Olives on Perret-Gentil majolica plate, France, 2011
He laughed involuntarily as the olive rolled towards his chair acrossthe shiny parquet floor of the hotel dining-room.His table in the cavernous salle manger was apart: he sat alone, asolitary guest; the table from which the olive fell and rolled towardshim was some distance away. The angle, however, made him an unlikelyobjective. Yet the lob-sided, juicy thing, after hesitating once ortwice en route as it plopped along, came to rest finally against hisfeet.It settled with an inviting, almost an aggressive air. And he stoopedand picked it up, putting it rather self-consciously, because of thegirl from whose table it had come, on the white tablecloth beside hisplate.Then, looking up, he caught her eye, and saw that she too was laughing,though not a bit self-consciously. As she helped herself to the horsd'oeuvres a false move had sent it flying. She watched him pick theolive up and set it beside his plate. Her eyes then suddenly lookedaway again--at her mother--questioningly.The incident was closed. But the little oblong, succulent olive laybeside his plate, so that his fingers played with it. He fingered itautomatically from time to time until his lonely meal was finished.When no one was looking he slipped it into his pocket, as though,having taken the trouble to pick it up, this was the very least hecould do with it. Heaven alone knows why, but he then took it upstairswith him, setting it on the marble mantelpiece among his field glasses,tobacco tins, ink-bottles, pipes and candlestick. At any rate, he keptit--the moist, shiny, lob-sided, juicy little oblong olive. The hotellounge wearied him; he came to his room after dinner to smoke at hisease, his coat off and his feet on a chair; to read another chapter ofFreud, to write a letter or two he didn't in the least want to write,and then go to bed at ten o'clock. But this evening the olive keptrolling between him and the thing he read; it rolled between theparagraphs, between the lines; the olive was more vital than theinterest of these eternal "complexes" and "suppressed desires."The truth was that he kept seeing the eyes of the laughing girl beyondthe bouncing olive. She had smiled at him in such a natural,spontaneous, friendly way before her mother's glance had checked her--asmile, he felt, that might lead to acquaintance on the morrow.He wondered! A thrill of possible adventure ran through him.She was a merry-looking sort of girl, with a happy, half-roguish facethat seemed on the lookout for somebody to play with. Her mother, likemost of the people in the big hotel, was an invalid; the girl, adutiful and patient daughter. They had arrived that very dayapparently. A laugh is a revealing thing, he thought as he fell asleepto dream of a lob-sided olive rolling consciously towards him, and of agirl's eyes that watched its awkward movements, then looked up into hisown and laughed. In his dream the olive had been deliberately andcleverly dispatched upon its uncertain journey. It was a message.He did not know, of course, that the mother, chiding her daughter'sawkwardness, had muttered:"There you are again, child! True to your name, you never see an olivewithout doing something queer and odd with it!"A youngish man, whose knowledge of chemistry, including invisible inksand such-like mysteries, had proved so valuable to the Censor'sDepartment that for five years he had overworked without a holiday, theItalian Riviera had attracted him, and he had come out for a twomonths' rest. It was his first visit. Sun, mimosa, blue seas andbrilliant skies had tempted him; exchange made a pound worth forty,fifty, sixty and seventy shillings. He found the place lovely, butsomewhat untenanted.Having chosen at random, he had come to a spot where the companionshiphe hoped to find did not exist. The place languished after the war,slow to recover; the colony of resident English was scattered still;travellers preferred the coast of France with Mentone and Monte Carloto enliven them. The country, moreover, was distracted by strikes. Theelectric light failed one week, letters the next, and as soon as theelectricians and postal-workers resumed, the railways stopped running.Few visitors came, and the few who came soon left.He stayed on, however, caught by the sunshine and the good exchange,also without the physical energy to discover a better, livelier place.He went for walks among the olive groves, he sat beside the sea andpalms, he visited shops and bought things he did not want because theexchange made them seem cheap, he paid immense "extras" in his weeklybill, then chuckled as he reduced them to shillings and found that afew pence covered them; he lay with a book for hours among the olivegroves.The olive groves! His daily life could not escape the olive groves; toolive groves, sooner or later, his walks, his expeditions, hismeanderings by the sea, his shopping--all led him to these ubiquitousolive groves.If he bought a picture postcard to send home, there was sure to be anolive grove in one corner of it. The whole place was smothered witholive groves, the people owed their incomes and existence to theseirrepressible trees. The villages among the hills swam roof-deep inthem. They swarmed even in the hotel gardens.The guide books praised them as persistently as the residents broughtthem, sooner or later, into every conversation. They grew lyrical overthem:"And how do you like our olive trees? Ah, you think them pretty. Atfirst, most people are disappointed. They grow on