“Max was a fine boy,” said Hubert. “He loved wine, and he sold a lot as well. He and Jacqueline were naturals at the wine tastings, great with the tourists, always steering them to the better bottles. I was going to offer him a job here, once he had his diploma.”
“I’d better go see Jacqueline, and you’ve got customers to attend to.”
“I know. But I came out to see if you wanted to postpone that dinner party of yours. The wine will keep for another evening.”
“Yes, but my bécasses won’t,” said Bruno. “I took them out of the freezer this morning and I don’t want them to go to waste. I’ve never got that many in a single season before. Besides, we all need cheering up. Let’s go ahead as planned.”
24
There were not many parking lots in Saint-Denis, but Bruno dutifully visited each one, looking for the type of small truck that J-J’s team had listed as having the tire-track width to match those in the grass at the research station. Each time he found one, he examined the tires minutely for signs of white paint. Having examined the lots at the school, the supermarkets and the garages, he set off in his van for the builders’ yard and the post office. There were only a handful of potential trucks remaining in Saint-Denis. The one Bruno particularly wanted to see, the very old Renault that Alphonse used to transport his cheeses, was delivering to shops all across the region and would not be back before nightfall—by which time any telltale sign of paint would have been worn away by country roads, Bruno thought glumly.
He turned through a pair of imposing iron gates into one of the last places he might find the truck, short of visiting every single farm, and he’d see most of those trucks on market day. It was Julien’s Domaine de la Vézère, the crown jewel of Bondino’s ambition. The long driveway was fringed first by woods and then by the formal gardens of the undistinguished château that was the heart of the property. A clumsy nineteenth-century restoration of a late-Renaissance manor house, it had been adorned with circular turrets with pointed roofs at each corner, a crenellated wing that looked solid enough to stop artillery and a grandiose terrace with wide steps leading down to the garden. The lawn was broken into geometric designs by gravel paths and dotted with unlikely topiary. To one side, protected by hedges with more topiary, stood a large swimming pool, from which came the sound of children gleefully splashing and diving. To the other side, beyond the vast wing, which had been turned into a restaurant, was a large modern barn, expensively covered with wood to look suitably antique, which housed the winery, and a large yard for delivery trucks. The ones he saw were too big for his inquiry, so he set off to look for Julien, who might have something useful to say about Bondino.
Bruno started his search at the winery, where the elderly cellar master, Baptiste, was supervising some seasonal workers who were cleaning the vats in preparation for this year’s harvest. He nodded at two mairie employees doing some freelance moonlighting. Baptiste said he had not seen Julien all day and suggested Bruno try the main office. That was odd. It was not like Julien to be away from the winery for an hour at this time of year, let alone all day. The winery office was empty, so Bruno went around to the front of the château, threading his way past the rows of vines heavy with fruit, through the parking area and up the steps to the main entrance of what was now the hotel. There was nobody at the reception desk, so he looked in the small office to the rear. Julien’s assistant, Marie-Hélène, was there, as she had been for years, ever since she retired from teaching at the nursery school. Surrounded by a thick scent of lavender, she was tapping away angrily at a computer as if she had a personal vendetta against it.
“Bonjour, Bruno. I hate this thing worse than the telephone. Why does nobody write letters anymore? I have to print out everything so I can file it properly or I’d never find another reservation.”
“Computers are supposed to make your life easier, Marie-Hélène,” he said, bending to kiss her on both heavily powdered cheeks. “Is Julien around?”
“Who knows, these days?” she said, almost dismissively. “I hardly ever see him, and when I do his mind’s elsewhere. If I didn’t have this place running like clockwork, I don’t know where we’d be. I tell you, Bruno, I’m worried about him. And did you know Mirabelle has been in the hospital?”
“That was in the summer. A woman’s thing, Julien said.”
“Well, she went back, all the way to Bordeaux. She was there more than three weeks, and Julien drove there every day. He told us not to tell anyone. He just brought her back two days ago, and he hasn’t even let me see her. I think it’s really serious, but Julien doesn’t want people to know because he says it will be bad for business.”
