A Vintage End

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  He paused for a moment and then smiled at Burke. “Now that I think about it, maybe I should return for another visit and bring Bianca since she has never been there. And maybe I should see if the kids could join us although they have their own lives and reside quite a distance from the site.”

  Burke nodded. And then he decided that one day he, too, would visit Oradour-sur-Glane. After all, he was living almost as a French citizen and it seemed appropriate to visit one of the country’s most historic sites, however sad it would be.

  A handful of new customers approached the newsagent’s. Burke didn’t recognize anyone and thought they were likely from the nearby resorts. It was time to leave since Jean would soon be busy.

  He got up, grabbed two papers, paid Jean and wished his friend a bonne journée. Then he waved at Plato who was back in his bed.

  “Good luck with your TV show tonight,” Jean called out. “I expect you might end up discussing all the controversy surrounding your vintage bike races.’

  Then the newsagent turned to his customers.

  Burke figured Jean’s prediction would turn out to be right.

  And it did.

  The show was just a few minutes old that evening when the host turned the discussion to the vintage race in Nice.

  “Quite the circus, wasn’t it?” the host said.

  The veteran sportswriter suggested the stunts didn’t amount to real news and suggested the popularity of the races for potential participants wouldn’t increase or decrease because of what had happened to Bosco Yablonski.

  Burke didn’t share that viewpoint, but didn’t disagree on air, keeping quiet. A moment later, seeing the panelists were ignoring the vintage bike race stunts, the host went onto another topic, this time discussing who should be on the starting team for the French national football team’s upcoming friendly match against the Swedes.

  Burke contributed occasionally to the conversation, but mostly he thought about what the next vintage race would bring.

  Chapter 16

  Two days later in the village parking lot, Burke kissed Hélène goodbye and climbed into his old Citroen for the 250-kilometre trip to Arles. In the trunk, he had a small bag with his cycling clothes and regular gear; as a last-minute gesture to the weather report predicting a few days of heavy rain, he had tossed in some rain-proof pants and jacket.

  He had two machines on his car’s bike rack: the old Peugeot that he would ride for the vintage race and his carbon-fibre Cannondale racing machine that he would ride beforehand to explore the area.

  He figured he was ready for anything.

  “Good luck with the race,” Hélène said as Burke started the engine.

  Burke smiled and said he would keep out of trouble.

  Hélène waved a playful finger at him to suggest she wasn’t entirely convinced of his promise.

  “And don’t forget you have to collect Uncle Claude on Tuesday,” she added.

  “I know,” Burke said. “I have everything under control.”

  Then, with a wave, he left.

  The drive to Arles took him past several popular tourist communities. There was Cannes, which he despised as a place where your wallet was always under attack from overpriced retailers, outrageously expensive cafés and more than a few pickpockets. There was Saint-Raphaël which he always enjoyed visiting because it wasn’t Cannes and because he knew a place near the boardwalk that served the world’s best gelato. Then there was Aix-en-Provence, a bustling university city of 145,000 that had at least three dozen beautiful fountains and a maze-like Old Town that was always fascinating to explore.

  He thought about taking the longer coastal route by way of Cassis, a touristy town of 8,000 that remained a pleasant place to visit and to enjoy a good meal while overlooking the lovely harbour and the old château. But if he went that way, he’d have to tangle with Marseille’s traffic chaos and that was a nightmare he always tried to avoid.

  So he stayed on the straight route from Aix-en-Provence to Arles, a pleasant stretch that allowed him to enjoy some of Provence’s attributes – distant hills, beautiful farmland, and wonderful small towns and villages. Unfortunately, the spectacular fields of sunflowers and lavender wouldn’t be showing up for several more weeks.

  Burke never got tired of visiting that part of France even though it was clearly becoming busier and more expensive. He remembered taking a taxi in St. Remy-de-Provence two years before and listening to how the taxi driver had to live several kilometres away from where he worked because he couldn’t afford a place in town for himself and his family.

  Burke remembered how overdevelopment was what had got Claude so angry and, ultimately, into trouble with the law the previous year.

  And then he was pulling into Arles, which bordered the expansive Rhône River and whose origins dated as far back as the 7th century BC.

  Burke loved the city. Its Old Town section had terrific cafés, wonderful shops, meandering lanes, tree-lined squares and architecture that was thrilling even to someone like Burke who couldn’t tell one era from another. Then there was the small but stunning Roman Arena. Burke thought few other cities deserved its UNESCO World Heritage Site designation as much as Arles did.

  The small city of 55,000 also served as the unofficial start to the Camargue region which was famed for its sand dunes, marshes and wildlife. Part of the route for the upcoming vintage bike race would go into the Camargue.

  Burke found his chambre d’hôte easily enough; he had stayed at the B and B a few times before. It was less than a kilometre from the start of the Old Town and was run by Madame Benoit, a short, heavyset woman whose age was between 70 and 90, and who handled her clients with an elegance that always made Burke want to double what he paid although Madame Benoit would never, under any circumstance, accept a centime more than she quoted.

