La Retraite (Or, The Retreat) (short story)
By Luke Labern
La Retraite
By Luke Labern
I
He stepped off the train and pulled his cap forward, so as to shade his eyes.
His worn boots made a slight tap as he walked across the large, sun-dried paving stones of the platform, though the noise was subsumed into the general hum of the people present. The train itself was still whistling slightly, as steam continued to rise into the air above the black locomotive, blending into the heat above. It was an exceptionally hot day; he took off his denim jacket and laid it across his right shoulder, the fingers of his right hand forming a hook.
He cut through the assorted people and made a distinctive figure: he was paler than they were, taller than they were, more isolated than they were. He stood around six-one, a lean figure. What little of him could be seen revealed a taut musculature; he had thin forearms, but the veins crisscrossing hinted at his strength. His upper arms were slightly bigger, but what stood out was the tone of his muscles. No one paid much attention to him, however; they were focused on the departures and the arrivals of their loved ones. Without saying a word, he left the station and followed a dirt track, the dust clinging to his boots and blending in with the chocolate brown of his corduroy trousers.
He kept to the side of the track, often stepping on the grass hanging over the edge where the field met the dried mud—which, after he took his next step, raised slightly, each blade sitting a little, before falling once again, accepting its new position. His white t-shirt gradually became saturated with sweat; the middle of his wet back held the material in place whilst the lower portions blew gently in the slight wind.
The landscape was flat and open: only the track had any sense of direction. The grass was a particularly brilliant shade of green, the sun now hanging high, feeding it. There were only two clouds in the sky: a huge cumulonimbus inching across so slowly as to appear motionless. Only he seemed to move.
He continued to follow the track, pausing only to readjust the shoulder on which his jacket rested. The sun crawled across the sky; the cloud moved into the distance and the landscape revealed more of itself. More of the same.
Eventually, a little brown dot in the distance revealed itself as a farmhouse.
Approaching the property, he heard a gentle, rhythmic thwack. As he neared the front of the farmhouse, which possessed its own little track to distinguish it form the larger track upon which he had travelled, he spotted the form of someone laying an axe into a tree trunk. The form was blocked off by one of the posts that held the front of the farmhouse’s roof over the porch. He caught a glimpse of long blonde hair following the motion of its owner as the form picked up another block of wood to be chopped.
He stopped for the first time to study the property, finding it small and modest. He approached the front of the property and saw a name engraved on the front: ‘Béringer’.
He knocked on the front door.
No one answered.
He paused, considering what to do—but he made no move towards the girl chopping wood, who had not heard his gentle knock. He tried again, and this time heard movement: the sound of feet shuffling accompanied by a knock from inside.
An old man opened the door. ‘Oui?’
‘Do you own this farm?’ The younger man spoke in French.
‘Oui.’ The old man leant desperately on a crude walking stick; he was out of breath. He wore dungarees despite the heat.
‘Are you M. Bérginer?’
M. Béringer nodded, so as to break the monotony of his replies.
The young man asked him, in as few words as possible, if he could lodge at the farm in exchange for work.
As he was in the process of asking this, the wood-chopper stepped onto the porch to her father’s left and asked who the man was in a polite way, though also assessing the nature of the man’s visit. She took her father’s arm.
The man looked at the girl’s face very quickly and noted only that she was exceedingly pretty, possessing a pair of deep blue eyes that perfectly offset her pink lips, before returning his focus to the old man.
The man repeated as much as was necessary, and finished his question.
‘Come inside,’ said M. Béringer.
‘Sit, father,’ said the girl, leading the way inside. The old man acquiesced, slowly and awkwardly lowering himself into a dark green armchair.
‘Would you like anything?’ the girl asked.
‘Non, merci.’ The man took his cap off, exposing a handsome, clean-shaven face. His cheeks were thin, and his chin long—he had a distinctive look, but it was the sort of look one remembered fondly. His skin was a healthy brown, though nothing compared to his hosts’; they lived in the sun. He was merely a visitor. He had short brown hair, as dark as it could have been whilst still remaining brown. The sweat that had accumulated under his cap left his hair sticking to his forehead; he slicked his hair back. His hosts were not put off by this, being used to sweating themselves. Though his good looks were hard to ignore, there was something about him that made it difficult to look away.
The girl was attempting to decipher this very point as she stood to her father’s side, her hands resting in front of her, holding one another. She unconsciously squeezed her left thumb with her right hand, which she always did when lost in thought.
The visitor again raised the question.
‘We do not have much here; only a mattress in a spare room.’
‘That is all I ask,’ he replied. ‘I do not ask for luxury.’
