by Kim Ekemar
Michel appreciated the delicious food and the exquisite wines like everybody else, although he couldn’t avoid feeling fed up listening to his father’s preaching about the good country life and the endlessly repeated anecdotes from the past. He tried his best to show an interest in what the old man was telling them, though. Soon the time would come when their father would explain to them the changes he had planned in his testament. After laughing at a story Patrice had just finished, he decided the time had come to bring up the subject.
“Father, out of curiosity … yesterday you mentioned that you had prepared some changes concerning the future of this wonderful place?”
“How good of you to remind me, Michel”, Patrice boomed. “Yes, I think now’s the moment to tell you what I’m planning to do with Clos Saint-Jacques.”
The slanting rays of the afternoon sun were now finding their way beneath the grapevine above their heads. Satisfied from the wine and the abundant food, Patrice's children were eager to hear what their father was about to say.
“I’ve been thinking for a long time about some way of preserving Clos Saint-Jacques as it is today”, he began. “It was a disaster the way my father’s property was split up between myself and your uncle Roland, but in the end I had no choice but to accept it. And look at Roland’s land today – all vineyards for money’s sake – with no woods, no hunting, no meadows for the cattle. No, I definitely don’t want that.”
Pausing, he looked each of his city-dwelling children in the eyes.
“Years ago I took the precaution of making a will to ensure that each of you would become equal shareholders of this property”, he continued. “I did this by forming a company that, for the past fifteen years, has been the proprietor of Clos Saint-Jacques. At present I am the sole owner of all shares, so what I bequeathed you each was twenty-five percent of these shares.”
He took a sip of wine and briefly studied the setting sun through the ruby content still left in his glass. It was getting chillier.
“I recently spoke with a friend of mine, an experienced lawyer, who explained to me that this in no way guarantees that the property stays intact after my death. The shares can be sold, individually or by all of you in agreement. Perhaps Roland would offer you enough money, or perhaps somebody else, and you would be tempted.”
He looked at Justine.
“Justine, there’s no need for you to listen to this, since it doesn’t concern you. Instead, be good enough to light the fireplace and serve us some of that Armagnac that Michel brought me, and then clean up this table.”
With a hard look on her face, Justine obeyed. Nobody spoke while they finished what wine they had left. Puzzled they waited for their father to continue, but he didn’t speak. As if in deep thought, he let a good five minutes go by. The sun disappeared behind the trees in the woods.
“It’s getting cold. We’d better have our digestives in front of the fire while I tell you the rest.”
Without waiting for a reply, Patrice got up and entered the house. The others followed him into the drawing room, where they seated themselves in the comfortable old leather furniture that circled the fireplace. Justine brought them a tray carrying the brandy and the various liqueurs that had been Michel’s gift. Only Patrice chose the Armagnac, the others opted for sweeter things.
“So how can I make certain that my property remains as it is today when I’m gone, I asked my lawyer friend”, Patrice picked up the thread of conversation where he had left off. “The only way you can do that, he told me, is to create a fidei-commissum.”
He smiled as he studied their consternated expressions.
“Yes, a strange word, isn’t it? I myself had no idea what it meant when I first heard it, and as you know I’ve read plenty of books in my days.”
Patrice made a sweeping gesture towards the books that lined the walls.
“It turns out that a fidei-commissum is a legal term invented by the Romans more than two thousand years ago. It means that you entrust a property to someone, and that someone makes sure that others chosen by the decedent will enjoy the property and its benefits. In the specific case of Clos Saint-Jacques, it means that I, this coming week, intend to change my previous will creating a fidei-commissum that I will bequeath to my bank –”
“To your bank!” Michel exploded. “Why would you give this property to a financial institution? This is madness!”
Pleading with his eyes, Michel looked at Henri and Constance.
“The bank will only be the formal owner”, Patrice explained. “All benefits will be shared by you four. The money from the wine sales will be split between you, after a certain amount has been set aside for the upkeep and the necessary investments in replacement equipment. Also, among yourselves you will in the future, in a democratic fashion, decide on what is best for maintaining the property in its present state.”
“Why this roundabout way of letting us inherit this place, if we will get the income and can use it as our home anyway?” Henri asked.
“Because there will be stipulations in the fidei-commissum statutes that you won't be able to influence. The first is that you can’t sell off any of the property, either in part or as a whole. The other is that you can’t increase the vineyards at the cost of the woods and the meadows. By that, I intend to make sure that this perfect corner on earth stays exactly as it is today, even if I’m no longer here to look after it.”
Patrice studied his children’s reactions to the changes in his testament. What they still don’t know, he thought, is that I’ve already made the changes. Even should I drop dead after seeing the notary on Monday, they won’t be able to do anything about it. This marvellous invention called fidei-commissum is a fact they will have to live with.
