i. Author's Note
I write this from a place of depravity, one from which I am currently attempting to extricate myself.
My relationship with men as a whole has, up until this point, been one of lust and loss, never love. Starting out with a particularly bad example as a girl of three, I was taught that men are beasts who seek their own sexual gratification above all. Even today, I feel like every man is simply biding his time until he can show his "truer nature" and satisfy his desires. Even those men who "portray" themselves as innocuous are waiting for an opportunity to strike. In my heart of hearts, I believe there is no good man.
I know this is my own perversion of the truth based on what I learned at a young age and how I interpreted it, but I've only recently found out that this way of thinking formed the bedrock of my interactions with the opposite sex. It affects how I view myself, how I talk, how I experience pleasure, everything.
This story was birthed in that place of skewed perceptions, and though I discovered this about myself halfway through writing it, I still completed it just as I would have. Not because some part of me doesn't still enjoy these sort of scenarios on a base level despite knowing where it comes from (because I do), but because I wanted to fully delve into all the facets of this twisted mind. It's like knowing that a person is bad for you because of x, y, and z, but you're still attracted to their type anyway. It's innate, and it takes a lot of mental energy to change. I don't mean to make anyone feel uncomfortable for enjoying this sort of story and I'm not shaming anyone's tastes, but I thought I'd be upfront and honest in my aims for writing it.
It is only in naming our demons that we can banish them to hell where they belong.
ii. Preface
The inspiration for this story came from the long Provençal poem Mirèio by Frédéric Mistral, an Occitan writer. It tells the story of two lovers, Mirèio and Vincen, whose love is thwarted by their opposing social backgrounds. The poem is told in twelve cantos, some of which I have elected to borrow their titles from to name the chapters.
There really is no similarity in storytelling or plot between Mistral's poetry and this piece, but a part of me really wanted to bring his beautiful work to the fore. That, and his romantic descriptions of the French countryside during a beautiful summer transported me to another place and time. Even the poem's dedication breathes a wistful tone,
"To you, I dedicate Mirèio: It is my heart and my soul; It is the flower of my years; It is a bunch of grapes from La Crau, leaves and all, a peasant's offering."
May this story bring you a thrill, a peace, or nothing at all; the choice is yours entirely.
I. Falabrego Mas / Lotus Farm
Sunday, June 16th, 1940
"And if, Mireio, thou couldst see before thee,
As we from empyrean heights of glory,
This world; and what a sad and foolish thing
Is all its passion for the perishing…"
It was in the harsh, beaming light of day that Mireille paused to bring a sluggish hand to her glistening brow. Her back ached, and the sweat slid sweetly down the center of her back, disappearing somewhere into the waistline of her skirt. She prayed for reprieve, but that wouldn't come until the light dipped low beyond the horizon. No, her work would continue for some hours yet.
It was shearing time once again, an arduous task that required all the help one could get. Luckily, her family's neighbors were generous folk offering their help freely. Her own family would give their aid in turn in the coming days during the haymaking. Well, really just she and her sister would be helping. Honorine had just reached her twelfth summer and was thus old enough to contribute her share. Mother would remain behind as she often did to manage the daily household chores that she spared the girls.
Mireille, for her part, didn't mind the work, grueling as it was. She had grown used to the callouses that marred her hands and the crick that never truly left her neck. It was honest work, and she knew Mother couldn't do it. Not because the woman's body was frail. Indeed, Clotilde Marveaux was stronger than Mireille herself, her arms sturdy and sure. It was her mind that worried Mireille.
Summer 1930. Father's last season of life. He had been consumed by the wasting disease. Mireille had been eleven at the time, and she couldn't understand why he wouldn't get up any more. He had always been so full of life, so loud. And yet there he laid, quiet and still.
Her mother had wailed when he finally left. Morning and night for a whole day. Mireille didn't even think she took a breath. She'd had to care for Honorine then, and she hadn't really ever stopped. Mother was full of love, but sometimes her love wasn't… practical.
It was odd to think there was a war on. Why hadn't anybody told the bees to stop buzzing and the wind to stop blowing? Such commonplace things shouldn't carry on. Vestiges of bygone peaceful days, empty and hollow when she knew death was beating down their door. But the world carried on just the same.
It didn't do to listen to the radio, though Mother insisted they should put it on every night so that she could keep up with current events. Mireille saw no point to it. The Germans would be in Bussy before long. She could only pray they wouldn't steal their food or shoot them on sight. But she would think on those things later. Another time, another day, or never.
Mireille snapped the trimmers on again, causing the sheep to let out a distressed round of bleats.
Rainer, a large, 8-year-old Great Pyrenees, lifted his head from where he lay on the ground to see what the commotion was about. The poor thing was suffering in the heat of these summer days with all of that fur, but Mireille did the best she could to keep him brushed. She often considered taking the clippers to his fur instead of the sheep's wool.
"Rodolphe!" She called to one of the local village boys lending a hand, "That one there, she'll be next."
