He looked at his cottage and at the roof where he’d already drawn the plans for the chien assis, the dormer window that would turn his empty loft into an extra bedroom. Why do that, if not because he had a family in mind someday, children who would sleep in that room and smuggle Gigi or his successor up the stairs to curl up with warmly at night? Children to whom he could leave this house that he had rebuilt, this stretch of land that he had turned into a garden.
However generous the gesture, there must have been a touch of sadness in Hercule when he drafted the will that, in the absence of a family heir, left his goods to his friends and to charity. Bruno would miss walking through these woods with Hercule, looking for the darting dance of the fly that indicated the presence of truffles beneath the ground. He’d miss Hercule’s special way with dogs, the quick understanding that he brought forth from Gigi when training him to find the truffles and stand and mark the spot without digging. He’d miss the cognacs at dawn in the open air, and the easy camaraderie that he and the baron and Hercule had enjoyed, three old soldiers. They might have known different wars, but it had been the same army.
He walked to the back of the house and took his hay box from the barn and then picked up the herbs and bay leaves and went into his kitchen. The casserole was bubbling gently. He stirred the stew, added in the thyme and bay leaves and a handful of black peppercorns and went off to shower and change into his uniform. When he returned, he turned off the gas, opened the hay box and nestled the casserole inside its thick bed of hay. He settled the small sack of hay on top to keep the heat in and closed the tin lid. Now it would cook itself in the insulating hay for the rest of the day. He checked that he had a fresh towel in his sports bag and headed out to the Land Rover to supervise the setting up of the Saturday morning market. Gigi sat solemnly at the head of the lane, as he did every morning, watching him go. Bruno wondered what he did then. Probably padded back to the chicken coop to pick up the scent of the long-gone fox and patrol his master’s land.
13
Bruno walked twelve or thirteen miles on a good day of hunting, ran two or three times a week, played tennis and taught the children of the town to play rugby. But he’d be forty on his next birthday, and he knew that a full ninety minutes of rugby would be rough. It was less the stamina to keep running than the constant bursts of acceleration that the game required. And once again the team had insisted he play at wing forward, where he had to be as fast as the backs and as relentless as the forwards.
He rubbed liniment into his thighs and strapped his sometimes suspect ankle. And then he watched in disbelief as his teammate Stéphane slid on some black tights under his shorts. One of the biggest and toughest men who’d ever played for St. Denis, he was known to be impervious to pain, but suddenly he was dressing up to keep his legs warm. Stéphane saw Bruno looking and said defensively, “It’s cold out there.”
“Not after the first couple of minutes,” Bruno said. “Mind you, that’s about all I’ll be good for.”
“Look at the rest of us,” grunted Stéphane. He was right. As Bruno glanced around the changing room, he saw a bunch of middle-aged men carrying too much weight and capable of too little stamina, each of them probably wondering, like him, whether he’d be able to walk tomorrow.
It was the day of St. Denis’s annual youth-versus-age rugby game, the over-thirty-fives against the under-eighteens, maturity and cunning against the energy of youth. There were only two ways for the old men to win. The first was to pile up a huge lead in the first fifteen minutes when they could still play with some of their old fire and then dig in for a solid defense. The other was to crush the striplings with their bulk and ruthless aggression. Bruno had been on teams that played it both ways, and it never quite worked. The speed and resilience of the youngsters always told in the second half. And the one time the oldsters had played rough, the wife of one player had run onto the field to hit her husband with her handbag after he’d flattened their son with a brutal tackle. It was in the hope of another such scene that the town’s stadium and the railings around the pitch were always filled for this match, which was one of the club’s best fund-raisers of the year.
Raoul handed around a bottle of cognac, but Bruno shook his head. Maybe at halftime, if he lasted that long. He looked around at the team. He knew each of his teammates and had played with all of them before except for the one newcomer, Guillaume Pons. So he was over thirty-five, even if he didn’t look it, bouncing up and down on his toes. Bruno wondered how much rugby he had played in China. Still, he looked in good shape and in the little preparation they had done, a few jogs around the playing field, he’d shown himself to be pretty fast. He was playing on the wing.
