by Betsy Draine
“Got any tips?”
“Well, tomorrow in Domme we’re scheduled to have lunch at l’Esplanade. They say it’s very good. It had a Michelin star until a few years ago when the original chef retired, but it’s still supposed to be right up there. And the site, they say, is spectacular, with a dining room overlooking the whole valley.”
“I’m up for that,” said Dotty. “You know, I never really was into haute cuisine until Roz took me in hand. Until I married Tom, I never had the money for it. But I will from now on, and I won’t mind spending it. Making up for lost time, you might say.”
“Why not?” said Patrick, “though from what you said the other night, I gather you and Roz don’t always see eye to eye.”
“Not always. There are a few issues about Tom’s will that need ironing out, and we’re talking about them.” She shifted her attention to the river. “Isn’t it gorgeous here?”
“It is,” I replied. Shading my eyes, I looked up at the castle, behind and high above us, looming atop its jagged cliff. The sun had now dipped behind one of its towers. People around us were slowly getting up to leave, shaking out blankets and gathering their belongings. No one spoke for a few minutes. Then Dotty pointed to a couple just arriving at the beach.
“Say, isn’t that our friend Marc with that redheaded woman?”
The woman carried a towel in one hand; the man had an arm wrapped around her shoulder. Sure enough, it was Marc Gounot, and the woman he had his arm around was the librarian.
“Look who’s an item,” Toby said quietly.
Yes, I thought to myself, and so much for Marc’s alibi.
10
SUNDAY MORNING FOUND ME groggy and regretful. “Everything hurts,” I whined to Toby. “I can’t even face the coffee. Can you get me a couple of aspirins to go with my croissant?” Soundless bells were clanging in my head.
The meeting on the beach had led to an epic drinking bout. It was Dotty’s idea that we splash in the river and then go for tapas at the Spanish restaurant by the bridge. She jumped at the chance to charm three men at once. I figured she couldn’t get too far with Toby right under my nose, and over drinks we’d learn more about Marc. So I said yes for both of us. It didn’t work. The tapas were tasty, but the six of us drowned our social discomfort in sangria, and no one but Dotty found anything much to say. The hours were wasted, if we’d expected to find out anything about Marc’s relationship with the little librarian, never mind why he was arguing with Fernando. The talk was about spiked wines—the merits of Spanish, Basque, and Perigordian versions of the same.
Having drunk less than the rest of us, Toby was in reasonably good shape, in spite of what was for him an early wake-up call. This was lucky, as I needed a helper or I’d never make it to the van in time for our departure. Marianne wanted us to start early, because thousands of visitors would be converging on Domme for the Félibrée. The police had restricted entry to one narrow road, which winds up a high hill to the town gate. “Grand as it is,” she warned, “the gate can accommodate only one car at a time.” We needed a two-hour start to make the journey. Our first scheduled event was ten o’clock Mass, so we had to depart by eight.
Thanks to Toby’s ministrations, I was ready in time to mark the entrance of Marianne and Guillaume, who appeared on the front steps of the château in full holiday regalia. Marianne wore a white lace bonnet that framed her face becomingly. Her ankle-length dress was topped by a snowy lace collar so wide it formed a shoulder shawl. The fabric of the dress was royal blue, with gold bees as a repeated pattern. The beehive, she explained, is the emblem of the Félibrée; the bees symbolize the félibres, the celebrants, and their industrious preparations. She looked attractive as she smoothed her skirt down with one hand and motioned the gathered group into the van with the other. As usual, Fernando was the driver. We gave him a wide berth as we waited near the van, and he in turn avoided eye contact with us.
Guillaume, in contrast to his sister, looked austere. He was dressed in stark black and white: round-brimmed black hat, black vest, and black pants, tighter than they should be, possibly because they had been in use just once a year since his slimmer days. A black string tie at the collar of his white shirt gave him the air of a stern Amish patriarch, a contrast to his usual persona of dapper aristocrat. I saw him glance up at Marianne as if unsure of his appearance, searching for approval.
