Chapter 10
Bruno awoke at seven with the music still in his head and jogged through the woods with Balzac. Stopping only to buy breakfast at Fauquet’s, he arrived at Florence’s apartment shortly after eight. He was carrying a sack of oranges and a paper bag containing two pains au chocolat for the children and two croissants, the pastries still warm from the oven. Balzac was standing at his side, eyes fixed on the paper bag with its tantalizing smells as they waited for Florence to answer the doorbell.
She opened the door, and before Bruno or Florence could say a word, the twins exploded onto the doorstep in their haste to embrace Balzac. There was just time for Bruno to kiss Florence before Daniel and Dora began clutching his leg, demanding to be picked up in the usual way, one in each arm. They were growing so fast, Bruno wondered how much longer he’d be able to do that. He handed Florence the bag with the pastries and the sack of oranges, murmuring how much better the juice was when freshly squeezed, and bent his knees so he could pick each of them up. With their arms warm around his shoulders and clutching his collar, he walked through to the familiar kitchen. It was set for four, with coffee for him and Florence.
“We’ve got new swimming trunks,” said Dora. “Mine are red.”
“And mine are blue,” announced Daniel. “I wanted to sleep in mine but maman said we should save them for today.”
“Have you been practicing in the bath like I told you?” he asked, putting them down on their chairs.
“Yes, and I held my breath underwater while maman counted to ten. Then I stayed down for three more seconds,” said Daniel.
“And we’ve been practicing holding our breaths in bed,” said his sister.
“That’s good,” said Bruno, standing at the sink, cutting the oranges in half and starting to squeeze out the juice, enjoying the sharp smell of the fruit. “What’s the longest time you managed?”
“I counted to ten twice,” said Daniel. “But I think I might have counted a bit faster in the second ten.”
“Whatever you give to Balzac, make sure there are no bits of chocolate in it because that’s not good for dogs,” Bruno told them. “That means all the more chocolate for you.”
They each tore off a corner of their pastry about the size of Bruno’s thumbnail. He joined them at the table, pouring out the fresh orange juice and then tearing off a generous portion of his own croissant. Balzac’s mouth was visibly watering. The orange juice disappeared quickly, and Daniel and Dora slipped down to the floor and solemnly handed Balzac his small portion.
By nine, they were sitting alongside Balzac on the pool steps at Pamela’s house, at the shallow end. The children’s feet were dangling and splashing in the warm water as Félix demonstrated how he could swim up and back down the pool underwater. Bruno was trying not to stare at Florence in a fetching green bikini. It was time to start the swimming lesson. He slipped into the water and swam a length freestyle before returning on his back, floating and paddling with his hands.
“You see?” he said. “I floated all the way back down the pool. Your body wants to float. Your chests are full of air that wants to rise in the water. Now, put your goggles on, and then crouch down so you’re underwater, and with your eyes open blow out a little breath. Then come up and tell me what you saw. One, two, three—go.”
The children sank down, bounced back up, scrambled onto the pool steps where their heads were well above water and cried out, almost in unison, “Bubbles.”
Balzac barked to welcome their return and began licking the water from their arms.
“I saw bubbles going up to the surface,” said Dora.
“That’s why I said the air in your chest wants to go up just like the bubbles. That’s how you float,” Bruno said. “If you lie on your backs and paddle a little with your hands and wave your feet gently up and down, you’ll float just like I did. Do you want to try that?”
“Me first,” cried Daniel. “I know the rule is ladies first, but I want to go first for once.”
Dora agreed, albeit reluctantly.
Daniel kicked off from the steps, his face just above the water, his hands paddling and his legs waving. Bruno had his hands beneath the boy, not touching but just for safety’s sake, and despite one splutter when a wavelet washed across his face, Daniel persevered and headed slowly up to the deep end. When he reached the far end, Bruno helped him grab the side of the pool and hold on. Standing in the shallow end, Florence was clapping her hands. And then Fabiola and Gilles arrived, both in shorts and T-shirts, to join in the applause.
“Well done, Daniel,” Bruno said. “You can float and you can travel all the way to the deep end on your own. That’s wonderful for your first try. Now it’s Dora’s turn. Will you swim beside her, Félix, as she joins us up here?”
Dora set off, pushing too hard with her feet against the steps, and her head went underwater. Bruno and Florence moved toward her. But Dora surfaced, began paddling gamely and made it all the way to join Bruno and her brother.
“I didn’t have to hold her up once,” said Félix as he came up to them. “Now let’s see you both go all the way back. I’ll be there to let you know when you’re at the steps.”
Bruno followed them doing a slow breaststroke as the two children floated and paddled their way back to the shallow end, where Balzac and their mother were watching from the steps.
“That’s wonderful, darlings,” called Florence. “You’re swimming already.”
Bruno climbed out and tossed into the pool two oblong floats of plastic foam he’d bought at the supermarket and dived in after them. He surfaced by the children and asked, “Do you know how a frog moves in the water?”
“He kicks with his powerful legs,” Daniel answered.