“That’s very troubling. And it’s almost time to pick the grapes,” said Bruno.
“A bunch of migrant workers has turned up already—Bulgarians, Poles, Moroccans. I’m running out of space in the barn to put them all up, but Julien still hasn’t given the green light to start picking. You’ll probably find him in the family quarters.”
Bruno walked through the ornate salon that contained the château’s best feature, an original sixteenth-century fireplace that was large enough to roast an ox; Bruno had once been in attendance at the roasting of a wild boar that seemed almost dwarfed by the great hearth. Various assemblies of furniture were dotted around the giant room: some Louis XVI chairs around a card table, two vast Napoléon III sofas squared off against each other across a marble-topped table. An Empire couch perched against one wall with a decent copy of David’s Madame Récamier hanging above it, and two rather battered Empire chairs were on either side. A large Restoration writing desk, bearing an ormolu clock, was placed against the row of French windows, and the rear wall was graced by two lovely English bookcases. No scholar of antiques, Bruno identified all these because Julien, or more likely his wife, had thoughtfully placed small handwritten cards on the respective tables, identifying them, for example, as “Coin Empire” or “Coin Louis XVI.”
Not sure whether this said more about Julien or his clients, Bruno went through the French windows and along the terrace to the wing adjoining the swimming pool, and knocked on the door that led to Julien’s apartment. No reply. He knocked again, more firmly, and the door was flung open, an angry Julien standing in front of him saying, “I told you not to disturb … Oh, it’s you, Bruno. Sorry, but the staff never gives me a moment’s peace. What can I do for you?”
“Bonjour, Julien. Is this an inconvenient time?”
It looked very inconvenient indeed. The usually immaculate Julien was wearing stained trousers, slippers and a rumpled denim shirt that looked as if it had been used to polish a car. His hair was uncombed and his jaw unshaven, and his breath stank of alcohol.
“No, no; come in. It’s a relief to see somebody who doesn’t want something from me. Sorry, Bruno, but I’m having a few problems these days.”
“Anything I can do to help?” Bruno asked.
Julien simply nodded, and led the way into what was normally a carefully kept and welcoming living room, with even better furniture than the assortment in the hotel’s salon. But there were papers all over the chairs, empty wine bottles and even a couple of dirty plates on the floor.
“How’s Mirabelle?” Bruno asked.
“In bed. Not well. Putain de merde, I can’t keep it bottled up. It’s shit, Bruno. Complete and utter. Cancer of the liver. She won’t live out the year, and I’ve got the grapes to be picked, the wine to be made, the hotel and the staff to manage. The chef left, and I’m making do with a temp with some fancy diploma from a job-training center who doesn’t know a roux from a rillette. I got behind on a loan repayment, and business is not good. Christ, it seems like forever since I saw a friendly face. I’m glad you came, Bruno.”
“I’m really sorry about Mirabelle. Can I see her? Is she well enough?”
“Maybe. Poor woman can’t get any sleep with those damn kids in the pool. She’s seen nobody so far. We came back from the specialist in Bordeaux and she just took to h
er bed. She doesn’t even want to see Father Sentout.” Julien turned and went down the corridor to the final door; he opened it softly and peered in.
“Listen,” Bruno said firmly, taking his arm, “leave me to her for a bit and you go and take a shower and shave and get changed into clean clothes. It will make you feel better, and I think Mirabelle would rather see you that way.”
As Julien walked away, Bruno entered the darkened room, which felt hot and stale. The windows were firmly closed, but the shouts of the children in the pool could still be heard. With painful slowness Mirabelle rolled over to look at him and said weakly, “Is that really you, Bruno?”
“Yes, my sweet, it’s me.” He came forward, kissed her gently on the cheek and took her limp hand. Too tired to even think of her hair or the matted bedclothes around her, she had covered her head with a small skullcap. “Julien told me the news. Let’s just take one day at a time. Try to focus on those great parties you threw, those hunting club dinners. Remember that song you loved, ‘Je Suis Seule Ce Soir’? You used to sing it as you danced.”