He knew his children better than they gave him credit for. Michel, his oldest, had been severely influenced by Patrice’s brother Roland. After moving to Bordeaux and having married that dull bourgeois woman of his, who Patrice couldn't tolerate, in Patrice’s eyes Michel had turned into a petty, greedy bureaucratic merchant. He had no doubt that, given the opportunity, Michel would trick his brothers and sister into selling Clos Saint-Jacques to him. Neither would it surprise him if Michel was in cahoots with that conniving father-in-law of his, or perhaps even with his uncle Roland. In either case, he was convinced that Michel would make his property a carbon copy of the one that Roland had developed.
“I’ve thought a lot about how this place will be managed the day you, my children, are gone, too”, Patrice said. “It will be shared equally among all my grandchildren and then my great-grandchildren and so on.”
At least that’s a relief, Michel thought, being the only one among them who had children. Yet he was still biting his lip because he couldn’t accept seeing his inheritance evaporate before his eyes.
Henri, Patrice knew, was not a level-headed businessman like Michel, and he would most likely sell off his share if the offer were attractive enough. He would be easily convinced that a quick pile of money would allow him to solve all problems and to pursue his desires in life. Lazy as Henri was, he would look no further than a short-term solution for his accumulated debts and sybaritic life. Although Patrice didn’t care for any details, he had a keen eye for judging a person’s character. What he suspected about Henri’s love life was much closer to the truth than Henri would have given him credit for.
His pretty little Constance was also a dedicated follower of an easy life with no commitments. It was one of his secret sorrows that she still hadn’t married and given him grandchildren. Closing in on middle age, Constance kept herself busy looking for the easy pleasures in life rather than looking after herself. He doubted that she was sincere about leaving Paris to move back to Bercy. Although she was dearest to him of all his children, in his heart he also knew that she wouldn’t have second thoughts about selling off her inheritance the minute her father was in his grave.
Yes, his children would be provided for as long as they lived, and one day it would be
his grandchildren who would take over the property, and then his great-grandchildren. Surely this prospect would make Constance and Henri think hard about forming proper families and having children.
“There’s something else you need to know”, Patrice continued while his heirs, sipping on their liqueurs, digested what his decision implied for them. “The three of you all live in cities far from here. Over the past decade I have trained Gaspard to take care of the daily chores, and he knows them well. In exchange I’m sure you agree that he’ll be the person best suited to continue doing so the day I’m gone. I trust that you, Michel, will hire the additional people necessary for harvesting and continuing to take care of the wine sales.”
Justine came into the room to serve them more digestives, something she did with a generous hand. Leaving the tray with the bottles, she announced that she was retiring for the night. Patrice’s eyes wandered to the wall where the grandfather clock had stood for a century but found it occupied by the gift Henri had brought him. It irritated him that Justine had made the change without asking him and that he couldn’t confirm the time. Patrice missed the clock’s quarterly chimes and recalled that he had had to stop it the previous evening to be able to sleep. As soon as his children left the next day, he was set on returning things to the way they had always been. Suddenly, he felt tired.
“I didn’t get much sleep last night, so I’m going to be off to bed now”, Patrice slurred. “To conclude this conversation, I wanted to inform you of my decision so that you know what to expect.”
“When will you make the change?” Michel asked.
“My lawyer is working on the details”, Patrice lied and emptied his glass. “I expect to sign the documents the coming week.”
It was Patrice’s custom to avoid the truth to be known about the things he didn’t want people to have a clear perception of. He felt he could do as he wanted with what were his property and his life, and if people became too curious for his liking, he lied. What was it to his children if he had signed the documents last month or was about to do so next week? As he yawned he discovered a flicker of hope in Michel’s face. Did Michel think that he would change his mind? If that was the case, Michel was in for a surprise.
Yawning again, this time widely, Patrice rose unsteadily from his armchair. His head spinning from the plentiful wine and the generous amount of Armagnac he had consumed, he walked in a crooked line towards his chamber. Gaspard got up, grabbed his arm and helped him across the room. The brandy had got Patrice more intoxicated than he could remember having been in a long time. Gaspard helped him to the washbasin in his bedroom, where Patrice superficially brushed his teeth. Still clothed, he fell down on the bed the wrong way around and immediately began to snore. Gaspard removed the boots and, grabbing his legs, placed Patrice's feet on the pillow.
Meanwhile, the discussion was lively in front of the fireplace.
“It’s simply not acceptable that the old man decides what’s going to happen to this place once he’s dead and gone”, Michel fumed.
“At least we will have a fixed income for the rest of our days”, Constance lamely remarked.
“I’m not at all satisfied with the old man's decision to let that dull-headed Gaspard run Clos Saint-Jacques”, Henri opined. “Whenever, and in whatever way it’s going to be distributed, it’s our money that is at risk. Gaspard is too stupid to run a place like this. We need to get someone capable.”
“Yes. Yes absolutely”, Michel agreed. “I’ll think of some way to get Gaspard out of way when the day comes.
“Do you think Father will be able to advance us something on our inheritance?” Constance asked. “I’m a bit short of money, and the theatre no longer pays as well as it used to. By the way, how much do you think our monthly income from the estate will be?”
