Death in Saint-Chartier

by Ivo Fornesa

  Laurent could tell she noticed him looking at her. She didn’t look his way but smiled and seemed to adopt a pose that would aid his contemplation. Her hair was a tangle of violently black curls, her eyes were dark green lined with long lashes, her skin had a true olive tone that nevertheless contained a hue different from anything he’d ever seen before. Her features were flawless but bore a certain hardness. He studied the earrings hanging from her ears – antique, made of gold filigree, they looked beautiful on her. Laurent was lost in thought as the others commented on one of the details in his story. Suddenly it dawned on him.

  ‘This may sound odd, but by any chance are you Jewish?’

  Everyone went silent, and for a long time only the crackling of the embers and the grease dripping onto the fire could be heard. Yet Yael didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. On the contrary, she gave a broad grin. ‘How did you know?’

  The rest of the group looked much more relieved at her reaction, and even Caroline pointed at her with a bite of sausage and said, in a joking accusation, ‘You never mentioned that to me. I thought you were Lebanese, or a pied noir. How could you tell, Laurent?’

  ‘She reminded me of one of those biblical engravings by Doré. I could even imagine her in the same dress,’ explained Laurent, perhaps betraying his attraction.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ said Yael. ‘You’re right, even more than you know, because I’m a Yemeni Jew. Well, my parents are, and we must be the purest line that exists, ethnically speaking, because we’ve been in Yemen from time immemorial without intermixing, unlike the Sephardic and Ashkenazi Jews. If you saw pictures of my grandparents, you really would be looking at characters from one of those engravings Laurent had in mind.’ Now Yael looked at him with an expression of greater respect. ‘I’m really very impressed. But I interrupted you – please go on and tell us about your visit to the château.’

  ‘There’s really not much more to tell. Just that, aside from the spectacular decor, the biggest surprise was the threatening letters Madame Shennan showed me.’

  ‘The what?!’ everyone all asked in unison – everyone except Yael, who leant forward with a look of unabashed interest.

  Laurent proceeded to give a detailed account of the content and tone of the letters Madame Mayumi had shown him. He asked them what they made of it.

  ‘Well,’ began Pierre, ‘it’s true that the festival had a large following. After all it was the most famous, or perhaps more accurately the only international festival of its kind. People came from around the world, and among traditional music aficionados, there was no one who didn’t know about it. Some thirty thousand people gathered there every year for thirty years – for specialists, it was quite an event. And the Château de Saint-Chartier was the ideal place for it, since it’s where that George Sand novel is set, The Master Pipers. In the book musicians hold their initiation rites in the castle’s underground chambers.’

  ‘How’s the new site working out, in Château d’Ars?’ asked Lilly.

  ‘It seems to be doing well,’ replied Pierre, without hesitation. ‘D’Ars has the advantage of having a huge forest park, which provides plenty of shade for the exhibitors. They always used to complain about how bad the lack of shade in Saint-Chartier was for their instruments. Besides, the municipality of La Châtre, which owns the château, is thrilled. Some of the organisers may not be, like Monsieur Gimbault. He felt the event belonged to him, and now that the municipality’s gotten behind it, he can no longer just do as he pleases. And he might not turn as much of a profit any more, which would explain the nasty grudge he holds against Shennan.’ He paused to take a sip and then went on. ‘The nice thing about holding the festival in Saint-Chartier was that the town’s right there, and it’s one of the prettiest in the area. And of course the castle walls are impressive. But all is not lost: apparently Shennan is an avid collector of rare instruments, and he’s stated on more than one occasion that Saint-Chartier could host some of the festival’s events, at least the smaller ones, and that he’d even fund some others. In fact, last year, after they finished redoing the slate roofs, he hired several bagpipers to play from atop the tower, and I got the chance to attend. It was magical.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Lilly agreed. ‘Even if there’s always someone who wants to stir up trouble, because they’re jealous or not right in the head, I bet whoever sent those awful letters to the Shennans isn’t from Saint-Chartier. I think except for a few people, everyone realises the château urgently needed renovation, and that moving into a half-deserted castle isn’t the same as moving into someplace inhabited. Everyone I know in town is delighted about the project, and delighted with the Shennans.’

