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The Parpaillon saga

There was... LA Parpaillon - review No. 17, 1989

A woman is half the sky. (Contemporary Chinese proverb).

At the careful dawn of this summer morning, between the wolf and the first calls of the shepherds; at this precise moment of the greatest silence, when the mountain is clothed in dew, a desire for the coming day that never ceases to pearl the sky. They met again, by chance, on the road outside Jausiers.

He's all light and handsome, wearing a Sunday cycling jersey, a chrome racing beast with new equipment, a bit of a show-off - it's not every day he does such a famous ride as Vélo-cœur en fête - breathing in the last scents of the night and the first breezes of the new day.

She's small but determined, wearing a fresh jumper in the morning, a little shiver on her bare legs as she passes torrents and their icy gusts; the discreet and efficient cyclist, with small cranks, small brake handles, small developments. A determined but slightly worried cyclist - she doesn't often tackle such a sacred monster.

So they set off together that morning, by chance or by luck. And although his physical abilities would have allowed him to overtake her quickly if he'd wanted to, he preferred to start the climb with her. He'd been riding alone for so long. And, admittedly, he liked her, her pink face from the first effort, lit from the side by the light that was now flooding the valley.

They turned off at La Condamine, onto the small road that climbs up the hillside. A few steep switchbacks. She took off her heavy jumper, folded it and put it carefully in her satchel. He was waiting for her. Why leave her now? He was in no hurry. In fact, they both had a whole day ahead of them. He was discovering that it was such a harmonious thing to climb together, their legs moving at almost the same pace, he stronger, she more regular, gaining metre after metre, with no apparent effort, but in reality driven by a dull, powerful inner energy.

He found himself admiring her for not showing the slightest trace of pain. Just an imperceptible mist, which her skin exhaled, heated by the continuous muscular work. And the acceleration of her heart, which made her eyes shine brighter, as if with a slight fever.

He was suddenly worried that he wasn't pleasing her, that he was annoying her with his banal babble about his previous climbs in the region - it was really steep here, you know, but what a view from the top! - I went up in 36×22, I was in great shape - and do you know such a route?

He was desperate to find more interesting and amusing anecdotes that were out of the ordinary; anything he could come up with now seemed very bland. But she listened to him, kept the conversation going and, little by little, they got to know each other.

At the ruisseau du Bérard, she took off her gloves, and the water in their cans seemed cool compared to the tepid summer morning. The road had been dirt for a while, but it was still very smooth. Daylight was settling in as they climbed side by side.

He progressed effortlessly, following her with his eyes. He thought she looked beautiful, the full sun this time bringing out her tanned skin, deepening the shadows and dimples around her smile. The pale face of the rocks trapped the rays of light, and when they passed against them, it was almost like the proximity of a piece of molten stole, or the torrid breath of a wild mountain beast, lurking there, very close to them.

He thought that perhaps he had chosen a swimming costume that was too thick; later on, he might suffer if the temperature rose much higher. He felt warm for her, who was still wearing a cosy sweatshirt, and thought she'd better take it off and expose her skin to the sun. Her naked skin. Suddenly he realised how much she was troubling him.

Her presence was so natural, she was one with the landscape, slipping into it without creating any disorder or disharmony. His imagination, as if in the grip of a slight intoxication, became lyrical.

The curve of this mountain on the horizon reminded him of another, even looser... The thicket of forests reminded him of another, even thicker... The tangy, warm smell of cut hay reminded him of another, sweeter... The drip of water in the meadow, silver threads gleaming in the sun, decidedly captivated him to the core...

He would have liked to be that light wind that, as one poet put it, gave him a hand under his clothes.

Ils dépassèrent les derniers arbres ; maintenant la montagne aurait pu être austère et silencieuse, au contraire elle était toute vibrante, de lumière et de vies minuscules. « Regarde cette fleur », dit-elle – et elle s’arrêta et s’agenouilla devant une curieuse joubarbe. Il s’arrêta aussi, et l’on entendit bourdonner les abeilles sauvages. « Et regarde le vol de cet oiseau, comme un accent dans le ciel ». Puis elle se tourna vers lui, lui sourit. Et c’était comme si la montagne entière, passé la timidité du matin, s’offrait, exprimait la magnificence de ce jour d’été, le désir fou qu’il soit midi ; il lut tout cela dans ce sourire.