After giving his sister an arm’s assist to mount into the van, he seated himself next to Fernando in front, and turned to the rest of us to announce proudly that Marianne was wearing the same dress their mother had worn when she was queen of the Félibrée.
“It was the summer after the war,” Marianne added. “They say it was the happiest of all the Félibrées. We have photographs of it—but of course we weren’t there. It was the year before our mother was married, in her hometown of Montignac. But now let me tell you about Domme.”
As our van made its way slowly down the wooded road that descends from the château to the river, and then through the morning-lit streets of Beynac, Marianne gave us a lesson about bastides. These rectangular walled towns were built in the thirteenth century as military strongholds when England and France contested dominion over Aquitaine. Domme, built by the French at the edge of a towering cliff, is irregular in plan, but its spectacular site makes up for what it lacks in symmetry. Marianne predicted that Domme would be a glorious setting for today’s celebrations.
Every Félibrée starts outside the city walls. The queen of the festival throws open the city gate to admit the waiting crowd, who then parade up the town’s cobblestone streets, under arches of brightly colored paper flowers made by women from nearby villages. All through the cold evenings of winter and early spring, the women meet to make flowers that will transform a summer street into a floral arcade.
Marianne guessed that we’d miss the opening ceremony, but we’d be there in time for the next event, which was the Mass to bless the Félibrée. This year the Mass would be sung by the Bishop of Sarlat, and since the langue d’oc is the language of the Félibrée, he would sing in Occitan. At this point Guillaume spoke up sharply in rapid-fire French, seeming to forget that half the group wouldn’t understand him.
“At least this bishop speaks Occitan,” he declared in an offended tone. “Last year the festival was held in another diocese, and their bishop didn’t speak the language at all. He was from the generation after the war. They were too bent on being modern to learn the patois of their parents. Besides, they were forbidden to speak it in school.” He sounded angry now. “In fact, people in that generation didn’t realize their dialect was a form of Occitan. They were told it was peasant language and they had to speak proper French to be civilized. Now, I’m happy to say, children are taught Occitan in school.”
Marianne took over in unruffled English, observing calmly, “Our bishop is young enough to have learned to speak and sing in the old language. You will hear the old words and the old music from morning Mass to the end of the day.”
It took the full two hours to get to Domme. Not to miss Mass, we piled out of the van before it reached the Porte del Bos and left Fernando to park while we climbed the steep, flower-bedecked streets. Walking with us were groups led by men who carried poles sailing the flags of their towns and cities. As we approached the church, I spotted someone carrying the flag of Castelnaud, with its yellow rampant lion, and I wondered whether we would run into Marc.
When we reached the church, we found a long line ahead of us in front of the entry. Once inside, we sought the back of the church and found seats together in one of the last pews. There was quite a din, so Marianne felt free to continue her tour-guide functions as we waited for Mass to begin. She fell silent at the first notes from the choir, and the congregation hushed too, as an all-male chorus began singing in plaintive tones. They were up at the front of the church, at the bottom steps to the right of the altar: twelve men, all dressed like Guillaume, in black and white. Their round-brimmed hats hung at their b
acks. Two strummed guitars as they sang, and one played a small keyboard instrument like a miniature harpsichord. The music was mournful, with a sad and longing tenor part, set against a bass part that sounded low and strong like a drum. To this strange chorus, the bishop, attendant priests, and altar boys marched in step from the church door, up the aisle to the altar.
I remembered enough from my upbringing to follow along, since what the bishop and congregation sang was an Occitan version of the Latin Mass with all the familiar phrases and gestures. The most memorable parts were the choir’s haunting choruses, which punctuated the ritual. I wasn’t prepared, however, for the finale, when the bishop, having said the Occitan equivalent of “Ita missa est” (“The Mass is ended”), raised both hands, gestured for all to rise, and then led the assembled hundreds in a full-throated rendition of an Occitan song, which all the locals, including Marianne and Guillaume, knew by heart.