“Okay, gather around,” said Louis, the rugby club chairman who had appointed himself their coach, which was one way to avoid having to play. “Go like hell for as long as you can. We’ve got to pile up at least thirty points before they know what’s hit them. And then just keep possession and kick the ball away if you have to. We’re bigger and taller than they are so we can win most of the scrums. And watch out for women with handbags. Good luck!”
Putain! It was even colder than it had been during his dawn walk, thought Bruno as the players trotted out of the changing room and through the crowd to the pitch. The youngsters were already warming up and showing off their speed. Standing by the gap in the railings that led to the field was Father Sentout, a thick black cloak over his soutane, giving his customary blessing to the players. Laughing and cheering at their fathers and uncles and husbands, the crowd gave them a great welcome with the women blowing kisses and shouting out jokes about stretchers and ambulances. Bruno saw Pamela and Fabiola waving as he jogged past, and he gave them a mock salute. Perhaps he should have asked for a handkerchief or a garter, like some knight of old wearing his lady’s favor on his breast.
The weather had turned. The sky was dull and gray and the ground had been sodden all week. There was a sheen of ice on the puddles beyond the rugby posts. The field would be mud within twenty minutes, which would slow down the older men, but it meant the kind of grinding struggle between the forwards that should suit their style of play. A firm pitch and easy running would have helped the youngsters. Stéphane was captain and lost the coin toss, so the oldsters lined up to receive the opening kick.
Short and squat and a fine forward, Lespinasse from the garage caught the ball and turned his back on the charge of his son Edouard. Taller than his father but maybe half the weight, Edouard simply bounced off his father’s bulk as Lespinasse passed the ball to Raoul, who gained another ten yards before he slipped the ball to Stéphane, who bulled his way forward with three youngsters hanging on to his legs before he flipped the ball across to Marcel.
The big, middle-aged men lurched their way forward through the tackles, Bruno keeping himself out slightly to the flank. Finally the youngsters brought the drive to a halt. But Marcel rose from the melee and tossed the ball back to Jacquot. Just thirty-five, the youngest man on the team, Jacquot ducked and darted his way around to score as the first drops of rain began to come down.
And so it went. Each time the old men got the ball they used their bulk to drive through and score. When the youngsters got possession, Bruno had to make tackle after tackle, and not the easy ones around a running opponent’s legs, but a high tackle to grab the arms and keep his man up until his teammates could plunge into the melee and haul the ball away.
The old forwards scored twice more. The youngsters now had the ball, but there was no way they were going to be able to hold the weight of the older men as the two lines of forwards crashed into each other. Bruno put one hand down to the pitch to make it easier to sprint up and catch their runner. But the ball carrier had his own ideas and darted like quicksilver. Bruno barely managed to catch the boy’s ankle as he went past, sending the boy crashing onto his face. The ball bounced perfectly into Bruno’s arms.
One sidestep and he was in the open field with only two players to beat. He heard Jacq
uot coming up to his right shoulder and sensed another dark blue shirt to his left. Bruno fended off one pursuer with a straight-arm to the face. Then as the other players dived low at his legs Bruno passed the ball to Jacquot, who darted over the goal line.
His hands on his knees, Bruno breathed hard as Jacquot converted the kick. That made it twenty-eight to zero.
“Didn’t you see me?” came a crisp voice. It was Pons. “I was right at your shoulder waiting for that pass and it was clear in front of me. You should have passed the ball.”
“I did pass the ball,” said Bruno. “I passed it to Jacquot, who scored.”
“I was better placed,” Pons said. “Still, a good play, Bruno. Just remember there are other guys on this team.”