“Theatre?” Michel challenged her callously. “The second-class music halls, you mean? There comes a time in life when we have to address things for what they really are.”
“How cruel you are!” Constance protested vehemently. “I need more money than both of you do, because life is more expensive in Paris than in the province!”
“Calm down, both of you”, Henri admonished. “If the paperwork for this so-called fidei-commissum is still in process, maybe there’s something we can do before Father signs away our future fortune –”
That moment, Gaspard stepped out into the hallway and closed the door to Patrice’s bedroom behind him. All three fell silent as he crossed the drawing room and went up to the fireplace to warm his hands. There was no brotherly love between Gaspard and Patrice’s younger children. Ill at ease, Henri wondered if Gaspard had heard his words and perhaps had misinterpreted them.
“It took a while for me to get our father into bed”, Gaspard said.
Nobody spoke. Justine emerged from the kitchen with a jug of water and walked the length of the hallway. She entered Patrice’s bedroom without knocking.
“When I came back I heard you speaking about the changes”, Gaspard continued. “I don’t understand what he wants to do … only that he wants me to remain here working like I do also when he’s dead. Explain to me, please. What’s happening?”
“Don’t you worry your little head about this, Gaspard”, Michel patronised him after taking another swig of liqueur. “Thanks to our beloved father, you’re the only one who’s got a clear future staked out.”
“It’s been a long day”, Gaspard said when nobody else made a comment. “I’m going to my place to get some sleep.”
Gaspard left by the front door. His siblings felt the chilly night wind fill the room as he took his time exiting and closing the door.
“There goes a simpleton if I ever met one”, Henri muttered serving himself some more cherry brandy. “I have a hard time understanding how we can be related.”
“He inherited his lack of brains from his mother, of course”, Michel remarked. “Now he’s been doomed to slave away on Clos Saint-Jacques for the remainder of his days.”
“I can’t believe this is happening!” Constance interjected. “Why would Father want to keep this place unchanged for centuries to come?”
Justine came out from Patrice’s bedroom empty-handed. She closed the door behind her and disappeared into the kitchen. No one paid her any attention.
“That’s the least of our concerns”, Michel replied sourly. “What’s important is that the old man shouldn’t go through with his mad plans. Imagine receiving a miserable monthly pension however long or short our lives will be, instead of making a windfall selling out!”
They discussed the subject for another fifteen minutes before Constance said she was going upstairs to her room. A few minutes later, Henri told his brother that he intended to follow her example. Alone, Michel put up his feet on the sofa and stared into the dying embers in the fireplace. He knew something had to be done to prevent his father from going through with his counterproductive scheme, and he thought he knew how to make it work.
*
In the quiet of the night a distinct thud could be heard. The sound was that of a heavy object being thrown down on the floorboards. Justine got out of her bed, left her room and walked across the kitchen. She opened the door to the hallway and peeked outside. A light was still on in the drawing room. In the penumbra Justine saw the back of Michel as he climbed upstairs supporting himself with the banister.
He reached the top floor and disappeared out of view. She heard his door close and, in the distance, how the grandfather clock began to strike twelve.
Second Part
AFTER THE FIRE
Chapter XIV
The fire downstairs
Constance, who was sleeping directly above her father’s bedroom, woke up as she started to cough. She opened her eyes and noticed that the room was hazy with smoke. Alarmed, she called out.
“Help! Fire! The house is on fire!”
She rolled out of bed and quickly put on her morning gown. Her shrill shouts woke everyone in the house. Consta
nce opened the French doors to her balcony and leaned over the parapet. In the early morning light she could see the black smoke billow through the cracks of her father’s windows on the ground floor. She withdrew into her bedroom and shut the doors. The air felt acrid when she inhaled it. She rushed along the corridor and reached the staircase.
“Michel! Henri!” she cried. “There’s a fire downstairs!”
As she scurried down the steps she heard her brothers’ bedroom doors bang open as they shouted their incredulity.
“Where’s the bloody fire?”
“Darn it, wet a hanky and put it over your nose!”
As Constance reached the ground floor, she could see the smoke well out from underneath the door to her father’s room. Awakened by her screams, Justine hastened into the drawing room the moment Constance entered it.
“The smoke comes from Monsieur Patrice's chamber”, Justine said with alarm in her voice. “We must find a way to get him out!”
Constance rushed over to Patrice’s bedroom and felt the handle. The door was locked. Smoke continued to seep through the cracks around the door.
“How can we get inside?” she coughed as she pounded on the door as hard as she could. “Father? Father! Can you hear me?”
There was no reply from the other side.
“We need to break down the door!” Justine shouted.
Henri and Michel came running down the staircase. Hearing her words, Henri threw himself against the door with all his weight. It had been made of sturdy oak-wood several centuries ago and didn’t budge at all. By now all four were coughing from the thick black smoke that reigned in the building.
“We’d better break the bedroom window”, Michel shouted between his coughing fits. “Meanwhile, find some water, Justine!”