As the bishop and his entourage “recessed” from the altar, down the aisle, and out the door, the choir continued with verses the congregation didn’t know. Once the church was half empty, Marianne huddled us into a side chapel. There she explained the parting song was the hymn of the Félibrée, “La coupa santa,” taught to every Perigordian child at least once, maybe twice: first, in school in the curriculum of Occitan studies and, then, if you were the child of Catholic parents, in catechism class in preparation for First Communion.
“What are those black boxes all over the wall?” asked Dotty, as if she had not been listening at all to what Marianne was saying.
Marianne turned to look where Dotty was pointing, the left and right sides of the chapel, which in the middle had an altar topped with a very old bust of the Virgin and Child. “Those are—I don’t know the word in English—sort of offerings. On the face is a plaque with writing that thanks God, or Mary, for an answer to the person’s prayers. In this church there’s a little box behind each plaque where the grateful person can put money or jewelry as an offering. In some chapels, there’s one locked box for the offerings. The priest collects the offerings periodically and gives the proceeds to the poor of the parish.”
“That’s done in some way all over the world, isn’t it?” I asked, accessing dim memories of my grandmother’s church in Gloucester—and the more recent memory of plaques in the little chapel on the château grounds.
“I think so,” said Marianne. I’ve seen this sort of thing in Spain and Italy, I’m sure.”
“That is so sweet,” said Dotty, taking note of a quaint foreign custom.
Guillaume looked at her reprovingly. “Gratitude is a universal duty,” he intoned. His posturing broke the mood, and Marianne told us we were free to go.
“Enjoy the festival, and let’s meet at twelve thirty sharp in front of the Hotel Esplanade just across the way from here. Don’t eat too much at the stands. You’ll want to have an appetite for our lunch!”
In the jostle of exiting the church, Toby and I fell in with David and Lily, and we drifted into touring the town together. Following the crowd, we veered to the left, which brought us to the square with its old covered market. The stone pillars were swagged with pink paper roses, and more strings of artificial flowers were strung up to the rafters. We entered into this giant bower, stopping at tables where women sold walnut candies, or slices of walnut cake, or the wafer-thin crisps they called gaufres. Lily and I were debating whether we could split a treat, when Toby said he’d catch me at the same place in a few minutes.
By the time David had devoured his walnut candies and Lily and I had powdered our lips with confectioners’ sugar from the crispy gaufre we shared, Toby was back. He held a brochure in his hand. “Sorry, I wanted to get a map of the town, and I saw that the tourist bureau was open. They recommend a walk along the ramparts. Anyone game for that? We’d have just enough time before lunch.”
“I’m in,” said David, looking over to check with Lily.
“I’m not feeling too athletic this morning. But you go ahead. I just feel more like strolling the town. I’ll meet you for lunch at the hotel.”
I surprised Toby by opting to stay with Lily. Toby knows I generally crave a daily walk, but I wanted to get to know her better, and besides, I hadn’t quite recovered from last night’s overindulgence. A leisurely stroll round the town would be better for me than a hike.
Lily and I made easy companions as we walked slowly down the steep main street without talking much, motioning to each other when we wanted to go into a shop or pointing out particularly nice decorations. We remarked on the costumes of the local women. Many wore white lace blouses with dark skirts and colorful aprons. Others wore full dresses like Marianne’s. Those in costume looked as if they were going to have to peel off layers, because it was already hot and it was still before noon. The tourists, in their shorts and T-shirts, looked out of place but comfortable.
Walking gently down the shopping street, we stopped to peer into windows, which featured the old instruments of each shopkeeper’s trade—ancient scales and weights at the greengrocer’s, old mortars and pestles at the pharmacist’s. At the window of the pastry shop, decorated with nineteenth-century cake molds, we looked at each other and simultaneously asked, “Coffee?”
Inside the pastry shop, we sat back to watch the mix of locals, félibres from out of town, and tourists like us, ordering and receiving their goodies with relish. Over coffee, Lily asked me to tell her about our life in California, and I did, asking her in turn to tell me about her life in New York with David.