one.""They do," he agreed."I'm glad you appreciate them. I find them the embodiment of grace. Andwhen the wind lifts the under-leaves across a whole mountainslope--why, it's wonderful, isn't it? One realises the meaning of'olive-green'.""One does," he sighed. "But all the same I should like to get one toeat--an olive, I mean.""Ah, to eat, yes. That's not so easy. You see, the crop is--""Exactly," he interrupted impatiently, weary of the habitual andevasive explanations. "But I should like to taste the fruit. I shouldlike to enjoy one."For, after a stay of six weeks, he had never once seen an olive on thetable, in the shops, nor even on the street barrows at the marketplace. He had never tasted one. No one sold olives, though olive treeswere a drug in the place; no one bought them, no one asked for them; itseemed that no one wanted them. The trees, when he looked closely, werethick with a dark little berry that seemed more like a sour sloe thanthe succulent, delicious spicy fruit associated with its name.Men climbed the trunks, everywhere shaking the laden branches andhitting them with long bamboo poles to knock the fruit off, while womenand children, squatting on their haunches, spent laborious hoursfilling baskets underneath, then loading mules and donkeys with theirdaily "catch." But an olive to eat was unobtainable. He had never caredfor olives, but now he craved with all his soul to feel his teeth inone."Ach! But it is the Spanish olive that you eat," explained the headwaiter, a German "from Basel." "These are for oil only." After which hedisliked the olive more than ever--until that night when he saw thefirst eatable specimen rolling across the shiny parquet floor,propelled towards him by the careless hand of a pretty girl, who thenlooked up into his eyes and smiled.He was convinced that Eve, similarly, had rolled the apple towards Adamacross the emerald sward of the first garden in the world.He slept usually like the dead. It must have been something very realthat made him open his eyes and sit up in bed alertly. There was anoise against his door. He listened. The room was still quite dark. Itwas early morning. The noise was not repeated."Who's there?" he asked in a sleepy whisper. "What is it?"The noise came again. Some one was scratching on the door. No, it wassomebody tapping."What do you want?" he demanded in a louder voice. "Come in," he added,wondering sleepily whether he was presentable. Either the hotel was onfire or the porter was waking the wrong person for some sunriseexpedition.Nothing happened. Wide awake now, he turned the switch on, but no lightflooded the room. The electricians, he remembered with a curse, wereout on strike. He fumbled for the matches, and as he did so a voice inthe corridor became distinctly audible. It was just outside his door."Aren't you ready?" he heard. "You sleep for ever."And the voice, although never having heard it before, he could not haverecognised it, belonged, he knew suddenly, to the girl who had let theolive fall. In an instant he was out of bed. He lit a candle."I'm coming," he called softly, as he slipped rapidly into someclothes. "I'm sorry I've kept you. I shan't be a minute.""Be quick then!" he heard, while the candle flame slowly grew, and hefound his garments. Less than three minutes later he opened the doorand, candle in hand, peered into the dark passage."Blow it out!" came a peremptory whisper. He obeyed, but not quickenough. A pair of red lips emerged from the shadows. There was a puff,and the candle was extinguished. "I've got my reputation to consider.We mustn't be seen, of course!"The face vanished in the darkness, but he had recognised it--theshining skin, the bright glancing eyes. The sweet breath touched hischeek. The candlestick was taken from him by a swift, deft movement. Heheard it knock the wainscoting as it was set down. He went out into apitch-black corridor, where a soft hand seized his own and led him--bya back door, it seemed--out into the open air of the hill-sideimmediately behind the hotel.He saw the stars. The morning was cool and fragrant, the sharp airwaked him, and the last vestiges of sleep went flying. He had beendrowsy and confused, had obeyed the summons without thinking. He nowrealised suddenly that he was engaged in an act of madness.The girl, dressed in some flimsy material thrown loosely about her headand body, stood a few feet away, looking, he thought, like some figurecalled out of dreams and slumber of a forgotten world, out of legendalmost. He saw her evening shoes peep out; he divined an evening dressbeneath the gauzy covering. The light wind blew it close against herfigure. He thought of a nymph."I say--but haven't you been to bed?" he asked stupidly. He had meantto expostulate, to apologise for his foolish rashness, to scold and saythey must go back at once. Instead, this sentence came. He guessed shehad been sitting up all night. He stood still a second, staring in muteadmiration, his eyes full of bewildered question."Watching the stars," she met his thought with a happy laugh. "Orionhas touched the horizon. I came for you at once. We've got just fourhours!" The voice, the smile, the eyes, the reference to Orion, swepthim off his feet. Something in him broke loose, and flew wildly,recklessly to the stars."Let us be off!" he cried, "before the Bear tilts down. Already Alcyonebegins to fade. I'm ready. Come!"She laughed. The wind blew the gauze aside to show two ivory whitelimbs. She caught his hand again, and they scampered together up thesteep