Death in Saint-Chartier

by Ivo Fornesa

  She stood inspecting the plants for a while, picking them up carefully and holding them in her hands, looking over the leaves and then delicately inhaling their fragrance.

  Watching her work was like sitting in on a tea ceremony performed with soul-stirring meticulousness and care. This young lady was certainly beautiful, with an almost reed-like fragility that accentuated that ethereal quality she had; and yet, he reflected, she gave off an overly pure air, and besides, any sentimental predator could clearly see that in her heart she bore a heavy burden.

  He walked over to say hello.

  ‘Bonjour. I’ve seen you in Saint-Chartier working in the château gardens. My name is Laurent de Rodergues, and I live next door, in the old vicarage.’

  She looked up in surprise from some saplings, as if she thought it strange that someone should remember her.

  ‘Forgive me, I’m hopeless, and I didn’t recognise you. When I pick out plants I’m so focused I don’t notice anything else. I’m Solange Vartel, and as you might have guessed, I’m a landscape architect.’

  ‘No apology needed. I can understand how you’d get lost among so many plants. I’m looking for some fruit trees myself, something to plant in a field I’ve got, and the choice isn’t easy with everything on offer. I’ve seen your work, and let me say how impressed I was. It’s astonishingly intricate.’

  The mention of fruit trees seemed to excite her, and the praise lit up her face.

  ‘I admire your initiative. I wish everyone would replant their abandoned fields. Have you thought about what you’re going to buy? I love the fruit trees they grew in the Middle Ages. In fact, I’m trying to persuade Monsieur Shennan to plant several rows on the path to the old lazar house.’

  Laurent noted with amusement that as she spoke of trees and species she became more animated, and he was interested in hearing her advice, even if he wasn’t too enthusiastic about some of the species she recommended, like the quince or the pomegranate. The colour seemed to return to her face, and her eyes no longer looked sad but shone with a reservoir of restrained longing, perhaps repressed, no doubt pained. How many warm-hearted women must there be, he wondered in silence, who have been wounded for life by men’s selfish, brutal banality? He declined to reflect on his own missteps.

  As she led him among the trees in search of the ones she recommended, Laurent fondly imagined her in a long white robe instead of the long black leather jacket she had on. He could easily picture her strolling over paths with a thick carpet of grass, as sparrows flitted about in song among the dense hedges.

  Lost in his reverie of Flora, the goddess of flowering plants, Laurent suddenly heard a familiar voice calling out to her and, as if in a Greek drama, Pan appeared, in the person of Shennan, with a faun’s mask of carnal lust painted across his face.

  They were equally surprised.

  ‘Caramba, Laurent, what are you doing here? I see you’ve met Solange, the genius behind the huge landscaping project we’re trying to put together in the park around the château.’

  Her face had suddenly lit up. She seemed elated when she turned to Shennan.

  ‘Yes, Carlos, I’ve met your neighbour, and I’m helping him pick fruit trees for his pasture. Did you finish your important call?’ Her use of ‘Carlos’ did not escape Laurent’s notice. She was the second person working for him who allowed herself such a liberty.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Shennan simply, eyes fixed on Laurent.

  The landscape architect, who apparently lived in her own naive world, seemed not to notice, but Laurent could see perfectly well that Shennan wasn’t thrilled by this encounter. He’d puffed his chest up like a rooster. What would he do next – start roaring like a tiger and marking his territory?

  Shennan’s possessive attitude struck Laurent as ridiculous in the extreme, so he adopted a conciliatory air and began to explain to Solange that, in spite of what she’d said, he’d rather stick with more ordinary fruits, like pears, apples, cherries and peaches. Leaving to purchase the trees, he said goodbye to her and to Shennan, who had suddenly recovered his good humour and reiterated his promise to visit him soon.

  The next day, while riding near the ruins of the old Chapel of Saint Joseph, a church that had been burnt to the ground during the revolution – nothing remained but the altar stone and a hollow where the altar itself once stood – Laurent saw a lorry with a load of plants sounding its horn outside the white wooden gate at the back side of the château. Out ran Solange to receive the plants, but she stopped short when she heard someone calling out from atop a tree.

