by D J Mcintosh
Before leaving town I gave Dina cash to purchase new clothes and toiletries and enough extra that she wouldn’t be stranded if we happened to get separated. We also bought knapsacks and transferred our belongings into them, along with some water, wine, cheese, and fougasse, a round bread topped with oil and olives. We followed a gritty sand road out of town leading onto the wide stretches of the marsh.
The road became a gravel trail, no more than a berm rising a few feet above the swampy ground. The sea lapped at the marsh edges far offon the horizon. Our path took us northward. The day was bright and clear, cool but sunny enough that we stowed our windbreakers and walked comfortably in our shirts. Even in November the marsh was lush with tall wild grasses, willows, and shrubs interspersed with open areas and pondlets. Flocks of pink flamingos burst into the air as we passed by. Our shoes left prints on the spongy ground. I thought of the Apsu, the watery element Mesopotamians believed lay under the rim of the earth. If the great deltas of the Euphrates and Tigris resembled this, I understood how their ancient surroundings could give rise to such a notion.
A herd of cattle lingered not far off. It surprised me to see a bull among them with no fence anywhere to be seen. “They just let bulls roam free around here?”
“They’re only dangerous if you’re waving a red flag,” she laughed. “These are the black bulls you see in the Spanish rings. They come from here.”
“Have you been here before? You know so much about it.”
“When you spend hours alone you read a lot. I used to imagine places to run to and this was one of them. Idyllic, no?” Although she still looked disheveled and weary after our mad race away from Naples, when she drew in a few deep breaths of the clean, sweet sea air she seemed at ease for the first time since I’d met her.
We made our way over to the D85A and hitched a ride to Arles. After standing with our thumbs out for more than half an hour, we were picked up by a trucker who took us past the town of Saint-Martin-de-Crau. He dropped us off at a little road that ran north into a sparse plain.
“I hope I got the directions right,” Dina said. “This should be Chemin de Archimbaud. There’s a little settlement up here. It’s supposed to be not too far to walk.”
I hoisted my knapsack over my shoulder and we traveled north again. This terrain was radically different from the Camargue. Flat table land stretched as far as the eye could see. The farmers’ fields and sparse grasses were cut off in the distance by a gigantic stone massif. The beginning of Les Alpilles.
The place we found was not much more than a collection of farm buildings. A ruddy-faced woman in coveralls greeted us when we knocked at one of the doors. A broad smile crossed her face when we mentioned Marc Hanzi’s name and she told us to take a track that meandered farther north across the plain.
We made good time and found his home fairly easily. A low structure of softly rounded white stucco, topped by a thatched roof and capped with a small white cross, it sprang out of the flat landscape like a curious mushroom. Its roof of thatch didn’t resemble the English style but was neatly arranged in layers like a flamenco dancer’s skirt. A herd of sheep and seven white horses grazed close by.
Hanzi’s curious little house had no windows and only a simple wooden door. An enormous pair of bull horns hung over the lintel. No one answered our knock. “Don’t tell me we’ve come all this way for nothing,” I moaned.
“Patience is a virtue, I suspect, especially around here. He’ll show up sooner or later.” Dina’s spirits had definitely taken a turn for the better since our arrival in France.
I wandered near the horses. They had squarish heads, short necks, and deep chests. Dina joined me and explained that their black skin and white coat were characteristic of the breed. They were never shod and considered to be very hardy. I knew next to nothing about horses but could tell the Camargues were smaller and stockier than Arabian thoroughbreds I’d seen. As we settled down near some willow brush to wait, hoofbeats drummed from somewhere behind the house.
Horse and rider pulled up in front of us. A genial-looking man whom I guessed to be in his forties dismounted. He was not tall. He wore a black, narrow-brimmed fedora, white shirt, and black vest and pants and carried a trident. A Camargue version of a herding stave, I supposed.
Dina addressed him in French and introduced me as her American friend. He replied to her in English that in the summer he ran riding tours of the Alpilles, and years of dealing with tourists meant he could converse quite well in English. He greeted us warmly at first, but his good humor vanished when he heard our request to hire horses to journey to Renard’s. When he learned I wasn’t an accomplished rider, Hanzi reacted with outright concern.
