“Balzac likes music as well. He even likes my singing and sometimes howls along when we’re in the car.”
“It sounds like these dogs are made for each other. Carla is just a little older than Balzac and has recently started her third time in heat.”
“How do we go about this?”
Claire explained that Carla would be in heat for three weeks. She would like to do the breeding on day eleven and leave them together for a couple of days. A month after that she should be able to hear the puppies’ heartbeats with a stethoscope. Pregnancy normally lasted about two months.
“If you waive the stud fee,” she went on, “you get to choose the pick of the litter if there are seven pups or fewer. Eight or more and you get a second pup. If she doesn’t get impregnated, you might want to get a vet to examine Balzac and then we can try again in six months’ time.”
“That sounds fine. I don’t need the stud fee. So I should bring him up to you in what, a few days from now?”
“Let me check the calendar, yes, Sunday would be good, and I presume that will be a day off for you? You could bring Balzac here Saturday afternoon, get him used to the place, and I have a spare room where you could stay. Bring a friend if you like. It’s a double bed with its own bathroom. That way you can help me feed the pack and we’ll introduce Balzac to the gang before we sit down to enjoy a p’tit apéro, and I’ll cook us dinner. I’ll be delighted to see Balzac again. I still remember him as a puppy. He was a lovely little fellow, always good-natured and inquisitive. I’m glad he’s gone to someone like you.”
“I’ll bring wine and some of our foie gras, maybe a few eggs from my chickens and salad from the garden,” he said, warmed by her kind welcome.
“Sounds like a feast.”
Bruno ended the call feeling cheerful about Balzac’s intended date, and about Claire. She seemed very competent and was obviously devoted to dogs. He checked his watch. Knowing it was his turn to make the Monday night communal dinner, he had started over the weekend.
Chapter 14
Bruno always took his cooking seriously, but the Monday night dinners for his friends at the riding school were special. Sometimes he wondered whether the rotation of the role of chef brought out in him some spirit of competition to outdo the others. This time he planned to begin with fresh asparagus from his garden, then follow with a dish he’d encountered at the home of Momu, the math teacher at the local collège. Despite his Algerian heritage, Momu was more French than most people Bruno knew, reading Le Monde every day and always being the first in St. Denis to read the Prix Goncourt winner’s book. Although Momu and his family usually ate French food, he was proud of his Middle Eastern heritage. The dish he’d shared with Bruno was a classic—lamb shanks with walnuts and pomegranate. Momu said he had learned how to make it at his mother’s knee, and Bruno had found it delicious and tantalizingly different.
Bruno had started on Saturday grinding together the spices with his pestle and mortar. He had then mixed together in a bowl one and a half teaspoons of ground cinnamon, the same amount of ground turmeric, a teaspoon of ground cumin and half a teaspoon of ground cardamom. The spices were then rubbed into three kilos of trimmed lamb shanks, one for each of the eight adults at dinner with small ones for the children. He left the spiced meat in his fridge for the rest of the day.
After his return from the retirement home on Sunday, Bruno had browned the shanks in olive oil over a medium-high heat, drained them on absorbent paper and cleaned the pan. Then he began gently to fry three thinly sliced onions, adding salt and freshly ground black pepper, until they were soft and transparent.
Next he added six sprigs of thyme, six crushed garlic cloves, three wide strips of lemon zest and two bay leaves, stirring everything into the onions for two minutes. He sprinkled into this two tablespoons of all-purpose flour and stirred until all the flour was absorbed. Then came a large glass of Bergerac red. He brought the dish to a simmer and stirred until it thickened. Then he slowly poured in a liter of chicken stock, a quarter liter of pomegranate juice and half that amount of pomegranate molasses that Momu had said he would find in the local health-food shop. Bruno let it all simmer for five minutes.
