Biographies & Memoirs

Chapter Eighteen

It was April. We had arrived that afternoon and were all having supper together. Claudette had made sorrel soup followed by an asparagus omelette, and a quiche filled with cauliflower. Raymond was complaining about his knee.

‘I don’t understand it,’ he said. ‘The cow was giving birth and she kicked me hard. Here!’ He rubbed his buttock. ‘But it’s my knee that is swollen. Look. C’est vraiment bizarre.’

‘It’s already better than yesterday,’ said Claudette briskly.

Raymond seemed doubtful, but took another helping of quiche.

As we then tucked into home potted pork with salad, Grandpa, who had looked at Raymond’s knee without comment, told us about the excellent meal that the troisième âge had recently enjoyed at a local restaurant.

‘La soupe était extra,’ he said solemnly. ‘Just like Claudette makes.’

He paused; we waited. ‘Et…après,’…he lifted his head and made sure we were all listening…‘un très bon hors-d’oeuvre avec de tout…gizzards, duck breast, tomatoes and olives. Après…une galantine de volaille avec une sauce, et puis…brochette de canard…fromage…tourtière. All for 120F. Le vin rosé wasn’t up to much,’ he added, with a touch of his usual asperity. ‘But,’ he nodded…‘le repas était copieux.’

Grandma agreed. How she got through it all with her sparrow’s appetite I can’t imagine. Grandpa took another slice of bread and chuckled.

‘Ah oui,’ he said. ‘She was trying to get her reputation back – la Patronne. She knew she had overcharged for the champagne at our New Year celebrations!’

Le troisième âge it seemed, still wielded some power.

Raymond talked of his trip to London. He got out his map to show Grandpa the places he had visited.

‘And, you know,’ he said, ‘I didn’t dare put my briefcase down – in case they thought it was a bomb.’

The next morning, after a quick trip to the supermarket, we started on the garden. That was what we really came for on these short trips in spring. After the waist-high grass, the next job was the cutting of last year’s plumes on the pampas grasses. They were too beautiful to cut when we left in the autumn. We were not here in December, the best time for pruning, so they were by now a sorry, bedraggled sight. Although the temperature was already in the mid-seventies during the day, for this task covered arms and legs were a necessary protection against the razor-like edges of the leaves. It took all day, as I loaded and reloaded the wheelbarrow. But I found a use for the strongest canes as supports for my morning glories and canary creepers. The buddleia bush seemed to have survived, and the canna lilies that I had planted the previous summer were just poking through a thick layer of bark chippings.

Raymond, in spite of the knee, was working in the orchard with Jean-Michel. As a precaution against any high winds this summer, they were putting a strong wooden support against every tree. Evidence of Jean-Michel was all around. Fences were mended – an eternal task – and there were new stalls for another six young bulls.

By nine thirty that evening it was still 72° on the porch. The croaking of frogs both in the pond and under the edge of the pool cover, was deafening as each group answered the other. A thin layer of mist began to roll up from the south, as though someone had teased out a long strand of cotton wool and placed it with great care between the horizon and the nearest band of trees.

All week we worked in the garden. It was wonderfully therapeutic. When we left London, I had been in the middle of writing a children’s story, but had lost inspiration. I can recommend a week’s gardening for writer’s block. It is such hard physical work that the only possible imagining is imagining what it all might look like in three months’ time. It worked wonders for me and I spent the evenings scribbling away.

On Sunday it was the first of May and the Fête des Fleurs at the nearby town of Tournon d’Agenais. Another thirteenth century Bastide, the whole hilltop town was that day like a miniature Chelsea Flower Show. Every nurseryman throughout the south-west had been given a section of the town in which to set up his garden display. Claudette was in her element and we were soon loaded with plants, but Raymond spent most of the time sitting down on the nearest bench. His knee, which had been much better, was swollen again. They had been to the tennis dance the previous night. I had been too tired to join them.

‘What time did you get in?’ I asked.

‘Three a.m.’ said Raymond. ‘Mais – c’est pas ça.’ He shook his head, then grinned sheepishly. ‘J’ai trop dansé le cha cha cha.’

