Burke, who occasionally enjoyed studying history, decided to read more about Oradour-sur-Glane again. Maybe there was something he had missed although he doubted he would find anything.
He spent the next three hours going from website to website, learning that for decades the relatives of those massacred opposed any Oradour-sur-Glane ceremony that involved a German leader and only relented enough in 2013 for a reconciliation event that featured the German president apologizing and saying he had no answer for the Nazis’ act of barbarity.
Then Burke read the details of how, in early January 2014, German authorities charged an 88-year-old Cologne man with the murder of 25 villagers and aiding and abetting in hundreds of other deaths; it was a story that Burke recalled went around the world.
Burke also discovered that Oradour-sur-Glane was under threat from the ravages of time with French officials committed to keeping the village from crumbling away. It would be an ongoing and expensive challenge, but the French were adamant the ruined village must be preserved as a message to future generations.
Finally, he stopped reading. His brain was exhausted. So, too, were his emotions. The worst Nazi massacre in Western Europe during the Second World War seemed fresher to Burke than seven decades in the past. Maybe that was because of the reconciliation ceremony and the prosecution of the Cologne man. Or maybe it was because of the social media posts linking Oradour-sur-Glane to Bosco Yablonski. For whatever reason, the massacre was still in the news.
Planning a stroll into the Old Town of Arles for dinner, Burke slipped on his jacket and left his room. He was about to leave the house when he saw Madame Benoit in her office, hunched over the keyboard of her computer.
“I hope you aren’t working too hard tonight, Madame,” he said.
“I’m just updating my social media profiles,” the old woman said. “I have some additions I want to make.”
Burke smiled. He still found it remarkable that such an elderly person would use social media. But then he told himself to stop stereotyping people and, especially, Madame Benoit. She was unique.
“When did you start using computers?” Burke asked, truly curious.
“Back in the late 1980s,” she said. “I’ve always liked trying new things and when computers became available to the average person, I saved up and bought one. They’ve proven to be an extraordinary invention.”
“I think so, too,” Burke said.
“And besides using my computer for work, I use it for pleasure,” Madame said. “It’s my hobby. One of these days, I’ll actually master code, too.”
“Do you have hobbies besides computers, Madame?” Burke asked.
The old woman looked at him as if he had asked if water was wet.
“Of course, Monsieur,” she said. “Without hobbies, you only work and when you stop working, you get old. I’ve had many hobbies over my long life. For example, I used to go noodling when I was a young girl living in the countryside.”
“Noodling?”
“It’s catching fish with your bare hands,” Madame Benoit said. “I had a great uncle who taught me how to do it. You put your hands in the water, wait for a fish to swim and then you tickle them to relax them and then you catch them.”
“Were you good?”
“I was exceptional, to be honest,” Madame replied. “And then we moved to the city and that ended that hobby.”
“What did you try next?” asked Burke, pleased to talk to this fascinating woman after reading about the horrors of Oradour-sur-Glane.
“Taphophilia,” she said.
If noodling was strange, whatever taphophilia was would probably be equally bizarre, Burke thought. He asked what it was.
“Most people think it is something naughty, but it isn’t,” Madame said. “It’s the study and enjoyment of cemeteries.”
Burke knew his face must have shown his surprise because his landlady continued: “It’s not grave hunting or anything like that. It’s the epitaphs, art and display of people’s funeral plots, both the famous and the ordinary. It’s a way to connect to people’s past and to get a sense of a community’s history. For example, you are Canadian, right?”
“From Montréal in Québec.”
“Have you ever been to Halifax?” Madame asked.
He hadn’t and said so.
“Well, if you ever get to the Fairview Cemetery in Halifax, you will see more than 100 headstones that relate to the sinking of the Titanic.”
“Have you been there?” Burke asked, surprised at the Halifax connection to the Titanic and a little embarrassed that a Frenchwoman had known about it and he hadn’t.
“No, but I’d like to,” she said. “It’s part of the study of cemeteries. I used to go to Paris every year for a week to visit some relatives and friends but, between us, I went to see the cemeteries there. Père Lachaise is the most famous and has so many well-known people including Honoré de Balzac, Sarah Bernhardt, Isadora Duncan, Marcel Morceau, Chopin, Colette, Eugène Delacroix, and Baron Haussmann who planned the layout of the Paris you see today. You can also visit the headstones and plots for Molière, Yves Montand and his wife Simone Signoret, Jean Moulin the Resistance hero, Oscar Wilde, Jim Morrison of course and my favourite, the Little Sparrow herself, Édith Piaf.”
The names tumbled out of Madame Benoit like they belonged to old friends and, Burke thought, maybe they seemed that way to her. Some of the names were not familiar, but he did recognize Balzac, the novelist, Bernhardt the actress, Chopin the composer, Montand and Signoret whose films he had occasionally seen, Wilde the writer, Morrison of The Doors and Édith Piaf whose songs were still played throughout Paris cafés. Then there was Baron Haussman who had a street named after him someplace in Paris for changing the look of the city’s downtown in the 19th century. The name of Marcel Marceau rang a bell, but he couldn’t recall if he was an actor or some other kind of performer.
