The Untimely Deaths of Veronique Vermont
Jean Baptiste's breathing was steady, and his heart rate was slow. He slowly raised his rifle and steadied the stock on the window sill. The barrel was eased out of the shutter just enough so that he could see clearly through the rifle sight. He leaned forward and adjusted the sight until the image of his prey was sharp and the crosshairs in perfect position for a clear shot. Any moment now the church bell would sound for midday and he would pull the trigger.
There would be no regrets; everything that was about to happen was deserved. It wasn't him who started this; he had been fair and reasonable, too fair and too reasonable he thought, but now it was time to put a stop to it. He looked at his watch, and checked his shot again; it was still clear. The first strike came, he breathed in, held his breath, and as the second chime rang, he squeezed the trigger.
Fifteen years earlier.
"Good Morning Monsieur Maire, allow me to introduce myself. I am François Vermont, and this is my wife Veronique." François held out his hand.
"A pleasure and welcome to our little village. It is always good to see new people coming to live here. Tell me, what is it you do?" said Jean Baptiste, the Maire of St Cecile de Pays.
"I am a sculptor and Veronique is a landscape painter. We have bought the house and barn across the square from here."
“Of course you are, more hippies from the North. The Tarn et Garonne is being overrun by them, " he thought but instead said, “Yes, I have been told we are to have new neighbours. What brought you here?"
Veronique tugged François's arm. "We love the light in this part of France, and the house and barn were a bargain, although there is much work to do. Can you recommend a local builder who can help us?"
They chatted for a few more minutes, and the Maire promised to give them some names of builders, plumbers, and electricians who could help them.
That was many years ago, and despite Jean Baptiste's reservations, the village had learned to get along with its artists. François's statues were now famous across France, and commissions came from far and wide. Veronique's landscapes were also much in demand. They were the closest thing the village had to celebrities.
St Cecile de Pays started to attract more artists, writers, and musicians and they began to buy up the empty properties. A restaurant opened and the local cafe that once struggled to find customers was now a thriving business. Tourists came during the summer to admire the pop-up exhibitions, and the yearly Fête des Arts was a huge success.
The village had its heart back, and it showed in the flowers that hung from the street lamps, the manicured displays around the village square, and the old wine barrels filled with flowers that lined the road into the village. It was why the village had won the Tarn et Garonne best-kept village competition for the last four years.
It had been the crowning glory of Jean Baptiste's tenure as the village's Maire, and it had made him the envy of every Maire for 100 kilometres. So it would have continued but for François the sculptor. He had always been an oddity, out of step with the other villagers, especially after his wife died but they had tolerated his strangeness, they had forgiven his drunken ways. Even the music that blasted out from his workshop was tolerated as long as it did not continue too late at night, but the statue was a step too far.
The first he heard about it was when Jean-Paul, the village caretaker, came breathlessly into the Mairie and told him that there was a naked woman in the garden of François the sculptor. Jean-Paul had been watering the flowers around the border of the village square in preparation for the visit of the judges from the “Best Kept Village” competition. He had trimmed the grass, he had admonished the old gentleman who ran the boulangerie for leaving baking trays outside his shop. He was the Maire's eyes and ears; his was the reflected glory of the annual beautiful village competition.
"It's two metres tall and naked as a newborn child," he continued his wiry face, normally as inscrutable as a nun at prayer, was flushed and distorted in rage.”If the judges see that we can kiss goodbye to winning the competition. It's pornographic. He spluttered
“Right” Jean Baptiste, “I’ve had enough of that bloody sculptor and his hippy friends infecting this village with their so-called art. It's time to put a stop to it.”
The pair of them ran across the square and stared through the gates of François's house, and there it was in the middle of the garden for all the world to see was the statue. The Mayor pushed open the gate and strode across to François's workshop.
At first, the he was conciliatory. "François, that is a fine statue you made, but it is not appropriate to be seen from the square. Can you please move it to where it cannot be seen?"
François looked bemused. "But this is my gift to the village. I will only move it if it can stand in the centre of the village square. It is my tribute to my Veronique."
"Over my dead body," the Maire replied. "We were all sorry to hear of her passing, and the village all turned out for her funeral. That is enough."
"It is my masterpiece and has taken me six months to make."
Jean Baptiste was becoming more and more angry. "That is not your wife; she was no bigger than a ten-year-old child," the Maire spluttered. "Move it now; soon we will have the judges coming for the best-kept village competition and I don’t want them to see that monstrosity."
"The village competition means nothing to me," François continued, "but I am the artist, and that is how she appeared to me. She was my life, my soul mate and a great artist. Now get out and leave me alone."
François pushed them out of his garden and closed the gates. By this time, a small crowd had gathered, all wanting to know what was going on; the old women blushed and pointed, the young children giggled, and the young men admired the fine shape of the goddess that stood before them. Her legs were shapely and strong, her arms held wide open as if to embrace the old sculptor, her face confident and smiling as if the world was full of promise.
François looked up at the statue of his wife and said, "Don't worry, my dear, they are making a mountain out of a molehill. It will all blow over in a day or two."
But it didn't. In two weeks time the judges would arrive and there would be a new champion by the weekend, and Jean Baptiste realised he would be laughed at from one end of the Tarn et Garonne to the other.
He had to do something.
In the courtyard of the house of François the sculptor, the shattered head of the statue exploded into a thousand pieces. François ran out into the garden and dropped to his knees as he began to pick up the shattered pieces of the statue, tears ran down his face and he screamed in anger so loudly that soon villagers gathered.
René the cafe owner was the first to arrive. “François, my friend what happened, are you ok?
François struggled to his feet. “There was a shot, then an explosion and look.” He pointed at the shattered window of the house. “I was having lunch, I could have been killed. What sort of lunatic does something like this?
It wasn’t difficult to work out who the lunatic was and soon the gendarmes arrested Jean Baptiste. The villagers who had previously been divided about the statue were now united in support of François. By a unanimous vote of the village committee, the headless statue was moved to the floral display at the centre of the square.
François gave a speech when it was installed. “My Friends thank you for allowing me to erect this statue. Veronique was my muse and a great artist in her own right. Her work hangs in the most prestigious galleries in France. I have been asked many times if I could repair it but I know Veronique would not want that. Its lack of a head has become part of the narrative of its creation, a symbol of the struggle of art to be accepted. This terrible attack has brought us all together and the statue now not only honours Veronique but it honours you the people of St Cecile de Pays who have stood beside me, this is my gift to thank you all”
There it stands to this day, a must-see tourist attraction of the Tarn et Garonne
A plaque on the wall of the Mairie reads:
“La statue de la femme sans tête a été créée par le sculpteur François Vermont en l'honneur de sa chère épouse Véronique Vermont, la célèbre artiste paysagiste. Elle a été décapitée par Jean Baptiste, ancien Maire du village, et se dresse aujourd'hui comme un symbole de défi à tous ceux qui voudraient nier à la France sa culture artistique et sa tradition de tolérance.”
“The statue of the headless woman was created by the sculptor François Vermont to honour his dear departed wife Veronique Vermont the famous landscape artist. It was decapitated by Jean Baptiste a former Maire of the village and now stands as a symbol of defiance to all those who would deny France her artistic culture and her tradition of tolerance.”
© Jeff Price January 2025
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