Chapter 2 Chapter two

In a café opposite a bakery in the town of Lumieres, two men were having a lively discussion about a question I hadn't even thought about: Can toads sing? Toad Chorus (1) In order to celebrate the mass guillotine of the French nobles 200 years ago, the French now hold various ingenious activities, one of which is the most peculiar.Although the local newspapers would make headlines for such trivial matters as the lorry robbery at the Coustellet market and the ball game held in the village, the event remained largely unknown, not even reported. The well-informed Le Journal de Provence reporter failed to dig it up either.Therefore, this novelty can be called a world scoop.

Winter was almost over when I heard about it.In a café opposite a bakery in the town of Lumieres, two men were having a lively discussion about a question I hadn't even thought about: Can toads sing? The larger of the two evidently did not think Toad had any talent for singing.From his thick, muscular hands and dusty blue overalls, he looked like a mason. "If the toad can sing, then I will be the President of France!" He said, taking a big sip of the red wine in his hand.Then, he yelled at the waitress behind the bar, "Miss, what do you think?" The lady who was sweeping the floor raised her head, put her hands on the broom handle, and began to express her opinions.

"Obviously, you're not the President of France, but as for the toad..." She shrugged and said, "I don't know about toads, but it's possible. Life is weird. I once saw a Siamese cat who could use the toilet." , as evidenced by color photographs." The smaller man, leaning back on the chair, seemed to feel the same way. "You hear? Anything is possible. My cousin said there was a man in St. Pantaleon who had a lot of toads and was going to train them for the 200th anniversary of the French Revolution!" "Really? What can a toad do? Waving a flag? Or dancing?"

"Sing." The little man finished his drink and pushed his chair back. "I'm sure they will be able to perform "Marseille March" before July 14th." The two quarreled and left, and I tried to imagine how to train a creature with a limited vocal range like a toad to produce the melody that makes every Frenchman excited when he thinks of the heads of nobles falling into the basket under the guillotine.It might be possible!The only time in my life I have heard untrained frogs croak around the house in the summer.Larger toads, or more gifted ones, may be able to extend the scale and produce long notes.But how to train a toad?And what kind of person would spend time doing something this challenging?I'm just dying of curiosity.

Before trying to find this man in St. Pantalion, I decided to seek the opinion of others. My neighbor Marceau should know about toads.He used to tell me he knew everything, everything to do with nature, the weather, and anything that walked, flew, or crawled across Provence.He is unfamiliar with politics and real estate prices, but when it comes to wildlife, no one can. I followed the forest-side path into a sticky valley, where the Marceaus were, huddled against a steep bank.His three dogs sprang at me, the chains on their hind legs snapped taut, and I, out of their range, whistled.There was the sound of something falling and a "fuck," and Marceau appeared in the doorway, hands still dripping with orange juice.

He came over, kicked his dogs for silence, and shook my hand with his elbow.He explained that he was painting the house to make it look more valuable and fetch a good price in the spring.Also asked me, does the orange look very bright? After admiring his artistic taste, I asked him if he could say something about toads.He pulled his beard and suddenly remembered that he still had paint on his hand, but it was half orange. "Damn it!" Marceau wiped his beard with a rag. The skin on his face was already dried by the wind and cheap wine and turned the color of bricks. Now the paint was all over his face.

He looked as if he were thinking, then shook his head. "I've never had toads," he said, "but frogs, and it must be an English dish, isn't it? I am not going to describe to him "toad-in-the-hole".I said, "I don't want to eat it, I just want to know if the toad can sing." Marceau stared at me for a while, trying to figure out if I was serious. "Dogs can sing, just kick that thing and then..." He looked up and barked like a dog. "Toads might sing too, who knows? The problem is the training. My uncle in Forcalquier had a sheep that danced when he heard the accordion, funny isn't it? Although I've seen it with the gypsies before A pig dances much more gracefully than it does, but now, it is a 'dancer', and it is exquisite! Although it is a bit bigger."

I told Marceau what I had heard in the café, and asked him if he happened to know the man who trained the toad. "No, he's not from this area." Even though San Pantaleón was only a few kilometers away, it was considered foreign territory because it was on the other side of the N100. Next, Marceau began telling me an unlikely story about a domesticated lizard.While he was babbling, he suddenly remembered his paint, so he extended his elbow to shake my hand again, and continued to paint his orange wall.On my way home I finally came to the conclusion that it was obviously useless to ask the neighbors what happened at such a distance.I should go to San Pantaleón myself and continue my investigation there.

＊＊＊ Even by rural standards, San Pantaleón is not very large, with only about 100 inhabitants, a small hotel, a twelfth-century church, and a rock cemetery.The tombs had been empty for years, but they were still in shape, some almost miniature.The weather was a bit gloomy and cold that day, and the cold northwest wind blew on the bare branches, making rattling noises. An old lady was sweeping the front steps, and the wind was blowing from behind her, helping her to blow dust and empty cigarette packs to the door of the neighbors.I asked her how I could find the man who tamed the toad and sang.The old lady rolled her eyes, then walked back into the room at once, and slammed the door behind her.As I walked away, I saw her curtains move.Presumably she would tell her husband at the lunch table that she met a crazy foreigner wandering the street today.