  “I expect you are here for the vintage bicycle race, Monsieur Burke,” she said.

  “I am, Madame,” Burke replied.

  Then they kissed cheeks three times in the Provençal manner and Madame Benoit showed Burke his usual room. It was, as always, immaculate, with a spray of colourful wildflowers in a bedside vase, the window open to allow a gentle breeze and some prints of Van Gogh’s work on the walls. The bed was barely big enough to accommodate Burke who was average size, but he never complained because he always slept like a dead man on its magic mattress.

  He left his bag there and returned to unload his bikes into a secure garage which the old woman always provided for his use.

  He was about to walk downtown when he saw Madame Benoit in her backyard terrace, studying the languid movement of her two old tortoises who roamed through the plants and by the tables used on good mornings for breakfast.

  “I see Jacques and Brigitte are in fine form,” he said, watching the two creatures cross his path.

  “They are like me, Monsieur, slow but still moving,” she said with a smile.

  “Madame, have you heard much about what happened with the first two vintage bicycle races?” he asked. “I rode in the races and wonder if the news got this far.”

  She waved a finger at him, a broad smile on her round features.

  “Of course, I have heard,” she said. “In fact, we have all heard about the German currency with that Bosco Yablonski’s face on it and, the week before, about the skeletons by the roadside – and the swastika. There is some ugly mischief at play.”

  “What are people here saying?” Burke asked.

  “Well, the topic doesn’t last as long as a discussion about who is making the best baguettes these days, but it seems most people think something will happen this weekend at our race,” the old woman said. “In fact, I think a lot of people who will go out to watch the race on Saturday will not be there to support the racers, but to see if anything bad occurs.”

  Burke, who thought the same, thanked her and headed out.

  Once into the Old Town, he made for Place Voltaire which had a small-village feel to it with towering, leafy plane
trees providing some shade and a tiny café serving wondrous food off a limited menu while offering a range of wines and beers to shame larger restaurants.

  The usual lunch crowd had gone and the two women who had handled serving duties for as long as Burke could remember were cleaning up the 10 cramped tables.

  “Monsieur, you are coming for lunch?” said the older woman who was in her mid 40s, willowy and energetic.

  “If it isn’t too late,” Burke replied.

  “I haven’t seen you here for a long time,” she said, wiping away some crumbs.

  Burke smiled. He knew the two women had memories for faces that bordered on the freakish. A couple of times, one of them had smiled and, before he had ordered, brought him a glass of pastis because that was what he had ordered before on his visits.

  “It has been almost two years,” Burke said.

  “A pastis as usual?” she asked.

  Burke laughed and nodded.

  She was quickly back with a pastis, a small container of water he could use to weaken the licorice drink and a tumbler of ice. Then she took his order for a salade paysanne.

  Once she was gone, he studied the café. There was only one other table in use and, while it was at the far side of the terrace, Burke could hear the conversation of the couple since all the tables were crammed together.

  The couple were speaking English and, to Burke’s ear, they had well-educated, crisp-sounding accents that suggested London. Quite different from some of the dialects that Burke had encountered when he had raced in England years before; he recalled how, in the Yorkshire Dales, he had encountered old-timers whose accent was so thick he could have used subtitles to understand them. France had plenty of different dialects but nothing to match England.

  The couple, who were in their late 30s, started to discuss the upcoming vintage bike race. It seemed they were interested in participating.

  Burke started to pay attention.

  And they noticed.

  “Excuse me, but do you know anything about the vintage bicycle race this weekend?” the man asked in halting French.

  “I do,” said Burke, switching to English. “I’m going to ride in it.”

  The couple seemed surprised to hear him speak so effortlessly in their native language.

  “You speak English very well,” the man said.

  Burke explained he was originally from Québec in Canada and had grown up bilingual in French and English.

  “I didn’t think you sounded American,” the woman said.

  Burke shrugged and waited for their next question.

  “Do you think it’s too late to enter?” the man asked.

  Burke didn’t think so and told him that. He gave directions to where the race headquarters were.

  “Do you have your own bikes?” Burke asked.

  “We do but they aren’t old,” the woman said. “Do you think that might be an issue?”

  “The organizers seem strict about it, but if you don’t have an old machine to use, there is a bike shop nearby that is involved in sponsoring the race and might be able to help you out,” Burke said.

  They asked for directions to the shop and Burke provided the information. Then he asked what had prompted them to consider entering because the event had not originally been in their plans.

  “It’s been in the news a number of times,” the man said. “The races sounded like they would be enjoyable. We’re cyclists and we’re touring around the region, so it seemed a case of perfect timing.”

  “Of course, if it hadn’t been for those practical jokes that gave the first two races a high profile, we might not have heard about the event here,” the woman added.

  There it was – the value of unexpected publicity, Burke thought.

  As if reading his mind, the Englishman said: “To quote Oscar Wilde, ‘The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.’”

  His partner smiled and rolled her eyes. She looked at Burke and said, “That’s my husband, always with a quote.”