“Ah, Bruno, I don’t think I’ll be dancing again. But listen, take care of Julien. He’s been knocked out by this, and everything’s going to pot.”
“Did the doctor say you should stay in bed?”
“Yes. Well, sort of. He said I’d be getting very tired all the time and not to exert myself. They gave me radiation and chemotherapy and all my hair fell out.”
Bruno went over to the window, threw back the curtains and opened the French windows. The kids had left. He looked out into a small walled and private garden, which was bathed in sunshine. Noticing a chaise longue at the foot of the bed, he walked back, picked it up and took it out into the fresh air. Then he returned to the bed, scooped up Mirabelle, bedclothes and all, and carried her out into the sunlight, her eyes squinting against the glare. He laid her on the chaise longue, then took his sunglasses from his shirt pocket and put them on her face.
“It’s beautiful out here, Mirabelle. Smell the air.”
“Oh, Bruno, I can’t. I can’t smell, I can’t taste. I can’t eat.”
“You will, though. Try it. Keep your eyes closed and breathe with me. Come on; let a deep breath out and then breathe in through your nose. Can you feel that gentle breeze on your cheek?” She shook her head. He put his hand to his mouth and wet his finger, and then gently removed the sunglasses and stroked her closed eyelids with his moist finger. “Now can you feel the breeze on your eyes?”
“Yes; yes, I can,” she said breathlessly. He put the sunglasses back.
“Julien’s such an old fool,” she said, the tenderness in her voice belying the words. “He wants to sell everything, you know, take me to some place in Switzerland he found on the Internet that claims to do miracle cures. The doctors in Bordeaux warned me about places like that. They’ll only take all his money and leave him with nothing. I just want to stay here, Bruno, to keep it all as it’s always been, like it used to be.”
Her voice trailed off. “You’ll keep an eye on him, Bruno?” Then her body relaxed into sleep, her mouth slightly open, her face waxen and yellow. Bruno sat with her until Julien came into the garden, clean-shaven and neatly dressed.
“That looks more like you,” Bruno said. “She’s asleep.”
“She sleeps a lot. She never wanted to be in the garden before.”
“I didn’t ask her; I simply carried her here. She was glad to be in the open air. I think she just didn’t want to trouble you.”
“Trouble me? God, she’s never been any trouble, my lovely Mirabelle. We’ve been married thirty-six years, Bruno, and I don’t know what I’ll do without her. I just want to make her comfortable, to try everything, even if the doctors tell me there’s no hope.”
“There’s always hope, Julien, but the living have their own needs. Mirabelle wouldn’t want to see you let yourself go. You have to be strong for her, and for your business, for all the people here at the Domaine who depend on you.”
“I’m thinking of giving it all up.”
“That’s why I dropped by, to talk about that,” said Bruno. “Come over here by the wall where we can talk quietly without disturbing her.” He led the way to two metal chairs, painted green with wooden slats for seats. They looked flimsy, but chairs like them had taken the weight of generations of customers on the terraces of French cafés.
“I’m kind of surprised that you heard something. I thought it was a very discreet negotiation.”
“I’m sure it was, until the guy who bought your option came to see the mayor and talked about a big expansion. That’s how we heard.”
“Dupuy? An expansion? He’s just a Paris businessman, a property dealer, I assumed,” said Julien.
“Maybe he is. But he’s acting for a very big fish indeed. Bondino Wines of California. They’re the ones talking about expansion and buying up more land here.”
“You’d need a lot of money to do it right. I thought of doing it myself, got a bank loan I couldn’t really afford, but it would take deeper pockets than mine. The potential is there, the land and the climate. Did you know we used to produce more wine than all of Bordeaux before the phylloxera epidemic? Those riverboats you see, the flat-bottomed gabares they build for tourist trips? They used to take the wine barrels along the Vézère and the Dordogne in the old days, down to Bordeaux, where they’d sell the wine and then sell the wood from the boats and walk back up here.”