  ‘Hold on, Mademoiselle, I’ll be right down,’ that someone said. Less than a minute later, a figure wearing a helmet and earmuffs, in the distinctive outfit of a tree specialist, or rather an arboriste-grimpeur, stood at the foot of the lorry, ready to help her.

  The man in question didn’t look very tall, though Laurent could tell he was sinewy and muscular. When he took off the helmet, a luxuriant curly blonde mane spilt out onto his shoulders, and even from that distance, Laurent could tell that the deep-set eyes in that angular face were fixed longingly on Solange.

  Laurent walked away laughing to himself: that love triangle was liable to turn into a comedy, with Shennan in the role of a satyr, outwitted by a squadron of Vestal Virgins.

  THE ARBORISTE-GRIMPEUR AND THE SACRED BANYAN

  Laurent was shaving with the scrupulous attention of thick-bearded men when he heard a knock at the door. This drove him mad, because a patio separated the front door from the street, and at the entrance to the patio stood a double wrought-iron gate with a lovely bell on a cord so that visitors could announce their presence, though no one seemed to pay it any heed.

  ‘It’s seven-thirty in the morning. Does no one in this town respect people’s privacy? Does no one read the newspaper in peace before setting off to badger their neighbours?’ he asked his foam-covered reflection in the mirror.

  He poked his head out the window with only an undersized towel wrapped around his waist. At the door stood Tum, the Shennans’ nanny, and another Asian woman with a plump, warm face, dressed entirely in Chinese garb and holding a package wrapped in aluminium foil. He asked them to wait a moment, forced himself into a pair of trousers and a T-shirt, and went to open the door.

  Tum made the traditional Theravada gesture of peace, and the other woman bowed her head with a smile. Then, in her near-perfect English, the nanny explained the reason for their visit.

  ‘Pardon us for bothering you, Monsieur Laurent. My companion, Yammei Bai, the Shennans’ cook, has made one of her people’s typical dishes, at the girls’ request, and with Madame Mayumi’s permission we’ve come to bring it to you.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ joked Laurent. ‘What are those little devils plotting against me?’

  Tum, horrified, appeared not to get the joke.

  ‘No, Monsieur, they’re not devils. They’re good girls, but sometimes they’re a bit … I can’t recall the word, pardon me,’ she said, ashamed.

  ‘A bit precocious?’ offered Laurent.

  Tum’s face lit up with one of the prettiest, most innocent smiles he’d ever seen, and the other woman smiled, too, not understanding a word. It’s a pity that some of the earth’s peoples know how to smile almost without effort, thought Laurent, while others seem to be taught only to compose sour, standoffish faces.

  ‘I should warn you that while the dish is delicious, it’s very spicy,’ explained Tum, and then spoke a few words in a strange language to her companion, who nodded, handing the tray to Laurent.

  ‘What language are you two speaking?’ enquired Laurent, turning to Tum. ‘I thought you were Burmese, but your companion is Chinese.’

  ‘Yes, but she belongs to the Hani people, who live on the Burmese border. Ethnically, we both belong to the same Sino-Burmese group, and our languages are similar. We’ve worked together for many years.’

  Satisfied with this explanation, Laurent invited them in, led them to the kitchen, and lifted the aluminium
foil to reveal a circular plate, deep and quite large, with food for half a dozen people, which gave off a sharp, pungent, yet delicious aroma.

  Under a pyramid of violently red peppers lay pieces of chicken, cut and seasoned with herbs and aromatic Sichuan peppercorns. All this sat on a bed of julienned potatoes, stir-fried with fresh spring onions. The dish promised to be a strong sensation, especially so early in the morning.

  The cook seemed to suddenly remember something, and from the ample sleeve of her garment she produced a pot full of still-warm rice, while she seemed to explain something, which Tum immediately translated.

  ‘This is very high-quality Lijiang rice. Have a spoonful with each piece of chicken, and it will soften the heat.’

  ‘This is far too much for me. You don’t expect me to eat all this for breakfast?’ complained Laurent.

