20.

Snakes and Serins. April31st.

I know, I know, I haven’t been writing, because I have been outside all the days long .

The weather is magnificent, the prairies are a mass of lady orchids and the snakes are out. And snake killing is done by Emile, with great pride. First he is on his terrace, above my garden. I hear him grunt and then yell, “Marie, a pole, a stick!” The tone of voice makes me slow up what I am doing and start watching. Sure enough, Marie hears the urgency and is out from the house in a flash; bright, flowering overall tucked over knees and thick switch in hand.

“Grass snake! He was going to strike!” I'm listening with horror but can do nothing. Later, when I go up to look at the beaten body, still twitching, I say, “ But Emile, grass snakes aren’t poisonous. They are beautiful”
“Wshtt Pfitt,” he spits,” I don`t know about that. It`s a snake. And you, you`ve got to keep that grass cut up against these walls; keep`em clear”.
“Yes Emile, but you didn`t need to kill that snake.”
“Wshtt….Pfitt!” This is an expression that has much meaning for Emile and is said frequently, as non sequitur, insult, or mere adjunct or punctuation. It is up to me to interpret this time.

Later, in the early evening, the heat subsiding, Marie shrieks on the terrace. “A lizard!” Now there are a thousand and one little brown lizards, everywhere, up the walls, on the rocks, on the compost heap. She can`t mean one of these. It’s one of those large, green, slightly hooded ones. And it needs David Attenborough, right now.

Tant pis: spade in hand, Emile finds it at the foot of a climbing rose, …and chops hard. Now why? It is totally harmless.

I say nothing. I stick hard to my seat under the Cherry tree. Even the lovely running song of the Serins , like the winding up and down of thin chains, can’t distract me from an internal rant against ignorance.