She got out and started up the nearest beaten path. But the mystery of the caves was soon heightened by the difficulty in finding them. The forest canopy darkened the trail, but she persevered and finally found the large boulders engraved with busts of Millet and Rousseau. The hike turned spookier as she entered the area of the cave drawings. Plaques in the Neolithic Goddess Cave described the cave writings dated about 11,700 years ago from the third interglacial stage of the Pleistocene through the Iron Age. Some drawings struck a remarkable resemblance to medieval art. Other patterns were reminiscent of the designs found at Ireland’s famous Neolithic site at Newgrange. Some drawings looked similar to those left by the Bronze Age Hittite civilization near Ukraine.
In the damp morning air, she heard a branch snap nearby, breaking the silence and sending a chill over her whole body. It might have been a deer, but something told her not to linger. She hurried back to her car and resumed her drive to Burgundy. After an hour she arrived in the pinot noir wine region.
Louise reached a crossroads near Auxerre with the town of Chablis to the East on her left, and Les Fontaines Salées on her right. She continued south toward the historic town of Beaune, passing a small billboard advertising the annual Film Noir Festival. A few miles before Beaune, she turned right and continued down a winding stretch marked by signs indicating she was on La Routes des Grand Crus. She reached the village of Pommard and turned onto Ruelle Richebourg then continued to the rental cottage LaFontaine had arranged for her. It was a newly refurbished farmhouse on a small nineteenth century vineyard. The setting seemed peaceful and authentic, ideal for her undercover status. Louise parked and left her bags in the car. The sign on the front door of the large main structure read Ouvert so she entered. A cherubic boy played with a wooden train near a towering Christmas tree.
“Attention, mon ange,” said his mother who appeared to be in her mid-thirties. She gently moved him away from the tree as he giggled. She smiled upon seeing Louise, her large brown eyes and angelic face matching that of the child.
“Bonjour! Bienvenue,” she said in singsong French.
“Bonjour! Je m’appelle Karen Baker.” The child’s giant eyes gazed at her from under a mop of blond hair and he smiled shyly. Louise continued speaking in French. “I booked your cottage?”
“It’s nice to meet you. My name is Magali.” She went to an antique desk and handed a form to Louise. “Please fill this out. The cottage is ready, so you can check in right away.”
“Génial, merci.”
“You speak French very well. Are you here on holiday?”
“Actually, I’m on hiatus to write a novel.” Louise gave her the new passport.
“A novel! What is it about?”
“It’s a mystery novel, I think.”
“Your mystery is a mystery.” They laughed and Magali looked at the paperwork. “Americaine! Maybe you will write the Great American Novel?”
“I’ll settle for an adequate French novel. I’m a French teacher by profession.”
“Ah, mystery solved about why you speak French so well.” They laughed again and Louise realized Magali was very perceptive. “Allez, mon petit chou. Let’s show our new friend her lodgings.” The little boy walked over and took Louise by the hand. “He likes you!” Magali said.
“Comment t’appelles-tu?” Louise asked the boy’s name.
“Je m’appelle Luke!”
“Bonjour, Luke!” They walked outside, the gravel crunching as they made their way to Louise’s rental car and she opened the trunk to get her bags.
“Would you like help?” Magali asked.
“No, thank you. I travel light.”
“Yes, it looks like it!” They walked to the enchanting stone cottage with periwinkle shutters. “This used to be a farmhouse, but we updated everything so you will be very comfortable,” Magali said. “You must return in the summer for the sunflowers.” She pointed to some pots containing with yellow flowers. “Fortunately, these winter jasmines love the cold.”
Magali opened the door and the wood burning in the fireplace gave Louise warm chills. “This morning, I turned on the heat and started the fire for you. There’s plenty more firewood.”
“This is exquisite. Thank you.”
Magali pointed toward the kitchenette. “You have everything you need. Here’s a welcome basket with tea bags, water, even some snacks. After you’ve settled in, please feel free to come for a wine tasting.”
“I’d love to. Thank you. I’ll see you both soon.”
