The Honey Siege by Gil Buhet (London, United Kingdom)

A ‘previous concept’ post.

Someplace else, people are rushing past each other with that awful dog-eat-dog cadence of Waterloo Station. In Hyde Park, tourists snap photographs of Peter Pan’s statue, and only a couple of children run around and irreverently stand on the plaque. London is basking in the May sunshine, gently slurping at it, and you can feel the pleasure of its drunkenness.

Gloucester Road is bustling with people headed to the museums, children in tow. Only a little bit further down the road, Slightly Foxed lies in plain sight, undisturbed, better than a museum, books overflowing onto the sidewalk.

As I walk in, I think of a world where it’d be just as dangerous to leave books unsupervised as it would be to do so with diamonds. It’s intimate and hot inside, the sun refusing to be kept out.  A “More books downstairs” sign points to a dark and cavernous basement. I love those signs – they remind me of books clamouring for attention, eager to not be overlooked, to be given a chance.

I failed this appeal, though. I went for an upstairs book, since that’s where most of the second-hand ones are. My choice this time was The Honey Siege, by Gil Buhet. I wish I could have found it in French, but the blurb was irresistible. And luckily so – later, an Internet search revealed that detailed information about the book or the author, in either language, was lacking. A fortunate find, and a reminder that there are literary worlds out there to pick out for ourselves.

I remember that a few years ago, paraphrasing Gandalf, I declared that I had been meddling in the affairs of adults. Now, in retrospect, at the time, that meddling really was only that – a peripheral incursion, a slight stirring with the finger of the pot of things that come with being a “grown-up”. Spending days and days of accomplishing utterly reasonable things, as I am undoubtedly supposed to know, makes the world go round, and saps the strength of those intolerable beasts called idleness and nonsense.

The Honey Siege is the story of six boys in the imaginary French town of Casteilcorbon. There’s Pierrot Daranluz, the popular leader who brightens everyone’s day (the original French title of the book is Le Chevalier Pierrot) and whose parents own the town’s inn; Gustave (Tatave) Grosbelhomme, who lives with his widowed herbalist mother; Riquet Martelot, the inventive son of the blacksmith; Francisco Guartorella, who often accompanies his Spanish father on poaching forays; Victorin Muche, the older (and apparently not too bright) son of the mayor; and Georget Grillon, the teacher’s son. The drama unfolds precisely around M. Grillon’s beloved bees. One day, he discovers the hives ransacked, the honey stolen, and the bees in starved distress. But when he decides to punish the stubbornly unconfessing boys by giving them an extra weekend class, oh, how they rebel. The historic fortress of Casteilcorbon is chosen as the perfect place to teach adults a lesson of honour and solidarity and just what offended children can accomplish. Portcullis drawn in and some fouaces stolen, the knights even take a prisoner and welcome a noteworthy guest.

Reading The Honey Siege is like being stuck in that specific moment when you suddenly discover that the childhood spirit has been packing its bags for quite some time in the spare room you hardly ever visit. There’s that shadowy age period when escapades and irresponsibility are still well within the realm of the possible, but when it comes right down to it, acting like a child – well, it’s just inappropriate. It could be the fatigue, the weary familiarity of this world, a simple overabundance of the past tense. After all, as the book says, “The despair of a child is complete and absolute, for he has no experience by which to measure it.”

The boys’ parents are some of the most interestingly imperfect I have come across in this type of fiction. M. Mouche is a loud and offensive authority figure. The blacksmith often hits Riquet. M. Grillon can’t talk to his son about the death of his mother. Cisco has drunkards for parents, and it is his sister who takes care of the baby. Mme. Grosbelhomme’s love is stifling and over-protective. Pierrot darts between the inn’s customers, a pet mouse in his pocket – still, his parents seem to be the only ones who have, if not necessarily admirable traits, at least no disconcerting ones. And as if that weren’t enough – Tatave’s mother and the teacher are secretly conspiring to marry. What is to be done when faced with such grown-ups? Nothing. “Not for the present. Later on, when they were parents themselves, things would be different; but until that golden age arrived you had to admit the imperfections of existence.” This is the child’s conviction of the power of young imagination, of its rightful dominion that would reign supreme if only it weren’t checked by adult forces. Often this conviction gets lost with the passage of time. Later, the newly acquired freedom might find its expression in indulgence in material things, and the feeling of being freed from powerlessness becomes the duty to take up the well-earned place in the ranks of the status quo.

The Honey Siege offers a consolation of sorts, though. If children, the masters of unravelling the mysteries of so many things, are helpless before that indomitable rock called adulthood, then the following conclusion can be drawn – adults themselves are way too unreasonable to be deemed reasonable. You can test this – stick your (well-washed!) fingers in the honey jar, lick them over well, and no doubt – you’ll get a stern look from a grown-up. That ridiculous consternation itself is silliness. So, maybe there’s still hope that what makes us children, curious, naughty, nonsensical children, is also what makes us people, a whole lifetime over.

P.S. A registered recurrence: my love for Billy Collins’s poems, once mentioned, will be indulged in again.

(Note, 15 April 2018: In early 2016, Slightly Foxed had to close its Gloucester Road premises. Currently, the bookshop resides at 53 Hoxton Square in Shoreditch.)

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