  ‘There’s a newsletter put out by a couple of musicians called La Cordophonie,’ added Hervé, in one of the rare moments when his mouth was empty. ‘They used to be very involved in the old festival and have apparently been sidelined in the new one. I’m sure that’s got their bile up. What were their names, Lilly?’

  ‘The Monattis – Jeannette and Claude Monatti,’ said Lilly, clearly making an effort to recall their names. ‘But they’re not bad people, just a bit fanatical about their hobbies. Maybe the festival was the only interesting thing they had in their lives. The first few newsletters they put out were pure vitriol, but I think by now they’ve calmed down.’

  ‘What you have to understand, Laurent,’ Caroline began to explain, ‘is that this is a very sleepy part of the world. Even the sheep are bored. And all the activity at the château now is like a movie. Besides, since the festival changed location, probably the most exciting thing going on around here is the Pumpkin Fair in Tranzault. So when someone like Shennan comes along, who’s dashing, debonair, entertaining, an eccentric millionaire whose fortune is shrouded in mystery, and who turns out to be a world-class skirt-chaser to boot … well, it’s only natural for him to become the subject of all the gossip.’

  Yael followed everyone’s words carefully, and Laurent could have sworn she was clenching her jaw. Maybe she’s one of those man-haters who fly into a murderous rage at the very idea of a Don Juan, he thought.

  ‘They say he’s not particular,’ added Lilly. ‘He doesn’t care about caste, race or class. Or age, size or marital status. The motto on the flag he flies is “Anything with a skirt”.’

  They all laughed, and Pierre, always circumspect, added further details as he set a plate piled with beef tips on the table.

  ‘I’m not surprised people don’t like him, what with all those stories,’ he said. ‘Remember what happened with that woman in Lignières.’

  ‘What happened?’ Yael pounced, with an eagerness that surprised everyone present.

  ‘Apparently Shennan had a full-blown affair with a woman who runs a bakery in Lignières,’ said Pierre. ‘They say she’s gorgeous, and it was just one more of her many dalliances, even if this one raised the biggest scandal. Anyway, as much as he preferred discretion, she apparently found it titillating to make a show of things. Some people say she did that to get back at her husband for a previous affair. Whatever the reason, from what I’ve been told, every time she took a lover she made them go to her bakery to buy bread – specifically to buy a baguette chabanette, the loaf with two little horns at each end, horns being a symbol for a cuckold.’

  ‘Her husband put up with this?’ Laurent interrupted. ‘In Chile, that sort of situation would end in tragedy.’

  ‘Don’t think this one didn’t: apparently last year Shennan was driving out to Lignières every week, some fifteen miles away, just to buy bread. He claimed he was visiting an aristocrat who lived there, some odd duck he met on a hunting trip back in Argentina. By the third trip, that excuse no longer stuck, and each time he went to the bakery, the husband would watch from the window in the back room. He must have been apoplectic.’

  Laurent couldn’t believe his ears. He was no saint, far from it, but he felt openly taunting the husband was in very poor taste. ‘I’d never have guessed Shennan was involved in something so tawd
ry.’

  ‘Personally, I don’t think he’s a bad person,’ replied Pierre. ‘The contrary, in fact. But he seems to be the kind of man who can’t disengage when there’s a woman involved. He probably waits for the problems to solve themselves. And of course, they never do. In this case it certainly didn’t.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The poor guy killed himself last September,’ said Lilly. ‘They found him dead in his garage. He downed a whole bottle of absinthe loaded with sleeping pills. His wife was devastated. She sold their business and their house for a pittance, and took her two kids to Haute-Savoie.’

  ‘God, what a story. It’s enough to give you indigestion,’ said Hervé.