Dina remonstrated with him and after a promise to double his payment, Hanzi reluctantly agreed, only on condition that I prove myself trustworthy with the animals.
I was game for anything. And so it was that we spent the rest of the day with the horses.
I grew up in New York City, where, except for a couple of summers of riding instruction at a camp in Lake Placid, the nearest I came to horses were carriage rides around Central Park. Dina, on the other hand, swung into the saddle with ease and held the reins confidently. “We’re letting you ride the big stallion. He runs like the wind.” She leaned over and spoke in French to Hanzi, who broke out laughing.
I tried to disguise my dismay.
Hanzi, wiping a mirthful tear from his eye, finally addressed me. “No, you have the mare. She is quite peaceful, very, very good—no trouble with her.”
I nodded and gingerly approached her. But after I mounted, I gripped the reins too hard. The mare gave a start when she felt the pull on her bit and backed up; I grabbed the saddle with my left hand to steady myself. Hanzi stroked her neck and whispered soothing words. Using gestures, he showed me how to hold the reins in one hand and leave them a bit slack, to pull to the right or left and loosen them as soon as she obeyed. Dina, who rode the stallion they’d jokingly threatened me with, commenced a leisurely walk. My horse followed behind with ease.
Dina and Hanzi spent a long time helping me get used to the feeling of riding, instructing me on proper posture in the saddle, where to position my legs, how to pull back gently if I wanted the horse to stop. Hanzi observed me closely and occasionally muttered instructions to correct my technique. When I could stay in the saddle as the mare broke into a trot, Hanzi decided I’d passed muster.
The setting sun turned the grass to gold. With night closing in upon us, we decided to wait and strike out for Renard’s in the morning. For an additional fee, Hanzi welcomed us inside.
Twenty-Two
November 22, 2003
Les Alpilles, France
The interior of Hanzi’s cottage was sparse—rough planked floors, rudimentary bathroom, sleeping alcove, and loft with a double bed. The large ground-floor room had a cupboard, a handmade table and chairs, and a counter holding a hotplate with a half fridge underneath. Without hydro wires in the vicinity, I guessed these were powered with propane. Sheaves of herbs and strings of garlic and fat red onions hung from a wooden handrail. Mixed scents of oregano, thyme, and rosemary wafted through the room. Several comfortable-looking easy chairs on a bright carpet were grouped around a potbellied wood stove.
The air grew chilly when the sun went down, so I got the fire going while Dina and Hanzi prepared a light supper. We were starving and, happily, dinner was delectable. We sat down to a hearty mutton ragout—reheated leftovers tasting of fresh herbs—an omelet, brown farmer’s bread, and ripe pears for dessert. We broke open one of the bottles of wine we’d bought. Hanzi proved a more than genial companion. He had an engaging laugh and a great, odd sense of humor.
We topped up our wine glasses and sat around the fire. “This place is my work house. Where I come to tend the animals, you know, and lead the holiday tours. My wife and six little ones are at home in town. Here is my escape.” He gestured around the small cottage expansively, and we joined him in a good-natured laugh.<
br />
“You picked the wrong season, you two,” he said. “May is best when people come from all around the world to Les Saintes-Mariesde-la-Mer.” He swung a wiry brown arm in an arc around the room as if pointing to the countries of the globe. “Then we celebrate our patron saint—Black Sarah—and the arrival of St. Mary Jacobé, St. Mary Salomé, and La Magdalene, who witnessed Christ’s crucifixion and rise. The four fled from Egypt to these shores.”
“I’ve heard of the festival,” Dina said. “You stampede the bulls, don’t you?”
“After Mass we Gardians lead the procession with relics of the saints to the sea. We ride into the water and the relics are blessed. Next comes a day of celebration—people bring out violins and accordions; we wear our traditional dress. Gardians lead the stampede of the black bulls through the village streets and show our skills on horseback. Then we fight with the bulls.”