“We haven’t been married long, actually. So we haven’t really got a rhythm to our life together, not like yours, with you teaching all day and coming home to a nice dinner cooked by Toby. Right now, I’m alone a lot. I do my copyediting job nine to five, but then there’s not much to do unless I go to visit my mother or sister. David’s job is very demanding. He’s often at work till ten or eleven at night. And he’s at the office all weekend.”
“I’ve heard the hours are grueling for lawyers who are trying to make partner.”
“Of course…. But with David, it’s not just that. There’s no doubt he’ll make partner, but I don’t think that will change how much he works.”
“Is it that he loves his work so much?” I replied cautiously.
She looked up at me soberly. “I don’t call it love.” Then she fell quiet.
When the silence threatened to become awkward, I asked, “Is this a sore topic?”
“Sort of. David is dedicated to his job. It’s a passion with him. And I know it’s very important work. But it’s going to be difficult now.”
I gave a puzzled look.
“We’ll be having a baby. We just found out, before we left on the trip.” I might have guessed. That explained Lily’s fatigue, her demurral from drinking, and her lightheadedness in the cave. Not to mention David’s solicitude toward her.
“Congratulations! You must be so happy,” I said excitedly, and the inappropriateness of the comment was clear before it had completely come out of my mouth. Lily plainly was not happy. “You’ll work this out,” I predicted, more on faith than on evidence. “David is obviously crazy about you. When he sees you need him, I’m sure he’ll get his life in balance. If it comes to the office or the wife and baby, he’ll make the right choice.”
“Sometimes it’s not a matter of choice.”
I was flummoxed. And kept my mouth shut for once. After a moment, Lily spoke, with a mixture of conviction and despair.
“Sometimes the work chooses you, and you can’t say no.”
“I suppose,” I replied, a little anxious to break the gloomy mood. “I never realized intellectual property law could be so compelling.”
Lily looked as if she didn’t understand my remark. Then she seemed to remember something, pushed her coffee forward, and said, “Well, in this case, I’m afraid it is.” She stood up and turned away, ending the conversation abruptly.
We made our way silently back to the square and then moved toward our restau
rant. We arrived just as the church belfry sounded two clangs to mark half past the hour. Lily excused herself to use the ladies’ room.
Toby looked as if he had worked up an appetite. “How was your walk with David?” I asked.
“Good. There are some great views from the ramparts.” David and Patrick were examining the day’s menu, posted on a wrought-iron stand at the edge of the hotel patio.
“Ready to order, gentlemen?” I asked.
“Nothing to order,” Patrick informed us. “In honor of the festival, there’s a set menu of traditional dishes.”
“Fine with me,” David declared enthusiastically.
When Lily rejoined us, she gave me a hesitant smile. I realized she’d probably been fighting morning sickness at every meal.
Marianne waved to Dotty and Guillaume, who were clinking glasses at one of the patio tables, and soon she had us all assembled for an announcement: “We have a table for six and a table for three, so I’m asking if there are three of you who would be content with a little table by the window. You’ll have the best view.”
Roz spoke up. “I’d be happy to join a couple at the little table. Nora and Toby?”
“Great,” declared Toby.
We did have a great location, right in front of an open window, looking out over the valley. I could see all the way to the bluffs at La Roque-Gageac. Toby, opposite me, looked over the esplanade down to fields along the river. And Roz, facing the window, looked straight across a meander of the Dordogne in the direction of the little village of Vitrac. Our companions had a more ample table, but it was in the interior of the restaurant, away from this stunning view.
We started with medallions of foie gras, paired with a Sauterne from nearby Monbazillac. After a sherbet of red Cahors wine “to cleanse the palate,” we moved to grilled magret de canard. That gave us plenty to talk about, as we compared the chef ’s masterpiece to what we had done with our duck breasts in cooking class. There was no comparison. We drowned our chagrin in a good round glass of the local Pécharmant.
