated Van Gogh in Saint-Rémy
The town was wild, calcareous, predictable. We go through it in austin healy which Justine had suggested she rent at Nice . She was driving. The scene quoted catch a thief with excessive fidelity. A handkerchief. Was Grace Kelly wearing a scarf? The blue line took on a new meaning on her neck, on my neck, on my wrists.
I wondered when she had started to give in. I had never been attracted to that role, but the script put me in an unexpected place. The initial bewilderment set in, she defined us for her. I thought the road to submission had been easy. It was only necessary to recognize oneself in a new face.
The hotel was an irregular building of exposed stone and neutral interiors, surrounded by thick trellises, an orchard and flower beds . I caught a nod of approval.
We spent the afternoon in a pool that simulated a pond. I think I drank a bottle of Crozes-Hermitage. Lying on the grass, I would soak in the still cool water while she read Edward St. Aubyn on a striped chaise longue. My object condition was another me; a new toy.
Le Mas de la Rose
The next morning I arrived at breakfast with the expected bruises. He did not remember the night precisely.
The luminous stillness of the garden took shape in a succession of croissants with rose jam . Justine ordered a poached egg. She reflected me in her coherence as in a convex mirror. She suggested that we visit Lacoste and a monastery. I nodded.
Le Mas de la Rose
During the journey, I contemplated the landscape in silence. In the rural areas of provence there were no industrial warehouses or buildings to break the harmony of the pink stone . The mountains of the Luberon framed the valleys like postcards.
Lacoste it was situated on a promontory. We went up to the ruined castle . Justine told me that he lived there Marquis de Sade.
Lacoste
The villagers protested to the authorities for the disappearance of some of their daughters, and the Marquis, who had already been charged in Paris for unorthodox practices, he was imprisoned.
They even went so far as to drain the pond in search of corpses, but found nothing. His fantasies didn't reach as far as her works.
In the eighties, Pierre Cardin bought the castle and had it converted into a Cultural center . I thought that this was the sign of the times: a brand had appropriated the echoes of the orgies of Sade and a new Justine handled the whip.
The ruined castle of Sade
Getting into the car, he mentioned Saint-Hilaire , a small monastery from the 12th century. It was Property of the Brides , which had been painstakingly restored. Her parents knew them. They would invite us to a coffee.
The elders welcomed us warmly. From an unassuming garden, we entered the chapel. The stone arches embraced the bareness of the nave . The proportions were familiar, intimate. An irregular patio enclosed the cloister. The Brides talked enthusiastically about their work.
I contemplated the bushy vegetation from a small window that opened in the chapter house and I wished I was there without her, extend my stay ; write the likely story of a Discalced Carmelite.
Saint-Hilaire
As we emerged from my monastic sleep Justine adjusted her sunglasses and insisted on going to Senanque . She didn't quite understand her obsession with lavender. The topic of the purple tide against the cistercian abbey I was mistrustful. Her argument was indisputable: we were very close.
Recent shoots spread in the valley. The gray stone Romanesque building, converted into decoration, adjusted in its horizontality to the lines of flight of the fields. There were two buses. A group of Orientals took pictures with their cell phones.
Before reaching the car park, we turned off along the path that surrounded a second crop field, surrounded by the forest. The scent of lavender filled the air.
Looking at Justine, I perceived an unusual gesture, intoxicated. She left the car and ran through the bushes. She knelt down and took a deep breath. She turned to me. With an exultant smile, she exclaimed that her father took her there every year. She got up again and ran. She warned me that the guards would arrive soon. As she watched her trance, I thought that few characters resist the tremor of childhood.
The fields of Sénanque