by Kim Ekemar
She decided to borrow from the cash she had accumulated during the week from the cigarette sales, and which she was supposed to hand over to her boss come Friday. Well, on Friday I’ll be on my way to Bercy. I’ll replace the money upon my return on Sunday, she reasoned.
*
It was around eleven o’clock on Thursday morning when Gaspard entered Monsieur Ricard’s hardware shop, the only one in Bercy. Monsieur Ricard himself gave him the lock and the keys; the one he had made to order to fit the lock and the one Justine had given Gaspard as a sample. Gaspard paid, and forty minutes later entered the main building at Clos Saint-Jacques.
Justine was in the kitchen doing the dishes. Wiping her hands on a towel, she came out when she heard him entering.
“Oh, good”, she greeted him, “you've got Monsieur Patrice’s new key ready in time as he requested! This will please him; he asked me about it this morning.”
“Where is he now?”
“Out walking. He said something about inspecting a fence that needs mending.”
“That’ll give me time before he returns, then”, Gaspard replied and kneeled by his father’s bedroom door. “By the way, here’s the key you lent me to make the work easier.”
When Patrice Lafarge entered the building two hours later, Justine informed him that the bedroom lock now was fitted with a key. Looking pleased, Patrice tried the key by turning it in the recently oiled lock a couple of times.
“I knew I could count on Gaspard”, he muttered to himself. “What he doesn’t have in his head, he makes up for with his hands.”
Chapter VIII
The arrival of Henri and Constance at Clos Saint-Jacques
It was the morning on the day that Patrice’s city-dwelling children were expected at Clos Saint-Jacques. Patrice got dressed after breakfast and before going for his usual walk, he unsuccessfully tried to lock his bedroom door. The key wouldn’t turn, no matter how he twisted and banged on it.
“Justine!” Patrice yelled to get his housemaid’s attention. “I’m going out, and now all of a sudden the key Gaspard made doesn’t work! How is this possible? Get Gaspard here on the double to fix it!”
“Yes, Monsieur Patrice”, Justine replied chastely.
“Meanwhile I'll take the dogs for a walk, but tell him it had better be working when I get back!”
“Yes, monsieur.” She curtsied as she always did when he was in a foul mood.
Almost tripping over the dogs, Patrice took the path that led to the woods. Justine went back to the kitchen, where she continued her preparations of her employer’s birthday meal the following day.
*
As they loaded the crate with the bookcase onto the taxi’s roof with the cab driver’s help, it occurred to Claude he should offer Henri his help to also load it onto the train going to Bercy. Out of earshot from Rolf, Henri accepted, both surprised and thrilled. He went inside the shop to say goodbye to Rolf, which Rolf took the opportunity to make more sentimental than the situation called for. Henri promised he would be back as soon as it would be humanly possible once the weekend with his siblings was over.
Rolf eyed the departing taxi with suspicion. Hanging on to the cab on the outside, Claude did his best to keep the crate in place on top of the motorcar as it slowly moved down the narrow street. At the station, they joined efforts to unload it, and Henri called a porter to help them transport it to the departure platform. Eager to help, Claude steadied the piece of furniture that wobbled on the porter’s pushcart.
Eventually they found the right wagon onto which they loaded the cumbersome gift, which a sweating Henri by now repented having chosen as his father’s birthday present. When they had safely secured it onboard and Henri had paid the porter for his assistance, Claude spoke up.
“You’ll need help to unload it once you get to your destination”, he said in an undertone.
Henri’s heart started racing, because he immediately understood the implications of Claude’s comment. Claude wanted to come with him to Bercy, but that, of course, would be impossible. What I can do, though, he thought, is to take Claude with me and leave him at a nearby hotel. I can join him there after the birthday gathering is over.
“Yes”, Henri replied hoarsely, “why don’t you make me company, and we’ll find you a place to stay until I can free myself from my impossible family.”