  ‘It’s a dish served specifically at breakfast, so that you can start the day full of energy. In Yammei’s land it’s usually prepared on harvest days. Please, you’ll see that it’s not so much once you move aside the peppers. You’ll need it to be in top shape for when you see the girls today. They’re very excited about your visit,’ Tum assured him. Laurent suspected she knew what he had in store and got a kick out of it.

  ‘Is it really necessary for me to eat it right this minute?’ insisted Laurent. ‘I was just about to shave.’

  ‘Yammei’s gone to great lengths to make this dish, and she even slaughtered the chicken herself at five-thirty this morning. Please don’t offend her,’ said Tum, handing him a lovely pair of dark wooden chopsticks held together by a silver-plated chain. ‘One last bit of advice: drink only hot water as you eat. It’s better for retaining the flavour.’

  ‘You’ve thought of everything. How can I say no?’ He surrendered, sitting down at the table under the attentive gaze of the two women.

  To his surprise, the meat was delicious. Crispy, tender, full of unknown flavours, hot but not overpowering, as heavily spiced foods often are. Everything was in balance and harmony.

  The women, seeing that he ate with an appetite, took their leave with a bow, reminding him he was expected at four o’clock at the pergola in the park.

  Despite his initial hesitation, Laurent ate the entire contents of the tray, and afterward he really did feel invigorated both inside and out. He needed to get the recipe from that cook Yammei.

  After breakfast, he decided he’d enjoy his day until the appointed hour. He’d found that not using the internet or a mobile phone filled his day with more free time. Months earlier he’d come to the conclusion that technology was like tobacco: it seems indispensable until you free yourself from its thrall. He resolved to rediscover the value of the postal service and hand-written mail, and he thus spent a productive morning organising the cellar in the vicarage and putting onto shelves the many jars of preserves from his garden. He’d learnt to make them with the invaluable help of the Green Goddesses as well as René’s wife, a woman with no ecological inclinations who nevertheless held onto ancestral family recipes that had provided Laurent with much joy and sustenance.

  Next he ate a frugal lunch and headed to the château, whose main gate was unlocked. As soon as he entered, he sensed there was less commotion than before, and then he noticed that the façade work was already complete. The château’s restoration, to a layman’s eyes at least, seemed already quite far along. They’d even restored the old lightning rods, whose copper conduits ran into the ground next to each tower. Only in the gardens did he see work still to be done. Also in security, since not far away were parked several vans from an electricity company whose employees busied themselves with long rolls of cable that looked to him like the kind used in alarms.

  The sound of paws running across the grass pulled him out of these observations, and he braced himself, hoping he wouldn’t be knocked down again by the mastiff now racing toward him. An order from Madame Mayumi spared him – and not a second too late.

  ‘Thanks. With the breakfast I’ve got in my stomach, I don’t think I’m up for a roll in the grass,’ joked Laurent, greeting his hostess.

  ‘No, thank you, Monsieur de Rodergues. It’s both kind and brave of you to accept the girls’ invitation. They’ve spent all day preparing for the picnic. Unfortunately I won’t be able to join you, as I have to pick out some fabric for the music room. My husband has finally agreed to put one on the third floor. At least it’s something, don’t you think?’

  He was about to reply when the girls arrived, their natural boisterousness accentuated by the barking of their hairless dog Barbie. When they reached Laurent, they each took his hand in turn and gave him a polite kiss on each cheek. Then, escorted by the two dogs, they surrounded him to lead him toward the pergola, waving goodbye to their mother with a simple ‘Bye, Mum.’

  Laurent, now captive, managed to half-turn to wave goodbye as well, but Madame Mayumi was already heading back toward the château with an anxious look on her face and didn’t see him.

  Tum was waiting for them at the entrance to the enormous wrought-iron pergola. As always, she looked beyond beautiful, with her skin tanned by the spring sun and hair woven into a braid that hung coquettishly over her shoulder, with a jade bracelet on her wrist. Yammei was inside, arranging plates and dishes on the table.

  ‘Did you like Yammei’s spicy chicken?’ asked the oldest sister in quite passable Spanish.

  ‘I didn’t know you spoke Spanish. You have very good pronunciation,’ said Laurent.

