“I do not want to bother him. Excuse me for coming so late, but I worked all afternoon at Charmots.”
“I think it’s one of Brother Clément’s favorite Pommard wines. Do not be afraid. I know that he will be happy to see you.”
They crossed the cloister and entered the large white stone stairway leading to the lodgings. At the end of a long corridor filled with shadows and silence, they came into a small cell, where a young monk was kneeling beside a bed. Brother Clément was lying on a white sheet, with a wool blanket pulled up to his waist. The porter signaled the novice to leave. Cooker walked slowly to keep the floorboards from creaking. He sat on a wooden stool at Brother Clément’s bedside.
“It’s good...of you to…I was waiting...for you.”
His voice was extremely weak, as if emptied of all its substance, but a gleam still remained in his eyes. The winemaker leaned even closer.
“The tawny owl...the ruins…” stammered the monk, whose bloodless lips hardly moved.
“I thought about it,” Cooker said almost in a whisper. “I reread the psalm many times before coming, but I still don’t know what to deduce from it.”
“All day long...my enemies...insult me...”
“Those who once praised me now use me as a curse,” Cooker continued. He could have recited all of Psalm 102 in one breath, so much had he dwelled on it in his hotel room.
“It’s...the prayer...of a...poor wretch...”
“Please don’t strain yourself, Father. I have thought about all of it, and I, too, think that we are dealing with a desperate person. I also think he wanted to announce his revenge by pointing to Chapter Twenty-Six in the Book of Jeremiah. Because it can be nothing else, correct?”
Brother Clément closed his eyes twice to show that he agreed.
Cooker remained silent, wondering where the dying man was finding the energy to still take an interest in the land of the living.
With infinite tenderness, the abbey porter came in to touch the old man’s forehead and feel his pulse. “He is asleep. He is still with us, but his body departs from time to time.”
“The best would be if he did not awaken,” murmured the winemaker.
“I don’t believe so. He has always lived with his eyes wide open, lucid, and perceptive. He deserves to leave fully conscious.”
“How long have you known him?”
“I was his student at the seminary before joining him in the cloister. He taught me everything. I have been entrusted with the duty of abbey porter for more than fifteen years now, and I owe this sign of trust from our abbot to the education that Brother Clément gave me. His courses were models of generosity and open mindedness. This is all that is required of an abbey porter.”
“I am surprised that he talked to me about this psalm,” Cooker whispered. “How did he know about the owl at the Château du Clos de Vougeot?”
“I’ve told you that he has always had great vision in this life. And it seems to me that he is still alive, no?”
“I am sure that he would have many things to tell me about that owl if he still had the strength.”
“He would have said that it’s an animal with an unfortunate reputation. It’s been made an emblem of ugliness and a sign of bad fortune. In early days, you’d find them nailed like that in cemeteries or on farmhouse doors. Ignorant people believed they brought bad luck because they were night creatures. But living in the dark sharpens the ability to apprehend the unknown, to use one’s mind to conquer the darkness. In a way, it’s putting one’s experience, knowledge, and thoughts in the service of wisdom. Men of the church are often described as crows. Some are, of course. But we others, the contemplatives who embrace seclusion and a certain solitude, we who get up at night to pray and earn the salvation of souls, we are, in a way, far-sighted owls!”
“How is it that I don’t know your name?” Cooker suddenly asked.
“Because you’ve never asked,” answered the monk. “My name is Brother Grégoire.”
A door slammed in the distance. The noise, usually so mundane, had something incongruous about it, a violence that had no place in this environment. Brother Clément opened an eye and began to moan. Brother Grégoire pulled down the blanket and folded it over the end of the bed.
“He has nothing but the skin on his bones left, and the least bit of weight makes him suffer,” he explained to Cooker, who was visibly worried.
“I don’t see him breathing. Is he sleeping?”
“I think so. May the spirit of Saint Bernard accompany him in his sleep!”
“Are you talking about Saint Bernard, the monk at Cîteaux and founder of the Clairvaux Abbey?”