The girl continued to scrutinise his face. She noted his small nose, his almost feminine features, his grey eyes. These she found intriguing in isolation, but together they created a unique composition. When the man looked away from her father to her, she quickly looked away. It was obvious that she had been staring at him.
‘May I ask why you have come here? We are very out of the way.’ M. Béringer again coughed; the girl placed her hand on his shoulder.
‘I came only to work.’
‘We cannot pay you.’
‘I do not ask for payment; I just want to work.’
The girl continued to stare at him. This handsome man, who looked slightly awkward, hunched in an armchair sitting to the right of the father, was too tall for the farmhouse: both the father and his daughter were short—the father around ten inches shorter than the man, the girl at least a foot. But it was not this that drew her attention. It was his eyes. Or, rather, their setting.
The man had many wrinkles—an unusually large amount of deep, prominent emotion. He was almost emotionless at the present moment, but his face told the story of a deeply expressive man. The lighting in the farmhouse was not particularly bright, but she could see that little flecks of dirt had set themselves into the man’s face. There were two distinctive lines drawn into forehead, which, though subtle, became quite apparent when he spoke. Around his eyes, however, there were many more: if one were to consider only his eyes, one would have thought him to have existed for fifty years. His eyes looked as though they had seen many things.
‘We are only a small farm,’ the old man continued; ‘we subsist on what we produce. I am too old; my daughter is forced to do the work.’ The old man smiled sadly. ‘If you can help her, you can stay with us for as long as you like.’
‘Merci.’
‘Sophie, please take our guest—I am sorry; I forgot to ask your name.’
‘Isaac,’ he replied.
‘Sophie, please take Isaac to the spare room.’
She blushed upon hearing her name; she had been considering Isaac—contemplating him. She nodded, quickly turning her head so as too hide her blushed cheeks. ‘This way.’
The farm house was small; it took them only a matter of seconds to reach the other end of the building, through a narrow corridor and into small room with a dressing table and, as described, a small, thin mattress on the floor.
Sophie led him into the middle of the room and turned around, not realising that he was standing right behind her. They found themselves face to face in this cramped room—the brightest in the house, for the window took up most of the width of the wall.
She felt a shiver run through her, quickly followed by a rising feeling of warmth. She found herself looking up at his face, once again looking at his eyes.
He recognised the nature of the encounter immediately and stepped back, but not before instinctively studying her.
Her hair was golden, though a particularly light shade in this light. She had a small face, which was exceedingly pretty: her eyebrows were thin, though her lips were not. Her hair was pinned behind her left ear, which for some reason caught his attention. Her small ear, and the new angle of her face this exposed, led him to pause and study her a second longer than he would have liked. He could see no blemish on her face at all, and her dark blue eyes seemed to penetrate him. Her youth added an extra layer of attractiveness; where he possessed tired wrinkles, she had only taut, untroubled skin.
He felt the same warmth rising up in him.
‘May I shower?’ he asked, seeking a reason to leave her.
‘Y-yes,’ she stuttered, once again feeling her cheeks go hot. ‘Outside.’
II
A second axe was found, and Isaac made it his own.
The ferocity and focus with which he tore through work was something to behold. At first, the two of them took it in turns to chop; hers, a skilful action which used as little energy as possible—his, all power. Her arms were well toned; she had been chopping wood since she was a little girl. She was sixteen now, and had the healthy body of one who lived on hard physical labour and high quality food, cultivated by herself. Perhaps equally importantly, she possessed the glow and confidence of autonomy. She was entirely responsible for her continued existence. Her calm and effective approach to chopping mirrored this: she took each action as the constituent part of a larger project, expending precisely the amount of energy required. Her thoughts were focused not only on the task at hand, but on the bigger picture: the work yet to be done. She was able to chop without breaking a sweat.
He, on the other hand, attacked the job. His swings were violent and reckless. More than a few times he came close to injuring himself, at which Sophie let out a small shriek. She attempted to teach him advanced techniques, but it quickly became apparent that his work was for him a form of catharsis. He let out barely audible grunts as he made his way through each piece of wood, creating such large arcs with his swing that the sweat he quickly accrued flew in a semi-circle, the droplets illuminated by the sunlight from above. In the background all that could be seen were the endless fields of grass, the dirt track and the perfectly still sky.
Much of the time, Sophie stayed with him. They quickly became easy with one another, neither of them alluding to their first meeting alone—that aspect of their relationship was addressed solely through their eyes. At times, however, Isaac became so consumed by his physical labour that he seemed almost possessed: he would chop one piece of wood and, in the same motion, would reach for the next piece, before attacking that without pause. This was not done fluidly, however. It was done aggressively, and thus awkwardly: it was at these times that it seemed likely that he would swing so wildly as to miss the stump altogether and split his lower leg in half.