“Your legs are much more powerful, so I want each of you to put your hands on a float and practice the frog kick up to the end of the pool. Can you do that?”
They set off, kicking their legs and going much faster than they had on their first length up the pool. When they reached the end, Bruno told them to put the float onto the side of the pool and float back, but this time using the frog kick.
“But only kick gently this first time,” he said as they set off. “Don’t forget to paddle with your hands.”
They pushed off on their backs, their faces tight with determination. Bruno stayed close to them all the way, encouraging them with praise and saying they were almost there, until they reached the steps at the shallow end where Florence was sitting at the poolside applauding their progress. When they stood up, beaming with pride, Florence hugged them both, then jumped into the pool to hug Bruno.
“I never expected you’d get them swimming today,” she said, still holding him. Bruno was conscious of her breasts pressing against his chest. Then she turned to hug Félix and thank him for his efforts. By now Miranda’s children had arrived and dived into the pool. Bruno turned and made his way easily to the deep end and back, slowing as he saw how crowded it had become since Gilles and Fabiola had donned swimsuits and joined the throng.
Florence climbed out of the pool and said she had to leave to get to her choral service. She went back into the house to change. When she returned, soberly dressed, she was carrying Bruno’s phone.
“I heard it ringing, but it stopped before I could find it in your shirt,” she said. “I thought I’d better bring it in case it’s urgent.”
Bruno clambered out of the pool, dried himself roughly on a towel and took the phone. It was the mayor, calling him from home. He’d left a message asking Bruno to call at his home at his earliest convenience. What could that be about on a Sunday morning when the mairie was closed and Bruno was supposed to be off duty?
The mayor picked up immediately.
“Bonjour, Bruno. Brosseil came to tell me what he knew about this business with Driant and his will. He said that you might be going along to the open house
this afternoon at the retirement home. I wonder, would you mind if I came along as well? I’m curious.”
Bruno replied that the mayor was welcome to join him at the open house.
“Can you join me for a late lunch here before we head off so you can brief me on what you know so far about this affair? Brosseil said you were looking into the matter, to see what could have persuaded Driant to leave his children with nothing.”
Bruno explained that he had to watch Florence’s children for an hour but that she’d be back by one, so Bruno could join him after that.
Back at the poolside, he asked Gilles if he wanted to meet a young Canadian Ukrainian who was interested in his book, one of the group of musicians staying at Château Rock. Might he have time for a coffee?
“Not today, Bruno, I’m enjoying the pool. Maybe during the week, on market day when I do the shopping. Give me his phone number. What’s his interest, exactly?”
“He was talking about all the different versions of what happened in the Maidan, who did the shooting, and he said something about disinformation. He was hoping you might bring some clarity to it.”
“I wish I could,” Gilles said. “Despite hundreds of hours of video from mobile phones and forensic reports and three-dimensional models of the place to see where the bullets came from, there’s still a lot of controversy. At first everyone blamed the Berkut, the paramilitary police who supported the pro-Russian government. But it seemed that at least some of bullets came from buildings occupied by the protesters. Then some Georgian mercenaries came forward and said they’d been paid to shoot at both sides to trigger a wider battle. The Kremlin disinformation machine went into overdrive, claiming they’d been hired by the Americans. By that time most of the Berkut guys had taken part in Russia’s takeover of Crimea.”
“Bertie, this Canadian musician, spoke of the Heavenly Hundred. Were there really that many shot?”
“Altogether, over several days, more than that. When I went to the Kiev morgue on the last day of January there were twenty-six unclaimed bodies,” said Gilles. He looked around to see if Fabiola was in earshot and kept his voice low.
“I haven’t told her the half of it,” he said. “On the three worst days, February eighteenth to twentieth, there were seventy-six deaths from gunfire and another forty-two died in the fire that was deliberately set in the Trade Unions Building. It was chaos, the police targeting journalists, wrapping nails around stun grenades and tossing them at the press. One guy I knew was burned alive when he took shelter under a car and then its gas tank blew up. Remember how we learned that in Sarajevo? Never hide under a car.”
“Mon Dieu, I didn’t know it was that bad.”
“Nor does Fabiola. Let’s go and enjoy the pool and thank our lucky stars that we’re here in the peaceful Périgord.”
Chapter 11
Bruno found the mayor enjoying the sun on his terrace, the Sunday newspapers on the table before him and some political debate between two local deputies playing on the radio beside them.
“Why we were foolish enough to elect either of those two to represent us in the National Assembly I have no idea,” the mayor said, rising to greet him and switching off the radio. “Let’s get a drink.” Bruno followed the mayor into the kitchen, picking two wineglasses and a bottle of crème de cassis from the cupboard as the mayor began opening a bottle of Bergerac Sec. “And how is Florence? You know she’s going on the list for the council at the next election? She’s well known and respected after the success of that computer club she started at the collège. I think she’s very likely to be elected.”
He took the wineglasses out to the terrace on a tray, then pulled his pipe and tobacco pouch from the pocket of his cardigan.
