The Frenchman's garden

摘要

The man moves slowly. He is heavy set and his face is closed. he is holding: a spade by his side, to his chest a small stick of green; and a dream. In his head, he sees only this: Four strong fences, to keep the roving cattle out. and on the fifth side, a garden spills into the creek a garden is flowing down a wide, shallow valley, cool winter sun flicking the grasses an insect hum and trees. Thousands of trees, each eternally ripe with fruits, each speaking to him of paradise each holding Eden inits veins and the sum total of these being God and he, knowing all their names, is Adam before the fall. In an old photograph of Albert De Lestang, pictured with two well-dressed gentlemen, Albert's face defies definition. He stands in overalls, awkwardand solid. The photograph is blurred. I stare and stare at his face but cannot make out his features. As I photograph the picture, I struggle to sharpen the edges. I am writing of oral histories, of things that have vanished into time. Ephemera. Nothingremains except for a few stories passed around, a couple of letters, a towering mango tree, a stand of bamboo. There are no conflicting accounts written in the history books, no accounts written at all. Nothing to weigh up except a fleeting shadow, a piece of old tin, against an echo I might hear of bare feet, a splash in the creek. I ware you, some of this may not be true.