My Landscape

Last week we went hiking in Escragnolles about 100 kilometers northwest of Nice. It was a return visit for me as we had hiked there in the fall of 2007. Just as before, we followed the same trail and saw the same mountains and stopped by the same farmhouse for lunch. What was different now was that we were in spring. The desolate wasteland of limestones of two years ago had turned into an earthly paradise with green meadows and colourful wild flowers. Warm rays of sunshine rained on us as we walked. The honey-sweetened air vibrated with cheerful songs of wild birds. We stopped frequently to admire breathtaking panoramic views of the underlying village and the surrounding mountains. We discovered new pleasures nearly every step of our way. And all these abundant riches of nature, colors, scents and sounds belonged to us alone, two lone hikers, on that day.
As I walked, familiar landmarks gave me a sense of nostalgia and I often found myself fondly recalling our previous outing. It was a little surprising to me because it was only the second time I visited the place and I hadn't found its strange, harsh landscape very attractive the first time. Perhaps, my initial impression had lost its hard edges in the course of two years. Perhaps, since my arrival in this country in January, I had been gradully acclimatised to its landscapes to the degree that I was now ready to accept them as my own. On that day in Escragnolles, I felt as if I had been in the welcoming arms of an old friend and I found comfort in them.

Birthday

Yesterday was my birthday. I received little presents from my wife in the morning and we had lunch together at a couscous restaurant in our quartier; we saw a romantic movie in the afternoon; and there was a small surprise party with my friends in the evening. I don't remember if I had anything like this before on my birthday. It was a day not with extravagant luxuries but with simple pleasures, with little things such as going out together, taking a walk together, smiling to each other in the street, etc. In fact, it was a great day, a day made of gold. At the close of the day, my heart was full. That's happiness, I said to myself.

Good Morning to You

I left Japan in a hurry. I didn't have enough time to take care of everything I should have, to tie up my life there neatly in a little package and put it away in a drawer of my old desk and forget. But life is, perhaps, like that as long as we live. So, I was not worried.

It still amazes me to think that a certain woman with little hands of a child has become so important to me that I would even give up my life for her. But life is, perhaps, like that and I am not perturbed.

I saw her from the balcony of our flat as she was coming back from her morning errands. She saw me, too. She stopped at the crossing, looked up and smiled to me. Life should be like this and I am in peace.

 

Merci

Merci pour les sourires

Merci pour le bonheur

Merci pour l'amour

Merci pour l'été merveilleux

Merci à toi, ma femme

Merci à toi, Léa

Whisper

I was out in a flower field on a glorious day of spring. It was full of heavenly colors and sweet scents, and like a happy butterfly I flitted across the field, moving from this rose to that, from that iris to this, and drew hundreds of sketches and took thousands of pictures. My bag swelled with treasures of the day, and I left the field with great satisfaction. On the twilit trail back to my home, I saw dandelion seeds soar to the sky. Then, one swept down to me and spoke in a sad whisper: "Sir, you must be the most stone-deaf of all men on earth! Didn't you hear what the flowers said? While you were busy with your drawings and pictures, they sang so loudy of great secrets of life and death which all humans have long sought to discover. Alas, you never listened! You never listened!"

What I Knew

Of course, I knew exactly where I was. Yet, I didn't know where I was. It didn't matter to me where I was. It could have been Oran or Murmansk or Montevideo. It wouldn't have mattered. I didn't know what day of the week it was. It didn't matter, either. The only thing I knew for certain was her hand in mine as I looked out at the sea. It was small, a mere child's hand, and warm. And it did matter.

A Stranger in Me

I was a quite restless child. No one could make me sit still even for a few minutes. I would get up for no reason and wander around, sometimes near, sometimes very far. I ran away from home countless times. I could still hear clearly my parents' voices calling out my name from far as they looked for me.
At school, my teacher had enough of me. During the lessons, I would leave my desk and roam around the classroom to talk to my friends or play games by myself. I was a nuisance to my teacher, disturbing the order of the whole class. He would order me to go out of the classroom and stand in the hallway as a punishment. I stood in the long, cavernous hallway all alone for a long, long time. I may well have been crying. I don't remember now. The voices of my classmates reciting something or other came from inside the classroom. Other voices came from the other classrooms. I listened to them all. Alone.
I moved up the grades but my behaviour didn't mend itself. I kept standing in the hallway. I must have been nine or ten years old. As I found myself at my usual post one day, I heard awkward footsteps on the wood floor of the hallway. I looked up and saw a boy walking toward me. I had known him. He was one year older than I was. He was different. He had a deformed leg - some kind of congenital disease, no doubt. His left leg was dreadfully thin compared to his right. It looked like a dried-up white cucumber. I had felt strangely attracted to his deformity. I used to stare at it when he played with his classmates in the school playground. He must have been painfully aware of curious gazes from me and other pupils.
He was limping closer and closer to me. I kept staring at his horrible leg. Then, I looked up and saw his face, then, his eyes which were glaring with hatred. Out of a mixture of fear and shame, I averted my eyes and looked straight ahead, pretending I was no more aware of his presence, let alone, his deformed leg. Just as he was about to pass me by, he suddenly turned on me and hit me hard in the stomach. I couldn't breathe. I fell slowly on the floor, holding my stomach with my both hands. I was terribly frightened. So frightened in fact that I forgot the pain from the blow. Nobody had ever hit me like this. It was totally unexpected. I could not think. Then, I knew for the very first time in my life that there was somebody in the world who hated me so much that he would willingly hurt me.
The boy limped on without saying a word, without even looking back, as if nothing had happened, and he was gone. I remained on the floor for a long time, groaning quietly and helplessly. For how long? I don't remember.
More than forty years later, I still occasionally recall this incident. It may or may not have had some influence on my personality. It's impossible to say.