hill-side towards the woods. Soon the big hotel, the villas, thewhite houses of the little town where natives and visitors still laysoundly sleeping, were out of sight. The farther sky came down to meetthem. The stars were paling, but no sign of actual dawn was yetvisible. The freshness stung their cheeks.Slowly, the heavens grew lighter, the east turned rose, the outline ofthe trees defined themselves, there was a stirring of the silvery greenleaves. They were among olive groves--but the spirits of the trees weredancing. Far below them, a pool of deep colour, they saw the ancientsea. They saw the tiny specks of distant fishing-boats. The sailorswere singing to the dawn, and birds among the mimosa of the hanginggardens answered them.Pausing a moment at length beneath a gaunt old tree, whose struggle toleave the clinging earth had tortured its great writhing arms andtrunk, they took their breath, gazing at one another with eyes full ofhappy dreams."You understood so quickly," said the girl, "my little message. I knewby your eyes and ears you would." And she first tweaked his ears withtwo slender fingers mischievously, then laid her soft palm with amomentary light pressure on both eyes."You're half-and-half, at any rate," she added, looking him up and downfor a swift instant of appraisement, "if you're not altogether." Thelaughter showed her white, even little teeth."You know how to play, and that's something," she added. Then, as if toherself, "You'll be altogether before I've done with you.""Shall I?" he stammered, afraid to look at her.Puzzled, some spirit of compromise still lingering in him, he knew notwhat she meant; he knew only that the current of life flowedincreasingly through his veins, but that her eyes confused him."I'm longing for it," he added. "How wonderfully you did it! They rollso awkwardly----""Oh, that!" She peered at him through a wisp of hair. "You've kept it,I hope.""Rather. It's on my mantelpiece----""You're sure you haven't eaten it?" and she made a delicious mimicrywith her red lips, so that he saw the tip of a small pointed tongue."I shall keep it," he swore, "as long as these arms have life in them,"and he seized her just as she was crouching to escape, and covered herwith kisses."I knew you longed to play," she panted, when he released her. "Still,it was sweet of you to pick it up before another got it.""Another!" he exclaimed."The gods decide. It's a lob-sided thing, remember. It can't rollstraight." She looked oddly mischievous, elusive.He stared at her."If it had rolled elsewhere--and another had picked it up----?" hebegan."I should be with that other now!" And this time she was off and awaybefore he could prevent her, and the sound of her silvery laughtermocked him among the olive trees beyond. He was up and after her in asecond, following her slim whiteness in and out of the old-world grove,as she flitted lightly, her hair flying in the wind, her figureflashing like a ray of sunlight or the race of foaming water--till atlast he caught her and drew her down upon his knees, and kissed herwildly, forgetting who and where and what he was."Hark!" she whispered breathlessly, one arm close about his neck. "Ihear their footsteps. Listen! It is the pipe!""The pipe----!" he repeated, conscious of a tiny but delicious shudder.For a sudden chill ran through him as she said it. He gazed at her. Thehair fell loose about her cheeks, flushed and rosy with his hot kisses.Her eyes were bright and wild for all their softness. Her face, turnedsideways to him as she listened, wore an extraordinary look that for aninstant made his blood run cold. He saw the parted lips, the smallwhite teeth, the slim neck of ivory, the young bosom panting from histempestuous embrace. Of an unearthly loveliness and brightness sheseemed to him, yet with this strange, remote expression that touchedhis soul with sudden terror.Her face turned slowly."Who are you?" he whispered. He sprang to his feet without waitingfor her answer.He was young and agile; strong, too, with that quick response of musclethey have who keep their bodies well; but he was no match for her. Herspeed and agility out-classed his own with ease. She leapt. Before hehad moved one leg forward towards escape, she was clinging with soft,supple arms and limbs about him, so that he could not free himself, andas her weight bore him downwards to the ground, her lips found his ownand kissed them into silence. She lay buried again in his embrace, herhair across his eyes, her heart against his heart, and he forgot hisquestion, forgot his little fear, forgot the very world he knew...."They come, they come," she cried gaily. "The Dawn is here. Are youready?""I've been ready for five thousand years," he answered, leaping to hisfeet beside her."Altogether!" came upon a sparkling laugh that was like wind among theolive leaves.Shaking her last gauzy covering from her, she snatched his hand, andthey ran forward together to join the dancing throng now crowding upthe slope beneath the trees. Their happy singing filled the sky. Deckedwith vine and ivy, and trailing silvery green branches, they poured ina flood of radiant life along the mountain side. Slowly they meltedaway into the blue distance of the breaking dawn, and, as the lastfigure disappeared, the sun came up slowly out of a purple sea.They came to the place he knew--the deserted earthquake village--and afaint memory stirred in him. He did not actually recall that he hadvisited it already, had eaten his sandwiches with "hotel friends"beneath its