Lying in bed for a whole five days.
The first three days, he found it hard even to sit up. The wound on his left shoulder pained him so much that he couldn't sleep all night, only staring at the ceiling and listening to the sound of the wind blowing through the lavender fields outside the window. Colette changed his dressing every day, her rough hands gentle, so delicate as if afraid of breaking something. After changing the dressing, she would sit by his bedside, sometimes talking, sometimes not, just sitting there until night fell.
On the fourth day, he was able to get out of bed.
On the fifth day, he could lean on the wall and walk to the door.
Early the sixth morning, Colette pushed open the wooden door of the cabin and found that a pair of straw sandals was missing at the entrance.
She looked along the ridge of the field and saw a tall, thin figure standing in the lavender, bent over, doing something.
"Are you crazy?" she rushed over, her ankle still sore, limping. "Your injury isn't healed yet, what are you doing outside?"
He straightened up and turned to look at her. The morning sunlight shone from behind him, casting a faint golden glow on his outline. He had lost a lot of weight; the flesh on his face had sunken in, but his gray-blue eyes seemed brighter than a few days ago.
"There's grass in the field," he said. "I saw some grass growing taller than the lavender, so I need to pull it out."
Colette looked down and saw that indeed, a small pile of weeds was at his feet. His movements were slow; each time he bent over, he had to rest for a moment. His left hand didn't dare exert force at all, only using his right hand to pull, but he was very serious about it, uprooting each weed completely, shaking off the dirt from the roots until they were clean.
"Can you do this?" Colette asked in surprise.
He thought for a moment and shook his head. "I don't know. My hands move themselves."
Colette looked at him, suddenly smiling. This person was really interesting—he didn't know how to do many things, but he dared to try everything. She had been pulling weeds since she was five, but judging by his awkward and clumsy posture, he looked like a city kid out in the fields for the first time.
"This isn't right," she said, walking over and squatting down to demonstrate. "You have to do it like this—hold the root of the grass tightly, twist hard, and it'll come out. If you pull hard like that, it won't be clean, and it'll grow back in a few days."
He squatted beside her, watching her hands carefully. Her hands were rough, with large knuckles and several cuts on the back, but her movements were swift and precise. She twisted and pulled, uprooting each weed, shaking off the dirt, and tossing it aside.
He tried to imitate her. The first time, the weed broke, and the root stayed in the ground. The second time, he managed to pull the weed out, but the root was still attached to a big clump of dirt that couldn't be shaken off. The third, fourth times...
The sun rose higher, scorching his back. Colette straightened up, wiped the sweat from her forehead, and looked back at him.
He was still squatting there, pulling weeds one by one, his movements slow but getting better. He was very focused, his brow slightly furrowed, as if doing something very important. The wound on his left shoulder probably got pulled again; his movements paused every now and then, but he didn't stop.
"That's enough, go back and rest," Colette said. "It's only the sixth day; you shouldn't tire yourself out like this."
He looked up at her. "What about you?"
"I need to finish this patch," she pointed at the ground in front of her. "The weather's good today, so I have to pull out all the weeds. If it rains tomorrow, it'll be hard to do."
He didn't reply, lowering his head to continue pulling weeds.
Colette watched the back of his head, suddenly unsure what to say. She stood there for a moment, then sighed, squatted down, and started pulling weeds alongside him.
They worked until the sun reached its zenith, clearing the weeds from that patch of land completely. When they straightened up, Colette felt her waist nearly break. She looked back at him; his face was even paler, his forehead covered with sweat, and his lips were dry.
"Let's go," she said. "Time to eat."
He nodded and followed her back. After a few steps, he suddenly stopped, turned around, and looked at the lavender field they had just tidied.
"This part and that part," he pointed to the field, "they don't look the same."
Colette followed his finger and looked, but couldn't see what was different. "Where's the difference?"
"That part over there," he pointed to the east side, "the lavender is darker. This side is lighter. The leaves over there are thin, and these are wider."
Colette walked over to examine carefully and realized he was right. The lavender in that small patch on the east side did have finer leaves and a deeper color. She had worked in this field for over ten years and had never noticed this before.
"How can that be?" she asked in wonder.
He squatted down, pinched the soil on both sides, and looked at the terrain around him.
"This side is lower, and that side is higher," he said. "The soil over there is sandy, and here it's clay. Also, that side is near the river, and this side is farther from it."
Colette was stunned. She only knew how to plant lavender, till the land in spring, harvest the flowers in summer, and rest in winter. She had never thought about soil types or terrain differences.
"Do you understand this?" she asked.
He was stunned again. He looked down at his hands, at the dirt on his palms, and after a long pause, said, "I don't know. It's like... as if something in my mind just appears when I see these things."
Colette looked at him, suddenly having a thought: what exactly did he do before? He could write, understood farming, and could even tell that the lavender was growing differently—could he be a scholar from an agricultural college?
But how could a scholar get shot? How could he fall into the river?
She couldn't figure it out and decided not to think about it anymore.
"Let's go," she said. "Time to go back and eat. If you still have strength this afternoon, I'll teach you how to make soap."
In the afternoon, Let actually learned to make soap with her.
Colette's handmade soap was quite famous in the town. She used lavender-infused soap liquid, mixed with a bit of olive oil and beeswax, resulting in fragrant, good-quality soap that sold out every market day.
Let sat beside her, watching as she poured a large pot of soap liquid into wooden molds, then sprinkled dried lavender flowers on top. The soap liquid was light purple, and the lavender flowers dark purple, layered beautifully.
"Try it," Colette handed him a wooden spoon.
He took the spoon, scooped some soap liquid, and slowly poured it into the mold. His movements were steady, slow, and the soap spread evenly without bubbles.
Colette stared in amazement. When she first made soap, she spilled it all over the table, and her grandfather scolded her for three days. How could this person be more skilled than her on his first try?
"Did you do this before?" she asked.
He looked down at the spoon in his hand, then at the smooth soap in the mold, and shook his head. "I don't know. My hands move themselves."
Colette couldn't help but laugh. "Why do your hands move on their own?"
He thought for a moment and answered seriously, "Maybe they remember. I don't."
Her heart ached at his words. She said nothing, lowering her head to continue sprinkling flowers into the molds.
They finished pouring all the remaining soap liquid, lining up the molds. Colette stood up, stretched her cramped legs, and suddenly noticed a piece of purple soap on his hand—not realizing he hadn't noticed himself.
"Your hand," she pointed.
He looked down, raised his hand to wipe, but the soap kept spreading, covering his entire hand in purple.
Colette burst into a smile, bending over. She had never seen someone so clumsy—couldn't even wipe his own hand. As she laughed, she suddenly realized she hadn't smiled like this in a long time.
He looked at her smiling, the corners of his mouth curling up. He lowered his gaze to his purple-stained hands and suddenly said, "It smells good."
Colette stopped laughing and leaned in to smell. It really did smell good—the scent of lavender mixed with olive oil, light and pleasant.
"Your hands smell like that too," Let said.
She looked at her own hands—stained with soap, patchy purple and white. Both of their hands were dirty, but they smelled wonderful.
Suddenly, she felt that this was somehow quite nice.
Outside the window, the afternoon sun shone into the wooden house, illuminating the row of molds filled with soap liquid, and the two people with purple-stained hands.
Far away, the lavender fields swayed gently in the breeze, carrying their fragrant scent.