He arranged the lamb shanks in a deep roasting pan and poured the onion, stock and pomegranate mixture over them to reach three-quarters of the way up each shank. He covered the pan with foil and put it in the oven, turning the shanks occasionally, for an hour and forty minutes, until the meat was almost falling off the bone. He removed the pan from the oven and let it cool.
He ran the braising liquid through a sieve into a saucepan and added a quarter kilo of shelled walnuts before simmering the liquid over medium-high heat until it had been reduced by a third. He tasted it and added a little more ground pepper. Were he serving it that day, he’d have arranged the lamb on a warm platter and then spooned the walnuts and sauce over the shanks. But Bruno knew from Momu that lamb improves if braised a day ahead, and it also makes it easier to skim off the fat. So he left it overnight, planning to take the dish to Pamela’s the next day for supper.
For dessert he had planned something special as a treat for the baron, which he made late Monday afternoon. He plucked almost a kilo of cherries from the tree in his garden and stewed them gently in a little water with a tablespoon of honey. He let the cherries cool in individual glasses, reserving six tablespoons of the juice. He poured half a liter of whipping cream and a third of that quantity of crème fraîche into a saucepan, stirring over a gentle heat. He removed two tablespoons to a separate bowl and beat two large egg yolks and a whole egg into it. He added the zest of a lemon to the main saucepan, which he brought slowly to a boil, and immediately turned off the heat. He poured a little hot cream onto the egg mixture, whisking hard.
Then, slowly, he tipped the egg-and-cream mixture back into the saucepan, whisking continuously. He added a tablespoon of sugar and, over a medium-low heat, he gently heated the egg cream to thicken it, stirring attentively, careful not to let it boil. When it seemed thick enough, he turned off the heat and let it cool before drizzling it over the cherries. Once the cream had set, he added the reserved juice and packed the glasses carefully in a cardboard box with separate compartments that he normally used to store wineglasses and drove to the riding school.
At Pamela’s, after serving the asparagus, he reheated the lamb shanks in their sauce and began to prepare the couscous. He brought to a boil half a liter of duck stock and fifty grams of butter. He stirred in the couscous, covered the pan and turned off the heat. He let it sit for five minutes before adding two large spoonfuls of olive oil, one of lemon juice, and salt and pepper. He stirred it all together with fifty grams of grated Parmesan cheese. Feeling a little nervous, he took the lamb shanks and couscous to the table.
“It smells wonderful,” said Pamela. “What’s that rich fruit I smell?”
“I think it’s pomegranate, and if it’s the dish Bruno and I once enjoyed at Momu’s house, it’s a real treat,” said the baron.
Fabiola was the first to taste it. “Good heavens, it’s glorious,” she declared. “Try some of that sauce with the couscous.”
The children, fresh from the bath after running around the stables chasing chickens, were just as enthusiastic. Jack Crimson announced that it was the best meal Bruno had ever cooked for them.
“I’m glad I brought some of that Cuvée l’Odyssée from Clos du Breil,” Jack added. “You need a wine of that depth to go with a meal like this. Did you really get this recipe from Momu? I’ll have to get to know him better.”
The whole dish was devoured, lamb, couscous and all, until only the bones were left. Bruno carefully picked out the three biggest and gave one each to Balzac, Beau and Bella, who had been sitting patiently at the foot of the table, drooling.
“I’m glad you put me in touch with Bertie,” said Gilles. “We met this morning for coffee, and he forwarded me some e-m
ails his cousin had sent from Kiev before he was killed.”
“Killed? I didn’t know that,” said Bruno.
“He was killed in the fighting in Odessa in May,” Gilles replied. “Bertie says he’s never forgiven his parents for refusing to let him go to Kiev, although he was just a schoolboy at the time. I told him his parents were right—more than six thousand people were killed in Ukraine that year.”
“That puts our own political troubles in perspective,” murmured the baron into the silence that fell over the table.
“Time for dessert,” said Bruno.
