Renaissance in Provence

About the Book

As its title indicates, Renaissance in Provence is a story of renewal. It is also a tale of greed, folly, arrogance, treachery and redemption. But above all, this novel is a paean to Provence, that colorful and geographically diverse, 200-square-mile stretch of land sandwiched between the Mediterranean Sea and the Alps, a place the author wishes to share with like-minded Francophiles, hopefully without the hype and cliché too often found in recent stories of the region. John Mugglebee fell in love with the area while biking it. Each outing brought an image, a thought, which, once back in his room, he tried to transcribe on any old bit of scrap paper. As the stack of scribble grew, ideas on how to convert his musings into a story got scarser. The sudden death of John’s father-in-law put the picture into focus. He knew then that this story must be about the individual’s struggle for dignity once his pride, confidence and reason to live have abandoned him. Dreams, even bad ones, are one’s reins on life. When the reins loosen, the battle for self-esteem begins. This, then, is the story of that inner battlefield and the healer that is Provence. Here are some sample pages taken from near the beginning of the book: “Stone reaches the turn-off, a much-neglected road, its ancient cobblestones humped and split by the roots of gnarled plane trees. Further on, he comes to a narrow ravine, which the road chooses not to cross. On the far bank and through a flank of trees and thickets, appears a large property enveloped in summer light. A crusty two-story stone farmhouse shines white in the sunlight, with dark splintery shutters. Its once orange roof tiles, now gray and cracked, hang like marcescent fruit too willful to stop clinging, and too dead to know it. He crosses a narrow arched bridge of moss-covered stones joining the two banks. Nailed to the trunk of a linden tree are three signs: “Private Property”, “Keep Out”, and the more auspicious “Elysian Farm”. A carpet of rich uncut crab grass and purple wild flowers fills in a circular dirt drive with no other sort of adornment. Sorbin’s truck is parked crookedly between twin cypress trees. The farmer, unapologetic for having left him in the lurch, is setting a liter of beer and two glasses on a large wooden trestle table dragged up against the side of the house. Under the table, an elderly bitch of wire blond hair lies twisted over its own hindquarters, nipping at ticks. “You got here. That’s a point for you. Say your name again for me.” “Russell Stone.” “Roussel, you say? Well, come sit down.” Stone pulls up a wicker chair. “Some place you have, Mr. Sorbin. You must be a large family.” “There is only me,” replies the farmer, pouring the beer. “Oh.” “The house, this table. They are for me and me only.” Sorbin elicits a peculiar hoot, whether of pain or amusement, Stone cannot say. “And your dog.” He hopes to sound encouraging. With a grunt Sorbin reaches for the animal, fingering its thin coat. He torques a tick, displaying the blood-gorged parasite between callused thumb and forefinger. “Old Dora here is not mine.” He presses the bug till it pops. “She belongs to Maurice.” “Maurice?” “You will meet him later. So, you are an American, Roussel?” “Yes, sir, I am.” He waits expectantly for the man to follow-up this opening with other questions, or at least to comment on his ability to speak good French. But Sorbin seems to have reached the limit of his interest in Stone, for now. He rises. “Come to the house.” The farmer walks with a gimp to the entry. “One passes through the kitchen, as in most old houses,” says Sorbin. Inside, the temperature drops considerably. The kitchen is like a cave, with its high round ceiling made of rock and its mustiness. But the blue, ceramic, counter tiles add some light. They continue down a dark corridor to the living room, elongated like the nave of a church and buttressed by one continuous arch o

About the Author

Like the protagonist of Renaissance in Provence, John Mugglebee has been a rolling stone. He spent his adolescence in Boston, teens in Los Angeles and university years in New Hampshire attending Dartmouth College. Six months studying in Spain were followed by two years in France, before a return to Colorado and a Masters degree in English studies. Tamed by a French wife, he now lives in the South of France, teaching, writing, cultivating his garden, looking after two small children and a sage of a cat named Yoda, and cycling. For the past few years, biking has been his means to cover distance and to ply the roads of reflection.