With a flick of her wrists, she laid the table with beautiful, white linen. But only for two. I was familiar with her household routine; I knew that when Mistral had company, his mother wouldn't sit down at the table…. The old dear only knows Provencal and would feel very uneasy trying to talk to French people…. Also, she was needed in the kitchen.
Goodness! I had a great meal that day—a piece of roast goat, some mountain cheese, jam, figs, and Muscat grapes. Everything washed down with a good Chateauneuf du Pape, which has such a wonderful red colour in the glass….
After the meal, I fetched the exercise book and put it on the table in front of Mistral.
—We'd said we'd go out, said the poet, smiling.
—Oh, no. Calendal! Calendal!
Mistral resigned himself to his fate and in his sweet musical voice, while beating the rhythm with his hand, he began the first canto:
Of a maid who fell in love and madly,
And a tale I told that turned out sadly,
Now of a child of Cassis,
If God's will it may be,
As a poor little boy casts out for anchovy…
Outside, the vesper bells ring, the fireworks explode in the square, and the fifes play marching up and down the streets with the tambourines. The bulls from the Camargue bellow as they are herded along.
But I was listening to the story of the little fisherman from Provence, with my elbows on the table cloth, and my eyes filling with tears.
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