Three hours later they got off the train in Annecy. After having unloaded the crate from the train and secured it to yet another cab, Henri handed Claude some money.
“Let’s meet at l’Auberge le Cheval Blanc. You’ll find it by the lake not far from here. I’ll catch up with you early on Sunday.”
Henri was the first of Patrice’s children to arrive on May 3, but then Lyon was much closer than both Bordeaux and Paris. It was around noon when his cab came to a halt in front of the main building at Clos Saint-Jacques, which Henri hadn’t seen in years. Justine, who heard the geese raising their usual racket, came out from the kitchen to receive him. Although she had played with him when they were children, she now curtsied when Henri got out of the cab. With the help of the driver, he got the large crate off the taxi's roof. Together they carried it inside the house.
“Where shall we put the bookcase, Justine?” he asked as they placed the crate in the middle of the room.
“Surely the best place will be against the wall where the grandfather clock now stands”, she answered him. “Maybe you can help me move the clock into Monsieur Patrice’s room?”
Henri hesitated.
“Do you really think Father will like to have the clock in his bedroom? You know how particular he is about everything being in its assigned place.”
“Can you see anywhere else in the room where there’s space enough for your bookcase?” Justine replied. “And as for keeping his things in order, look at all the books he keeps stacked everywhere.”
“Yes … I see. Perhaps you’re right.”
He motioned the driver to help him carry the clock into his father’s bedroom while Justine went to fetch a hammer. When she returned, Henri had paid the driver, who saluted and left.
“Anyway, where is my father?” Henri asked as he started opening the crate with the tool.
“He’s gone for his usual daily walk with the dogs”, Justine explained. “He should be back in half an hour.”
Together they lifted the bookcase out of the crate and put it against the wall. It was a beautifully carved piece of furniture. Justine started to fill it with books that were crammed into spaces elsewhere in the living room. At that moment the proprietor of the house entered, his cheeks rosy from his brisk promenade in the still chilly spring weather.
“Henri! What a pleasure to see you back home again!” the old man exclaimed and struck his walking stick twice against the sturdy planks that made up the building’s century-old floor. Then he saw the present that Henri had brought. “But … what is this? A new bookcase?”
“Only a token gift for your upcoming birthday, father.”
From inside Patrice’s bedroom the grandfather clock chimed two o’clock.
“Justine!” Patrice called out for her as he knitted his eyebrows. “Where did you hide the clock?”
“I reasoned that it would be more convenient to leave Monsieur Henri’s gift here where the books are kept, monsieur”, she replied timidly. “As there is not room enough for the clock, I thought it best to move it to your bedroom. If you don’t like it there, we can find a better spot for it later.”
“Very well, then”, the old man said, and his face brightened. “Thank you, Henri! It’s a handsome piece of furniture! It will be a constant reminder for me of our shared interest in literature of high standing.”
“I’m glad it pleases you, Father,” Henri answered, looking contented.
“Now, tell me, Justine, it seems my bedroom is like Gare de Lyon where you can store anything you like”, Patrice boomed. “Didn’t Gaspard fix the lock?"
“Yes, he managed to solve the probl
em, monsieur”, Justine replied and brought the key out of her apron pocket. “Here you are. It works fine now. Why don’t you try it yourself?”
Patrice went over to his bedroom while an uncomprehending Henri watched his father test the key in the lock by turning it back and forth a couple times.
“Why do you need to lock your bedroom”, Henri asked.
“Nothing important, son, I’m just fixing and replacing things that have been lost. I want to leave this place in a perfect state the day I’m gone.”
A car could be heard honking outside. Justine swept past the two men and went outside to greet the newcomer. It was Constance who had arrived from Paris by train and then by cab from the station. A moment later, she entered the mansion carrying a large parcel that was held together with a broad ribbon topped by a generous bow. She was followed by Justine, who had to put in considerable effort boxing a large-sized leather trunk into the house. Constance put down the parcel and rushed over to the old man.
