French Connection

“He told me once he liked that particular café because if he looked to the right he could see Rome”—the arches of the old Roman bridge—“and if he looked to the left he could see nature”—the green winding banks of the river as it left town.

I had only hoped to find the house, to soak up the atmosphere of the place. I’d never expected to encounter such help. People dialed up friends and thrust mobile phones into my hand, and they gathered over the pamphlets I’d picked up at the exhibition site. Each new photo prompted another animated recollection.

“This one with Anais Nin was taken right over there at that same café.”

“Ahh, Henry Miller. He came here to visit Durrell for a few days. He ended up staying six months. Go back to the main square beyond the town clock and look for the alley on the left. You can see the flat he rented.”

They were proud of their town and proud to show off its famous associations, but apart from Bruno they knew little of the man, and none of them had read his work. In his later years, Durrell was a private person who shunned fame and recognition: “the hermit of Sommières.” He simply kept to himself. Still, those stories mattered to me. Having seen the house and those streets and having talked to those men, I could envision his life here. It was enough.

That night we decided to splash out on a celebratory meal. It was more than we could afford, but it was the kind of slap in the face of prudence that Durrell would have approved of. We laid the foundation with pastis, its bite of anise designed to stimulate our hunger and to reopen the gates of conversation. After we’d dealt with a delicate soupe au pistou, out came a succulent coq au vin that fairly slid off the bone, accompanied by fresh crusty bread and roasted potatoes, and two litres of a firm and somewhat spicy pic saint loup. We closed the proceedings with the fi nest crème brûlée I had ever eaten—rich and creamy, with a crust like hardened magma upon which to rap your spoon. The atmosphere was so cordial that we decided to linger there for a glass of Armagnac, the fi nest brandy in the world, the very fumes of which seemed to turn every stranger in the room into a friend—though a couple more would have blown us out like a candle.

Our bellies warmed and our spirits bursting, we set out into the nighttime streets in search of more wine. Most places were closed, but we found one man who agreed to sell us a bottle of the delicate local rosé, which he uncorked for us and which we carried through the empty streets.

“Let’s go back for one last look at the house,” I said. We’d been unable to get in, and despite our successes something was still missing. I still felt shut out.

We high-stepped our way around the entire perimeter of the tall stone wall, crashing through the weeds of the adjacent empty lot to see it from all sides. At the back, hidden from the road, I hauled myself up for a glimpse into the yard. None of the windows were lit; it was dark and lonely. On impulse I took a swig of wine and threw away the cork. Unwilling to leave the town with regrets, I climbed carefully over the sharp iron spikes without tearing my pants or emasculating myself, and I jumped down into the yard. I simply wanted to sit there in silence for a few moments, and to raise a glass with Larry’s ghost. He had become simply Larry by then, because we were finally seeing the world through his eyes.

As we walked back through the town arm in arm, singing in booming voices that echoed off the walls, I saw the poster of Larry smiling down at us with the carefree days of his youth resurrected—and I swear to God I saw him wink.

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