An old thing, covered in dust, from the early days of Le Mouching, the very beginning, like the first month, back in October 2008.
When I was little, I went to school at the nuns’ school, back home in Aveyron. There were only two classrooms – the little ones and the big ones.
Sister Sainte Thérèse and Sister Sainte Monique were in charge of the twenty or so village children that we were at the time.
In winter, a large coal stove stood in the middle of the main classroom, and both groups were gathered in that single room, its walls covered with pictures depicting the life of Jesus, a map of Palestine — the Holy Land — a map of France, another of the colonies, and a map of our département: Aveyron.
From the large windows of that hillside building, you could see the Causse de Roquemissou to the West and the Palanges hills to the South.
Once a week we were treated to a “slideshow” where, with an old vinyl record and slightly overexposed slides, we were generally taught about the life of Jesus, the New Testament, and so on — and sometimes, though rarely, French history.
There was an indescribable smell. First: we almost never opened the windows, for fear that the cold would undo all the efforts the stove had made to heat that unheatble space. Second: almost all the pupils came from farms (the others went to the public school…) and they brought with them the wholesome smell of the barn, the cows, and other animals.
In winter, we sometimes had clementines, whose sharp scent delighted us — an incredible fragrance! So delicate, so light, so different from the smells of the countryside. And then there was the smell of chalk! There was, however, one smell I could never quite identify. A peppery and at the same time slightly sweet smell. A smell that reminded me of nothing I knew. A smell that intrigued me — quite different from the smell of pee after eating asparagus in spring.
One day, for whatever reason I can no longer recall, Sister Sainte Monique, who wore thick glasses, took me in her arms. She pressed my head against her chest — no doubt to console me after some fall in the icy schoolyard, or a broken romance with one of the Dauty sisters. It was soft and bouncy; my mother wasn’t very “tactile,” so I savoured the experience with delight.
Sister Sainte Monique held me tight; her crucifix hurt a little, but I said nothing. it was very comforting. But above all, above all, I recognised that special smell I had never been able to identify until then… that peppery, sweet smell I mentioned earlier. I had found it! Sister Sainte Monique’s armpits!!!
I slipped my head down and pressed my nose into the fold of her arm, inside the black robe, and breathed in with all my might… that was it! I went on to try the same with Sister Sainte Thérèse, who must have been nearly sixty. The same smell!!! I always managed to find some excuse to bury my head against their chest and press my nose near their armpit.
Eventually the school closed and the sisters retired. About ten years ago, my brother-in-law bought the old school building. I couldn’t resist rushing over before the renovations began and searching every corner. There was no bathroom. A sink in the kitchen and a toilet in the yard — that was all. But the smell was still there, or perhaps was it only in my mind.
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