Over the cherries, which went down just as well as the lamb shanks, Bruno recounted his visit to the retirement home the previous day, saying he agreed with Gilles that the place had been well restored, and he’d found the overall system impressive. But when he described the question-and-answer session, quoting from memory the mayor’s final speech, the whole table fell silent. Bruno understood why.
For the baron, well into his seventies and a wealthy man, the luxurious retirement home might have been designed with him in mind. That was probably also the case for Jack Crimson, whom Miranda was eyeing coolly. For her and her children, inheritance was a deeply personal issue. For Pamela, who until her mother’s death had faced the prospect of supporting an elderly parent who no longer even recognized her, it was a question that struck close to home. They wouldn’t be sitting in this riding school without the legacy from Pamela’s mother. For Fabiola, who believed passionately in a high-quality health service being available to all for free, with no extra privileges for the rich, it was a reminder that even the fine French health system could not afford to provide quality homes for all the elderly. On a schoolteacher’s salary, living in subsidized housing and raising two small children with little prospect of saving enough to buy a house of her own, Florence must have been wondering what hope she had of leaving them much of a legacy.
Félix had gone back to his Périgueux lycée that morning. Bruno could imagine the young man changing the mood and making them all smile by reminding them that it was irrelevant as far as he was concerned. His parents lived in social housing, and he was unlikely to inherit anything except his father’s old boots and some pots and pans.
Bruno reflected that while he had a house to pass on and his shares in the town vineyard, he had nobody to whom he really wanted to leave his bequest. The only will he’d ever made was the one he had been required to draft while in the army, where he’d left everything to his aunt in Bergerac, who had taken him into her home from the church orphanage. He’d never been happy there, the poor relation living on the charity of people just as poor, and he had escaped into the army as soon as he could.
He should visit Brosseil to make out a new will, he thought. He’d kept putting it off, hoping that he’d meet a woman who would become his wife, and they would raise children together and leave their worldly goods to them. But he was beginning to wonder whether that would ever happen. And he had faced the prospect of death more than once in his work in recent years. He could always change his will later, of course, if the right woman came along. In the meantime, he had better make a will that reflected his current thoughts and priorities. And who better to be his heirs than these friends who had become his family? He could leave his modest bank account to a local charity and his house, the Land Rover and his shares in the vineyard to Florence’s two children and Félix.
By eight the next morning, Bruno was patrolling the market. He enjoyed being there as the stalls were erected and loaded with the fresh fruits and vegetables that were coming in profusion. He went for his customary coffee and croissant at Fauquet’s, standing at the counter and skimming through that day’s Sud Ouest as he exchanged greetings with the regulars and the mairie employees enjoying a quick coffee before the working day began. As the clock on the mairie tower struck nine, he was at Brosseil’s door, and thirty minutes later he emerged, his new will drafted, signed, witnessed and on its way to the national registry.
Back in the market, he found Kirsty shopping, her brother trailing behind her carrying the bags. Galina and Sasha strolled along beside them, munching hot nems from the Vietnamese stall. Bruno was told that Pia, Hippo and Bertie were all enjoying a second croissant at Fauquet’s, having raved over their first.
“How do you feel about revisiting your past?” Bruno asked Kirsty and Jamie. “I’m doing a training session for the junior team at the tennis club at four-thirty. They’d love to knock some balls around with you two, since I told them you were our stars just a few years ago.”
“Can Galina come too?” Kirsty asked. “She’s a much better player. I heard she wiped the floor with Jamie at her club in Paris. Why don’t we have a doubles match after the training session, girls against guys?”
Bruno agreed and Galina at once added, “And it would be great if you could come please to the château this evening where we are rehearsing again the concierto. I’d like that. You can help us eat the food Kirsty has been buying.”
Galina spoke a fluent if imprecise French with an unfamiliar Slavic accent. She might have been Russian, but her remarks were peppered with colloquial French terms. He had to smile at hearing her call the château a baraque, which traditionally meant a wooden hut but was now used for any kind of residence. From her slang, using blé for “cash” and ouf for something great, Galina had obviously spent most of her time with younger French people.