Dina raised her eyebrows.
“Not badly, you know,” he laughed. “In France we don’t kill the bulls. Too valuable! And how about you? Why come now? Few inquire in person about Alphonse Renard.”
I decided to stick as close to the truth as possible without providing any details. “I’m an antiquities dealer. A client of mine is interested in buying one of the items in his collection and was unable to make any contact, so he sent me.”
Hanzi’s heavy black brows knit together in a frown. “It is not my place to say but I must warn you, the merchant has a … poor reputation. I haven’t seen his home but I’m told it is very grand. What man lives alone like that? Especially one with so much wealth? We do not care for him. We think he is spellbound and never go near his place.”
I assumed the rumors arose naturally from the rural suspicion of outsiders; all the same, this was not welcome news. I’d hoped after what we’d been through, meeting Renard would prove relatively easy. “Can you tell us how to get there?”
Hanzi’s face darkened. “Not exactly.” He caught Dina’s crestfallen expression and quickly amended his statement. “But I can direct you to someone who does. Her name is Pauline Lagrène. An old woman of the Manoush. She once lived on the marsh. I’m afraid she too can be difficult.”
“How so?” I asked.
“She is not used to visitors. She is a seer but no one consults her anymore. She has caused harm to people she doesn’t like. Several years ago a woman consulted her. The poor thing had lost her only child, a son, and was so stricken with grief she could not let him go. She pleaded with Pauline Lagrène to help her talk to him.” Hanzi lifted both hands to emphasize his point. “The mother wanted to reach her son from beyond the grave. She went home delirious with happiness, believing she had communicated with her child. Two days later, she took her fishing net into the reeds and drowned. Lagrène had cursed the woman, so everyone believed. They cast her out from the Camargue. She lives in exile a little north of here. Between Lagrène an d Renard there is bad blood. You must convince her to tell you the way. Pay her. She’ll pretend she doesn’t know, but she does—don’t think she doesn’t.”
Hanzi didn’t want to say anything more about Lagrène. He knew he’d said too much already and quickly changed the subject.
He pointed a calloused finger toward the ceiling. His hands were roughened from years outdoors handling livestock. “You saw how my roof is made from bundles of reeds. We get them from the marsh. In the Camargue there are reed cutters. These men who go in dinghies with the partègue.” He made a motion as if he were propelling a raft with a long pole. “They follow the creeks and little lakes. There, the water shifts. One day it is a narrow creek; the next time you go, a pond. The reeds grow so tall their tufts block out the sun and sometimes you are lost. If you step the wrong way, you sink into the water and it’s black so you can’t see the bottom. Many have been sucked in and drowned when gathering their bundles.”
His words chilled us and we didn’t talk much more. Dina, who looked ready to drop in her tracks, said she’d like to go upstairs. I thanked Hanzi for his hospitality and suggested I bed down near the wood stove. He made no objection. I’d noticed him glance quickly at our fingers earlier to see whether we wore wedding rings. No doubt he thought that not being married, we were acting with propriety. In truth, Dina wouldn’t want to share a bed with me, and even if she were willing, I’d get no sleep lying that close to her. Hanzi gave her a kerosene lamp to take up with her and she bid us good night.
After digging out some blankets for me from a trunk, Hanzi retired to his alcove. His snores were audible throughout the cottage. Eventually I gave up trying to sleep and crept out of the blanket roll.
When I did so, I heard a sound coming from the loft. Despite pleading tiredness, Dina was still awake. Was she cold? I grabbed one of my blankets and climbed the ladder. As I stepped onto the loft floor I realized what the sound was. She’d pulled the covers over her head. Both arms hugged her pillow like a kid holding a teddy bear, but that couldn’t hide her muffled sobs.
“Dina,” I said softly.
She raised her head and turned around. “What?”
“Are you cold? I brought you another blanket.”
“I’m fine.”
Her red eyes and wet cheeks said otherwise. I sat down gingerly at the end of the bed.
“You’ve gone through a hell of a lot. If there’s anything else I can do to help, just say.”
