After the day he made soap, he lay in the wooden hut for two days. Colette scolded him all through those two days—telling him he shouldn't do so much work before his injuries healed, shouldn't squat for so long, shouldn't show off. Lying in bed, listening to her scolding, a faint smile always played at the corner of his mouth.
He liked hearing her scold. Her Provençal accent was very strong, and when she cursed, her speech was particularly fast, like a little bird singing.
On the third day, he was allowed to go outside.
That afternoon, the sun was shining brightly, warm and gentle, unlike the weather at the end of October. Colette went to the river to wash clothes, leaving someone sitting on the field ridge, gazing absentmindedly at the lavender fields.
The grass in the field had been pulled out, and the lavender was arranged in neat rows. The leaves were grayish-green, swaying gently in the wind. In the distance were small hills, with harvested wheat fields on top, a dull yellow-brown, like patches sewn together. Further away, the remnants of the Alps loomed, bluish-gray, with snow already capping the peaks.
Watching these, a strange feeling suddenly arose in his heart.
He wanted to leave them behind.
He looked down at the ground beside him—there was a withered branch, about the thickness of a finger, dried out by the sun. He picked it up, hefted it in his hand, then reached out and drew a line on the ground.
The soil was soft; the branch left a shallow mark as it scraped across.
He drew another line.
A third, a fourth.
His hand seemed to have a mind of its own, sketching on the earth stroke by stroke. He didn't know what he was drawing, only that he was gazing at the distant mountains, the fields, the line of lavender bent by the wind, and his hand moved on its own.
He didn't know how much time had passed before he stopped and looked down at what he had drawn.
It was a painting.
On the earth, the distant mountains, the nearby fields, the crooked-necked tree on the ridge, the clouds floating in the sky—all came alive on this land. The lines were simple; some were deep, some shallow, but it was immediately recognizable as the scenery before him.
He was stunned.
Was this his work?
He raised his hand, looked at the withered branch in it, then at the drawing on the ground, furrowing his brows. Could he draw? How come he didn't know?
"Let—"
From afar, Colette's voice called out. She had finished washing and returned, carrying a large wooden basin filled with clean sheets and pillowcases, heavy enough to make her sway with each step.
He stood up, wanting to go help. Seeing his movement, she called out from afar: "Don't move! Sit still! I can do it myself!"
He could only sit back down.
Colette approached, set the basin on the ground, and panted, wiping sweat from her brow. After wiping, she unintentionally looked down and saw the drawing on the ground.
She froze.
"This..." She squatted down, her finger hovering above the lines, hesitant to touch them. "Did you draw this?"
He nodded.
"With that branch?"
He nodded again.
She looked up at him, her eyes full of disbelief. She looked at the drawing on the ground, then at the real landscape in the distance, then back at the drawing, repeatedly examining it several times.
"It's so like it," she said, her voice trembling a little. "So like it. Look at this mountain, this field, this tree—this tree was struck by lightning last year, the top is crooked, and you've drawn it perfectly."
He lowered his gaze to the tree. When he was drawing earlier, he hadn't paid attention to the crooked top. Now that he looked, it was indeed crooked.
"I don't know," he said. "My hand moved by itself."
Colette stared at him for a long time, then suddenly stood up and ran back toward the wooden hut. After two steps, she turned and called back: "Wait for me! Don't move!"
He waited.
After a while, Colette returned, holding a yellowed piece of cowhide paper and several charcoal sticks. She handed them to him. "Here. Draw this."
He looked at what she handed him. The cowhide paper was old, with ragged edges, but cut neatly. The charcoal sticks were burned branches, blackened at one end, and touching them would stain his fingers.
"This was used by my grandfather when he was young," Colette said. "He wanted to draw but never succeeded. You draw, I want to see."
He looked at the charcoal, then at the landscape in front of him, then at the cowhide paper in his hand.
He spread the paper on his lap, picked up a charcoal stick, hesitated for a moment, then started to draw.
This time, he drew more slowly than when sketching in the dirt. The charcoal moved across the paper, leaving black lines—one, two, three. The mountain in the distance, the nearby fields, the crooked tree on the ridge, the clouds drifting in the sky, and the rows of lavender bent by the wind.
Colette squatted beside him, holding her breath, watching without moving.
She saw the mountain grow on the paper, the fields spread out, the crooked tree standing there. She even saw the wind—those bent lavender, as if a breeze was blowing from the paper itself.
When he finished the last stroke, he raised his head.
Colette's eyes were red.
"What's wrong?" he asked, startled. "Is it bad?"
She shook her head, blinking hard. "Good. Very good. So good I want to cry."
He didn't know what to say. He looked down at his drawing, then at Colette, feeling suddenly that something inside him was moving.
"Draw another," Colette said. "Something else."
"What?"
She thought for a moment, then stood up and walked to the edge of the field, bending down as if to pull grass—even though there was no grass left.
"Draw me," she said, without turning around. "You draw me."
He watched her back. The sunlight shone from behind her, gilding her outline with a golden hue. She was wearing that faded blue linen dress, her hair loosely tied with an old cloth strip, a few strands falling by her ears. She bent over, one hand on her knee, the other reaching toward the ground—an姿 he had seen countless times—she was working in the fields just like this.
He picked up the charcoal and began to draw.
He drew faster than before. The lines seemed to have a life of their own, flowing from his hand onto the paper, transforming into her figure. Her profile, her hair, her bent waist, her outstretched hand, the hem of her dress fluttering in the wind.
When he finished, the sun was already setting in the west.
He handed the drawing to Colette.
She took it and looked down.
In the picture, she was in the lavender field, bent over as if working or listening. Her face was turned sideways, her expression unclear, but her lowered head and outstretched hand conveyed quietness, tenderness.
What surprised her most was that the lavender in the picture was in full bloom—purple, patchy, like waves rolling toward the horizon.
"It's October now," she said, voice hoarse. "The flowers have long since withered."
He nodded. "I know."
"Then why did you draw them in bloom?"
He thought for a moment, pointing to the figure bent over in the picture. "Because of her."
Colette looked up at him.
He looked back at her. In those gray-blue eyes, the light of the sunset shimmered brightly.
"She's the daughter of the sea of flowers," he said. "So the flowers should be in bloom."
Colette's face suddenly flushed.
She lowered her head, staring fixedly at the painting, afraid to look at him. Her heart was pounding so fast she felt a little dizzy. She had lived nineteen years, and no one had ever looked at her like that, spoken to her like that.
The daughter of the sea of flowers.
She was a poor country girl, illiterate, never gone to the city, with hands full of calluses and feet covered in mud. How could she be the daughter of the sea of flowers?
But she liked this idea.
Really liked it.
"I..." she began, her voice trembling. "I'll keep this."
She hugged the drawing and turned to run back to the wooden hut. Running quickly, as if something was chasing her.
He sat on the field ridge, watching her silhouette disappear behind the hut's door, a faint smile returning to his lips.
He looked down at the charcoal stick in his hand. It had stained his fingers black—dirty, grimy. But he didn't care.
In the distance, the sunset was sinking, turning the lavender field into a golden-purple sea. The wind carried the scent of earth and a faint fragrance.
Suddenly, he remembered something.
Colette had run so fast she forgot to take the yellowed cowhide paper with her. And there was a whole roll—enough for him to draw many, many pictures.
Pictures of her.
Pictures of the sea of flowers.
The land he saw first thing upon waking.