The Philosopher and the Goat
Part II, Bay-sur-Aube, Champagne
“The hour having come, they went with their four lackeys to a spot behind the Luxembourg given up to the feeding of goats. Athos threw a piece of money to the goatkeeper to withdraw.”
Dumas
During my September 2017 WorkAway experience with generous Marie, I continued to mull Milady’s story in my mind. I had some research texts on my kindle and solutions and stories fermented while I worked. The next recipe to be tried on the sooty fireplace after vinegar and bicarb included sodium crystals as sugar soap and a heavy rinse cycle. I could only hope it dried out well. I was getting a little bit tired of my Cinderella chore!
Marie’s expected Airbnb arrival spurred her efforts onward in the kitchen. She worked really hard on the wall and we moved the furniture to get better access to the preparation. We waited to decide where to move the chest of drawers until after the guest left, as it was the cat’s dining room, and reasonably heavy.
One day, as we busied ourselves on either side of the window, Marie piling on luscious new plaster and me chiselling off the old to reveal the creamy old stone underneath, Marie cried out, ‘There’s a goat!’ And hastened outside to examine the animal.
A young man with black beard and intense green eyes came to a halt outside the gate and admitted he was the goat’s travelling companion. He was from Germany, walking west, not necessarily to Santiago.
He’d been working at a circus up until few days ago, and was presented with Smiley, the goat, as a leaving gift. A gift or a curse? He had immediately removed the poor beast’s shackles and invited her to walk with him. It was entirely her choice.
They slept together in his tent. One night, he could hear the local cows as they came to investigate his tent. He could hear them breathing outside. His appearance tended to the Wild Man, and he spoke with no doubts, his youthful arrogance giving him belief in his own validity. He spoke with determination; nothing was good or bad, fear was the cause of all trouble, and, of course, that was caused by an imbalance of power. He spoke at length.
Marie invited him in and we sat down at the kitchen table. I had the impression he was trying to see if I had any breasts in the creases and openings of my shirt. I had plenty of time to listen to his philosophies and watch him analyse my physique as Marie, panicked about the well-being of the goat, left us while she rang a friend. She told me later she thought the young man crazy. I assume she thought I could look after myself.
When she returned she quizzed him about his knowledge of goats. He calmly replied that they ate grass and, just like people, could tell when something they might eat would not agree with them.
Marie was clearly upset about this poor innocent goat trotting along with the young lunatic. She gave him a placemat to set his tea upon. And gave me one and set her own place. Then offered him peanut butter.
He’d originally asked if she had anything vegan that he could have with his baguette. She offered him a mixed nut spread that he did not like the look of and he refused. She, taken aback, told him she had some cheese. I intervened, saying quietly and with a smile, ‘Tomato?’
Bringing a basket of tomatoes to place in front of the wild man, she whisked the tea-bag from his cup. ‘Oh, no, really, that’s too strong now, really!’ She was so exasperated by his strange behaviour she again left the room to consult with her goat-keeping friend. I found out later she wanted to kidnap the goat.
It was by then well after two in the afternoon and I was getting hungry. I didn’t know if I should continue to fix lunch, assuming that, as he’s got a placemat in front of him, he was invited as well, or if Marie just wanted me to keep the crazy talking while the Great Goat Rescue Team came to pick up Smiley and take her away to safety.
This guy was on his own trip, going west, going feral, living the life and spouting the spout. When I remarked it was a shame the circus still used animals, he replied, ‘So what? All these people who say what a shame, and then go off to eat a cheeseburger at Macdonalds, what about that? That’s no way to talk.’
I piped up with, ‘Well, not us.’ Meaning, us fellow vegans.
He retaliated firmly. ‘I’m speaking for the whole human race here. That’s what’s normal, isn’t it?’
Undaunted, I replied, ‘Yes, it’s sad’.
He was only about twenty or so, with those intense hazel eyes and black hair and beard. If he’d been on the road for five weeks he must have had extremely short hair to begin with or he’d had a hair cut. I would have liked a haircut myself at that point. I would have liked some ear plugs.
And then, surprise, Marie entered with Sebastian. No, he was not from International Goat Rescue, but a bricklayer, come to expose the septic tank.