  ‘Listen to you! If you’ve got indigestion it’s because you gorged yourself, like you always do,’ Lilly scolded, slapping him on the belly.

  ‘It seems Shennan was pretty shaken,’ said Pierre philosophically. ‘But I’m sure soon enough the châtelain will find someone else to help him forget the whole business. He’ll get back on that horse. Even if he wanted to change, I doubt he could. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.’

  ‘All right, let’s pack up. Tomorrow we’re taking a group from Paris out riding, and Pierre has a shift at the factory,’ said Caroline, starting to clear the serving dishes.

  Laurent turned to Yael, who had a pained look on her face.

  ‘Are you not feeling well? If you like, I can give you a ride home, and tomorrow we’ll come back to get your car.’

  ‘Is that a genuine offer, or just another pick-up line?’ asked Yael with a smile. ‘Don’t worry, I’m fine. These stories just turn my stomach. In the end, the bad guys always seem to get away. And anyway, I can drive myself. I’m sure we’ll see each other around our little town. Maybe I’ll even have you over for tea.’

  ‘Now there’s a thrilling prospect,’ Laurent teased. ‘However, I accept your offer and will see you around.’ He tried not to let on how eager he was to see her again, the sooner the better.

  They said farewell to Caroline and Pierre, and then to Lilly and Hervé. Laurent walked Yael to her car, an old, beat-up Citroën 2CV, and gallantly opened the door for her.

  ‘To be honest, Laurent, I didn’t think I’d like you. But that comparison to an engraving by Doré came as a surprise, and now you’ve got me curious. I hope we meet again.’

  At this point Laurent wasn’t about to let the opportunity slip away, so he made a suggestion.

  ‘How about we get a drink tomorrow at around noon at La Cocadrille? We can have lunch there too.’

  ‘That sounds wonderful. Of course, I’m sure all of Saint-Chartier will hear about it by the afternoon. See you tomorrow. Goodnight.’

  Yael leant in to give Laurent a kiss goodbye, and her scent of musk and piquant spices lingered long in his mind.

  IN THE GARDEN OF THE PRIEST

  The day after the barbecue, with a bit of a hangover sapping his strength, Laurent sat down in his kitchen to have the strongest coffee of his life, a mixture of five shots of ristretto with a bit of honey and dark chocolate. He planned to follow it up with a cold shower. He wanted to be in top form. He intended to devote the morning to his new hobbies: tending to the garden and the chicken coop. He figured he could use some time to clarify his thoughts, and that a bit of physical exercise would make him fresh as a daisy for his date at noon.

  To shake off the grogginess, he walked out into his small yard and sat down on the covered patio, still in pyjamas and a dressing gown. It was a crisp but beautiful day, and there, sitting on his plastic chaise longue, sipping his thick coffee, he began recalling the night’s events as the caffeine slowly roused him.

  Laurent was surprised: he’d had a delightful evening and couldn’t wait for the hour of the aperitif to arrive so that he could see her again. In spite of or perhaps because of all the alcohol he’d consumed, he’d been prey to all sorts of lewd erotic dreams starring Yael. He blushed to recall he’d even fallen back on adolescent practices of self-love to calm the fires his lust had ignited.

  He needed to see her right away. He wanted to get to know her better, learn everything about her – and yes, ask her why she was so hostile on the subject of Shennan. He hadn’t failed to notice Yael’s attitude, and that led him to wonder not only about her but also about the millionaire. How did he manage to stay on top of the chaos of the renovation, keep the Heritage Gestapo at bay and attend to his formidable wife, his three loving daughters in constant need of attention, his business – whatever that was – and a swarm of hot-tempered lovers to boot? He felt dizzy just imagining himself in Shennan’s place!

  The story about the woman with the bakery had left a bad taste in his mouth. He noticed that everyone tended to blame Shennan without stopping to think about her role, making him buy that baguette chabanette – which of course he had to try. He thought about it for a bit and decided he no longer envied Shennan but instead felt sorry him: poor man, such a slave to his appetites. Nothing’s easier to manipulate than a man aroused.