Magali went to the door, but little Luke stood looking up at Louise with a big pucker on his lips and his cheeks puffed out. “Ah! He wants some bisous.”
Louise gave him a kiss on each cheek, but he remained there puckered up. Louise was confused.
“We do four kisses here,” Magali explained pointing to her cheeks. Louise repeated with another kiss on each cheek. Luke was satisfied and they left.
Wasting no time, Louise plopped onto the down-filled chair in front of the fireplace. She took out the map of France and began plotting her itinerary. First, she would explore Les Fontaines Salées or the Salt Springs where Almasi had sent Todd Mayer to research holistic cures. She crosschecked her notes from the library and learned that it was located at the geological crossing of two fault lines that allowed deep wells to rise across the salt and granite rocks. The resulting spring water with temperatures of about 60 degrees was very mineralized and slightly radioactive.
The first resourcing of the waters was done around 3,000 BC during the Neolithic Stone Age. The area had become a religious cult center where the devout and ailing would flock to be blessed at the source, bringing offerings, some of which were on display in the museum. What remained now were ancient ruins, with no access to the medicinal benefits of the springs.
She stretched out on the bed and drifted off to sleep. The unfamiliar ring of her new cell phone woke her.
“Allô?”
“Bonjour, ma belle!”
“Big Steve, is everything okay?”
“All good. Did I wake you?”
“Yes. I must have dozed off.”
“Okay, go back to sleep. Just checkin’ up on y’all.”
“How’s it going over there?”
“There’s a party going on up in here.” Big Steve turned up the music, and Louise could hear whoops from the customers.
“Sounds like fun.”
“Well, get yo’ ass back home!”
“I hope to soon. By the way, there’s a package arriving so keep an eye out for it.” She related the events of the last couple weeks, leaving out the details about her mother, to satisfy Big Steve’s curiosity. They truly missed each other. She had to end the conversation, as not to get too emotional. “Don’t forget, watch for that package. Ciao.”
“I’d rather y’all arrive back here than the package, but I will keep my eyes peeled. Ciao, bella.”
She hung up and noticed the cell phone battery had run low. She took the charger and adapter out of her bag and plugged it in. She observed that, as these phones were becoming more commonplace, this “plugging in” would become a ritual, like the morning toilette. She unpacked, brushed her teeth, and checked her hair. She put on the faux fur coat and new boots she had picked up at the Sonia Rykiel boutique in Paris and walked to the house for a wine tasting.
“Bonjour!” Louise said to no one and everyone.
“Bonjour, Miss Karen!” Magali replied. “Bien installée?”
“Yes, I’m all settled in nicely,” Louise said in French. “I even took a little nap.”
“Would you like to try our Premier Cru?” Magali offered. “I was just about to taste it.”
“I won’t say no to a Premier Cru.”
Magali poured the plum-red liquid into a large wineglass, and Louise held it up toward the window, the truest light source. Magali spontaneously went into her wine tasting spiel. “Pommard is famous partly because the name was easy for foreigners to pronounce. We produce only red
wine, 130,000 cases per year, a third of which was Premier Cru, making it the second biggest area of production, after Beaune.
“It has such a lovely clear light color.”
“Oh, excuse me, it is habitude to give the description. But you sound like you know wines.”
“I took a wine tasting course before this trip, but I’m definitely an amateur. Please, go on.”
Magali surprised her with the depth of additional information. “The lovely clear color you mentioned is because of the thin skins and low levels of phenolic compounds of pinot noir grapes. That makes pinot noir mostly medium-bodied, low-tannin wines that can often go through dumb phases.”
“Dumb phases?” Louise thought perhaps her understanding of French was lacking.
“Yes, dumb! It has uneven and unpredictable aging, like an adolescent. It is a difficult variety to cultivate and transform into wine. Pinot or pine alludes to the grapes having tightly clustered, pinecone-shaped bunches. Noir as you know means black, the French term for the red grape. The pinot noir grapes’ tendency to grow in tightly packed clusters makes them susceptible to rot and requires diligent canopy management.”