The road rose above the Parpaillon stream, rockier but still rolling. It was good to be going at her own slower pace, even if he had to force himself to slow down a little and wait for her. She was still undressing, took off her sweatshirt and was now dressed only in her shorts and a low-cut tank top. They were both enjoying the sunshine, which caressed their skin, already burning from the inside out from the physical exertion. A little more time and the same rays would be burning as they approached the zenith. With her, thanks to her, he was learning the sheer pleasure of a climb, when the heart beats a little at the temples but doesn't go berserk, when you always stay well below the threshold of pain, savouring every minute, every turn of the wheel, every bend in the road that offers a discovery. What's more, today he was learning that pleasure can be totally shared.

However, from the big bend that heralds the final hairpin bends directly below the pass, it seemed to him that she was gradually accelerating. He expressed his admiration that she had saved her energy to throw it all into this final hand-to-hand battle with the mountain.

Yes, he was sure of it now, she had changed her rhythm and was now unleashing her power. He was impressed. Then the wind that announces the proximity of the passes began to blow, making her hair fly and her more tense smile look a little wild.

They were nearing their goal, already sensing the dark presence of the tunnel, like a rip in the night, above them.

He had always dreamt of it and feared it at the same time, this mysterious, almost initiatory passage through the shadows. It was the culmination of many outings; he had saved it for the best part of summer, before the storms of August, before the grass of the high mountain pastures began to turn the colour of autumn.

And then, suddenly, at the turn of a last bend, they saw it, a well-defined mouth on the side of the mountain, blacker than the night itself, more tempting than ever. All around them, the sun was so high that there was not a shadow to be seen. But only the opening of this tunnel was fascinating, the promise of a haven of peace, a return to a life before the splash of light from birth, the black hole of space sucking them in, in an invisible spiral, and wanting to reincorporate them into its nothingness.

They entered, slowly, on foot, holding their bikes to let their eyes adjust to the darkness. The coolness surprised them, contrasting with the temperature outside. Silence, humidity. Thin trickles of water dripped from the vaulted ceiling, which they could feel running down their cheeks and bare arms without seeing them. They moved on, a little round eye of light guiding them, so far away that the distance they had to cover seemed immeasurable.

Enfin, il était là, au cœur profond de la montagne, pensa-t-il. Son impatience s’était calmée un instant, tous ses sens tendus à l’extrême, le temps d’apprendre à aimer ce lieu, si étrange et différent, mais voici que cette même impatience renaissait, de plus en plus violente : pourquoi avançaient-ils toujours, sans que le but ne se rapproche plus vite ?

They moved side by side, without seeing each other: he could detect her presence close by, by a slight shift in the air, by the subtle scent of her body like that of a rainforest orchid, by the rhythmic sound of her breath. She was there, infinitely close, because between them there was no longer the obstacle of light, nor that of the wind, nor that of the fleeting but repeated rustling of the grasses scoured by summer insects. They were united as never before.

Then, the opening widened, the crack became a space, wide open to the sky, bathed in rays like God in His Glory; their shared tension became extreme, and they began to run towards this long-awaited, hoped-for, desired exit with all their souls; one last mad race, without restraint... and, suddenly, they emerged into the dazzle of midday. Blinded, summer leapt into their faces, once again taking hold of their bodies, unburdening them of all their desires and secret anxieties in its gentle warmth. Happiness transfigured them. The world, at their feet, belonged to them.

Here they are, lying a little lower down on the mountain pasture, he so happy, she breathing in deeply, communing with the universe, and so sweet, so sweet, these moments of rest.

They took their time, all their time. They detailed every fold of every petal of every snow anemone. Gave names to every peak, every valley and every blue horizon. The sun caressed itself again, tenderly. And the torrent, even lower down, whispered. Just as the shadows of the rocks were growing again on the other side of the day, they began their descent. The speed refreshed them. .
And suddenly, in a flash of memory from before the ages, he knew who she was: - Hello, Eve. - Hello, Adam.

Naturally, they set off together, into the fading daylight, and climbed one or two more small passes above the Serre-Ponçon dam before the stage.

There was an evening. There was a morning. The second morning of the human world.

The next day, the seventh, they decided that the world was a beautiful place. And they rested.

Extract from the Book of the Prophet - Jonathan (1), first cycle.

(1) Translator's note: As is well known, the prophet Jonathan, wishing to imitate Jonah and his whale, sought wisdom in the depths of the tunnel passes, where a tame pelican came to feed him. This previously unpublished text was found during recent roadworks above the Galibier tunnel.