Chapter 7: The Gregarious Provençals
On the north side of the village lay a pile of fallen leaves that had been fermenting for over a year—an excellent fertilizer. Zoe explained to Ronan that every autumn, when the leaves fall, the entire village gathers the collected leaves and brings them there. If he were to spend the autumn in Loulmaran this year, he could do the same.
“I definitely will!” Ronan exclaimed loudly.
The tractor from the Louis family was very old; Zoe said it might be several years older than she was. For such an old beast, as long as it could move, all the noise and clatter could be ignored.
Still, sitting so close to Zoe made Ronan ecstatic. Even though his ears were filled with the tractor’s relentless chugging, he couldn’t help but want to talk.
“When do you go to the market?” he asked.
Zoe was a craftswoman who worked on ceramics and glassware at home. The finished products were taken to the weekly market to be sold.
“I attend the Loulmaran market every Friday,” Zoe said, leaning slightly closer so Ronan could hear her clearly.
“Can you take me to see it?” Ronan asked eagerly.
Zoe thought for a moment, then quickly agreed: “Come to my doorstep at 7:30 Friday morning.”
“Alright!” Ronan took his hands off the steering wheel and gave an OK sign.
Zoe tapped Ronan’s arm to remind him, “There are people around; be careful and don’t get distracted.”
With Zoe’s warning, Ronan began to notice something was off.
There were quite a few villagers on the road today.
Wasn’t it said that in Loulmaran, if you see more than ten people on the road in a single day, it meant something big had happened in the village?
Soon, he realized something even stranger—the villagers were following him around, some even driving behind him.
“Am I the ‘big news’ in the village?” Ronan muttered, rubbing his head in frustration.
Zoe saw through it and helplessly explained, “In Provence, no one is ever short of time, so people tend to be... well, more ‘curious.’ You’ll get used to it.”
...
Ronan soon came to understand the inquisitive nature of the Provençals quite thoroughly.
He spent an entire afternoon fertilizing with the tractor, while the villagers watched him the entire time.
Front yard, back yard, vineyard... his new home in Loulmaran had never hosted so many people at once.
At first, Ronan was timid under so many gazes, but as time wore on, he relaxed—after all, the sooner he finished, the sooner this ordeal would be over.
Eventually, he even started drinking while working, using the alcohol to bolster his courage.
“That kid really embodies the spirit of Provence—drinking and driving a tractor at the same time, you can only see that here,” someone remarked.
“Who said he didn’t understand farming? If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it—what a liar!”
“Henri, that guy’s always gossiping nonsense, no wonder his teeth are all rotten.”
...
The sun was setting.
Looking at the day’s work, Ronan felt a surge of excitement.
Karl had said that even in the worst years, eight acres could yield two thousand kilograms of grapes.
That meant Ronan could earn at least fifteen thousand francs in September, and in good years, over twenty thousand.
In 1986, the average monthly income per person in France ranged from 2,000 to 4,000 francs. These grapes alone would ensure Ronan’s food and drink for the entire year.
“There must be other sources of income too!” Ronan encouraged himself enthusiastically.
“Not bad at all,” a middle-aged man approached, smiling. He wore a leather hat, a denim outfit, and sported a carefully trimmed thick beard.
Ronan had noticed this man for some time. Wherever he stood, villagers would immediately gather around him. Even the unpopular Henri smiled and offered him a cigarette.
“First time doing this? There’s definitely room for improvement,” Ronan said honestly.
“First time?” The stranger turned to the crowd behind him. “This kid’s a first-timer? Henri, I remember when you first drove a tractor, you fell into a ditch and it took a dozen people to pull you out, didn’t it?”
Laughter erupted around them. Henri obediently shut his mouth, not daring to argue.
The man took off his hat and introduced himself with a smile:
“I have to tell Louis that his son might have to wait a few more years for the title of Loulmaran’s ‘Best Farmer.’ Hello Ronan, I’m Pierre.”
“Hello, Pierre.”
Pierre was the village’s best farmer!
He’d been watching all afternoon too?
Ronan felt like he’d been showing off a big sword in front of Guan Yu for an entire afternoon—a ridiculous feeling. He humbly asked:
“Is there anything I should improve?”
Ronan’s level 2 farming skills were nothing compared to Pierre, who was obviously joking; only a fool would believe otherwise.
Pierre casually patted Ronan on the shoulder:
“You’ve been working all day and haven’t eaten yet, right? Let’s go to Louis’s house to eat and chat. I’ve been craving Lia’s beef stew for a long time!”
Ronan: “...”
Only the lively Provençals could come up with an excuse like that.
But what had Louis’s family done to deserve this?
Pierre threw an arm around Ronan’s shoulder and passed Henri, opening his mouth slowly as if to say something.
Henri immediately forced a smile, ignoring the earlier jibe.
Pierre was the core of the village’s farmers. Too many people asked for his help, and he was always too busy. If he shared some of his work, everyone would be well-off.
Henri looked hopeful—was he being invited along?
“Henri, tell Emma I won’t be home for dinner tonight,” Pierre said as he strode off with Ronan.
Emma was Pierre’s wife.
Henri: “???”
...
The sudden visit left Ronan quite flustered.
After all, he had been taking quite a bit from the Louis family lately, and their tractor was still parked in his vineyard.
He was afraid of coming across as rude or presumptuous.
But when Louis and Lia heard Pierre’s reason for dropping by, they weren’t angry at all. Instead, they sent Viery out:
“Go to Karl, Alan, and Freddy’s houses. Tell them not to cook and to come here right now.”
Ronan: “...”
How much did Provençals love gatherings?!
...
The dinner’s theme—helping Ronan improve his farming skills—was merely a pretense.
It wasn’t until Ronan’s happiness rating hit 11 points that the conversation finally turned to farming.
Pierre excused himself to the restroom once. Upon returning, he finally saw Ronan at the table and immediately raised his glass to Louis:
“Louis, you’re overthinking. Ronan doesn’t need help at all. His performance in the field might even outshine Viery’s. If I were you, I’d forget about letting Viery farm—because his strongest competitor has arrived.”
Then, swaying slightly, he asked Ronan:
“Were you doing this kind of work in Paris?”
Ronan’s afternoon efforts still had room for improvement in the eyes of the experienced, but Pierre utterly refused to believe it was his first time, unless Ronan was a genius!
Louis knew his lifelong friend well; Pierre loved to tease people:
“Pierre, if I were you, I’d quit farming and come sell houses with me, haha—”
Laughter erupted around the table, but Pierre insisted seriously:
“I’m telling the truth!”
The story of the boy who cried wolf was popular in France too.
Everyone just saw Pierre as a master prankster, his acting so superb.
What a joke...
Ronan?
Farming?
Stop playing along with the rich kid’s act!
“Pierre is telling the truth,” Zoe, usually taciturn, looked at Ronan with a complex expression. Ronan, equally quiet, met her gaze.
“Ronan isn’t joking. He really came fully prepared.”
The laughter around the room ceased abruptly.