Christ, thought Bruno, a prima donna. As Pons walked away, Bruno saw that there wasn’t a speck of mud on him. His shirt and shorts were still immaculate. Bruno looked as if he’d been living underground for the past month. He shrugged and looked at the clock. Just over thirty minutes gone so far, still in the first half, and already Lespinasse was quietly being sick on the sideline, Stéphane was down on one knee, and Raoul was wheezing like an ancient locomotive going up a steep hill.
Bruno looked across at the youngsters with irritation. He’d trained these boys so they ought to be playing better than this. They were letting the old men use their advantages of weight and strength and relying too much on the speed of their running. That wasn’t the smart tactic. Against a slower, heavier team, Bruno had drilled into them that the right strategy was to kick the ball down the field and force the heavier team to run and run until they dropped. And Bruno was fond enough of his pupils to want them to play the intelligent way, even if it meant exhaustion and defeat for his own team.
He lined up again to receive the kickoff, and this time the ball came directly to him. But young Edouard was almost on him, so Bruno turned half sideways and punted the ball with a long, looping kick. As they lined up to take the throw-in, Bruno stood behind Stéphane, who turned to face him. Bruno kept his eye on the young player who was to throw the ball. As it left the youth’s hands he shouted, “Now!” and ran forward, jumping into the air. Stéphane grabbed him around the thighs and boosted him upward so that Bruno towered above the line and plucked the ball from the air.
Still held upright in Stéphane’s mighty grip, Bruno faked a pass to Pierrot, and the youngsters began to peel away. But then Stéphane dropped him gently, and with the rest of the pack at his heels Bruno broke through the opponent’s line still holding the ball and pounded for the goalposts with nobody to stop him. But he was tiring now and slower than he had been, and as he dived for the goal line he felt the fullback crash into his side, rolling him over. But the ball was firm in his hands, and then the goalpost was smashing hard into his back as he planted the ball for another score.
Winded and bruised, Bruno lay on his back with his eyes closed and waited for Louis to come by with his magic sponge. He no longer felt the cold. His body was glowing with heat. But the strongest sensation was a deep tiredness until Jules the gendarme thumped down beside him, and the ice-cold sponge was in his face and then thrust down the back of his shirt.
“Nice run, Bruno,” Jules said. “You okay?”
“I’ll live,” he said, rolling over and hauling himself to his feet. Louis gave the back of Bruno’s neck a final wipe with the sponge, and Bruno trotted back to his team.
“Time to give us others a chance,” Pons said curtly when Bruno arrived. “A few of you are hogging the ball. You can’t keep all the glory to yourselves.”
Bruno stared at him in disbelief. Raoul spat angrily, and Lespinasse said, making a joke of it, “Glory? You’re playing the wrong game, pal.” Stéphane dropped a heavy arm onto Pons’s shoulder and said softly, “Don’t be a fool.” Pons stomped off.
After halftime, with the rain coming down steadily, the game began to stall in the mud. It was a relief to the older men, for whom a slower game meant an easier game, but then the youngsters scored twice. They now did what they should have been doing all along, punting the ball into open space and using their speed to follow it. But this time the ball was bouncing unevenly, and they couldn’t take it cleanly, and Bruno had the time to charge across and tackle their player just as he picked up the rolling ball from the ground, jolting the ball from the youngster’s grip. Bruno grabbed it to his chest and rolled himself into a ball as the feet of a dozen players thundered around and over him.
Lespinasse looked sourly at Pons and called, loudly enough for spectators to hear, “Hey, beautiful. Where were you, pretty boy? Stopping that player was your job.”
Pons colored, and his eyes flashed angrily. After the scrum, Pierrot darted around to the blind side, plucked the ball from the ground and passed it to Pons. He took off like a frightened gazelle, with just Bruno and a teammate trying to keep up with him.
Bruno was about five yards behind Pons, running flat-out, two opponents just coming into view and going full steam, when Pons shouted, “Bruno” and passed the ball to him. Completely surprised, Bruno just managed to catch the ball when the two defenders slammed into him, one at his ankles and the other at his chest, their weight and his own speed pile-driving him hard into the ground. In the millisecond before his face plowed into the earth he felt as if he’d been hit by a train, and then he felt nothing at all.