  ‘And what makes you think you’re any different, you hypocrite?’ he suddenly said aloud to himself. He gave himself a slap across the face.

  Now a bit more clear-headed, he got up, washed the dishes and went to shower, trying not to think about Yael. He could only manage that by turning on the cold tap and standing under the bracing water. At last, renewed and ready to get started on his agricultural adventures, he set out for his tiny garden.

  As noted, the vicarage came with the right to a small plot in a community garden behind the town’s public wash house. Laurent made his first foray into gardening, taking any advice the other gardeners had to offer. From the start, he felt it was important to learn the local folk wisdom, hoping that when the time came he might harvest and eat something he’d grown himself.

  First, though, his main concern had been to clear the brush, clean his plot and prepare the land. Later, after getting permission from the others, he bought and set up a small portable chicken coop in his section, where he planned to put a rooster and a few hens that would provide fresh eggs. He’d been persuaded to learn more about organic gardening after chatting with a couple of his neighbours, Jacquotte and Colette, whom he jokingly referred to as the Green Goddesses. The first and easiest step, he figured, would be to start raising hens with natural feed and scraps from his own kitchen. But his problems began as soon as he went to get hens at the market in Saint-Août. Laying hens, the kind he should have been interested in, were easy enough to buy, as Laurent learnt, but unfortunately he happened across a stall selling decidedly more unusual varieties. The vendor told him his birds would be constantly laying eggs, and Laurent believed him, happily walking off with three cardboard boxes with air holes. When he got back to his humble coop, he realised he was in over his head. The first rooster and hen he’d bought were of a breed called Frizzle Cochin, and the hen, which he named Curler, turned out to be a feisty creature that constantly harassed all the others. The other rooster and hen were Crèvecoeurs, an adorable French breed with bluish tones and a V-shaped comb. He also purchased a pair of gorgeous Capuchine pigeons. Unfortunately, none of the three pairs managed to produce a single egg, and on top of that they required constant care, so much that their owner soon became the butt of all the other gardeners’ mockery. One day a practical joker even left a rubber egg in the nest.

  On this morning, he was cleaning the coop when he heard René say hello. Now René, it should be said, was quite a character: an early riser and great lover of Pernod, who saw to the opening and closing of the church. Laurent would often run into him in the garden or when out walking his dog. If anyone in Saint-Chartier was well informed, it was René, so Laurent turned away from his eggless chicken coop and walked straight over to talk to him, on the pretext of asking him which fertiliser he recommended for beets. Laurent hated beets with all his heart, but they were the first thing that came to mind.

  René stood looking at him. ‘I never would have thought someone
like you would like beets. Personally I think they’re a waste of soil.’ He laughed, exhaling a cloud of anise-scented breath. ‘By the way, how was your barbecue last night in La Berthenoux? I suppose you met our neighbour the potter.’

  Laurent couldn’t suppress a grimace. There was no one better than René to get the gossip from, even if the gossip was you. But he simply said, ‘Monsieur René, how the devil do you know about that? Is there anything that escapes your notice in this town?’

  ‘Monsieur Laurent, you attend a barbecue with two of the most attractive women for miles around, and you think people won’t talk? Come now, be reasonable! But don’t fret,’ he went on, seeing the look on Laurent’s face. ‘I only know because I heard it from Mademoiselle Yael herself. I’m the one who supplies the firewood for her kiln. She’s a very pleasant young woman and happened to mention she was headed for dinner at Caroline’s house in La Berthenoux. And since you told me the same thing yesterday morning, I surmised that you’d see each other there. So you might say it’s not that I’m nosy, it’s that you two have a dreadful habit of telling me everything, imagining I take an interest in your lives.’

  ‘When you put it that way, René, you’re quite right. Rest assured, I’ll try not to bore you any longer with my concerns.’