“Thank you. Your knowledge of wine is impressive.” Louise plunged her nose into the glass and inhaled deeply. “Ooh, there’s a lot going on there. Very complex.”
“Bravo,” Magali agreed, as if praising her son. “When it is young, the wine made from pinot noir grapes tends to have red fruit aromas of cherries, raspberries, and strawberries. But as the wines age, pinots have the potential to develop vegetal and barnyard aromas that can contribute to the complexity of the wine.”
Louise contemplated the term “barnyard odors” as she took a sip, aerated it in her mouth and then chewed. Magali joined her in the ritual and Louise followed her lead by swallowing as opposed to spitting it out.
“Thank God you drank it,” Louise said. “I didn’t want to spit it out. It’s delicious.”
“I’m glad you like it. Our family is very lucky to have a Premier Cru. It has taken many decades to acquire these hectares.”
“You are the viticulturist?”
“Yes, my brother grows the vines and I develop the wine formulation.” As if on cue, the front door opened, and Luke squealed.
“Oncle Matthieu!”
“Bonjour, les enfants!” A tall, burly farmer type stomped his feet and beat his shoulders against chills brought on by the rush of warmth. He gave a primal grunt. Little Luke imitated the grunt with a teeny growl, and even Magali joined in.
“Les Trois Ours,” Louise said, drawing Matthieu’s attention like Goldilocks.
“This is Karen, our new lodger,” Magali said.
A spectrum of expressions crossed Matthieu’s face, from alarm to confusion, ending with a welcoming smile. Louise made a mental note of the odd countenances.
“Bonjour! Bienvenue!” he said, shaking her hand. “I’m Matthieu.”
“Bonjour, it’s nice to meet you, uncle Matthieu.”
His unaffected demeanor belied his matinee-idol chiseled jawline, blue eyes, grey-blond hair, and overpowering physique. A French Joel McCrea. Louise stared up at him far too long.
“You are just in time to join us in the tasting,” Magali said.
“Ah! You are tasting the Premier Cru.”
Magali poured him a glass and, holding the glasses by the stems they clinked, striking the tops for maximum chime. At the same moment, Luke banged together two of his trains in a head-on collision making a verbal crashing sound effect.
“Alors, les racines?” Magali asked Matthieu. Louise realized they were talking business about the vine roots, so she put down her glass and went over to play with Luke.
“The trains went boom!” Louise said in French.
“Oui, boom!” Luke repeated, crashing the trains together.
“May I try?” Luke gave one of the trains to Louise and they reared the trains back then crashed them together in slow-motion, lifting them up into the air, making explosion sounds.
“C’est la catastrophe,” Magali huffed.
“La catastrophe!” echoed Luke. In any language, Louise suddenly felt she was eavesdropping. Apparently, there was a catastrophe at the vineyard.
“Allez, Luke, dodo,” Magali said, picking the boy up. “Naptime so I can prepare dinner, mon amour.” Magali took Luke to his bedroom leaving Louise alone with Matthieu.
Louise resumed sipping her wine at a loss for conversation, while Matthieu added logs to the fire. Magali’s return cut short the awkward silence.
“Will you be joining us for dinner, Karen?” Magali asked.
“Oh, I don’t want to trouble you. I can go to Pommard.”
“The first night of your stay we invite you as our guest for a welcome dinner. Breakfast every day is included with your room. Otherwise, you can explore the restaurants in the area or if you have lunch or dinner here, I just add it to your bill.” Magali gave Matthieu a look suggesting he make Louise feel welcome.
“Yes,” Matthieu said. “Tonight, you should have dinner here. Magali makes the fabulous wine and cooks the most delicious food. I just grow the crops.”
“Well, then, I accept. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Absolutely not,” Magali said.
“Okay. I’ll go take a quick tour of the town before dinner.”
“À toute à l’heure.”
Louise left and headed to the village on a mission to meet someone knowledgeable about local lore, in particular about Les Fontaines Salées. What better place for local lore than a local bar?