  They chatted a while longer and then Burke’s meal arrived and the conversation dwindled.

  He was finishing his salad when the English couple stood, thanked him for his assistance and wished him a good day, doing so in French.

  “Before you go,” Burke said, “when you were hearing about the troubles in the first two vintage races, did you hear anything about furniture tacks being tossed onto the race course?”

  They looked at each other and shook their heads.

  “Someone did that?” the man asked.

  “East of Nice in the last race,” Burke said. “It resulted in a few minor injuries from riders crashing.”

  “I hope the police catch whoever did that,” the woman said. She paused then added: “I wonder what might happen in Saturday’s race.”

  “Hopefully, nothing but people having a good time riding old bikes,” Burke said.

  But he doubted that would be the case.

  Chapter 17

  After lunch, Burke wandered the Old Town. He listened for more conversations involving the upcoming race, but heard nothing. Twice, he approached people, saying he was working for a newspaper group and looking for people’s thoughts about Saturday’s race. They told him they were paying attention to the event thanks to the media coverage of the first two races and were planning to attend. They expected the Arles race would have similar problems.

  Burke made his way to race headquarters which had a temporary storefront presence in a building close to city hall. He peeked through the front window and saw a large room busy with a couple of dozen people bustling about.

  He went inside, found someone who looked to be in authority and introduced himself.

  “Yes, I know you, Monsieur Burke,” the man said, introducing himself as Philippe Durant and saying he was the race manager. “I have seen you on TV.”

  Burke wondered if Durant meant his current TV stint on the panel show or his short-lived turn as a bike-racing analyst on French TV which ended after he blurted out a string of expletives during the sprint to the finish line.

  “I enjoy the panel you’re on,” said Durant who was in his mid 40s and had the lean, wiry build of a serious cyclist or runner.

  Burke was glad Durant meant the show on the Nice TV station. He had long ago grown weary of hearing about his disastrous efforts as a cycling analyst.

  Pulling out his small notebook, Burke asked how many people were entered in Saturday’s race.

  “We have almost 2,800,” Durant said. “That’s why we are so busy. We didn’t expect so many and now we are making adjustments so we can handle the extra people.”

  Durant talked about how more volunteers were required for possible roadside assistance and at the finish line. Plus there neeeded to be more security.

  “But we will make sure the race runs smoothly,” Durant said.

  “How many participants did you originally hope for?” Burke asked.

  “We thought that if we attracted 500 we would be lucky,” Durant replied. “But that was before these practical jokes began.”

  Burke was surprised that Durant was tying the race’s popularity to the PR assault on Bosco Yablonski.

  “People can be strange,” Durant said. “If they think something is going to happen, they want to be there to see it – as long as it doesn’t involve them.”

  Burke asked if Yablonski’s staff were making their presence known.

  “Ah, that’s another matter,” Durant said. “They’ve been around for a few days already. It’s accurate to say they’re very vigorous in protecting Monsieur Yablonski’s interests.”

  Burke was intrigued by Durant’s use of “vigorous”, but the race manager wouldn’t elaborate beyond saying the staff were putting into place some extra precautions.

  “Are the local police more involved than you originally expected?” Burke asked.

  Durant pointed to a desk in a corner where three men and a woman were studying a computer screen.

/>   “Three of them are local police, the other is from Nimes,” Durant said. “They’ve been very active in dealing with security.”

  “So, beyond the racing, it seems you’re expecting something to happen this Saturday,” Burke said.

  “They certainly do,” Durant said, nodding back at the four police in the corner.

  Burke thanked him and left. He went next door to city hall, found a quiet space and punched out a couple of social media posts from Lemaire’s newspaper account about the number of participants, the increased security and people’s expectation about another “incident.” He figured he’d expand on those topics when he got back to his B and B and could write a blog on his tablet.

  Back outside, Burke returned to strolling around, this time noticing a few crews putting up banners advertising the vintage bike race.

  A year earlier, Burke had never heard about vintage bicycle races. Now it was a dominant theme in his working life. And, it seemed, it would continue to be for at least a few more days.

  Chapter 18

  The next morning, Burke was alone for breakfast since he was Madame Benoit’s only client. But she spared no extra touch, providing a basket of small breads, rolls and croissants, a selection of different cereals, yoghurt, several bowls of fresh fruit and even a light, fluffy cheese omelet. Burke would have been happy with the standard French breakfast of a croissant and coffee, but Madame Benoit had clearly planned otherwise.

  “You will need your strength today, Monsieur Burke,” the old woman told him. “After all, you said you are going for a long ride on your bicycle.”

  It did look delicious and he was intending at least four hours on the bike, so Burke thanked her and dug in.

  When he was done, he expanded his trousers belt by a notch.

  Then Madame Benoit came out with a small dish with a half dozen different cheeses, something which was usually provided after dinner, not breakfast.

  “This will give you protein,” she added and then left.

  Burke figured he better pump some extra air into his bike tires to compensate for his newly added bulk.