“Dear Father, it’s so good to see you!” Constance exclaimed as she embraced him. In the process her pillbox hat fell to the floor.
“Nothing pleases me more than seeing you back here at your birthplace where you and your brothers belong”, Patrice replied with adoring look as he eyed his daughter.
“Look, I’ve brought you a birthday present!” Constance cried as she presented him with the large parcel. She looked very fashionable to all in her yesteryear Parisian clothes.
Constance helped her father’s clumsy fingers remove the ribbon and the paper to reveal an elegant box with Galeries Lafayette printed on it. Inside was a black, fluffy, full-length morning gown.
“This is what I call luxury!” Patrice said surprised. “What a gorgeous gift.”
“It was Justine who suggested that you would enjoy it”, Constance explained.
“Thank you”, Patrice beamed. “How thoughtful of you. Now it’s only Michel who is missing, and then for the first time in twenty years the whole family will once again be gathered here at Clos Saint-Jacques!”
Chapter IX
Michel’s arrival at Clos Saint-Jacques
After carefully phrasing the reasons for his imminent absence for close to a week – less so for the ears of his wife than for the benefit of her much brighter father – Michel left home early on the morning of Thursday May 2. He drove to the house where Juliette, aged twenty-three, still lived with her parents. She met him in the doorway with an expectant smile and a suitcase, which he carried to the car with Juliette chirping happily in his ear. The moment has finally come, Michel thought expectantly, or she wouldn’t have accepted my invitation.
It took them most of the day to travel east across the country. Entering the mountains in Auvergne, they stopped for lunch at a beautiful inn some distance before reaching Clermont-Ferrand. The day was turning into dusk when they arrived at l’Auberge le Cheval Blanc situated by the lake Annecy, where Michel had booked a suite in Juliette’s name for three nights. Exhausted after the long drive, they had supper near the fireplace in the dining room before retiring to their suite overlooking the water.
The next morning, Michel woke Juliette with a tray he had taken from the servant in charge of room service. On it was a white orchid, an ice bucket with chilled champagne and a heap of canapés with salmon and caviar. When the sleepy Juliette finally realised what he had brought, she threw her arms around his neck and whispered that he was the most romantic man in the world. Her words made his day, which he spent with her without leaving the room until no longer able to delay his departure for Bercy.
The dust from his departing motorcar had hardly settled on the gravel in front of the inn’s main building before a cab pulled up. Claude, who had lingered in Annecy to explore the town, paid the fare and stepped outside. With a deep breath, he took in the view of l’Auberge le Cheval Blanc and the lake beyond.
*
Michel arrived at Clos Saint-Jacques well before nightfall. He was the only one among Patrice’s offspring wealthy enough to own a motorcar. When the vehicle came to a halt in the front yard, he announced his arrival by using the horn. The geese immediately joined in with their usual clamour.
“It’s Michel!” Constance exclaimed. “It’s been ages since I last saw him.”
She rushed barefoot through the house to the main entrance, just in time to bump into her elder, portly brother as he entered the house carrying a large basket.
“Why, Michel, the good life in Bordeaux certainly is making itself noticed”, she teased as she kissed him three times on the cheeks. “I’m happy for you.”
Henri and Patrice had followed Constance. Henri greeted him in a less effusive way, because the brothers had never, not even in their younger days, found that they had much in common.
“Michel, it’s so good to see you here together with your brother and sister”, Patrice greeted the last of his children to arrive. “It’s such a long time since we were all together. Gaspard, get Michel’s bags!”
“I’ve brought you some special treats, father”, Michel replied. “It is your birthday, after all!”
He put down the heavy basket in front of Patrice who curious bent over to explore its content. Bottles of the finest Armagnac and different liqueurs lined the interior. Patrice selected a bottle.
