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Languedoc

On my way out of the winery, a large ochre building surrounded by cypresses and stone pines, I stop the car in the middle of the vineyard, on the dirt track leading to the road. There isn’t a sound, just a vast barren silence — although it’s mid-September, the harvest is already over. “It’s been a difficult year,” the vintner had said. “The grapes have suffered.”

Five kilometers away, there’s the sea — you can’t see it from here, but it fills your lungs with the smell of salt and marsh and the metallic cries of seagulls. Not one cicada though. I’ve been looking for them in vain on the trees. No chirping around here. Without their persistent song, you start to wonder whether you’re actually in Languedoc.

Sebastián’s asked me to meet him in Barcelona. Two days ago, just as I was getting off the ferry from England, still in a daze, he called: he’s heard of my rushed return – what a strange idea to drop everything and go spend a year in London anyway – it might not be America, but I was still obviously heading straight for disappointment – but no matter, he’s found me a job and I’m to start as soon as possible.

At Sète, I make a detour to the cemetery by the sea. The weather’s still mild, warm even, but the tourists have already ebbed back north, leaving empty streets behind them. The bay trees are no longer in bloom. I stop to grab some lunch and think back to London, to the long days of fog, to Mei especially, who used to bring me xialongbaos which I’d gulp down. To eat them properly without spilling them everywhere, she’d explained, you had to bite the end off in one go and swallow the soup immediately — and above all, not worry about burning your tongue.

It would be better to arrive in Barcelona in the early evening. I get back behind the wheel and drive down the road that takes me between the Thau basin and the sea. The beach on the edge of Sète is now bristling with modern bungalows. Entire promenades are covered in concrete, and there are a few palm trees for good measure with high, stripped trunks. Certainly no home for cicadas.

An hour and a half later, I catch sight of the border.

***

It’s past eight on the harbour in Barcelona; Sebastián and I are chatting on the terrace of his apartment. I have faith in you, he says. And it’s about time you settled down. The big city didn’t work out for you. In fact, neither did travelling.

I’ve brought him a case of wine and the latest news from Sète, which he left after a difficult breakup. It’s a shame for the cicadas, he says, but I don’t think they’ve been seen anywhere this year. It happens. Some things have trouble coming back.

Artwork

Artwork credit: 
胡家怡, Beijing Film Academy

Our Partners

Flash Europa 28 is organised and run in cooperation with the Delegation of the European Union to China, the embassies of each of the 28 EU member states, The Bookworm, Literature Across Frontiers, and social media platforms in China.