“Really?” Bruno knew the old story well, but he was pleased that Julien sounded like his old alert and talkative self.
“I always planned on making wine here, and we made a good business from selling it at the restaurant. But then I started expanding and things became tight. The loan is guaranteed by the hotel, so the bank isn’t worried, but the interest payments have been killing me, and then Mirabelle got her diagnosis and it all became too much. So when Dupuy came along with fifty thousand euros for the option, it seemed like the right solution. That pays all the bills, and when I sell the place there will be more than enough left over for me to retire on. There’s not much point carrying on here without Mirabelle.”
“Don’t be a fool, Julien” came a small but firm voice from the chaise longue. “You’re not even sixty yet; you’ve got a good ten years to build up something to be proud of. My life insurance will give you the working capital. If you just waste away when I’m gone, I swear I’ll come back and haunt you.”
There was a twinkle in Julien’s eye as he looked at Bruno and then rose and moved across to his wife, kneeling on the grass at her side and taking her hand.
“Don’t throw your life away, Julien. One thing I know from this damn cancer is that life’s far too precious to waste while you’ve got it. You need a goal in life, Julien. And you’ll probably need another wife as well, just to liven you up!”
Bruno rose, half smiling, and went across to kiss her and pat Julien on the shoulder. “She talks a lot of sense, your Mirabelle,” he said.
“She always did,” Julien replied, gazing at his wife with a smile on his face. He rose as Bruno said he had to leave. “I’ll walk out with you.”
When they got to the salon, Julien stopped. “It’s not possible, you know,” he said to Bruno. “That option I signed is very clear. If they want to proceed by the end of the year, I have no choice; I have to sell.”
“What? Even if you paid back the fifty thousand euros?”
“Well, no. That would cancel the deal. But I’ve already spent a lot of it. And I’d probably be liable for legal fees. I can’t do anything about it now, Bruno. The Domaine is going to be sold by the end of the year. They want it as a going concern, with the furniture and everything, including the wine in the cellars and this year’s wine as well. That’s probably why I’ve been putting off harvesting the grapes. It won’t be my wine by next year.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But whatever happens, Mirabelle’s right. You’re an active man. You’d get bored stiff with nothing to do. Life goes on, Julien. A
nd it’s probably time you walked along the vines and tasted a few grapes to see whether it’s time to pick. Your crew is here and other vineyards are already picking. You can’t wait much longer.”
“You’re right. Do me a favor and come with me; keep me company. Besides, I always like a second opinion on whether it’s time to pick. And then we can have lunch.”
25
Pamela was the first to arrive for Bruno’s dinner, wearing a pale blue summer dress that left her tanned shoulders bare. Gigi raced barking to greet her clattering Citroën deux chevaux. Putting his head out the kitchen window, Bruno waved a welcome. After he checked that all his prepared dishes were covered with cloths, he went outside, twisting the foil from the cork of a bottle of champagne. Pamela had a white jacket over her arm and was holding a large jar, which she handed to him. Gigi stood at her heels, sniffing.
“I know you have all the jam in the world from your black currants and strawberries and apricots,” she said, “but I don’t think you will have tried this. Rose hip jam, from my grandmother’s recipe.”
“My thanks, and Gigi’s. We’ll try it at breakfast tomorrow. I never even heard of it. Come and have a glass of champagne. You didn’t bring Jacqueline?”
“She’s coming with Hubert and Nathalie, and she’s already paid her first month’s rent in advance,” Pamela said. “She’s young and resilient, so I think she’ll be fine.”
“She may be rather sad company, but perhaps we can cheer her up. Now, let me pour you some champagne. Would you like some cassis in the glass first?”
“No, just the champagne on a lovely warm evening like this.” She turned, taking in a wide view of the ridge and the rolling hills and then the rows of truffle oaks and fruit trees. Bruno directed her to the garden table, which was arrayed with glasses and a bottle of cassis and an ice bucket for the champagne.
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