Iruskia.
Flaking white letters in a long ago child's clumsy handwriting. The high wooden gate creaks a welcome as the tribe of small children runs through, dripping sand and salt and pine needles.
Inside the courtyard, the mimosa forest and thousands of hydrangeas wave invitingly in the warm wind. The sandy black soil is decorated with a mosaic of footprints.
After dropping their loads of buckets, nets, and parasols by the back door, the children hurry to the kitchen. A woman, both wife, sister, mother, grandmother, and great-aunt to many in the house, distributes slices of white bread on the red-and-white checkered oilcloth and take the powdered cocoa from the top shelf. The children scoop the chocolate on the bread, and begin eating. As always, someone begins to laugh and soon brown powder flies everywhere.
When they are done, the children move to the great hall, where old wooden thrones, worn from generations of children pretending to be Kings and Queens and Princesses and Viziers, have worn smooth the carved curlicues and faded the fabric roses. The oldest girl climbs on the tallest, most intricate chair, twice as high as the others and with a mirrored back, and becomes a Queen. Two younger girls arrange themselves on smaller chairs and transform into Princesses. The magnificent Irish Setter clambers on the sandy cushions of a large flowered and, like everything else in the house, sandy ottoman. He is sometimes a Dragon, sometimes a Royal Hunting Dog, and sometimes a Frog Prince that one of the Princesses kisses and marries. All four look regal.
The other children decide that they would much rather play real games and take a well-used deck of cards from a drawer in the centenary china cupboard. They sit down on the benches around the long table and begin a game of War. Soon, brave numbers begin falling under the swords of mighty Kings and Aces.
Outside, the sky slowly darkens and the songs of the cicadas subtly change. Noises can be heard from the kitchen. The children are called upon to take stacks of plates to the tables on the terrace. The rumble of a car is heard outside the walls of the garden, and the husband-father-grandfather-great uncle walks through the gate, followed by an aunt and two uncles. Today had been a good day for sailing, they traveled all the way to the edge of the open Ocean, where the waves began and the tall sand dunes and pine forests faded from view.
Dinner is freshly-caught salmon, steamed potatoes, and homemade mayonnaise. The sky becomes dark red, then purple, then black. The sea breeze waves between the tall white arches, fluffing hair and rumpling napkins.
The uncles and husband-father-grandfather-great uncle are sitting on the steps outside, talking about something the children cannot understand. A little girl, the brown, curly-haired one, approaches.
-Papa, I want to go fly a kite and go swimming.
-It's late, ma fille.
-But I've never been swimming in the dark!
The night is warm, and it is the summer holidays, so the father says yes. They gather swimsuits and towels and kite and walk down the hill and through the forest path to the beach. The sun is no longer shining and the water has cooled down. The little girl does not swim long. Soon, she shivers. Her father wraps her in a towel and begins to unwind the kite strings. The girl observes him. The wind picks up, and soon they are both running across the beach, pulling the stubborn kite into the air, stumbling, laughing. But the child's leg tire fast. They go home.
The child climbs up the creaky stairs and slides into bed next to her blonde and curly baby sister. The adults are still talking downstairs. Soon she is asleep.
The next morning, the children wake up one by one and cavalcade downstairs. The ancient clay tiles in the kitchen resonate with the sound of bare feet. An aunt is feeding her baby oustide on the steps of the kitchen door. One of the children has found a bottle of bubble-soap and is blowing bubbles everywhere. Some land in the baby's bowl and the aunt chases the children away.
They slink behind the clothesline, sweep the hallowed spot hopefully for four-leaved clovers and, having found none, continue into the mimosa forest. Two of the girls set up shop on the bent tree, the little boy pretends to imprison one of the older girls between the branches of the cage tree, while the two youngest girls try to climb on the back of the dog, who, in comparison to them, is a very tall horse. Eventually, the oldest child leads her troops into the secret passageway by the fence, where they unearth the remains of a plastic soldier army buried years ago by the earlier generation of children.
After lunch on the old, rickety table behind the kitchen, the women round up the children and walk down to the beach. It is too windy to swim and the orange flag is waving in the wind. The children make their way to the beached wreck of a fishing boat, the wreck that for many years has been claimed as a fort by every child to lay eyes on it.
Time passes. The group walks along the beach to the stone pier, where they take turns sitting on the old rusted cannon fiercely guarding a pot of petunias. The youngest look wistfully towards the brightly painted carousel nearby. As if by magic, a handful of cardboard tokens appear. There is one for each child and some left over. The house keeps a plentiful supply of the precious rectangles since the carousel was first installed, years ago.
The wooden horses spin and gallop to the music, tossing their golden manes and mirrored reins in the wind. The swans glide majestically, the carriages roll along, the donkeys look mischievous.
When the music stops, the children neatly climb down. They know what happens next.
«Passion-framboise, cornet maison, s'il vous plaît monsieur.»
«Griotte pour moi, s'il vous plaît.»
«Chocolat!»
«Moi aussi!»
«J'essaierais bien la crème de marrons et la nougatine...»
Nine children and four women sit down on the same green wooden bench as always, contentedly licking various flavors of ice cream and sorbet. As age decreases, the mess increases. The youngest children soon become hugely smiling chocolate monsters. The mothers sigh and decide it is time to go home.
In the shower room, everyone squirts water at her neighbor. Sandy toes leave tracks behind. When all are clean and freshly dressed in nightclothes, dinner is called and they head to the long table, picking up grains of sand between their toes as they walk in the hallway.
It is the end of yet another day in Iruskia.
The house of the sun.
***
The house belonged to my great-grandmother, although she didn't live there anymore. Three generations of children of our family have been through here, and all of them have left their mark.
When Mémé died, the family had to sell the house. A rich couple bought it and had it refurbished to their taste. The white stucco walls have been covered in tiles, the sandy soil paved and transformed into a driveway, trees cut down to make place for a pool, clothesline and clovers engulfed under a garage, and the wooden gate replaced with an automated metal grille.
Iruskia has no more sand and no more children. I have not been there since it has been sold, and never will go back. I will keep it alive in my memory as it once was, a house where time stood still and children played the same games, year after year, generation after generation.