crumbling walls; but there was a dim troubling sense offamiliarity--nothing more. The houses still stood, but pigeons lived inthem, and weasels, stoats and snakes had their uncertain homes inancient bedrooms. Not twenty years ago the peasants thronged its narrowstreets, through which the dawn now peered and cool wind breathed amongdew-laden brambles."I know the house," she cried, "the house where we would live!" andraced, a flying form of air and sunlight, into a tumbled cottage thathad no roof, no floor or windows. Wild bees had hung a nest against thebroken wall.He followed her. There was sunlight in the room, and there wereflowers. Upon a rude, simple table lay a bowl of cream, with eggs andhoney and butter close against a home-made loaf. They sank into eachother's arms upon a couch of fragrant grass and boughs against thewindow where wild roses bloomed ... and the bees flew in and out.It was Bussana, the so-called earthquake village, because a suddenearthquake had fallen on it one summer morning when all the inhabitantswere at church. The crashing roof killed sixty, the tumbling wallsanother hundred, and the rest had left it where it stood."The Church," he said, vaguely remembering the story. "They were atprayer----"The girl laughed carelessly in his ear, setting his blood in a rush andquiver of delicious joy. He felt himself untamed, wild as the wind andanimals. "The true God claimed His own," she whispered. "He came back.Ah, they were not ready--the old priests had seen to that. But he came.They heard his music. Then his tread shook the olive groves, the oldground danced, the hills leapt for joy----""And the houses crumbled," he laughed as he pressed her closer to hisheart--"And now we've come back!" she cried merrily. "We've come back toworship and be glad!" She nestled into him, while the sun rose higher."I hear them--hark!" she cried, and again leapt, dancing from his side.Again he followed her like wind. Through the broken window they saw thenaked fauns and nymphs and satyrs rolling, dancing, shaking their softhoofs amid the ferns and brambles. Towards the appalling, rupturedchurch they sped with feet of light and air. A roar of happy song andlaughter rose."Come!" he cried. "We must go too."Hand in hand they raced to join the tumbling, dancing throng. She wasin his arms and on his back and flung across his shoulders, as he ran.They reached the broken building, its whole roof gone sliding yearsago, its walls a-tremble still, its shattered shrines alive withnesting birds."Hush!" she whispered in a tone of awe, yet pleasure. "He is there!"She pointed, her bare arm outstretched above the bending heads.There, in the empty space, where once stood sacred Host and Cup, hesat, filling the niche sublimely and with awful power. His shaggy form,benign yet terrible, rose through the broken stone. The great eyesshone and smiled. The feet were lost in brambles."God!" cried a wild, frightened voice yet with deep worship in it--andthe old familiar panic came with portentous swiftness. The great Figurerose.The birds flew screaming, the animals sought holes, the worshippers,laughing and glad a moment ago, rushed tumbling over one another forthe doors."He goes again! Who called? Who called like that? His feet shake theground!""It is the earthquake!" screamed a woman's shrill accents in ghastlyterror."Kiss me--one kiss before we forget again...!" sighed a laughing,passionate voice against his ear. "Once more your arms, your heartbeating on my lips...! You recognised his power. You are nowaltogether! We shall remember!"But he woke, with the heavy bed-clothes stuffed against his mouth andthe wind of early morning sighing mournfully about the hotel walls.* * * * *"Have they left again--those ladies?" he inquired casually of the headwaiter, pointing to the table. "They were here last night at dinner.""Who do you mean?" replied the man, stupidly, gazing at the spotindicated with a face quite blank. "Last night--at dinner?" He tried tothink."An English lady, elderly, with--her daughter----" at which momentprecisely the girl came in alone. Lunch was over, the room empty.There was a second's difficult pause. It seemed ridiculous not tospeak. Their eyes met. The girl blushed furiously.He was very quick for an Englishman. "I was allowing myself to askafter your mother," he began. "I was afraid"--he glanced at the tablelaid for one--"she was not well, perhaps?""Oh, but that's very kind of you, I'm sure." She smiled. He saw thesmall white even teeth....And before three days had passed, he was so deeply in love that hesimply couldn't help himself."I believe," he said lamely, "this is yours. You dropped it, you know.Er--may I keep it? It's only an olive."They were, of course, in an olive grove when he asked it, and the sunwas setting.She looked at him, looked him up and down, looked at his ears, hiseyes. He felt that in another second her little fingers would slip upand tweak the first, or close the second with a soft pressure----"Tell me," he begged: "did you dream anything--that first night I sawyou?"She took a quick step backwards. "No," she said, as he followed hermore quickly still, "I don't think I did. But," she went onbreathlessly as he caught her up, "I knew--from the way you picked itup----""Knew what?" he demanded, holding her tightly so that she could not getaway again."That you were already half and half, but would soon be altogether."And, as he kissed her, he felt her soft little fingers tweak his ears.
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