ge to hide for a while from the blinding light, pitilessly
reflected from the dust on the road. And they played on until they
became very, very hot! I forced myself from my dream-like state, and
amused myself by throwing them some of the golden, red fruit that I
could easily reach. My target drummer stopped. There was a short pause,
as he looked around for the source of this superb orange rolling into
the ditch beside him, before snatching it up and taking a grateful
mouthful without even bothering to peel it.

Right next to Barbicaglia, over a low wall, I overlooked a small,
strange garden of an Italianate design in a small plot of land. Its
sand-covered paths bordered by bright green box trees and two cypress
trees guarding the entrance gave it the look of a Marseille country
seat. There was no shade whatsoever. At the far end, there was a white
stone building with skylight windows on the ground floor. At first I
thought it was a country house, but on closer inspection, I noticed a
cross on the roof, and a carved inscription in the stone which I
couldn't make out from here. I knew then that it was a Corsican family
tomb. These little mausoleums can be seen all around Ajaccio,
well-spaced, and surrounded by a garden. The families go there on
Sundays, to visit their dead. A setting like that, gives death a less
gloomy air than the confusion of cemeteries; and there is only the
footsteps of friends to disturb the silence.

From where I was, I could see an old chap shuffling calmly around the
paths. All day long, he trimmed the trees, dug the ground over, and
watered and dead-headed the flowers with great care. At sunset, he went
into the small chapel, where the family dead lay, to put away the
spade, the rakes, and the large watering cans, while displaying all the
respectful tranquillity and serenity of a cemetery gardener. The man
worked with a certain subliminal reverence, and always locked the vault
door quietly, as if wary of waking somebody. Within its great and
glorious silence, the upkeep of this little garden troubled no one and
didn't by any means depress the neighbourhood; in fact, only the
immense sea and the infinite sky had more grandeur. This everlasting
siesta--surrounded as it was by the overwhelming sights and forces of
nature--brought a sense of eternal repose to everything in sight....

THE TWO INNS

I was on my way back from Nimes, one crushingly hot afternoon in July.
As far as the eye co