He cheered up as we set off for the Hotel de Quercy at Lauzerte for another marvellous meal and, on the way, talked about his dilemma of whether or not to sell some of his maize to the cooperative. In spite of the early storms the previous June, it had been a bumper harvest. His silo was full but he might run out and need more. It was possible to sell with the understanding that, if you needed to, you could buy some back again. Then what was the problem?

‘It won’t necessarily be my own maize,’ said Raymond.

I smiled. ‘Non, non,’ he protested. ‘They might give me kiln dried – it’s not nearly so good. Mine, you know, is dried au naturel.

Now I understood. Raymond still dries his maize in a crib. It is halfway down our track and we must pass it every day; a wire cage on stilts, about 100 feet long and 15 feet high, and very narrow, to ensure the maximum penetration of sunlight and air. These cribs straddle the countryside and when full of golden cobs they glow in the sunlight.

On Monday morning he was back in the orchard, this time wearing the special protective headgear which makes him look like a deep-sea diver, as he sulphated the trees against carpocapse, a particularly virulent pest. This task completed, he asked if Mike would help him measure out the field below the wood which was to become the new vineyard. ‘I’m not sure exactly how many vines I have room for,’ he said.

The field was bright with buttercups.

‘They look pretty but they’re no good for the hay,’ said Raymond as they trudged off, each with a bamboo cane three metres long. I cut last year’s dried tansy stalks and put them in a basket for kindling, while the two men paced back and forth over the meadow. When they returned, hot and thirsty, we sat together under the porch. Raymond looked uneasy.

After measuring it seemed that they would need 3100 stakes, one for each vine. Raymond scratched his head. ‘3100! I’m a bit scared. It’s not easy planting a new vineyard.’

He then explained the complications that he had already had to go through with Le Bureau de Viticulture in Bordeaux. The famous permission, which he had eventually been granted by dint of persuasion by his influential friend, the nurseryman, had only been the first part of the process. He then learned that no new licences were being issued. Before he could buy his new vines, he must first buy up old licences from vineyards which were being discontinued.

Oui,’ said Raymond. ‘Tout ce que j’avais – c’était le droit d’acheter les autres droits! Permission to buy other permits. C’est tellement compliqué!’

To make it even more compliqué, to buy these unwanted licences, he was in competition with Le Bureau itself who, wishing to get rid of small, inferior vineyards would pay about 20000F per hectare – almost two-and-a-half acres.

‘But that’s a fortune,’ I said.

He smiled. ‘Oh I didn’t pay that. To get the full price, la prime d’arrachage, you must sell immediately. If you hang on until you make up your mind whether or not to replant, the Bureau are not interested and the price goes down all the time. When you buy from a small producteur, the going rate is about 3000F l’hectare – I bought 19 here, 30 there. I asked around you see. If you don’t replant within seven years the permit expires and is worthless. Time passes and people forget. Mind you, they are getting more expensive. The last lot I bought – the old woman said 3000F on the phone, but when I got there, it was already 4000F. Good job I didn’t wait a week.’

‘But I still don’t understand why they don’t all sell to the Bureau?’ I asked.

‘Oh – you know – they’re not too keen on officials,’ said Raymond, as though that explained everything. ‘Papi’s old friend, M. Lafarge, he just gave me his lot. He did send away to the Bureau but…when the paperwork came he took one look at it and threw it in the bin. “Les papiers,” il m’a dit, “sont inimaginables.”’

‘When will you plant?’ I asked him.

‘In the summer,’ he said, draining his beer. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll leave a few for you.’

The next week flew by but before we left I made a brief trip to the Mairie. I wanted, if I could, to find out more about the history of Bel-Air. Not that it is at all a grand house, quite the reverse. I can imagine that at one time it was little more than a barn, with a cheminée and sleeping accommodation in the attic. Our Mayor was his usual, friendly self but unable to help. He said that all the records for our commune which, in the last century had seen its population decline from over 2000 to 160 people, were now kept in Agen.

As we had to change trains at Agen for our return flight from Toulouse, we packed up the house early on the last morning. Leaving our luggage in the consigne automatique – the numbered lockers on the platform – we set off to see what we could find out in the Archives Départmentales.

The public room was crowded. The only person in it not deep into research was a whimpering, wriggling two-year-old. Spectacles were lowered, people sighed, the mild assistant frowned as the young mother repositioned the child once again on her lap and turned another page. From time to time a senior assistant looked in severely from another room as if trying to judge the exact moment to eject both mother and child. Eventually the pale young girl found what she was looking for, scribbled a few notes and left. The whole room breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Now…exactly what was it we required?’ We explained. The gentle forehead lifted and wrinkled.