“I thought you’d given up your pipe under pressure from Jacqueline,” Bruno said as they clinked glasses. The mayor and Jacqueline seemed now to be an established couple, living together at the mayor’s house. A spare bedroom had been made into a study for Jacqueline, while the mayor worked in his own study on his magnum opus history of St. Denis. Jacqueline, who was half American, spent one term each year teaching history in New York and another at the Sorbonne in Paris.
“Yes, I’m back on my pipe, at least in the privacy of my home,” the mayor said, puffing away as he applied a match and the familiar scented smoke began to drift in Bruno’s direction. “This is Jacqueline’s term to be teaching at Columbia. But she’ll be back next month, and I’ll stop the day before she returns. In the meantime, I have the pleasure of feeling like a naughty schoolboy. I know you won’t inform on me,” he said with a wink at Bruno.
The thought surfaced at the back of Bruno’s mind that perhaps he had been invited here less to attend the open house than because the mayor was lonely. He changed his mind when they arrived at the château, for the invitation had attracted not only the local notaires but also most of the mayors up and down the valley. The mayor didn’t need Bruno to accompany him.
“Did I forget to tell you I had my own invitation, Bruno?” the mayor said, nodding greetings right and left. “Kind of the owners to offer their hospitality to us humble elected servants of the public.”
They strolled through the gardens in front of the château. They were laid out in geometrically shaped lawns intersected by gravel paths and topiary in the formal style that had distinguished French gardens since Louis XIV had built Versailles. They walked around the wing of the château, a nineteenth-century building with fake battlements and towers with conical roofs. Behind it they found several well-tended potagers, each fenced off to create a plot about ten meters square and with a name painted on the gate to each one. Several of them were being worked by elderly people, and the mayor paused at one such gate bearing the name DROUON to study the white-haired man who was wielding a hoe and asked, “Is that really you, mon vieux?”
“Mon Dieu, Mangin, are you planning on joining us here?” asked the gardener, leaning his hoe against a wheelbarrow and coming to the gate to shake hands. An elderly mongrel who had been dozing by the gate opened one eye and then went back to sleep.
“No, just visiting. I’m curious about the place. Let me introduce our chef de police, Bruno Courrèges. Bruno this is Pierre Drouon, who was already a ten-year veteran mayor of Terrasson when I was first elected. Pierre taught me almost everything I know about politics. It’s a pleasure to see you, old friend. We last met at your wife’s funeral.”
“That’s why I’m here. Life became very lonely and I heard about this place from my doctor. I’ve been here since it opened. As you see, I have my own garden. I heard your wife died, so please accept my condolences. Are you thinking of joining us?” he asked again.
“Not just yet. I’m still mayor of St. Denis.”
“Well, when the time comes, you’d be very comfortable. They organize book clubs, theater visits, film nights and a wonderful masseuse.”
“I’ll bear it in mind. Are you in the château?”
“No. Because of the dog I’m in the new block over there through the trees. You can’t have a château room if you want to keep a pet. But I take my meals there.”
“Well, I won’t keep you from your garden, mon vieux.”
The mayor strolled on, Bruno at his side, along a path through the trees and the new block, a long terrace of stone-built cottages with the classic red roofs of the Périgord. Two wings thrust forward to form a handsome courtyard with rustic tables and chairs where people were drinking tea and playing chess or watching a play area evidently designed for visiting grandchildren. The only sound was of the children’s voices. Bruno counted twenty doors in the long terrace, ten more in each of the wings.
The mayor led the way back to the main entrance, and they went in to view the public rooms. The entrance hall was imposing, and the large dining room looked more like a restaurant than the canteen Bruno knew at the maison de retraite in St. Denis. A magnificent lounge was f
urnished with what looked to be genuine antiques and led into a well-stocked library.
“I could certainly be comfortable here,” said the mayor as they went back to the lounge where visitors were gathering for what was billed as a short speech of welcome by the director, followed by questions and a reception. The lounge filled fast, and more chairs had to be brought in from the hall and library. In a low voice, Bruno informed the mayor what he had learned of the director from the Hôtel de Crillon.
As the mayor chuckled, Bruno saw an unexpected couple coming into the lounge, Philippe Delaron of Sud Ouest and Nathalie, the real-estate agent. She was carrying a clipboard on which she was scribbling notes as she walked, Philippe whispering into her ear. Before Bruno could head across to greet them, one of the staff tapped a fork against a wineglass and asked them to welcome the home’s director, who would explain the philosophy of the Château Marmont.
The director was in his thirties, dressed in a dark suit and bow tie. He welcomed the guests and went on to say that he made no apologies for the expense of the place, since it was designed to offer a quality of living and service that was far beyond the capabilities of the public sector. But it was fitting that those who had worked hard and been successful should see no decline in their quality of life after retirement. The questions were mostly predictable, about pets and family visits, but one female questioner raised a laugh when she asked if any marriages had taken place among the residents.
“We’ve been open for less than a year, but we have already celebrated two, with one more taking place next month. It will be celebrated in our own private chapel here on the grounds,” the director replied with a smile, to a scattering of applause. “We pride ourselves on offering the fullest possible social life to our guests.”
The Shooting at Chateau Rock Page 9