“Despite all those famous people though, I love the Montmartre cemetery the best. It is a wonderful place to sit, relax and think. Also, it’s not nearly as cramped as Père Lachaise.”
Burke asked how she had gotten interested in visiting cemeteries.
“It’s the way of life,” Madame said. “When you’re growing up, if you have a parent who is dear to you, you like to follow that person’s habits and interests. My father loved cemeteries and he often took me to visit them when we were in towns and cities. And when he was a child, he did the same with his father. A hobby is often passed down through the generations.”
“I never thought of that,” Burke said.
“You’re a cyclist,” Madame said. “Did you develop your interest from someone?”
“My father,” he replied. “He loved to cycle and he used to take me places after I had learned how to ride. And I remember him telling me how he had gone cycling with his father when he had been young.”
“You see, it’s all about passing down one’s passion,” Madame Benoit said. “It’s in the gene code. You can move to another place, get another job, even get a new spouse, but your true passions always go with you. As you can see, I may not have visited cemeteries for years, but I remain enthusiastic about them. If I could, I would visit a different cemetery every day.”
Burke nodded.
“You asked me what my current hobbies are besides computers,” Madame said.
“I did.”
“Well, I’ll tell you that I’ve fallen in love with Mandarin,” she said.
“The language?”
“It’s not the most musical language, but it’s an important one,” Madame said. “Four years ago, I read a report that said learning a language as one gets older is an excellent way of maintaining mental strength. Then I read another report that said seniors can learn a language as easily as a person much younger. So, I picked Mandarin. I learn online and I visit a Chinese-French centre where I can practise. I actually can hold a decent conversation although my ability to write in Mandarin is not on the same level which is unfortunate sinc
e I find the Chinese characters to be very stylish.”
Burke smiled at the remarkable woman beside him. He felt privileged to know her and wished he could spend more time in her company. She would definitely force his brain to expand.
Then the old woman fired off a sentence presumably in Mandarin.
“What did you say, Madame?” Burke asked.
“I said I have to get busy and update my social media profiles.”
Burke laughed and so did Madame Benoit.
Burke thanked her for the chat and left her to update her social media profiles and maybe work on her Mandarin.
Outside, the evening was cool and crisp with no threat of rain. As he walked toward the Old Town, Burke didn’t think about which café to have dinner at. He thought about what he should learn as he got older.
He also thought he wouldn’t mind learning how Bosco Yablonski had gotten so interested in cycling and vintage bike races.
Chapter 25
The next morning, Burke arose early and wrote a quick blog about the revised plans for the race. He emailed it to François Lemaire with a note that he might send another blog later in the day and maybe some photos. He might even do a video blog if he felt some inspiration since Lemaire had recently been urging him to be more productive on the video front.
Then over breakfast, Burke studied news websites and read Madame Benoit’s local newspaper. There was mention of the three victims of the flood with identities provided for the old widower and the homeless man. However, the stories said the police were still trying to establish who the cyclist was because no identification had been found on him and no one in the Arles area had reported anyone missing. In a couple of stories, there was a small photo of the cyclist with his eyes closed, which made him difficult to recognise, and a request from the police to be contacted if anyone knew the man.
“I don’t think he was any kind of criminal,” said Madame Benoit, placing another coffee before Burke. “If he was, there would be some fingerprints on file or even DNA and the police would know who he was.”
“He doesn’t look very old although it’s difficult to tell with his eyes shut,” Burke said. “With that type of haircut and no wrinkles, he might be in his mid or late 20s.”
“No older,” Madame Benoit said, noticing her other clients coming into the dining room. “By the way, Paul, I understand there is a news conference this morning. Will you be going?”
That was her way of suggesting Burke should attend. It wasn’t an issue since he had planned to be there.
“I’ll be leaving right after this coffee,” he told her with a smile.
“Good,” the old woman said, “and make sure you come back with some information that is different from what everyone else will tell me on TV and in the papers.”
An hour later, Burke was in the foyer of the city hall along with a score of media and at least another 50 people. There was a sound system set up and a lectern for the speakers.
Burke spotted Bosco Yablonski chatting with Durant and several other official-looking people. A step away from Yablonski was the tall woman from Nice. Burke thought she was there to provide any public relations advice if it was needed. On Yablonski’s other side was the muscleman Burke had encountered at the Saint-Raphaël race.
Durant started the news conference by welcoming everyone and saying the following day’s race was going ahead with a slightly altered route, but with expectations that the event would be the best yet of the series of vintage races.
There were a couple of other speakers, but they didn’t contribute anything that Burke thought was interesting. He remembered Madame Benoit’s advice and vowed to himself to learn something that was fresh.
Then Bosco Yablonski took the mic, thanking the organizers and volunteers for their efforts to adjust after the devastating storm that hit the Arles area.