‘It would be very difficult. All documents since the Revolution…vous comprenez…all the numbers of the sections were changed mais…peut-être…on verra.’ We will see.

Gradually with her considerable help we waded through the crumbling files, the dusty books. We learned, at last, the reference numbers for the house, the barn, the parcels of land. There was much more to do but, it was midday. The Archives would now close until two-thirty. Our train for Toulouse left Agen at 12.55. As we strolled the ten minute walk to the station, we joked about having forty minutes to waste. The joke was on us.

We went to get our luggage, which also contained bread, fruit and cheese for a picnic lunch, and found a large white label stuck right across our locker. EN PANNE. OUT OF ORDER. There was no one on the platform. It was, of course, midday. We explained the situation to the swarthy young man behind the ticket window.

‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘It happens sometimes.’ It clearly wasn’t his problem.

‘But we have to catch the train…to Toulouse! And after that the plane to London. Our passports, our tickets…they are all locked inside…’

He looked more sympathetic. ‘Go along the platform to door number two,’ he said.

We did. There was no one there. The whole station seemed deserted. We returned.

‘He must be at lunch,’ said the young man. ‘Try door number 3.’

Door number three was nowhere near door number two but when we eventually found it, there was no one there either. By now it was after twelve thirty.

The young man must have telephoned someone for, after another five minutes, which seemed like half an hour, from opposite ends of the platform two officials appeared. The first to reach us peeled off the white label with a flourish and, taking our numbered ticket, punched up the numbers which should have released the catch. ‘Ça ne marche pas,’ he glared.

If it was that easy, we thought, we could have done it. The second official closed in. He looked affronted. ‘C’était moi!’ he said. ‘I put that label on. Someone had put money in the ticket slot. It is definitely out of order!’

Most of the other lockers were empty, their doors hanging open. Why on earth had this someone chosen our locker?

‘M. et Mme are going on the train to Toulouse,’ said the first official, looking at his watch. We were all looking at our watches.

‘We need the machine!’

What now, we worried? What machine?

‘D’accord! But…Where is it then?’

The second man clapped his hand to his head and set off down the platform. He reached the far end and disappeared. He came out again, raced towards, then past us, our heads turning to follow him. He ran to the opposite end of the platform where, again, he disappeared from view. By now a small crowd of passengers had collected on the opposite platform where the train for Toulouse was due in less than five minutes. At last the official emerged clutching a square metal box. Panting and red faced he ran towards us. He stopped.

‘J’ai oublié le code!’ he shouted.

He screwed up his face in a supreme effort of concentration, then started towards us again. He pointed his machine at the locker and pressed the numbered keys. Nothing happened. He tried again. The door flew open. We grabbed our luggage and ran down the steps, along the subway, and up the other side as the train pulled in. We fell into our seats, hot, and dishevelled. Weak with relief, we devoured our bread and cheese, regarded all the while with cool amusement by the elegant woman in the opposite seat. Ah, les Anglais! was written large upon her exquisitely made-up face.

By the time we returned in July there were many changes. In the orchard there was a brand new hydrant which was fed by water from the river Lot. Plans to pump from the Lot had been in progress for several years but until some reluctant farmers had been persuaded of the benefits, nothing could be done, as the pipes had to cross their land. Now it seemed there was accord.

‘If I’d thought it would ever happen,’ said Raymond wrily, ‘I would never have paid for a new lake five years ago but…’ He shrugged. ‘If you get a hose connector to fit the hydrant,’ he added, ‘you can water your garden when it’s not in use.’

This was good news. Mains water in France becomes ever more expensive and the water from the Lot, though, as I discovered, smelling very strongly of river, was a fraction of the cost.

The long buttercup meadow which stretched down from the wood was now a baked, brown desert, spiked with 3100 brand new wooden stakes. They had been hammered into the ground at metre intervals through continuous strips of black plastic which were to discourage the weeds. Raymond explained that weed killer cannot be used for three years on new vines. He and Jean-Michel were now working all day with two-handed augers to make the holes for the vines. He came down to the pool to sit for a moment and have a drink but he was too busy to swim.