“I don’t know any other by that name,” Brother Grégoire replied, surprised. “Why would I pray to someone else? Saint Bernard slept very little. He spent enough time working each night to become the patron of all insomniacs, the patron saint of dream chasers.”
Brother Clément cast his right eye in Cooker’s direction. Cooker drew closer again to catch the snippets filtering from his dry lips.
“Read...me...the prophecies of...Jeremiah.”
An old Bible was lying on the bedside table. Brother Grégoire handed it to Cooker, who put on his reading glasses. There were nearly one hundred pages in the Book of Jeremiah, and Cooker didn’t know where to start.
“From the beginning,” the porter instructed.
He read for more than an hour, without stopping, turning the pages at a regular rhythm like a penitent on a hard road. He read without worrying about whether his voice would soothe Brother Clément in this bare cell. He read the adventures of knowledge and violence, exile and corruption, the temple destruction, and foreign divinities. He read about promises of punishment and prophesies to the glory of man saved by the All Powerful. He read the lamentations until he became inebriated with words both nonsensical and sublime.
Yahweh says this: Look, I shall fill all the inhabitants of this country, the kings who occupy the throne of David, the priests, the prophets and all the citizens of Jerusalem, with drunkenness.
Then I shall smash them one against the other, parents and children all together.
Yahweh declares. Mercilessly, relentlessly, pitilessly, I shall destroy them.
He was nearing the end of Chapter Thirteen when the bells of the Abbey of Cîteaux rang to announce vespers. Cooker shuddered and looked up to catch Brother Clément’s serene gaze. He thought he saw a smile appear between the hollowed cheeks.
The dying man’s lips quivered, and Cooker understood that he wanted to speak to him. He pressed his ear closer. The monk murmured a few words and then gave his soul up to God.
11
She was offering herself without shyness or modesty to Virgile’s feverish fingers. He would never come back to see her, and for a moment, she must have dreamed that he would take her away from this place that she knew only too well, that he would take her to the ends of the earth. But Aurélie was a down-to-earth girl and settled for what Fate brought her. For a few days, it was this handsome boy with brown hair and brown eyes who was eagerly caressing her breasts. Virgile’s fingers lingered a moment over her stomach, lightly brushing her navel, massaging the fullness of her hips. Then he slid his hands across her chest to titillate her nipples. She let him know she liked this little game of teasing by biting his earlobe. Virgile gave in to it in turn and let out a moan as soon as he felt Aurélie’s hot breath between his thighs.
A few hours earlier, both of them had slipped out of the hotel to go dancing at a nightclub in Dijon whose Spanish-sounding name was not worth remembering. Cooker had been fast asleep, probably over a chapter of the Bible, so the night was theirs. They had escaped in Aurélie’s tiny car and had drunk several glasses of cheap tequila, their heads already reeling from sufficiently adulterated German techno music.
Back in Vougeot, the girl told him she didn’t want to end up spending the night in Virgile’s bed, as she had been too embarrassed the night before coming out of his room w
hen she ran into Cooker. She didn’t want to see his amused look again. Despite Virgile’s insistent pleas, she parked at the edge of town, out of sight, in the recesses of an overgrown dirt road.
Virgile was pressing tenderly on the nape of Aurélie’s neck, matching her rhythmic movements. His mouth was on fire. If there was a God, he would have to reside in the body of a woman, he thought. After performing the delicate ritual of the condom, which almost turned into a comedy, the girl seated herself on Virgile’s lap, facing and embracing him. She was holding onto the seat while she straddled him, letting out frightened squeals. They hadn’t found any other solution for making love in the cramped Fiat 500, whose original pistachio color and rust-dotted chrome authenticated its rare 1962 vintage.