“I would also like to pass on my condolences to the families and friends of those three unfortunate victims who died during that storm,” he said. “In fact, we are dedicating our vintage event to them and to others who have suffered other types of loss as a result of the terrible weather that hit this region.”
The volunteers and race management applauded. A couple of TV people clapped without much energy while the rest of the media got ready to ask questions.
And then Yablonski opened the news conference to questions with the tall woman a half-step closer to his shoulder.
Most of the reporters focused on the safety of the route and plans by organizers in case the weather turned ugly although another storm wasn’t forecast.
Dressed in a dark blue suit that Burke would have wagered was from Armani, a striped white shirt and no tie, Yablonski handled the questions effortlessly. It wasn’t hard, thought Burke; the topics were hardly the type to create any sensation. The mood was all positive. For the TV types, the news conference would fill a minute on the evening news. For the newspapers, Yablonski was giving them a few paragraphs.
When there was a short break in the questions, Burke popped up his arm and introduced himself as a blogger for a newspaper group.
Yablonski turned his gaze onto him and Burke immediately felt the heat of the man’s eyes. For whatever reason, Yablonski didn’t seem to look at anyone else with the same intensity.
“I understand you are a long-time cyclist, Monsieur Yablonski,” Burke said. “Would you tell us how you developed your interest in cycling and especially in vintage bike races? I know there has been some information on this before but it hasn’t been very detailed.”
Yablonski stared at Burke for a full second and then his face relaxed. Burke sensed the businessman had expected some type of potentially damaging question and was now pleased to get something lightweight.
But Burke didn’t care. He had his reasons for his question.
“I’ve been a cyclist all my life,” Yablonski said. “I’m also a bike collector. In fact, I have a garage full of bikes. If my wife could manage it, she’d get rid of 90 per cent of them.”
Then he chuckled. There were smiles among the race staff and even among some of the media.
“Who got you into cycling?” Burke asked.
“My parents both enjoyed riding although they were too busy to do much because of work and raising a family. It was my great uncle who got me involved. He used to be a racer although he never made it into anything like the Tour de France. He bought me my first bike and taught me how to ride.”
“What was his name?” Burke interjected, noticing how several reporters around him were frowning at his line of questioning.
Yablonski studied Burke for a moment.
“His name was Sébastien,” Yablonski said. “He was a good man, very knowledgeable about cycling and other matters. Besides teaching me how to ride, he also gave me an appreciation for the history of cycling which is why I’m involved in these vintage bike races. I want to celebrate the sport in a clean, wholesome way. So you could say these events I am helping to sponsor are because of him and in honour of him. He died when I was about 10 and I still miss him.”
“And what was his last name, Monsieur?” asked Burke, noticing most of the reporters around him weren’t paying much attention to the exchange because, to them, Yablonski’s comments probably seemed like Hollywood tug-at-the-heart fluff.
Yablonski held up a finger to pause the questioning and leaned back toward the tall woman who seemed to say something in his ear. He nodded a couple of times. Then he turned toward the mic.
“I’m sorry, but it seems it’s time for me to go on a reconnaissance of the revised race route,” Yablonski told the gathering.
“What was your uncle’s surname, Monsieur?” Burke said loudly.
But Yablonski paid no attention to the request and walked off with a handful of others, including Durant, in his wake.
One of the reporters looked at Burke with disgust. “Who cares about the name of his dead uncle?” he said.
Burke did. And he had the feeling Yablonski did, too.
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Another race official took over the lectern and starting outlining the timeline for Saturday’s race. Since some of that information was included in a printed news release that most reporters had picked up upon entering the foyer, the crowd of journalists started to disperse although a couple of camera crews hung around to get some clips for the late afternoon or evening news.
Burke watched the scene before him. He caught a couple of comments about his line of questioning including one man grunting “what a waste of time, especially all that crap about his uncle teaching him how to ride a bike.”
A year before, Burke would have felt humiliated to hear such comments. But he was made of tougher stuff now and he had gotten what he had come for or almost all of what he wanted.
What had been Uncle Sébastien’s last name?
Chapter 26
After the news conference, Burke went to the race headquarters which seemed busier than ever. He went up to a young woman punching away at a keyboard, introduced himself as a blogger for some newspapers and mentioned he was interested in knowing how many people were entered in all the races. To show his authenticity, he flashed the media identification card he had gotten from François Lemaire the previous year.
“I don’t know about giving you that information,” she said, motioning for an older woman to come over.
Burke repeated his request to the supervisor and even added it would be helpful if he could get a list of the names of entrants and their place of residence.
“I just want to talk to some cyclists who are in three or, better yet, all four of the races,” he said. “It would make an interesting blog.”
The older woman studied him carefully and told him to follow her. He did. She went to another desk, sat at the monitor and pecked at the keyboard for a few seconds.
“I expect you’d like the lists in alphabetical order?” she asked.
That was more than Burke had hoped for and so he nodded enthusiastically and thanked her.
“We were going to publish these lists onto our race website earlier, but got delayed by all the route changes,” she said.
A Vintage End Page 12