“I warn you, Bruno, get ready for a surprise,” said Jamie. “Galina is a really hot player.”
As he spoke, Bruno saw Florence hurrying over the bridge toward them, coming from the collège. She usually shopped at the market at this time when she had no lessons scheduled. He waved her across and introduced her to the young people, telling them she was the soprano in the town choir.
“Please tell your father I think his new songs are terrific,” Florence told Jamie and Kirsty. “Bruno let me hear them, along with that guitar duet he played with you, Jamie.”
“It wasn’t really a duet, since we didn’t play it together,” said Jamie. “I played it and then he overdubbed his tracks. But yeah, I thought the result was great.”
“Why not join us for supper and tell Dad yourself?” Kirsty intervened. “They’re going to be rehearsing the Concierto de Aranjuez. Bruno is coming.”
“That’s very kind, but I have the children to feed and put to bed…”
“Come on, Florence, you’ll enjoy it,” said Bruno. “They can stay at the riding school tonight, or one of the girls from school will babysit. I can pick you up and drive you back.”
“Well, in that case, I’d love to come. What time?”
Florence hurried off to complete her shopping while the others continued theirs. Bruno went to his office to deal with e-mail and paperwork until midday, when the market began to close. He made a last patrol, bought bread, cheese, pâté and strawberries and drove to Les Eyzies for one of his regular lunches with his colleagues, Louis, from Montignac, and Juliette, on her home turf. Still quite new at policing, Juliette was shaping up well. Bruno had never had a more helpful colleague. Louis was very different, resentful of Bruno’s promotion and a drinker, but mercifully close to retirement. Bruno recounted the story of Driant’s inheritance and the new retirement home, asking them to let him know if they came across anything involving Sarrail or Constant. He also reminded the others to stay in touch with Maurice, the livestock commissioner, on any sales of farms.
Bruno had been wondering whether this new system, which put him in charge of the whole valley, was proving useful. He worked well with Juliette, and they would have cooperated when necessary anyway. Louis needed careful handling, but he knew his district and had proved useful on several occasions. At least Bruno’s promised pay raise had come through, although it hardly made up for the extra administrative duties he now faced. And these regular lunchtime meetings kept him in touch with matters up and down the val
ley. If Constant and Sarrail were looking for more new clients for their retirement home, he’d probably hear about it.
Chapter 15
Bruno spent the afternoon doing more paperwork, the worst part of his job. When the mairie clock struck four, he packed up and drove to the tennis club. He changed into his whites and joined the junior tennis team, four boys and four girls, all under the age of sixteen, for his weekly coaching session. He had trained each one of them except for one new arrival, a Dutch girl named Lotte, who was probably the best player of them all. Bruno suspected that she would be beating him before the season was over.
Balzac sat just outside the court, watching the progress of each ball as though eager to join this game. From time to time the dog glanced back to the clubhouse and parking lot. Perhaps, like Bruno, he was wondering what might have delayed their friend the baron, who usually joined them to help coach the youngsters.
Despite his weekly games on the covered court, Bruno felt a little rusty after the winter, or perhaps the youngsters were serving faster. Certainly one of the boys was hitting the ball a lot harder this year, and Naomi, the pharmacist’s daughter, had somehow developed a way to send the ball kicking higher than he’d expected. But he soon warmed up and began shouting out to them to toss the ball higher or to make more of their follow-through.
The minivan arrived, bringing Jamie, his sister and Galina, all in tennis gear. Sasha gave Bruno a casual wave but stayed by the van in his normal dress. Bruno saw that Galina was carrying a very professional-looking bag that must have held three or four rackets. She had pulled her hair back from her face into a ponytail, and she looked animated and cheerful. They all greeted Bruno, and then Jamie and Kirsty went to watch the juniors, leaving Bruno and Galina alone.
The Shooting at Chateau Rock Page 12