Sophie left him at these moments solely because she did not want to see him hurt himself—she did, however, stay within earshot.
After the wood had been chopped, they then tended to the chickens. Sophie was pleased more by companionship than by the division of labour—though that allowed her the time to study this reticent man. She attempted to ask natural questions, phrasing them politely, but Isaac seemed only to want to discuss the work.
‘How long have you been in the region?’ she asked, noticing one of the hens hobbling and tending to it.
‘Not long,’ he replied. ‘What is wrong with her?’
‘Her foot.’ Sophie picked up the hen, which was flapping wildly, and exposed a cut.
‘What’s the procedure?’ he asked matter-of-factly. He spoke seriously, though Sophie was calm.
‘I’ll just keep an eye on her; if she doesn’t improve, we’ll have her for dinner.’
Isaac nodded solemnly.
As they made their way through the various jobs to be undertaken, a pattern emerged. Sophie would attempt to start conversation, but Isaac would dictate the direction: always about the work. He also carried his axe around with him.
‘Why do you carry that axe with you?’
‘I may need it,’ he said, smiling. The lines on his face became striking; Sophie could not help but look, fascinated.
Sophie laughed sweetly. ‘We could share the axe, you know.’
Isaac looked at her in reply, his smile having faded. A feeling of warmth rose up between them once again; he quickly moved on to the next job.
At dinner, the three of them sat around a small table and ate from the produce they had farmed. Sophie served her father.
‘How did you get on?’ the old man asked, in a tone different from that he had used in the beginning.
‘It was excellent,’ Isaac replied. ‘You have a beautiful farm.’
Sophie impulsively looked at him, hearing the word ‘beautiful.’
‘Thank you, Isaac,’ said the old man, taking a mouthful of chicken. ‘I hear you’ve been working very hard.’
Sophie blushed.
‘I hope so; I am certainly clumsy. But I enjoy farming very much.’
The dinner continued, largely in silence: Sophie spoke only to her father. She was tired of trying to engage Isaac in conversation—or, more accurately, she felt too fragile to be ignored once again. She was glad to let her father try; Isaac—perhaps out of respect—replied to all of his questions, though this was likely because they largely concerned practical matters. Isaac seemed very eager to learn the technical side of farming, and agricultural economics.
After dinner, the old man drank wine. Isaac declined, as did Sophie. Isaac took his leave early, and headed to his room after thanking his hosts.
‘Well, what do you think, Sophie? Is he a help?’ The old man’s tone was completely different. The last vestige of formality had been shed.
‘I think he is a great help…’
‘But?’
‘But nothing. He is very able, although he is emotional in his work, rather than practical.’ She paused, thinking about Isaac being in his room—and the time she shared with him there. ‘I enjoy the extra company. It’s been a very long time since there have been three of us here.’
‘I am glad. Although I must say I have missed you today, it is nice to have an extra pair of hands. He’s not very talkative, though, is he?’
Sophie did not reply.
‘We’ll see,’ the old man said, coughing. ‘Now, will you read for me?’
‘Of course, father,’ Sophie said, heading to the bookshelf in order to engage in their traditional reading session. ‘What would you like to read today?’
‘You know my favourite.’
III
The days continued to pass.
The work remained the same; Isaac remained a passionate, rather than pragmatic, worker. He seemed to prefer the physical labour much more than the delicate work; Sophie was quick to notice this and allotted him those jobs which allowed him to expend the energy he seemed driven to use. She continued to attempt to probe him, restoring her energy at night—laying awake for several hours each night, thinking of how odd life was, how it changed without warning; how she could never have predicted her current circumstances; how he literally appeared one day, and changed the structure of her domestic—and emotional—life). Over time, he began to open up emotionally. He responded to her light comments with jokes of his own; he came to know the various animals and they gave them names. Their camaraderie was the primary feature of their relationship: each learned from the other, and they saw one another as peers, rather than strangers.
M. Béringer spent his time inside, though he exerted as much energy as he could to bring himself to the window to watch the interaction of his daughter with their visitor. He perceived well that she was studying Isaac; he could not take his eyes off her own. He was indeed interested in Isaac and his unique approach to work, but his attention always centred upon his daughter. If this young man was not present, he would have been outside with her—or, at least, expecting her regular visit inside. With the visitor, however, he knew that she had a new outlet. He welcomed it. Though he was largely pleased at the experience for her sake, being unable to smile himself when he saw the two of them joking, he felt troubled by the fact Sophie had foregone many social encounters like this for his sake. Isaac’s presence was for him bittersweet—largely because it highlighted his own flaws.