“No, you’ve been great. I feel like I’ve wrecked so many people’s lives. I just can’t get Ewan out of my mind.”
“I know. That was a huge shock. I barely knew him and it made me sick, so I can’t imagine how you must feel. But we’re pretty far from Naples now. I have enough money so you can get safely to any major city in Europe, gain some peace of mind. And perhaps see a doctor to help you work things out.”
“You mean a doctor for the mind? I couldn’t imagine where to start with that. And you don’t know Lorenzo. He’ll find me wherever I go. Right now I’d rather stay with you. I’ll be okay.”
“You’re sure?”
She nodded.
I tucked the blanket around her legs and went back down. She was quiet after that and I hoped she’d finally fallen asleep.
Still restless myself, I remembered it had been a while since I’d checked my email. I silently cheered when I got reception. I saw a message from an Italian dealer in my network forwarding a notice that advertised the fourth volume of Basile’s book, offered by a Naples bookseller. Although it was late, I sent a hasty text to the bookstore proprietor, a man named Naso. To my surprise, he responded immediately:
Thank you for your inquiry. We expect considerable interest in the book but it is still available. Please reply soon if you want to purchase. It is fine to phone.
Though I had no guarantee the volume advertised had anything to do with the specific one I sought, I punched in the numbers the bookseller gave at the end of his message, keeping my voice as low as possible so as not to disturb the other two.
Naso answered.
“My name’s John Madison. I just texted you about the book.”
“Si. It’s in very good condition, I assure you.”
“I’d like to know a bit more about its origin, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course. I bought it in a private sale early this summer.”
“Has anyone else expressed an interest in it?”
“A gentleman, M. Barbot de Villeneuve. I have not heard back from him again.”
“This may sound like an odd request—would you mind giving me a description of him? I think I may know him.”
Naso paused, and spoke again with a hint of suspicion. “I suppose. He’s an elderly man and he uses a cane. Does that sound like the M. Villeneuve you know?”
My heart leapt. “It does.” I chose my next words carefully. If I told him about the theft on the phone he might turn the book in to the police before I got a chance to see it, so I decided to leave that issue until I saw him. “I’d like to buy it from you. It may take me a few days to get there. If I wire yo
u an advance on the price will you hold it?”
I named a decent sum. Since he hadn’t heard again from Villeneuve, he agreed. We said our goodbyes. I did not have anywhere near the money needed to buy the book but hoped the prospect of a sale would be enough for Naso to hold on to it until I got there.
When I searched for the name on my cell, I discovered Barbot de Villeneuve was a woman, born in 1695, the original author of “La Belle et la Bête”—”Beauty and the Beast.” Alessio’s aliases were certainly inventive. First a pseudonym, then Wilhelm Grimm, and now a French fairy-tale author. Then I stopped short. Dina knew about the buyers of the other volumes. That meant she was aware that one volume was with Naso in Naples, and yet she’d said that the closest buyer was Renard. I cursed under my breath. If Dina had told me the truth I’d have Naso’s volume already in hand. Even as I thought this, I knew why she had lied to me. She needed to get away from Naples. And she saved my life by bringing me along.
I got the English translation of Basile’s book from my knapsack and sat on the floor with my back against the wall. The wood stove threw a soft light sufficient to read by.
The first story of the second volume was Basile’s version of “Rapunzel,” titled “Petrosinella,” about a prince who fell in love with a beautiful young woman locked in a tower by an ogress. Every night Petrosinella would lower her golden braids so the prince could climb up and “feast with that sprig of parsley at the banquet of love.” I laughed softly at Basile’s incredible descriptions and lewd sense of humor. I read until the firelight dimmed then gave up and, feeling the need for some fresh air, ventured outside.
The night was cool enough that I buttoned up my jacket. Out there, without the interference of city lights, in the clear Provençal air and the landscape flat to the horizon, the sky was a vast indigo plain. The great band of stars in the Milky Way stood out like a dust shower of diamonds. Silhouettes of the sheep and white horses were visible as they stood on the grass.