Aurélie had snuggled against his shoulder and was nibbling on his neck. Now they were satisfied, entwined in their shared sweatiness, unable to separate. For a long while Virgile kept his eyes closed. When he finally opened them, he thought he saw a dark impression standing against a pale moon. He blinked to probe the darkness. The shadow was in profile, one arm raised on the side of a barn. He pushed Aurélie aside brusquely and threw his clothes on helter-skelter. The girl watched dumbfounded and teary-eyed as he opened the car door and started dashing toward the town. He ran full speed on the soggy path and almost slid as he rounded a patch of vines. In front of him, the silhouette was weaving between a cluster of shrubs and bolting toward the Vouge River flowing below. Virgile was closing in. The fugitive hesitated to head down the streets of Vougeot, deciding instead to return to the twists and turns of the vineyard.
“Keep going, you idiot!” Virgile yelled, energized by the memory of muddy practices on the rugby field in Montravel.
It took him just a few seconds to catch up to the man, who had begun limping. Virgile tackled him, crashing down with all his weight. They rolled in a water-filled rut. The fight was quickly over. His two knees pressed against his adversary’s torso, Virgile prepared to deliver a punch, but his arm froze.
The man was a woman.
§ § §
“And where were you again, Virgile?” Benjamin Cooker said, glancing at the side mirror as he pulled out skillfully, and passed a Dutch camper.
“In her car, sir.”
“The green one that looks like a Burgundy escargot?”
“That’s funny, I thought the same thing.”
“It’s an old model, rather sought-after, but not very practical for a strapping young man like yourself.”
Virgile ignored the remark and continued telling his story: the chase in the middle of the vines, a tackle worthy of rugby star Serge Blanco, the scuffle in the mud, and his shock when he discovered the frightened face of Murielle Grangeon.
“The police told me her name while I was giving my deposition, but I still didn’t understand any of it. They didn’t see fit to fill me in.”
“I got Robert Bressel on the phone while you were being questioned,” Cooker confided. “Trust a reporter to find what the police don’t know yet. He knew this Murielle Grangeon very well.”
“Is she related to the old Adèle?”
“She’s her niece, a poor girl who’s been struggling for years. She started off okay, studying classical languages and medieval history. She loved that stuff. She went to school with Bressel’s nephew Pierre-Jean. She was majoring in Latin and Greek and getting her master’s in twelfth-century monastic studies in the dukedom of Burgundy. But then she got knocked up and married some guy from Gilly who used to beat her. It seems like he made a living doing odd jobs and selling stolen cars. He’s in prison now, sentenced to eight years. So she found herself alone with two kids. She cleaned offices at night for a commercial cleaning company in Dijon.”
“And the kids?” Virgile interrupted. “Did she leave them home alone?”
“No, she lived with her mother, at the other end of Vougeot.”
“So her mother is Adèle Grangeon’s sister?”
“No, her sister-in-law. Murielle’s father was Adèle’s brother. The guy died very young of a heart attack. Do you follow me?”
“Up to this point, it’s simple. So, in short, the kids’ grandmother was a widow and took care of them while Murielle slaved away at a crappy job.”
“I imagine she must have felt frustrated having left behind her classical studies for a life of menial labor,” Virgile said.
“Not only did she have to work hard, but then her mother got sick. Some kind of cancer, which killed her in just a few months. She had to leave her job to take care of the kids. With no money, no job, and mouths to feed, the first thought Murielle had was to go to her aunt Adèle. But the old lady wouldn’t even put them up. Nothing, no helping hand. Door shut, get lost.”
“What a bitch! Excuse me, but there’s no other word.”
“I agree completely.”
“So she found herself on the street?” Virgile asked, worried.
“At first, not really. Some friends from school took her in here and there, but you know how that goes. After a certain amount of time, there aren’t too many friends who can put up with two kids and a mother in a small apartment. She ended up in a home for single mothers and women in distress. You know the type of place. She was offered unappealing and underpaid internships. Nothing to meet her needs, and the Department of Health and Social Services put her kids in foster homes. That’s when she had her first bout of major depression.”
“That could put anyone over the edge,” Virgile said sympathetically.
Cooker glanced at the wobbling arrow at the bottom of the gas gauge. He would have to fill the tank of his SL280 soon if he didn’t want to force Virgile to spend another night under the stars. He took his foot off the gas pedal and continued driving at a more reasonable speed.