‘Tomorrow we plant,’ he said. ‘Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon.’

He looked exhausted but, before he left, reminded us to come down that evening as Nabucco was to be televised live from Orange. It didn’t start until 10 p.m. and it was almost one in the morning before it finished. Raymond insisted on staying up but we had to wake him for the best bits.

At nine the next morning we were all in the new vineyard ready to begin. Raymond proudly unloaded and carried out the first tray of vines and showed us exactly how to plant them. Pierre, a young pâtissier, temporarily without a job, was helping out and also Claude, another neighbour, who lives in the house where Anaïs’s nephew once lived. Often the holes they had made were a little too deep and we had to put in a handful of earth before positioning the plant just so, turning its natural curves from the graft towards the stake. Halfway down the row I put in a vine and felt it move. On taking it out I found the hole already occupied by a huge toad. Raymond scooped it out with a trowel, whereupon it went down the next one. We worked slowly and steadily, Mike going back to the farm with the van again and again for more plants. As I placed the vines, Claude came behind me with a shovel to fill the holes with earth.

A heavy smoker, he had not yet lit up and I noticed that his teeth were unusually white. ‘You’ve given up smoking?’ I enquired. He unbuttoned his shirt and showed me the patch on his chest. He grinned.

‘C’est un timbre,’ he said. It’s a stamp. ‘On dit…on est timbré.’

It was a nicotine patch. ‘C’est un secret…un secret de polichinelle.’ That turned out to be the kind of secret which gets passed from one to the other.

Claude enjoys teaching me idiomatic French. As we progressed down the long row and looked back at the vast size of the operation, he shook his head.

‘Ah, Raymond,’ he said to me. ‘He is still so young in spirit but…he doesn’t seem to realise…it’s the legs that will be the problem!’

I watched Jean-Michel, fit and bronzed after a few days by the sea and, thankfully, there didn’t seem to be much wrong with his legs.

At the weekend Philippe came up to inspect the vineyard and seemed impressed. He had been fishing and brought us a bucket of small fish for our supper. They were still alive. ‘Just pour the water off a little before you want to cook them,’ he said breezily.

During the next week friends and family arrived from all directions. My cousin David came with Tristan, a young man he had met at a conference in America the previous February, and had invited to spend Easter in London. At the end of March David had developed full-blown Aids and in one of its most frightening forms. He had CMV, cytomegalovirus, which often leads to blindness. He rang America to tell Tristan to cancel his trip but the young man simply said it looked as though he had better come as soon as possible. He gave up his job as a supporter of carers for disabled students and came to care for David. He is still here. David is now very frail and completely blind and without Tristan would be lost.

When they arrived that summer at Toulouse they brought freezer bags full of the chemotherapy which took an hour each morning to feed through a Hickman line into David’s chest. Still able to see then, once this was done, he was up and eager to start on the garden. He weeded and cut out all the old rhizomes on my iris bed. We had been given a box of prize irises, and Tristan and Matthew dug out a large new bed, and I was sent down to the farm to shovel up bags of dry manure. Grandma came out of her little house to see what I was doing. As I loaded the sacks into the car she came quietly out with a basket of cucumbers, tomatoes, lemons and eggs.

David sieved all the dry fumier and we planted the irises; peach, dark blue, yellow and russet colours, and transplanted some of the white ones which Anaïs had grown. Raymond came by and stayed for a beer.

‘Anaïs would have enjoyed these,’ he said. ‘She loved her irises.’

On Sunday we went out to lunch and came back on the road between Villereal and Castillonnes. The first time Mike and I had driven down this very rural road we had been startled to see what looked like a naked woman, with huge breasts and bright red nipples, bursting out of the top of a small, spreading tree. Not surprisingly we had slowed down. She turned out to be part of a fantastic display of primitive sculpture in the garden of an otherwise perfectly ordinary farm. There was a simple parking sign on the opposite side of the road so, clearly, one was expected to stop and look. We pushed open the gate and wandered into an individual world of fantasy.

