Goodbye Quillan
It wasn’t supposed to end this way. In fact it wasn’t supposed to end. Life in Quillan reminds me of The Truman Show. We expats exist in a bubble of smiles, bonjours and cheek pecking, of dinners, aperos and fetes in the squares, of coffee in the morning and drinks on market days, of gatherings on special occasions at the restaurant of choice. Some fill personal schedules with dates in order to feel that they truly are socially accepted, that the expanded list of ‘friends’ hides the insecurity of life in a foreign land. I’m embarrassed to admit that in some measure I was sucked into the vortex. Just as quickly as I was accepted and invited into that undefined whirlpool I was spit out. At this point most of you will stop reading thinking this is going to deteriorate into a spiteful harangue, a vengeful diatribe by a bitter man.
As I prepare to bid farewell to the village I want it clearly stated that Quillan is a great place. It’s run by people who care for everyone living here. The mayor has been more than cooperative as has been the young man at the front desk in the Mairie. Ineke of the council has given hours to help with logistical issues. Many of the local business people with whom I have interacted for four years treated me like a friend and indeed they have been in the truest definition of the word. I apologize ahead of time for the spelling of your names. Richard and Myriam at the butcher shop, Micheal at the Palace, Marciel and Jocelyn at the bakery, Olivier at the Plantanes, Jerome at Peugeot and his lovely wife Severine at the bank Populaire and Rene of the Gouda stand stick out in my mind but many others have also been kind. The vision for Quillan is well defined and the execution of bringing it to life has been professionally organized. To believe that manufacturing jobs will return is living a fantasy. Tourism and the great historic stories and sites that abound in the area lead the way to future growth and prosperity. The plan is executed well. The ruling council directs the implementation of design. The city workers keep the areas of highest use neat, set up and dismantle stages for the surprisingly good entertainment that is featured, and somehow manage to keep traffic flowing while closing and opening streets to facilitate those fetes. Foresight and lack of fear of being criticized have led to numerous success stories such as the lakes at Saint Bertrand. The general consensus is that anywhere in the village at any time of day or night a walker, jogger or biker is safe.
But Quillan is a small village with a small yet significant population of English speakers. It wriggles and writhes with all the seemingly disorganized crawling of a centipede. But the parts are all connected and the messages are sent and received through a network of nerves. News and gossip never lay quietly for long until the creature comes alive and the communication between the one hundred legs begins. I used to listen to the latest with amusement. That is until I learned first-hand what being the target of the repulsive creature means. Yes, my actions deserved scrutiny and scorn. I let an ongoing private marital situation become a public fiasco when I refused to ignore the perturbation. From that moment my life changed. Unfortunately, it impacted an innocent party who was sympathetic and helpful during the worst of times. For that I harbor regret. As for my own actions, I stand responsible. As for the ensuing rumors which have led to brutally untrue characterizations and cost close friendships, I am saddened. Like any centipede in your bathtub it deserved squashing not nurturing.
And so I leave Quillan. Memories will always be tainted by those who chose to ignore the man whom you accepted for three years, whose actions and words were neither narcissistic nor misogynistic and both literally and figuratively slammed a door in his face. I can’t close without a thank you to friends who stayed close. You are welcome in my new home anytime. Where will that home be? I have the better part of a year planned to assess the future. However, a good guess would be that it will be in Terragona, Spain. The incentive to settle there draws me closer every day to that conclusion.
And as to my writing, the sequel to Trapped in the Inferno is finished and will be released in January. Look for Escape from the Inferno on Amazon. I close with four unsolicited attestations (don’t you just hate that word after the lockdown and curfew).
From Chuck Burns…I always thought you knew the X’s and O’s but I never realized you were an author. You took me through a whirlwind adventure in Europe and ended it with enough twists and surprises to satisfy any reader. I can’t wait for the next adventure…you were a good basketball coach but you’re a better author.
From Steve Miller…great read, Jack. You just rekindled an appreciation of Dante that I ignored since ’62. I’m going to go back and reread the Inferno and take from it your passion for the work.
From Marge Swayze…Jack Carbee’s first novel Trapped in the Inferno is ambitious in its scope. Fortunately, Carbee has the writing ability, understanding of European culture along with the literary savvy to pull it off. It is a mystery, love story and historical fantasy all woven into a single tapestry.
The best review I ever heard…I want half the future proceeds from the sale of the book and the movie rights…Julie Carbee divorce proceeding demands.