Michèle is not here, the last telephone conversation from two days ago is infinitely long ago. The idea of living this day without Michèle paralyzes me. A look out of the window of our bedroom, behind which the paradise of Provence stretches, brings sleep back to me; I see Michèle escaping from our paradise as a white seagull and, carried by the stormy mistral, disappearing on the horizon of the Lubéron. With all my strength I resist letting go, but Michèle's forces, supported by the violent mistral, leave me no chance to hold her. My arm is torn away, my life dissolves, I crumble to ashes.
The diabolical cries of my two beloved grandchildren, who have been with me for a few days, accompanied by my daughter, end this dream. Bathed in sweat and in total exhaustion, I begin this day. Three more days I have to endure them, these children who strain our beautiful house lovingly decorated by Michèle. This paradise suffers terrible tortures, all furnishings are already marked. These over-excited monster children scare flowers, meadows, fields, and disturb the perfect tranquility of Provençal nature. I realized that these people from the northern industrialized countries are unfortunately forced to live in a world of horror, because they live and dwell in concrete, have to breathe polluted air and work like ants, so that they can afford their ant dwellings and their so-called quality of life. These over-excited, still young people, accompanied by their parents, visit the peace and perfect tranquility of Provence for a few weeks every summer to find the balance that the locals have as a result of the scenic beauty all year round.
In the immediate vicinity of our house is the small schoolhouse of our village, there I noticed that the children from Provence are influenced by the beauty of this land and are therefore perfectly balanced.
Despite everything, I try to tackle today. My grandchildren, because of some harmless and peaceful bees, have moved their planned breakfast from the forecourt, which is under our bedroom and overlooks the vastness and beauty of Provence, to the inside of our house. In the meantime, since my grandchildren are burdened with additional stomach aches from the Provençal food prepared with the very finest Provençal herbs mixed with garlic and olive oil and have to suffer a sunburn on their sterile snow skins, I will soon have the opportunity to enjoy my breakfast alone, in peace and quiet, on my beloved forecourt in the garden.
While I ponder my thoughts, another hour has passed and in the meantime my daughter has made herself comfortable at the swimming pool with her two pests, who nevertheless mean a lot to me in my life. Now the time has come for me to take my breakfast undisturbed. Fortunately, I am protected from the chatter and the shouting by plants, trees and bushes. Still, I wouldn't be surprised if my flowers, plants, and bushes didn't survive this stress until my visitor's departure. Now I sit in our garden, with my thoughts all alone and silent with Michèle, who means everything in this world to me. Nothing is more important than Michèle, I am in a total dependence as a result of this love, like a drug addict in his very last stage of life, shortly before death. My former life was only life; I never thought of death, thought of myself as immortal. I could never have imagined becoming an old person, never having no more friends.
I believed that I could always live a life according to my ideas, without regard for my fellow human beings. I felt strong, tears or other feelings that moved my inner self were completely foreign to me. I was me, only I determined my life, another environment did not interest me. Money, power, success and a pathological craving for recognition determined my feelings.
For thirty years I did not realize how precious life was with my former family. Today, my life is an unbearable torment that I would like to end; the best thing would be for me to be struck by the redemptive blow right away, because waking up in the morning, every day anew, is a real hell and the whole world is a vale of tears. If I were not such a coward, I would commit suicide so that I would finally be released from this life on the abyss.
Michèle has been absent for almost a month; for me, that's years. I have to be patient for four more days, then Michèle will be here again. She is currently staying for a month with a so-called friend from high society who owns an estate in Portugal and is served by many servants, valets and maids. This old, deceitful and calculating witch, who comes from very humble origins and only came to a great fortune by marrying a big industrialist, feasts on harassing her employees daily in the most brutal way.
Her financial power allows her to bully, humiliate and insult those around her. In addition, this person is trying to get Michèle to end our relationship. I will never be able to understand that Michèle wastes a month of her life to spend thirty days and nights with this Satanic woman. There must be some calculation behind this, namely that the stingy old woman will include my Michèle in her will and leave her some of her million-dollar fortune after her demise.
Nothing in this world loves Michèle more than money; money and financial security mean complete freedom and independence for her. For this love, I gave up my former life after thirty years of marriage and squandered my company, which guaranteed me an above-average income, for a few hundred thousand francs. I have spent this money in the past years to maintain this love. Today I have nothing left and I am forced to build a new existence, because apart from my great love I can no longer offer Michèle much. I am looking for possibilities to dispose of anything else; yes, I would also be ready at once to offer a part of my liver, my kidney or whatever else for little money. Fourteen beautiful days that I can spend with Michèle are life for me. I do not think then also about the fact that in fourteen days everything is over.
On the fifteenth day, however, hell begins anew; it gets worse and worse and I no longer know how everything is supposed to go on. I no longer buy food, but play the lottery with the last of my money, hoping each time for a win, which however - how could it be otherwise - always fails to materialize. But the thought of and the hope for a beautiful life with Michèle are worth my last money. I go to church and pray to God that He will let me live happily and in peace with Michèle. Otherwise, I want nothing more for myself; the only thing I want is Michèle.
My airplanes of yesteryear, Jaguars and Porsches, and the finest motorboats are no longer important. I can remember hawking even the last of my luxuries, my gold Rolex watch, for this love. I am developing superhuman strength to keep this love alive; there is nothing I do not undertake to make money again. I sell various industrial goods and would like to successfully sell the products I have developed in the meantime as well. My financial means are exhausted at present, therefore I ask each friend or acquaintance for a loan, these so-called friends I helped in former times without large, "if and but" in their need and gave accordingly loans, however I do not get loans from these questionable "friends" myself. Nevertheless, this project must succeed. If there is no way today, a way will certainly come tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow, it simply must be so, another possibility is excluded.
I always ask myself for what reason I have to endure such a life, why it is not possible for me to live a life like that of many of my friends, without great excitement, modest and with a harmonious family that means a lot to me in my daily existence.
Michèle is not there, but this house is there.
Michèle, her human being is not visible and yet she is here, her eyes are the light of Provence, her soul, her smell, her breath will always remain in this house.
Wherever I go in the Lubéron on my long walks, I am never alone, Michèle, the sunflower of Provence, is in my heart. And should my wish not come true to spend my last years in the Lubéron, I am at least left with the certainty that after my death my final resting place will be here; never will I be forced to leave again the land in the Garden of Eden of Provence that gives me eternal peace, and the mistral will carry my ashes to my beloved villages, valleys, fields and forests.
2
Arrival in the Lubéron
I have resumed a business activity. I sell special products, olive oils, lavender honey, spice