The Mistral and the Old Man

“..and even though it cuts to the bone like a sharp, steel son of a bitch of a knife,” the old man said, “I shall look forward to its arrival.”
“You will?”
“Yes.”
“But why? I have been through a hundred-and-eighty-kilometer wind and do not ever wish to have that experience,” I said.
“You have been through that?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In America. In Florida.”
“Ah. Of course. A hurricane?”
“Three.”
“Pfft, but at least it’s not cold wind.”
“It’s a small consolation. It blows away everything just the same. In any case…you are strange. You look forward with great excitement to the wrath of the land.”
“Of course. When you are old like me, that is all you have left to amuse you.”
“But why?”
“I shall stay home,” the old man said, “from all the pipes and the stopcocks. From all the frozen toilets and bidets.” (The old man was a plumber). “I shall stay home and play the clarinet.”
I said nothing.
“You must meet the Madame,” the old man said while petting the large rabbit he held in his lap. “She is from Visane. Good wine and good women come from Visane.”
“Yes?”
“Of course. She is a Soprano.”
“That’s lovely,” I said. For an absurd moment I thought of Ionesco and his bald diva and his chairs, as well.
“Yes. Yes it is.”
And then he quickly twisted the animal’s neck, holding tightly at the long, flappy ears.
“Stay for supper. The Madame will cook him into a civet with red wine.”

The Tomato Baron

I had never before met a tomato millionaire. He seemed like a nice man. He seemed much like a regular man. His hands were short and stubby and his index fingers and thumbs had thick calluses, which had turned yellow with the decades of work on the vines. He had been retired for many years and rumour had it that he either spent his winters in Majorca or in his three bedroom flat in Estoril. In any case, he was here with me now, shaking his head at my sad tale regarding the horrific quality of tomatoes in the States.
“Terrible, terrible,” he said and cracked his knuckles. “Bon… you know what they do, don’t you?”
I shook my head.
“They pick them green and smother them in ammonia.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Oui,” he said and tapped my chest with his index finger. “This is what your superpower country has become. A charlatan of the first class. They even shortchange you on tomatoes.”
“Why ammonia?” I said trying to steer this away from politics.
“Aah, oui,” he tapped again on my sternum. “My dear, the ammonia gives them color. Then they become red, but…they are not ripe. It’s charlatanism.”
His son called down from the top of the ladder.
“Now. I must leave you, my boy requires the help of a good, strong man.”
After all the backbreaking decades of picking and packing and shipping tomatoes, he said he still enjoyed working occasionally with his hands.
“It’s quite agreeable to be rich,” he said. “Have no doubt about that. But one needs something else. I am a peasant. I have to work. And that’s why I like to help my son with his business from time to time. In the end, I am only a peasant. I still wake up with the hens, you know.”