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2009 My friend, the DesertBy Marc Rugani
My friend, the desert
I knew it was going to happen.
Even though I was expecting it, when it actually happened, I still felt a surge of anxiety, as if I’d been kicked in the stomach.
But the feeling didn’t last.
The sand had been encroaching on my garden over the past few months. I’d had to say goodbye to my vegetables some weeks before: my fresh carrots, leeks, beans that had added so much pleasure to meals, along with the herbs that I used to delicately season salads; all that work in the garden was over – hoeing, watering, weeding, picking what was ready to be eaten.
At first I felt a great sadness, but it soon passed over and flew off like a bird hurrying away: after all, this was just fate advancing, greeting me. I didn’t fight it or get angry, but instead felt a kind of peace, as if something was about to come to an end.
My garden was now completely covered in sand: a gift from the mountain of sand opposite, so huge and tall that it blocked out the sun.
I knew this mountain well, I was fond of it and felt no resentment.
Today, the 3rd of February, the sand arrived at the walls of my house.
The council had tried to persuade me to move out last November into safe lodgings, following my neighbours, whose houses are all now completely covered.
But I didn’t and I won’t. I won’t move. My kindly mountain has spared me this long and I want to stay with it until the end.
My desert is so beautiful!
It’s a proper desert, where nothing grows. It’s more authentic and arid than many of the world’s deserts, which flower and flourish as soon as there’s a few drops of rain, to the envy of our country fields! No, here sand remains sand, virginal, pure, true to itself. It is barren, but so welcoming!
My desert is called “Pyla”; I like that name, it sounds right; I often refer to him as that, as if I’m talking to a pet; murmuring “Pyla, you are quite magnificent today, what pleasure you give me” or “Pyla, you’re like a beast, asleep outside, snoring in the breeze” – these are the sort of affectionate things I say to him, whatever he’s up to, whatever mood he’s in.
Some narrow-minded fools have said that he’s a dune, not a desert, that he’s a girl, not a boy, that he’s too small to be a proper desert. What idiots! They’ve not looked at all, they’ve understood nothing!
My desert isn’t small at all!
From the base, he’s enormous, as impregnable as the Great Wall of China, too steep to climb: one step forward is two steps back and if out of sheer pride you persist, you’ll soon give up – out of breath, heart bursting, legs aching! Such is the capricious whim of my diva, the desert – he wants to be desired and conquered!
Seen from above, he is just magnificent, his beauty breathtaking.
On either side of him, as far as the eye can see, you have the forest, which he is eating away gradually, and the sea, which he blocks. He has resisted the latter’s moods, storms and tempests for centuries, turning his broad back against its efforts: “you go for it, sea, try all you like but you’re not getting past!” and the sea doesn’t get past. After countless attempts, the sea has finally understood and more or less given up – it knows that my “Pyla” is too strong for it.
Against his giant’s back, the Arcachon basin, Cap Ferret and the Arguin bank stand out for miles, along with the unfolding sandbanks that colour the sea. The tiny specks of fishing boats and yachts make their way through the waves. When it’s in a good mood, the sea is not empty. What a sight, what grandeur, what silence!
I’m not the only one who loves my desert: he brings happiness to all who visit him, to the many children who over the years have played, laughing, joyously frolicking on his giant’s back. School teachers bring their nature classes to talk about the sea, the sand the birds...and the children listen intently, like they’ve never bothered to listen before: the sea is just there, down below on one side, whilst they can hear the wind whistling in their ears and as for the sand, they’re sitting on its warm, soft, fine grains. Adults thrill to the harmony around them, with smiles on their lips and joy in their hearts; admiringly they take photographs; romantic couples feel more in love than ever, holding hands, exchanging kisses! People picnic, they sing, they’re happy!
Once you’re at the top, all nations meet, all languages understand one another. The Eiffel Tower may do this better in the noise and bustle of the city, while here there is but purity and silence – apart from the great racket heard on stormy, windy days! Then my bad-tempered giant, his back arching like a hostile cat, chases all intruders away, lashing them with sand. No one is spared, not even me, his neighbour and old friend. On such days, I try not to annoy him, I leave him to himself, and just say “See you soon.”
So I’m not going to barricade myself in.
I shall leave my door open. The sand is my friend and I shall welcome him in.
The end is approaching for me, as steadily as my mountain of sand advances. And I want my life to end here, in my own home, beneath my desert friend. I’ll be fine here, in the warmth and much better off than under some tombstone.
My desert crawls forward, pushed by the wind. My last days will follow the same rhythm, taking their time. I’m not impatient, I’m simply ready. I’m not afraid.
Our love story will go on for ever. My desert and I will never part. |