He didn’t lose consciousness, but he was still dazed when the sponge came, and then suddenly it disappeared. Blinking and groggy he rolled and saw Jules had abandoned the sponge and was running to separate Pons and Lespinasse. Pons was down on his back and bleeding from his nose, and Lespinasse was standing over him and roaring, “You little prick, you did that on purpose. You were clear, you bastard, and you gave Bruno a suicide pass. What kind of shit are you?”
It certainly felt like a suicide pass to Bruno. Pons had deliberately passed him the ball just as the two young opponents were in range to hit him, and Pons had been in the open with only one player to beat and another team member outside him. Bruno felt too disoriented to think about blaming Pons or anybody else and felt only that the world had become a cruel and hurtful place. He coughed and spat out blood. His teeth still seemed to be in place. Gingerly, he moved his legs and arms, and they seemed to work. Jules came back with the sponge, and Bruno rolled to one side and was sick.
“You’ll be okay,” Jules said, looking carefully into his eyes. “Did you lose consciousness?”
“I don’t think so,” Bruno said. “Not really. I’m okay.”
“We’d be down to thirteen men if you leave the pitch,” Jules said. “The ref sent Lespinasse off. He should have sent that little shit Pons for pulling that trick.”
“How much longer to play?” Bruno asked.
“About twelve, fifteen minutes, plus injury time. Mostly yours.”
“Help me up.” Bruno limped to his feet and stood, swaying. The ref came across and took Bruno’s face between his hands and looked searchingly at Bruno’s eyes.
“Have you been concussed?”
Bruno shook his head. It hurt. “No,” he said. “I can play.”
“Just as well because you’re two men down already,” the ref said. “Your teammate’s taken himself off with that nosebleed.”
He looked to the sideline where Lespinasse stood glowering beside the trainer as Pons limped off the pitch. Both men ignored him. A cheer came from the crowd as Bruno forced himself to trot back to his teammates. He heard a woman’s voice calling his name. He turned, and Pamela was waving at him, and then beckoning him urgently to leave the pitch. He shook his head. Stéphane patted him gently on the back, and then lined up to restart the game. Bruno bent down not knowing whether he’d be able to get up again.
The mud was now so thick that there was no difference between the dark blue shirts of the oldsters and the light blue of the younger men. It was all mud, and the ball was a sodden, slippery mass, too elusive to hold. The mud sticking to their boots, the older men were almost too tired to
move. The youngsters had taken charge.
Bruno glanced over and saw Pons at the sideline. He was fresh from the shower, with his Chinese chef, Minxin, beside him holding a tray with a bottle of champagne and four flutes. There was no sign of the nieces. Pons poured out the glasses and offered one to Pamela and the other to Fabiola. The two women waved the glasses away, their eyes intent on the pitch. Bruno barely heard the whistle as Pierrot kicked off and the old men lumbered grimly forward once again.
At last the final whistle went, the game ending in a draw, thirty-five all. As the players all lined up to shake hands, Stéphane said, “Bruno, I’m going to ram that champagne bottle up Pons’s ass. And if this town’s crazy enough to elect him I’ll shoot him before he sets foot in the mairie.”
They limped off to the showers, the youngsters still fresh enough to trot ahead, whooping that they would take all the hot water. That suited Bruno fine. Cold water was probably what he needed. He ignored Pons and the glass of Pol Roger he offered and stopped in front of Pamela.
“Didn’t you see me waving for you to come off?” she said, handing him her champagne, which she had now accepted. He nodded, almost too tired to speak, but he emptied the glass.
“The game was almost over,” he said. “I was okay.”
“You played well,” she said, and leaned forward to kiss him. “I don’t know the game, but I could see that.”
“Hold on a moment,” said Fabiola. She put her hands to his head, regardless of the mud, and lifted his eyelids. She looked searchingly into his eyes and told him to follow her finger with his gaze. Left and right, up and down.
Black Diamond Page 13
