Fields, 2024
Stéphane Foucaud

I almost envied my dog, who was the perfect height for this exercise. He could have used his tongue to remove the squash bugs from under the leaves of the squashes. Seeing me on all fours, picking out the pests, he tilted his head to the side, to show his astonishment. The sustainability of our “organic" label, on the entire production of our fields, free of pesticides, depended on this patient task.

But in the family business, I was only allowed to do this work reluctantly. My father was afraid of passing on his passion for working the land to me. He didn't even praise it, only mentioning the loans taken out for agricultural machinery, which we would potentially inherit, the floods, the droughts, and so on. He imagined himself, in my place, pursuing a long education, which would grant me a constant sitting on an office chair, snapping my fingers to get a coffee. How could I tell him, under these conditions, that I wanted to stop school? His big seventeen-year-old would never have the patience to wait another ten years to achieve something concrete.

It was the TV that watched, every evening, the father snoring, exhaustedly accustomed to the truncated news of the eight o'clock news. He tried to hire young people from the region. But they all capitulated to the pile of tasks to be accomplished. They preferred lower salaries to the capital, whose lights offered more social interactions and exhilarating unpredictable paths, unlike the village, where everyone knew each other and even knew when they would cross paths.

The night I told the whole family about my high school farewell, worry was written all over their faces, dreading the patriarch's reaction. He simply left the dining room without looking back, dropping an "I'm sorry!" Feeling guilty about having left me a burden, he didn't have the courage to lecture me. To confront me with the tree structure of difficulties inherent in the farming profession, he immediately granted me plots of land to manage independently, secretly hoping to see me abandon this project. From the first week, I snored in unison with my father, our faces lit up by the television screen.

The second week, I personally christened the wild pig trap, set up near the potato field that these beasts had dug up. Coming face to face with a boar straight out of Jurassic Park, I had to rush into the iron cage, where I barely escaped, unable to get out. The latch of my prison, broken by the monster, was bent into a "V" and required the use of pliers to straighten it. Once my father freed me, he confided in me that the loss of 40% of the harvest was mainly the work of the rats. Following this mishap, Jonas, the youngest, teased me by making "Grouik! Grouiik! Gronk!" noises while eating his soup. But all he got was a pat on the back of the head from my mother, inviting him to plunge his whole face into the vegetable soup.

Besides, the old woman was worried about seeing me alone lately, with the tractor for only company. She felt this apprehension especially during family gatherings, because those of my age were seen with their girlfriends. So she called upon the magic of Hippolyte, the elder of the tribe, to break the spell of the "lonely heart" I was wary of this eccentric old Kanak healer, whose care often required one to dress up in ridiculous attire. I reluctantly agreed to carry a section of engraved bamboo over my shoulder. Our sorcerer explained to me that at the time, the vegetable sheath, decorated with incised designs, used to attract girls, also protected the wearer during his travels. One of the compartments contained bewitched herbs, the other served as a gourd. I was at least sure about the fresh water, but much more skeptical about the love to come. Always so teasing, Jonas unexpectedly tasted his boiling soup again, benefiting from the maternal impulse. He had just sung the lyrics of Philippe Lavil's hit: "He taps on bamboos", while staring at my accessory.

Against all expectations, the following week, a hypnotic machine with golden hair appeared. She accompanied her father, a greengrocer, who had come to negotiate on our farm. She was immediately interested in my lucky charm: "Your bag is so classy! Where do you find it?" I immediately hit it off with this Breton woman, who had come to reconcile with her father, who had left several years earlier. Full of ideas and enrolled in a course validating a marketing diploma, she suggested that I create a future QR code, which would be linked to a site and which would allow customers to select my vegetables from the menu before coming to collect their basket. Hyppolite had not held back on the herbs, I thought to myself.

Then it occurred to me that the crazy side of the voodoo grandpa must surely have repercussions on the bewitched, when Marjolaine explained to me her solution to eradicate rodents. It was a question of carrying out an operation practiced by the Breton women at the end of the 19th century, which consisted of sewing up the butt of a living rat. Continuing to eat without being able to defecate, it became mad with rage and pain. It then began to terrify and tear apart its fleeing peers. A minute of silence and my gaze straight into its eyes allowed me to measure the full seriousness of my rat seamstress. I then spontaneously blurted out: "No but, can you see me catching them to tie up their assholes!?"

However, the unsuccessful harvest of the last few days finally convinced me. Very upset with the critters, faced with this terrible waste, the much-dreaded and repulsive passage of surgical sewing finally took on an air of sadism. Because they were endowed with a formidable intelligence, catching one of them was the most difficult part. At the table, Jonas was humming quietly his own words, in order to avoid a third dip in his bowl: "I've had it... my ass! High fashion... some idiots!" Holding the hand of my luminous Celtic under the tablecloth, I could already imagine him leaning over the name of our new business: the "Rat-woven" company.