Stone Bruises

I stop to rest on the small landing I fell onto when Mathilde’s father pushed me down the steps. The empty bottles I knocked over have been stood upright again, but even in daylight the barn is dank and gloomy. The stone walls are windowless, with the only light coming from the large open entrance. The air is cooler, and as I descend the last few steps I notice a scent of stale wine mixed in with the musty odour of stone and wood. At some time in the past the barn has been a small winery. There’s an empty metal vat and the cobbles are scarred from where other equipment has been removed. One section of them has been torn up and replaced with concrete, new-looking but already starting to crack.

There’s a tap jutting from one wall. Water spatters out onto the cobbles when I turn it and cup my hand underneath to take a few mouthfuls. It’s teeth-achingly cold but tastes wonderfully fresh. Splashing a little onto my face, I go to the tall wine rack that stands nearby. It’s half full of unlabelled bottles, but a good number of their corks are stained where the wine has seeped through. I sniff at one of them, wrinkling my nose at the sour taint, before going to the barn’s entrance.

Sunlight pours in from outside. I stand for a moment, taking in the scene through the open doors. The world outside is framed between them, a vivid picture set against the dark walls. Like a cinema screen.

Squinting against the brightness, I lean on my crutch and walk into it.

It’s like stepping into Technicolor. I breathe deeply, enjoying the scents of wild flowers and herbs. My legs are shaky, but after the smothering loft it’s good to feel sun on my face. Careful of my bandaged foot, I lower myself to the dusty ground to take in the view.

Directly in front of the barn is the vine field I saw from the loft’s window. It’s bordered by woods, and further off I can just make out the blue of the lake through the trees. Beyond that is the pale gold of surrounding fields, stretching as far as I can see. Whatever else the farm might be, it’s certainly peaceful. The air simmers with the drone of crickets and the occasional bleating of unseen goats, but nothing else disturbs the quiet. No cars, no machinery, no people.

I close my eyes and soak it up.

Gradually, another noise makes itself known. A rhythmic metallic creaking. I look up to see an old man walking towards me on a track through the grapevines. He’s a bandy-legged, wiry old thing, and the creaking is caused by the galvanized buckets he carries swinging slightly on their handles. His sparse hair is almost white, his face baked the colour of old oak. He barely seems taller than me even though I’m sitting down. But there’s a sinewy strength about him, and the forearms below his rolled shirtsleeves are thick with knotted muscle.

This must be the Georges Gretchen mentioned, I guess. I give him a nod. ‘Morning.’

There’s no acknowledgement. He continues unhurriedly towards the barn, walking right past me as though I’m not there. Unsettled, I turn my head to see what he’s doing as he goes inside. There’s the clatter of the buckets being set down, and a moment later I hear the tinny drumming of water as they’re filled at the tap. After a few minutes the sound of water cuts off and he re-emerges. He doesn’t so much as glance at me as he heads back down the track, forearms bulging as though they’re stuffed with walnuts under the weight of the buckets.

‘Nice to meet you, too,’ I say to his back.

I watch him trudge across the vine field and into the wood at the far side. He’s soon out of sight, and I wonder what he needs the buckets of water for down there. The farm doesn’t seem to have any livestock except for chickens and the goats I’ve heard bleating, and no visible crops except for the grapes. Judging from the sour-smelling corks and the spaces where wine-making equipment used to be in the barn, it hardly seems to be making a success as a vineyard, either.

I wonder how they survive.

I’ve rested enough, and my exposed skin is starting to sting and redden. Struggling to my feet, I settle the crutch under my arm and shuffle around the corner of the barn. There’s a roofless outhouse with an old hole-in-the-ground privy, and beyond that is the courtyard I remember from before. It’s even hotter here. Heat shimmers off the cobbles, and the scaffolded house where I asked for water looks bleached in the sun. A weathervane shaped like a cockerel leans precariously on its sway-backed roof, waiting for the air to move.