The figures were life size, often unashamedly lewd, and there was a feeling of sheer fun about the whole crowded scene. A serpent with a woman’s head writhed through the pots of marigolds along the path. In an ancient, tip-tilted cart sat a mannequin wearing a bonnet. The cart was pulled by the front half of a donkey as if coming up from the underworld. A naked man, generously endowed, brandished a spear at another with a devil’s face on his bottom. There were figures with two heads, one male, one female, a manic-looking dog about to catch a crow, another woman with wonderful breasts and a real fern growing for her pubic hair. The whole place was guarded by a very old but live swan who lumbered slowly out of his pond towards us.

As we were looking round, a small, silver haired man came bowling in on a tractor. With a mischievous glint in his eye he explained that he was a bachelor and that although he was a farmer he made the figures in the winter when he had nothing much to do. His father had been a taxidermist and he had learned as a boy how to make the wire armatures. ‘I make another figure each winter,’ he said. ‘It keeps me out of mischief and amuses people.’

When we told Raymond about our discovery he laughed.

‘He’s the brother of the taxidermist that you met when you first came to lunch with us,’ he said.

‘The one that went home with une crise de foie while his wife ate and ate?’ I asked. ‘Bien sûr!’ said Raymond.

When we took David and Tristan there, the sculptor was in his garden showing some friends around. We spoke about his brother.

‘But he’s here,’ he cried. ‘I’ll call him out.’

A transformed taxidermist emerged from the house. He wore pale yellow trousers, a cream silk shirt and two tone shoes. A heavy gold medallion glinted on his chest, and his once greying hair was now a gleaming auburn.

‘He’s married again,’ whispered the sculptor, with a twinkle. He rubbed his thumb and finger together. ‘Quelqu’un avec des sous!

We wondered whether his brother had divorced the former wife or whether she had simply exploded.

A week later I watched the muck-spreader working in le grand champ. As it trundled to and fro, the dried-out field of pale gold stubble was gradually overlaid with swathes of moist brown. There was a strange wet clattering as the shit, literally, hit the fan. The field is so large that a trailer full of muck only covered two rows. In the hot sun they dried slowly to their original tone, turning the whole expanse into a colour chart of browns. Fortunately the wind was in the right direction. By ten thirty it was too hot to garden and I went to the mill to buy un pain chocolat for Thomas who had arrived the day before. Had there been any less chocolate I doubt it would have passed the trades description act but – as far as Thomas is concerned – finding the chocolate is half the fun.

Sitting by the pool we were plagued by wasps and soon realised that there must be a nest somewhere. It had been so hot that in spite of our water from the Lot, there were large cracks in the grassed area around the pool. We watched the wasps flying in and out of a particular spot. Raymond advised us to call les pompiers. It seemed a bit drastic but squirting insect spray down the hole was ineffective and, eventually, I phoned the fire station.

‘We’ll come as soon as we can,’ said a reassuring voice.

‘How much will it cost?’ I asked.

‘C’est gratuit, Madame!’

About seven thirty we received a call.

‘Where exactly are you?’ We explained.

‘Ah yes…I know where that is. À bientôt.

Thomas gazed longingly down the track hoping for a large red engine complete with ‘nee-naw’ and a ladder. He was disappointed when it turned out to be a small red van, so old that there was a hole right through the floor under the driver’s seat. Two men got out. One was grey-haired and avuncular, the other looked like D’Artagnan – but wore nothing but a gold chain and a pair of swimming trunks. He apologised for his ‘torso nu’ of which he was clearly very proud. ‘C’est la chaleur, vous comprenez,’ he said, rippling his muscles.

They would soon deal with our little problem. There were not many wasps. However, as they approached the nest across the cracked and dried lawn, an angry crowd flew out. The men turned smartly back to the van and ‘grey-hair’ donned a protective suit, with gloves and headgear, before he pumped their special anti-wasp liquid into the hole.

‘That will fix them,’ said D’Artagnan, leaning against the van, arms folded. ‘Grey-hair’ was not so sure.

‘Pour some boiling water down tomorrow, before the sun is up,’ he said. ‘And just to be quite sure we’ll leave you some of our special produit. You’ve got a spray? Good.’

He peeled off his suit. Yes, they would have a drink.

Un Ricard?’ ‘Grey-hair’ brightened. ‘Bien sûr!

D’Artagnan sadly declined. ‘I’ve already eaten,’ he said ruefully, ‘but I’d love a beer.’

Raymond had been working in the new vineyard. He came down to join us.

‘I know your face,’ he said to D’Artagnan.