  ‘Just a little, but my sisters know only a few words,’ the girl bragged. ‘If you want to win over Yammei, tell her the dish was haochi, which means “yummy” in Chinese.’

  ‘Stop being so lovey-dovey in Spanish with Monsieur Laurent. It’s rude if we can’t understand you,’ scolded the middle girl.

  ‘I’m doing nothing of the sort,’ said her sister, blushing as the other two laughed, and Tum concealed a laugh of her own.

  Laurent tried to calm them down. ‘Now, let’s not get upset. But what do we have here? This is a banquet fit for a king!’ He marvelled at the table covered with a heavy embroidered tablecloth, delicate porcelain plates, stiff starched napkins bearing the family’s monogram and glasses and cups that matched the gleaming sterling silverware. In the centre of the table awaiting the guests were all the delicacies of a proper afternoon tea: trays stacked three high with cucumber and ham sandwiches, macarons in every colour, tea biscuits, tarts with caramelised fruit and an enormous chocolate fondue surrounded by little trays, one of which only had flowers, which, they explained, were also edible and had been arranged according the instructions of Mademoiselle Vartel.

  He still had the memory of the chicken fresh in his mind, but such a spread was unworthy of hesitation, so Laurent said without ceremony, ‘Where do I sit? I want to eat it all!’

  Laughing and shouting, they sat down to tuck into the feast. Not long after they started, the forester, the one Laurent had seen from afar alongside Solange, walked over. Once again he was wearing work clothes, but he looked more tanned, and had various scratches criss-crossing his face and arms. The girls welcomed him with cries of delight.

  ‘Thierry, come sit with us. Everything is delicious!’

  Thierry must have been used to dealing with children, because right away he did a simple magic trick that left them applauding with delight. But then he excused himself saying he needed someone who spoke English, because he’d run into a problem with the château gardener, who didn’t speak a word of French.

  ‘All of us here speak English, except for Yammei,’ boasted the youngest.

  ‘I know, my little mushroom queen,’ he answered with a bow, ‘but I need someone older, like this gentleman’ – he pointed at Laurent – ‘or Miss Tum.’

  Laurent wiped his mouth and got up with Tum to go with Thierry, who explained the issue.

  ‘There’s a giant banyan in the back of the park, one of those trees that have huge branches and roots everywhere. It’s not a local species – here we ca
ll it a Bengali ficus. Anyway, it’s gigantic, and on the inside it’s totally infested with stag beetles, a protected species, but one that’s fatal for a tree like this. The banyan has been gnawed through, so a strong storm could bring it down, which would be a disaster and destroy a lot of the work being done in the garden.’

  In the middle of these explanations, Solange joined the group.

  ‘Thierry, don’t you think we could prune away the sick branches and save the tree?’ she asked. ‘It’s a beautiful specimen, and it’s practically a miracle it was able to grow here at all.’

  His expression showed he was tempted to grant her the wish. Yet his professional zeal outweighed his desire to please her.

  ‘No, Mademoiselle Solange, it’s hollowed out on the inside. In fact, it’s so bad the gardener has his arms around it, crying like a baby.’

  When they reached the spot, Laurent had to admit the tree was a natural work of art, with sinewy trunks everywhere that made up an intricate tangle, at once beautiful and fascinating. Solange explained that in 1878, the owner of the château, Madame Germaine, following the vogue in France at the time, brought all sorts of trees from the colonies. This one no doubt came from Chandernagore or Pondicherry, the two French settlements in India, or maybe from Madagascar. The sadness in her eyes at the thought that it would have to be cut down vouched for the uniqueness of this specimen.

  ‘It’s a pity,’ she said. ‘I planned to make a Siamese corner here, with red and black bamboo around the area. Monsieur Shennan had even had one of those beautiful “spirit houses” sent over from Thailand to decorate the site. He’ll be crushed by the news.’

  As the gardener clung to the tree, murmuring what appeared to be prayers, Thierry came over to show them an enormous beetle larva, thrashing about with remarkable energy on the palm of his hand.

  Tum went to speak to the gardener, who was also Asian, and then translated the words he groaned and sighed.