'Malagar'
The summer home of the Mauriac family
in Aquitaine
Photo credit: © Anaka
TANTE ZULNIE
[AUNT ZULNIE]
François Mauriac
Translated by
BR
I remember the path in the Midi, which even during our most foolish games we would never dare to cross. Aunt Zulnie would promenade along it all day, even during the hottest hours. Hidden behind the St John pear tree, we would watch her as she passed to and fro: she rubbed, with what appeared to be a continuous gesture, her gouty fingers inside their torn gloves; her eyes, of which we never saw the whites, appeared to be eternally raised to heaven; between her lips a sliver of purple tongue was always visible.
One morning we approached her. My cousin Camille, who was an audacious little girl, interrogated her:
'What do you do all day, Aunt Zulnie?'
Zulnie gave a start and answered:
'I listen.'
Camille grew more insistent.
'What do you listen to?'
But the old woman only said again:
'I listen.'
And she continued to slowly promenade like a tortoise when, after being picked up for a moment, it is put back upon the hot sand.
One afternoon in August, I was wandering with Camille in the orchard. Some butterflies had landed on the violets, fluttering their wings. Between the St John pear trees, we noticed Aunt Zulnie stop, her mouth open. Her body cast a short shadow on the sand. Despite this fearsome presence, Camille dared me to go ahead and eat one of the delicious pears which always made me sick.
'No one will see us,' she promised me.
But that night, we were deprived of dessert for having eaten this forbidden fruit. Sister Marie-Henriette, who had consecrated her life to our grandmother's rheumatism, insinuated:
'It was your guardian angel who brought us this news…'
And grandmother said:
'It's my little finger…'
But on the grand staircase which led to our rooms, Camille shook her short curls at me and declared:
'Aunt Zulnie tattled on us, we'll have to take revenge on her…'
Already, by way of reprisal, Camille had applied herself to the task of allowing a blob of wax to drop onto each step while Aunt Zulnie paced up and down the path. I was hesitant to go to war against Zulnie, so Camille pinched and scratched in a manner that made me submissive to her will. During the siesta hour while the rest of the house, oppressed by silence, resonated with the double snoring of grandmother and Sister Marie-Henriette, we drew aside our mosquito nets and descended to the garden.
The wind carried a strong odor of burnt resin from the fires which, each night, we could see on the horizon, burning wildly. Aunt Zulnie stood motionless in the atrocious heat, like a dazzled animal. Following our plan, we approached her: Camille grabbed her right arm, I snatched her left arm, and we spun her round and round, slowly at first, then more quickly as though she were a monstrous top. The old woman's bonnet fell off. Her skull appeared, so ridiculously bald that Camille thought she would die from laughter. Only a single grey tuft veiled her unlit face. Suddenly, out of the blackness of her mouth, came the cry of a beast, sharp and prolonged, which scared us. We let her go. She swayed, then threw herself on a bench.
Already, Sister Marie-Henriette had come rushing out. We were hidden between a clump of privet and the trees and could see the starched wings of her wimple shaking. The sister questioned her:
'What is it, Aunt Zulnie?'
Terrified, we awaited her response. But our victim used her twisted fingers, the nails of which had now broken through the seams of her glove, to brush the tuft of her hair from her forehead, and only murmured:
'I heard, I heard…'
And supported by Sister Marie-Henriette, she took herself off, repeating the only word of human language that she knew…
You are dead, all these years. And tonight I think of you. What did you hear, Aunt Zulnie?
One morning we approached her. My cousin Camille, who was an audacious little girl, interrogated her:
'What do you do all day, Aunt Zulnie?'
Zulnie gave a start and answered:
'I listen.'
Camille grew more insistent.
'What do you listen to?'
But the old woman only said again:
'I listen.'
And she continued to slowly promenade like a tortoise when, after being picked up for a moment, it is put back upon the hot sand.
One afternoon in August, I was wandering with Camille in the orchard. Some butterflies had landed on the violets, fluttering their wings. Between the St John pear trees, we noticed Aunt Zulnie stop, her mouth open. Her body cast a short shadow on the sand. Despite this fearsome presence, Camille dared me to go ahead and eat one of the delicious pears which always made me sick.
'No one will see us,' she promised me.
But that night, we were deprived of dessert for having eaten this forbidden fruit. Sister Marie-Henriette, who had consecrated her life to our grandmother's rheumatism, insinuated:
'It was your guardian angel who brought us this news…'
And grandmother said:
'It's my little finger…'
But on the grand staircase which led to our rooms, Camille shook her short curls at me and declared:
'Aunt Zulnie tattled on us, we'll have to take revenge on her…'
Already, by way of reprisal, Camille had applied herself to the task of allowing a blob of wax to drop onto each step while Aunt Zulnie paced up and down the path. I was hesitant to go to war against Zulnie, so Camille pinched and scratched in a manner that made me submissive to her will. During the siesta hour while the rest of the house, oppressed by silence, resonated with the double snoring of grandmother and Sister Marie-Henriette, we drew aside our mosquito nets and descended to the garden.
The wind carried a strong odor of burnt resin from the fires which, each night, we could see on the horizon, burning wildly. Aunt Zulnie stood motionless in the atrocious heat, like a dazzled animal. Following our plan, we approached her: Camille grabbed her right arm, I snatched her left arm, and we spun her round and round, slowly at first, then more quickly as though she were a monstrous top. The old woman's bonnet fell off. Her skull appeared, so ridiculously bald that Camille thought she would die from laughter. Only a single grey tuft veiled her unlit face. Suddenly, out of the blackness of her mouth, came the cry of a beast, sharp and prolonged, which scared us. We let her go. She swayed, then threw herself on a bench.
Already, Sister Marie-Henriette had come rushing out. We were hidden between a clump of privet and the trees and could see the starched wings of her wimple shaking. The sister questioned her:
'What is it, Aunt Zulnie?'
Terrified, we awaited her response. But our victim used her twisted fingers, the nails of which had now broken through the seams of her glove, to brush the tuft of her hair from her forehead, and only murmured:
'I heard, I heard…'
And supported by Sister Marie-Henriette, she took herself off, repeating the only word of human language that she knew…
You are dead, all these years. And tonight I think of you. What did you hear, Aunt Zulnie?
© 1911 Les héritiers de François Mauriac
[© 1911 The Estate of François Mauriac]
Use
the link below to view more photographs of 'Le Domaine de Malagar,' the
summer home of the MAURIAC family since 1843 located in the Aquitaine
region of southwestern France. (The site is worth visiting for the photographs alone even if you don't speak French.)
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