“Armagnac, 1913! Now, that was quite a harvest. That year, the year before the Great War. I certainly look forward to have this as digestive after our meal tomorrow. Which reminds me that we must also have today. Justine! When will the food be ready? Come my children, join us in the kitchen!”
They all followed him into the large kitchen area that, according to Patrice, had remained unchanged for at least three hundred years. Constance, used to the gay life in the City of Light, found it dark and oppressive. To Gaspard it was the kitchen where he had taken his meals most days in his life, and he found nothing extraordinary in it besides the rare presence of his sister and brothers. Michel, always with a wrinkle on his nose at the thought of the peasant side of his origins, felt a sudden longing for the discreet seafood restaurant overlooking the harbour where he regularly met Juliette. Henri, the bachelor who never in his lifetime had cooked himself a meal, was unable to appreciate the miracles that had taken place in this smoke-tinted space or to perceive the subtleties of Justine’s cooking.
She had prepared a pungent chicken stew, coq au vin, in a large pot that she now placed at the centre of the large, rustic table. The table was also laden with steaming potatoes, produce from the vegetable garden, thick sour country bread and a variety of sausages and cheeses.
“A feast for the eyes, yes?” Patrice cried when they were all sitting on the benches that ran on both sides of the table large enough for fourteen. “There’s nothing like healthy country food accompanied by this wine that Gaspard and I harvested five years ago.”
Gaspard’s face softened a little at the mention of his name in front of his siblings.
“A very good year 1930, eh, Gaspard, don’t you agree?” Patrice continued. “I’ll make sure you each get a dozen bottles to bring back with you when you leave. Michel sold out the rest well before 1931 came to an end, didn’t you, Michel? And at a good price too. Still, I knew it was a good harvest, so I took the precaution of putting away a good hundred bottles for special occasions … and if this isn’t a special occasion, the devil may take me! Cheers!”
They were all smitten by Patrice’s unusual effusiveness. He hadn’t felt this cheerful in many years, and it showed. As the afternoon turned into evening, they were for once a big, happy family shouting and laughing at one another. Forgotten were their small-minded bourgeois ways and their pretensions of grandeur from living in large cities. For a brief moment, they were back in the comfortable bosom of the country manor where they had grown up. The memories of their pursuit of happiness through money and position and fine clothes took a temporary step back in the warmth from the kitchen hearth where Patrice told them stories from when they were small children, where Justine ma
de magic with her stove and where Gaspard’s footprint was present in the wine in every sense.
“Who will go with me tomorrow to hunt for game that Justine can prepare for Sunday lunch?” Patrice asked in a loud voice when the clamour quietened down for a moment. “You of course, Gaspard. I know you like a good hunt as much as I do. But who else will come? There’s nothing that compares to when you yourself procure the food that you'll eat, you know. Surely this is something you must remember that I taught you when you were still children.”
“Nothing would give me more pleasure than to go hunting with you, Father”, Michel said. “Sadly I must admit that my poor back doesn’t hold up walking for more than a quarter of an hour at most. It’s a nuisance, really, this constant backache. I’ve been seeing several specialists to improve my ailment, but alas, to no avail”.
Patrice gave Michel a disappointed look and turned to his youngest son.
“What about you, Henri? Surely you'll accompany me on the hunt tomorrow? Besides the promising weather, which looks like sunshine without a single cloud in the sky, I assure you that the thrill of shooting your food only enhances the flavour when you eat it. Besides, you don’t have to go through the trouble of preparing it; you only have to shoot it. Justine here will take care of the boring parts.”
“I’m sorry, father, but I’m afraid my gout won’t permit it”, Henri excused himself. “Until you come back, I'd rather sit in front of the fireplace reading a book that you recommend.”
“I’ll come with you!” Constance cried merrily. “I’m all for walking through the woods with you and Gaspard, but I won’t shoot any game.”
“You don’t have to, my girl, I’ll take care of that”, Patrice told her, pleased that at least his daughter would accompany him through his beloved woods.