The philosopher who spoke for the whole world packed his baguette plus a tomato into his bag. The last thing the goat pilgrim did was have a talk to Marie’s dog, Victor. Nose to nose, telepathically. Apparently, he asked, ‘Will you walk with me?’
Victor told him, ‘No. I love my Maman.’
So the young philosopher and his goat, nay, the goat who was free to do as she would, marched up the road to follow his compass west and be breathed on by cows.
After the philosopher and the goat had taken their leave, I escaped to my room to rummage through my private stash of snacks. I found some coconut chips. Even though they were coated in sugar I didn’t care. I was so hungry and had no idea when dinner would be. I was not sure if I should prepare it. It had been a long day after a broken night and a day of indecision which as we know, is never my safest place. Philosophy can be disturbing.
Roucou, the male shiny cat with triangle eyes of green, was dutifully catching a rodent a day. One day his present was a field or country rat. Not rattus rattus. And another day I saw the victim was clearly striped. There was certainly rat shit on the pantry shelves and, as I did not wish for rats to invade my garret, I was glad of the hunting felines but felt sorry for any native species he finalised. Cats know no good or evil. Do they?
Roucou, after a hard night hunting or chasing Princess away, would thud and thunder through the beams in the roof and finally land with a thump on the end of my bed and snuggle in to my legs or side. He would use me as a heater. There was absolutely no affection in the transaction.
WorkAway does offer wonderful opportunities for travellers and hosts alike: skills, time, and willingness to get tasks done, together with the cultural exchange. Then there’s the social aspect, the grey area. Do we eat every meal together? Do we prepare every meal? Do we take turns? Do we tell each other everything? Are we renovating and painting the kitchen or do we take turns and take on a new project in a different room?
I have already donated my time and energy. Do I mind standing, shifting from foot to foot, while the plan of action is tested? And then, the classic, I’ll just take that over and make sure you’re doing it as I would do it. All the most annoying things I’ve encountered in my life.
And what caused my twisty gut another new day? Why, we made a paint stripper using caustic soda, that’s sodium hydroxide for all you Breaking Bad fans - the bath through the ceiling stuff.
Cook four cups of water, half a cup of flour and finally drip in half a cup of NaHO.
I look up the recipe again and find warnings about making DIY stuff using this lye. It can cause blindness. Let’s tread carefully, shall we?
I put my trousers on, pull down my sleeves and tie up boots. Bit nervous about putting my unwashed, commercial paint-stripper-covered brush into this new concoction. Marie, in her nightgown and little flip flops, with bare hands and arms, grabs my brush and starts slapping the stuff all over the fireplace. As I’d been standing around for the last two hours waiting for the brew to be done, and am now out of a job, I helpfully squeak out things like, ‘Goodness me, Marie, what have you got me for? For goodness sake!’ I was feeling at the end of my tether.
In reply she held up her recipe book, ‘Natural Paints’. She reassures me, it must be okay, it’s natural.
Oh. Right. It’s natural. Like hemlock.
Obviously it was about me and my lack of patience.
Again, another day, when I’m dressed in my gloves, googles and boots, preparing to chip plaster from the stone walls, Marie demonstrates the required method, smashing into those chunks, sending pieces of rock flying in all directions. An amazing woman!
I remember after the wood delivery, when she flew into throwing five kilo logs again only wearing light gear - her pair of flip flops on her feet - I guess when you’re used to home renovation on your timetable, OH&S is just a time waster. I remember how annoyed I used to get when my ex would have to remove the hedge clippers to sharpen them or pump up the wheelbarrow tyre when I was already well into the task! Just get it done!
However, there’s always reno horror stories. Inga, Marie’s friend, had fallen twice. She broke ribs the first time and a hip the second. And she’s still carrying pain. I could see Marie’s feet had scars. When we were throwing wood around there were flecks of blood. The workshop floor was uneven, made of paving stones and dips. But the job was done and Marie lived to walk Victor another evening.
I hope the philosopher and his goat were safe and sound. And, perhaps, one day understand there is, indeed, such a thing as good. Victor told him so.
Where does this leave my search? One thing we can be certain about. Milady started life as an innocent child. Once upon a time she was a good girl. And then … ?
Always a pleasure to read a new Milday post! That young philosopher sounds like a character from a picaresque novel.
Victor needs a wash.