At the turn of the intersection leading to Mr. Ott's iron workshop, a man was squatting on a Mobilite motorcycle, stabbing it vigorously with a screwdriver.I asked him again. "Of course I do!" he said. "It's Mr. Schalke. Everyone says he's a toad lover, but I haven't seen him. He lives outside the village." I followed the direction he pointed to a small stone house standing on the side of the road. The gravel layer on the driveway looked as if it had been combed with a comb. It read "Respected Mr. Schalke, good at various studies."Seems to cover all subject areas.I'm curious, what else is he doing besides training toads to sing?

As I walked up the driveway, he opened the door and looked out at me, eyes sparkling behind gold-rimmed glasses.From the meticulous hair to the spotless leather shoes, the whole body exudes a tidy temperament.His trousers were ironed straight and he was wearing a tie, and from the house came the faint sound of fife music. "You're here at last!" he said. "The phone has been out of order for three days. It's really disgraceful." He leaned his head closer. "Where are your tools?" I quickly explained that I didn't come to fix the phone, but I just heard about his toad research and was very interested.He straightened the already flat tie with his clean and white hands. "I can see that you are British. News of my little celebration has spread to England. I am so happy to hear that." I couldn't bear to tell him that even the nearby town of Lumiye didn't quite believe that toads could sing.But since he seemed in a good mood, I asked if I could have a tour of the little choir. He gurgles and wags his finger under my nose and says, "You don't seem to know anything about toads, they don't come out until spring. But if you really want to see them, I can show you." Where they live. You wait here." He went back inside and came out in a thick sweater against the cold, a flashlight and an old key labeled "Studio" in copperplate.I followed him through the garden to a beehive-like building, built entirely of dry, flat stone, typical of stone houses in Vaucluse a thousand years ago. Schalke opened the door and shone a flashlight into the stone house.Along the bottom of the wall is a circle of sand and gravel slopes, extending obliquely into an inflatable plastic pool in the middle of the house.There was a microphone hanging from the ceiling above the pool, but our performers were nowhere to be seen. Toad Chorus (2) "They're sleeping in the sand," Schalke said, pointing his flashlight at the foot of the wall to the left. "Here, I have a green toad that croaks like a canary." He pouted and curled his tongue to imitate me. listen. "There," the light swept across the slope on the other side, "is the Pangu toad. It has a wide range of voice, and it sounds like this, kar, kar, kar."He drew his chin to his chest and croaked like a frog, "See? These two sounds are completely different." Mr. Schalke explained to me how he would make possible what seemed impossible to me. "In spring, when the toads start courting, these beach residents will gather in the pool to revel and sing songs of love." Due to the toad's genetic introversion, this kind of grand event can only happen at night.But no problem, any frog call, whether it is a bird-like squeak or a majestic rattle, can be recorded through the microphone to the tape recorder in Mr. Schalke's study.Then, the tape is edited, mixed, tuned, and then through the magical effect of electronic synthesis, the melody of "Marseille March" can be formed in the end. But that's just the beginning!Mr Schalke intends to produce an original composition - the national anthem of the member states of the European Common Market.Excited by the thought? I didn't feel excited at all, but rather disappointed.I've been looking forward to seeing the Toad Choir live: a band of swarms of toads, the gigantic vocal sacs inflated and deflated neatly, Mr. Schalke standing on stage conducting, the toad contralto singing a stunning solo, the audience Let's listen to every note carefully, what a musical baptism worth cherishing! But what about electronically synthesized frog calls?It's certainly unique, but it lacks the free-spiritedness of a live show.As for the national anthem of the European Common Market?I'm more skeptical.How can you expect bureaucrats in Brussels to agree on a song when they can spend years trying to figure out a few trivial things: the color of a passport, the number of yeasts required for good buttermilk?Besides, it was a song sung by Toad.What amazing things will Mrs Thatcher say again? In fact, I believe Mrs Thatcher would have said, "They must be British toads!" But I don't want to mix politics and art, so I just asked the most straightforward question, "Why toads?" Mr. Schalke looked at me like I was playing dumb, "Because no one ever did it!" Of course! During the months of late spring and early summer, I often wanted to go back and see how Mr. Schalke and his toads were doing, but I decided to wait until July, when the toad concerto should have been recorded. With any luck, Maybe even hear the national anthem of the European Common Market! When I arrived at Mr. Schalke's house, he was not there, and the door was opened by a woman with a face like a walnut, her other hand clutching the handle of the vacuum cleaner. "Is Mr. Schalke there?" The woman went back inside and turned off the vacuum cleaner. "No, he's gone to Paris." She paused, then continued, "He's gone to the 200th anniversary celebration." "Did he go with his music?" "I don't know, I'm just a housekeeper." In order not to make my trip in vain, I asked if I could see Toad. "No, they are tired. Mr. Schalke told them not to disturb them." "Thank you, ma'am." "It's all right, sir." In the days leading up to the 14th of July, the newspapers were full of the preparations for Paris, the parade of floats, the fireworks, the presence of foreign heads of state, the dresses of Catherine Deneuve, but nothing about There was no news about the Toad Chorus, not even on the cultural pages.The National Day came and went, but I never heard a cry of frogs.I knew he should have had them live.