“But Mr. Cooker, when you say that she had her first bout of depression, you mean that she had many more?”
“Yes, she was diagnosed as manic-depressive. She was treated with her fair share of antidepressants, antianxiety pills, tranquilizers, and sleeping pills. And she spent long periods in psychiatric hospitals. According to Bressel, she changed enormously during that period. She was getting thinner and exhibiting strange behavior. She seemed to be changing more and more every day.”
“And the kids?”
“She saw them once or twice a month. And even then, only if her condition allowed. She did have one opportunity, though, thanks to Pierre-Jean Bressel. When he heard that a job as a guide had opened up at the Château du Clos de Vougeot, he had his uncle Robert pull some strings to get her foot in the door. Of course, she landed it easily. She knew the history by heart, and what’s more, she was from the area.”
“All’s well that ends well, then.”
“Not really. She thought things would get better. But the Department of Health and Social Services wouldn’t let her have her kids back. They said her situation wasn’t yet stable, that she didn’t have suitable housing or a long-term contract. That didn’t help her mental health, and she had several more crises. She started showing up for work late and taking sick days. Eventually, she hardly showed up at all. The château could not renew her contract.”
“She must have been angry at the world.”
“Let’s say, rather, that her depression turned to anger. With her situation becoming more and more precarious and her unemployment checks running out, the manic-depression became more acute. She had short periods of overexcitement alternating with moments of extreme withdrawal. Murielle soon lost her sense of reality. A specialist could explain it better than I can.”
“Don’t worry, boss. Crazy is crazy.”
“You do have a skill for distilling things,” Cooker said, smiling, “even if that’s a bit harsh.”
They stopped at a gas station and filled the tank. While his boss cleaned the windshield, Virgile got out to stretch his legs, flirt with the cashier, and buy a copy of the sports newspaper L’Equipe. As they were leaving, Cooker turned on his cassette player and invited La Traviata to
accompany them on the trip.
“That’s all we need now!” exclaimed Virgile. “You know I don’t care for opera, and honestly, this Maria Callas woman scares me a little. I don’t know why, but she sends shivers down my spine.”
“I would be disappointed if you said she didn’t, my boy. Callas touches the deepest part of what we are.”
“Was your diva another tormented soul?”
“I don’t think so. Let’s just say she had a flair for the dramatic.”
“Is the whole story that you told me just the reporter’s version?”
“Yes. On the other hand, it was the investigators who uncovered the rest. At least, what they were able to piece together, because even with the help of the experts, it’s hard to interrogate someone like that. When she wrote her first messages in Vougeot and Gilly, she was in the middle of a manic phase, and she surely did that in a delirium of vengeance inspired by a desire to frighten people. I think she must have been angry with the whole world, but her world had been reduced to that little corner of vineyard where she endured all the suffering and humiliation.”
“But why phrases from the Bible?”
“In my opinion, she must have had a mystical vision of the world. All that time spent on ancient texts, translating from Latin, steeped morning, noon, and night in obscure religious writing, stories of sorcerers, ghosts, demons.”
“That couldn’t have been good for her! Do you think that’s why she did what she did?”
“I do. When she wanted to terrorize her aunt, all she did was reproduce some very old scenes from Burgundy folklore. She knew them inside out. On each occasion she used the situation to her own advantage. Old Mancenot, for example. She just happened to come across him. She was getting ready to write some ominous messages when she spotted his moped on the side of the road. Honoré was so drunk, he had had a fatal accident. The findings from the investigation and autopsy confirm it. Murielle, as delirious as she was, knew how to turn the event into something malevolent. Same thing with the owl: she found it while she was roaming the town at night. The bird had already been dead for quite a while, which explains the condition it was in, but she knew how to turn it into an object of terror. I don’t even want to imagine what was going through her mind in moments like that.”
Nightmare in Burgundy (The Winemaker Detective Series) Page 9