Whilst the two of them spent much of their time jesting, Isaac remained prone to moments of brooding intensity—he would cut short a peal of laughter and clench his jaws as if holding something back. Sophie, at these moments, would let her laughter fade gently. She wondered what was behind the changes in his emotion; wondered why she was not able to fully heal or distract him.
At dinner, too, Isaac began to open up. He and M. Béringer discussed literature and philosophy. Isaac, quite enigmatically, would quote—thus starting conversation—and the old man would give his often curt opinion, at which the three of them would begin laughing. Sophie would watch and listen, for the most part: for her, these matters were not interesting. Isaac was interesting. Who was he, and why was he there?
‘I don’t know where you’ve come from, Isaac—and I know you won’t answer my questions—but I find your love for labour quite fascinating,’ the old man would say. Isaac stayed with them after dinner; as the old man drank wine, he would become quite open. Though Isaac abstained, he opened up too—as if relying on the fact that the old man would remember little of what he said.
Sophie noted that during the day, he would focus his attention on her, whilst at night he would focus on her father. She wondered when he focused on himself.
‘My friend, I love it here. I adore the simplicity of the work. There are no complications: the goals are very simple. You need shelter, you need food: so you work each day to achieve that. You go to sleep each night having achieved that, and you are so tired that you sleep soundly. You wake up the next day and carry on. You are… accompanied by your family, and you face no financial problems. What money you do need you get from selling wood, of which there is an abundance. I can think of very little that I would rather do than live like this until the day I die.’ Isaac became quite passionate; his face revealed pure joy. The lines in his face that revealed themselves only when he smiled became prominent.
‘Although I no longer work—for I am near the end (don’t worry, Sophie!)—I do understand your thinking. I am very tired; it is difficult for me to do the few things I can do. I do, however, remember vividly my working days. I remember growing up a boy, and living in a place very similar to this. My friends were always the animals around me. I mourned their deaths: but I respected them as much as the people I knew. For, though they could not speak, they were the ones who could speak to me through their presence alone. We did not need words.’
Sophie looked at Isaac, and caught him looking at her. For the first time, he did not look away. He continued to look at her, aware that the old man was quite inebriated. He was, however, listening very carefully to his words.
Sophie, with her heart beating rapidly and the palms of her hands moist with sweat, felt her chest heave as they looked at one another.
‘I believe that how one lives says much more about them than what they say. I know you are from England, Isaac: I think people there do more talking than they do acting. We are simple people, but we are happy people.’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Isaac said, simply. ‘What I love most about your way of life is what Rousseau would have respected: you are very close to nature, in many respects. I do not think you believe you own this land; you simply cultivate it. I see no intrusion of the state, nor reliance upon it. I see a man and his daughter. I see love, I see respect and I see life. You do not worry about the things I worry about where I come from. And that… makes me love you.’ He clenched his jaws at this revealing phrase. He immediately looked embarrassed, but the old man reached across the table and held Isaac’s hand, squeezing it.
Isaac looked up at him and saw the old man’s simple, smiling face. Neither said a word. He looked at Sophie, who looked surprised—her father, although a kind man, did not display emotion like this. She felt herself well up; as did Isaac.
‘Thank you,’ Isaac whispered, taking his leave.
As emotions once again rose, Isaac left: Sophie realised that this was his reaction to all forms of intensity. His departure did indeed reduce the tension, but it also left a hole where he had been. The father and daughter sat together for a little while, both now reflecting on how life had thrown Isaac their way.
‘Shall I read, father?’ she asked, after a short while.
‘Yes,’ her father replied, wiping something from his eye. ‘Rousseau. A Discourse.’
IV
The next morning, Sophie brought Isaac a glass of fresh milk and a thick slice of bread for breakfast. She knocked, but heard no reply.
Opening the door, she found he was gone. All that remained was a piece of paper, folded in half and laid on the pillow.
Sophie knew instantly what had happened—although she did not understand why—and felt her hands tremble. She placed the tray she was holding on the floor and picked up the note, which read:
Thank you for having me.
V
Isaac stepped onto the train and pulled his cap forward, so as to hide his identity from those who might knew him.
On the train, a solemn-looking woman dressed in a dark blue suit dress handed him a script.
‘You have twenty-four hours to learn your lines. We’ll be in London by tonight.’
A Short Story,
Published 08 November 2024
Published 08 November 2024