Mario returned with a new tattoo, a scorpion squatting the round of his hand, one pincer along the thumb, the other along his index finger. Snip, snip, snip he said. I always knew that guy would be trouble. His return that night was cause for celebration and the Poles gathered around us laden with bottles of "Vodka Polish" and the evil "spiritos".
They were happy that night for tomorrow we began at 9:00 a.m. instead of 7:00, as I said, time to celebrate — after eight straight days in the fields… planting leeks… cutting leeks… all of us reeking of fermented sap and alcohol.
We all lived in the same barn, part of which the farmer had converted into cell-like dormitories. There were eleven of us in our room; ten on creaking bunks, three on the floor. Mainly Poles, but some French students still remained. God knows how… or why. The Poles loathed them. These men and women were big peasant types, in Holland to make enough money to last the year living like royalty back home. The students were young, middle class, not used to this kind of slavery. The Poles gave them hell over the pettiest things.
As for myself, the only true English speaker left since the mass exodus some weeks before. Well, I was in love, head over heels in fact: a French girl, sweet but hard working, full of courage and fight. I liked that. And I was driven by the work too. I liked to try and match myself with the Poles, head down, like a machine. Roboto: Non-stop! There was something noble in that. Something sublime about brute force and the sweat of physical work. Something purifying.
In the fields human interaction was reduced to great simplicity. We talked in a hybrid language; Polish, French and English with a few Dutch words scattered here and there. We laughed at simple things, beautiful things. At the close of a ten-hour day our eyes were dulled by the same pain… the same dirt. At nights we drank a few cheap beers and watched the farmer’s wife mow the lawn again while our slashed fingers throbbed.
They were all gone; Geordie, Danny Boy, Grey, the Scousers, and I would still hear their laughter from those mad nights of defiance. And I would look at her, wondering where this love might lead me next.
But that night everyone was happy, they plied the students with Vodka and sang. And Mario looked from Her to me. Snip, snip, snip, he said. Snip, snip, snip.