‘Yes, my parents used to live up at…’

‘Ah, of course.’

‘Is it true,’ he asked Raymond, pointing to us, ‘that they’ve been here every summer for nearly twenty years?’

Mais oui. You didn’t know?’ Raymond’s eyes widened in mock astonishment.

Mon Dieu! We must drop you in a calendar…’

Raymond smiled knowingly at me. He had already warned me about the calendar. We all smiled knowingly.

‘A calendar. What a pleasure. We would look forward to it.’

‘How much should we offer?’ we asked Raymond as they drove away.

‘Well…you’re not here all the year,’ he said ‘I should think about 100 francs.’

We needed both the boiling water and the rest of their special produit, before our wasps were eliminated. When we finally dug up the nest it was much larger than a football.

We are still waiting for the calendar.

David had given us Charles’s telescope. We spend so much time marvelling at the night sky at Bel-Air that he thought it the perfect home. Matthew was fascinated and spent hours trying to set it up. The only problem was that there was no handbook and none of us knew anything at all about telescopes. M. Justino in the next village heard of our difficulty. He had a friend, he told us eagerly, a Monsieur Pic, who was a keen astronomer. There was even an observatoire on the other side of Fumel. He would take us there. We arranged to meet on the following Friday, but that morning we received a call excusing M. Justino. He was confined to bed with une crise d’arthrose des vertèbres. He could not move. Perhaps next week – otherwise, we should just follow the sign to the aerodrome and ask.

We set off with our lunette astronomique and drove up into the darkened and unfamiliar hillsides. We hadn’t even known there was an aerodrome there let alone an observatory.

At the very top we found a bar, a barbecue, a car park and a crowd of young people just beginning their weekend. Could this really be the place? We enquired about the observatory.

Bien sûr,’ said the barman. ‘Straight on, 200 metres. You’ll see the dome.’

By now it was really dark. We crept slowly along the rough, winding track and just as we thought we were lost, came to a small, square building with an unmistakable dome. A figure stood in the lighted doorway and, as we parked, he came out, pipe in hand.

Bonsoir.

Bonsoir.

Est-ce que M. Pic est ici?

Pas ce soir.

‘Ah…’ We began to explain. He was immediately welcoming. He would be delighted to look at our lunette. Another man emerged, younger, round faced, with spectacles and another, older, thin and pale. Very different from our farming friends, they were quiet, serious men. They wore cardigans and had soft hands. Their little club room was sparse but very neat; tools arranged on a board, press cuttings on another, notices of meetings. It had a homely feel. The first man checked our telescope. Yes, it was a good one for a beginner. The lenses, they were excellent. The problem was always one of stability. Tripods were useless.

‘This is what you want,’ he said. He led us out into the darkness and fixed our telescope to a wooden post which was set in concrete.

Voila!’ he said. ‘Vous voyez. Rien ne peut bouger.’ He lined it up and focused.

Regardez,’ he said to Matthew and there was Jupiter – like a tiny moon with three satellites – and Venus. It was exciting, but there was more to come.

We were invited to climb the wooden staircase up to the dome. We were adjusting to the cramped darkness when, with a great rumbling sound, a section of the dome opened, the sweet night air rushed in and we saw the sky, bursting with stars. They proudly showed us their telescope; a six-sided box like a very long coffin which they had made themselves, and the mirrors which they had ground. Then we took turns to clamber into the confined space to look, first at the galaxy of Hercules – like a spiders web of diamonds, in fact an exploding star which was so far away that no movement was visible – then Jupiter again, much larger. He told us about Mercury and Pluto – the fastest and slowest – the Pleiades and the Pole star.

‘It’s much better in the winter,’ he said. I pictured them snug in their downstairs room in this remote spot, writing their reports and reading their magazines, then putting on scarves and thick woolly hats, climbing the stairs and opening their dome to let in the frosty air and gaze at the stars. These were men with a passion.

By eleven thirty our eyes were tired with looking. We thanked them and paid our 15 francs. ‘C’est pas obligatoire,’ they said. ‘But now you can come anytime. We are here every Friday.’

We drove home and although it was late we couldn’t resist setting up our telescope once more. We marvelled at the craters on the moon and then – how clever we felt – we changed the lens to look again at Jupiter. Venus, alas, had gone to bed. And so did we.

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