In a distant corner of the South, on a dusty square, under the scorching afternoon sun, slightly to the right of the cafeteria, is located the bakery. Every morning we join the army bicycling to get their fresh croissants and baguette. The angelic scent is felt from behind the turn and attracts strayed cars from the main road. They make a mini traffic jam in front of Bernadette's window.
Bernadette loves aliens. They are an endless source of stories during the long winter evenings and an opportunity to once again demonstrate she had lived her youth in Paris and was a worldly woman of broad understanding. According to the rumor, she not just lived there but conquered this Paris with a swing. Having not finished school and never touched the door of an university, Bernadette found a job in a patisserie using her "charm". Thanks to the time spent in her grandmother and mother's kitchens, she quickly improved her position both on the ground floor and in the upper apartment of the owner. It happened many years ago. Bernadette states she is sixty-five but the gossipy elders are refusing to take her any younger than seventy. Bernadette ignores them with all the dignity of her mighty stance and frequently pretends she hasn't heard their order.
Bernadette's youth has long been a beloved subject in the village, skillfully fueled by herself after returning from Paris. It happened too soon - only two years after she had left. Although young, the wise Bernadette had quickly realized good men were hard to find in Paris and her invaluable looks and skills would fade while looking for one. The skills she refuses to discuss but puts on a secretive smile.
It seems her husband highly appreciates them for he is gazing at her with adoration and pride. Claude, as his name is, is a tiny old man, a wine maker, earth lover, in a straw Panama hat. He is about three times smaller than his wife but leads a daily war against the gossips in the village to defend her reputation. No evening passes in the cafe when Claude won't stand up for Bernadette's chastity, albeit slightly scratched here and there. He says women like her should be chosen to represent Mariana - this icon of the French femininity. It usually causes mass choking. I can not blame them. No one knew Laetitia Casta at the time but Mariana has never been a piece of heavy machinery.
After coming back to her native village, Bernadette flourished in the warm sun on the heavy, fertile soil. She returned to her roots and opened the bakery on the square in the family house where she was born. Less than a month later Bernadette noticed the prospective bachelor Claude. He had been to war which, in her value system, was the highest form of endurance test - a quality she identified as essential to a future husband. And the moment she had made her choice, she had already conquered him. They married three months later. She bore his children but they flew to the big cities and now come to visit only on weekends and for the summer. Bernadette has not yet forgiven them for making her a grandma too soon.
This femme formidable loves not only newcomers but everything big - houses, cars, hairstyles (all her hair is placed on top of her head), skirts, blouses (they look borrowed from a Velasquez painting), gardens, chairs, beds (on hers three Bernadettes may sleep comfortably) and most of all - bushes.
Bernadette considers growing flowers an absolute waste of time and space. Flowers require permanent care while the only result is tiny colorful spots here and there in the backyard. Bushes are quite a different story. They can not be missed even from afar, bloom longer, want almost no care and protect the yard from the watchful eyes of nosy neighbors. The outcome of this brilliant theory is a backyard resembling the keep of La Rochelle, surrounded by tall fence and high lilacs, cypresses and ten more species of unknown shrubs she gets delivered from Marseille. She is a proud owner of this jungle while Claude is still trying to swallow the ruined crops that couldn't survive the vigorous growth of the bushes.
Bernadette almost squeaks of joy when she sees the bikes. We provide her with sweet time for rest and chat. Although my French is terrible, she keeps asking questions and moves slowly behind the window carefully packing my croissants. It looks like a sacred act of revelation among the baguettes. Feels like a confession - sometimes relieving, often uncomfortable, especially when we touch the topic on the last underwear trends. Bernadette is a woman of fashion but complaints she receives few magazines these days and the postman behaves unforgivably taking her stuff to his wife. She says she has to go to Marseille to buy a proper dress. Very troublesome.
The rumor has it that Bernadette loves big bottles as well. She's been reportedly spotted pouring aromatic wine down her throat and dropping a bit here and there in her dough. It would explain the always cheerful mood of her customers. Providing the villagers with these special goods has turned Bernadette into an icon and main contributor to the village's prosperity. For how would they survive the endless hours in the vineyards without the proper enthusiasm?
That is why everyone felt terribly concerned when in the end of the summer Bernadette went to Marseille for her regular shopping tour and didn't come back on the Sunday evening as she had always done before. The priest prayed; the cafe owner gave away wine; Claude opened and closed the bakery and even made some bread himself; all was done to welcome Bernadette when she would finally come home but she didn't. I waited on the square like everyone else, sipping from my free wine and wondering in the darkness of the fragrant night.
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