He lifted his head wearily, strands of dark brown hair clinging to his forehead with sweat and chocolate brown eyes begging reprieve, "You're an absolute slavedriver, woman. Not even a long enough rest to get my breath back?"
Mireille leveled a derisive stare at him, "That's Mademoiselle Marveaux to you, not 'woman'. And you'd better enjoy what short rests I give you, or else you can kiss your supper goodbye."
He looked crestfallen for a moment, but when he looked up at her again, she saw him trying to hide a smile, a faint redness coloring his cheeks, "Heaven knows I'm only here for the supper, Mademoiselle." She quite thought he meant something else entirely.
For goodness' sake, Rodolphe was fifteen, and though Mireille knew he would grow into a fine man one day, he was five years her junior. He hadn't a chance, but it still brought a touch to her heart to see the daringness of youth.
With a huff of her breath to keep a stray champagne-colored lock out of her eye, Mireille set back down to the task at hand—wrangling the wayward sheep to meet with a pair of shears. War or no, there was work to be done.
The deluge came at noon the next day. Sunday, the Day of the Lord. Had these people no decency?
One moment she was there in the pew listening to the priest extol the virtues of chastity and fortitude in the face of any adversary and the next she was standing in the square with the barrel of a tank aimed over her head. They fell together in line so neatly, Mireille figured it must've been rehearsed. The synchronized beating of boots on gravel sounded the death knell. This was the hour of their defeat. And God, the smoke!
The parade halted, and one car pulled out ahead of the rest near the square center.
"Under the authority and the signature of Maréchal Pétain," a trim, younger man shouted through a megaphone. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel the smugness radiating off of him. Every word spoken was another dagger into the heart of the French people, and he reveled in it, "A new constitution of the French state is signed, guaranteeing the rights of labor, of family, and of the fatherland. You are defeated, and we are now in charge."
Mireille huffed at that. Arrogant prick.
"All firearms must be surrendered to German headquarters tomorrow morning. As our Führer writes, the sword will become our plow, and from the tears of war the daily bread of future generations will grow. Those who have been billeted an officer should return home and prepare for their arrival."
Officers? In their homes? Surely there was a better place for them. Like a pig sty… Or the gallows.
"Come, Mireille," her mother breathed in a warning tone, sensing the rising uneasiness amongst the crowd. A tug on her sleeve signaled Honorine's presence beside her, worried and fretting. Mother placed a calming hand on the girl's shoulder and then guided her away. Mireille gladly followed.
Only once they were down the lane and free from the prying eyes and ears of any observers did Mireille open her mouth to speak.
"How could they do that?" she whispered furiously. Her mother shot her a glare of warning.
"I'm only saying if they had any decency, they would pitch their tents in an open field and leave us be," she clarified.
"You ask too much," her mother replied.
"How is that too much?" Mireille fired back, "They have taken our capital, our government, our land. And now they would have us open our parlors to them. It's mania!"
"Such is the way of the conqueror."
"Must we bow so readily?"
"Who's bowing?" Honorine chimed in, "I'm not bowing. I would never!"
Mireille couldn't help but laugh and reach out to draw her sister closer.
"And I would never let you, Germans be damned!" she vowed, too dramatically for her mother's tastes.
"You wouldn't be saying such nonsense if they were within earshot."
"And neither would you, Mother. There, a spade's a spade," Mireille paused to step in front of her sister and draw her in close, "Remember, Hon, no matter how ordinary they look or how civil they might act, they are still the enemy. They are not our friends, and they never will be."
"I will," she promised, eyes wide in fear.
"I don't mean to scare you, but you are old enough to understand the world as it is." Honorine nodded solemnly in response, and Mireille grabbed her hand to tuck it underneath her arm, "We must be strong for each other. That's the only way we'll make it through," she concluded.
Mother's bright smile cut through the tension.
"What have I done to deserve such wise girls?" she beamed. Her eyes were sharp and alert, Mireille noted. Good.
It was when night fell too early in her eyes—that was when Mireille knew to bring Honorine out from the house for a long walk. Mother needed her time alone then. Time alone to dance with the ghosts of summers gone by.
"What do you mean we're to have an officer here?" her mother asked, indignant. Mireille spotted the worry as it wormed its way into her shoulder blades and made her neck erect.
For his part, the soldier assigned to the task of informing citizens of their billeting status remained unfazed. He was probably used to the dirty looks and ill wishes by now. Mireille stepped in before her mother violated his patience again.
"We only mean that our home is not a suitable enough accommodation for an individual of such a high rank. I imagine he would have to have only the best living arrangements, not a farmhouse five kilometers from town," she placated.
"It has been considered, madame," he responded with a weary glance to their living quarters, "But such are the arrangements as they stand. Any complaints may be taken to the Headquarters stationed in the town square. Good day."
With a click of his heels, he was off. Mireille stared openly out at him, aghast, as he marched down the lane. She turned to look incredulously at Mother and Honorine.
"Fucking Germans."
"Mireille!" her mother scolded. Honorine squirmed.
"What do we do now?" she asked.
"We wait," Mireille answered, "We tidy, and we wait."