E I G H T E E N
January 4, 2002
Terracotta rooftops of Regency-style houses, miniatures of the imposing Château de Pommard flanking the west side of the town, clustered around an old stone church belfry. The peaceful vista of vineyards and the ivy-covered Château de la Commaraine at the entrance of town made it difficult to imagine anything nefarious taking place anywhere near there.
Louise drove down Rue de la Refene to the Place de l’Eglise in the town square. The church bell tolled 5 o’clock as she parked and crossed the cobblestones to a quaint inn that boasted a gift shop and a pub. She entered the shop and browsed souvenirs, spotting a trinket for Luke. She paid and walked through to the adjacent pub.
The barman greeted her. “Bonsoir!” He was polishing a wine glass and motioned for her to sit anywhere. She chose the barstool in front of him. “Qu’est-ce que je vous sers, mademoiselle?” Calling her mademoiselle at her age could be taken as a compliment.
“Je vous laisse choisir.” Louise let him surprise her.
The barman whistled merrily as he put down the standard wine glass and picked up a larger one. He had a grown boy look with a crop of wavy brown hair and smiling hazel eyes.
“Allemande?”
Albeit pleased he had guessed her nationality to be German, she had to confess. “Américaine.”
“Alors, pour la belle Américaine, je propose…” He took a pinot noir Premier Cru off the shelf and placed the balloon glass in front of her. He splashed a plum-red ribbon of wine into the glass, which settled into a tantalizing pool. The large glass had a decanter-like effect giving the wine greater contact with oxygen. Holding the stem, Louise swirled it and studied the legs as the wine ran down the sides. She stuck her nose in and breathed deeply, her wide eyes expressing her approval of the earthy bouquet.
“À vôtre santé.” She raised her glass.
The barman raised his own glass up from below the bar. “A vous, a nous, a nos amours, qu’ils durent toujours.” Their glasses clinked in F-sharp. They sipped, aerated, and chewed, swallowing only after fully tasting the wine.
“Delicieux.” Louise held out her hand and introduced herself. “Je m’apelle Karen.”
He shook her hand. “Jules.”
She relaxed into another sip of the exquisite wine. “Excellent millesime,” she said praising the vintage.
“Bravo!” He wiped the bottle top and put the cork back in. T
hey continued chatting in French. “You know wine,” he said.
“I took a wine-tasting lesson before my trip here.” Louise omitted that she owned a bar herself, with a well-stocked wine cave.
“It must have been an advanced class.”
She quickly changed the subject. “So, what is the one place one must absolutely visit in Burgundy?”
“Vous-voici!” He waved his hand indicating the bar.
Louise smiled and continued playing tourist while speaking perfect French. “What about Les Fontaines Salées?”
He raised an eyebrow. “A beautiful jeune femme like yourself with no maladies, pas la peine.”
“Les Fontaines Salées is only for sick people?”
“It used to be a destination for the ailing long ago. The Gauls believed the divinities of Les Fontaines had the power to heal.” The barman paused before continuing. “Little known fact, Arthur Riothamus spent many years there.” His eyes twinkled cannily.
“King Arthur?” Louise said.
“Ahh,” Jules pushed out his bottom lip, impressed. “You know your wines and your legends.” A lone customer at the end of the bar pretended not to listen with his nose in a book sipping a snifter of brandy. But the mention of Les Fontaines Salées pricked up his ears. He was older, in his seventies, Louise estimated. He motioned to the barman for the tab. As soon as Jules gave him the bill, he tossed some cash on the bar, got up, and walked toward the exit. As the man passed Louise, he stopped and said, “Evitez dis pater.” Then he left.
“Allez, bonne soiree!” Jules shouted after him. “Don’t pay attention to him,” Jules told Louise. “He is an excellent customer, but a lousy tour guide.”
“He said stay away from dispatay?”
Jules corrected her. “Two words: Dis Pater. The old people of the region tend to be very, how you say, superstitieux. They believe in the old mysticism of Les Fontaines Salées, and they are very frightened of it.”
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