by Ivo Fornesa
Laurent heard someone call out his name and, turning around, he practically collided with René and his wife. After exchanging the usual pleasantries, his wife went off to see a group of friends gathered by the remains of a stone baptismal font that stood in the plaza as a decoration. When he thought she was out of earshot, René gave Laurent a knowing look.
‘We certainly won’t be bored,’ he said.
‘What makes you say that? Do you know something I don’t?’
‘Look around you. When was the last time you saw so many people from the town in the same place? Everyone’s here, even a few who swear they’re bedridden with some terminal illness.’
René looked all around, nodding in the direction of various neighbours. ‘That gentleman over there is Gérard, from the Fossat farm. I haven’t seen him in twenty years. The couple over there are retirees who come every August, and we’re still in July. Behind them is Pauline Bonpas, who holds a grudge against half of Saint-Chartier and thinks the other half is beneath her, and even she’s come. Everyone’s here, Monsieur Laurent … well, maybe not everyone: I haven’t seen Mademoiselle Yael.’
‘Mademoiselle Yael? You’re taunting me, René!’
‘Taunting? Come now, don’t be silly. Let’s enjoy the evening: the amount of food and drink awaiting us inside is going to make La Grande Bouffe look like a Sunday school special. Anyway, I’ll leave you to it. I see my cousin Philippe coming down the way.’
The ancient and obese Madame Fraset rolled imperiously down the Rue des Luthiers. Two of her several grandchildren pushed her wheelchair, and their sweat-beaded faces didn’t exactly show the affection and respect they ought to have felt for their grandmother. Next to them were the firefighters’ squad, who were all in attendance wearing their finest. One of them, Michel, confided in Laurent that they intended to ask Shennan to help refurbish the fire station by donating the material left over from his renovation.
Farther off, various well-dressed officials from Châteauroux, the kind who must love working for people like Shennan, stood smoking under the shade of the chestnut trees.
Laurent was watching it all when he noticed people begin to stir. Then a boy ran by his side and cried out, ‘Grandma! They’re opening the gates! Come on!’
Out of a sense of elegance, and to avoid shoving, Laurent opted to sit on a bench, enjoying his cigar and watching the people file past as he waved to the familiar faces from afar.
AT THE ENTRANCE
Once the crowd had died down, he unhurriedly walked up the main entrance. Directly beneath the stone arch a straightforward system for greeting guests and checking invitations had been set up. At least it looked straightforward, because it involved two young women taking the invitations, checking them against a list and handing the guests a programme and a coin with the logo of the château. Yet the simplicity of the procedure contrasted with its strict, martial efficiency, for despite their slender frame and beautiful features, they both had an unmistakably military air. Then Laurent noticed that both they and the other members of the security team stationed at the gate wore the insignia of the army on their lapels. Shennan had hired former members of an elite corps to handle his party. This struck Laurent as a bit excessive, but they were no doubt very competent. As he stepped inside, an individual looking like a gladiator who’d seen his share of arenas politely asked him if he wouldn’t mind stepping through a metal detector.
‘I don’t mind at all,’ Laurent replied. ‘But I noticed you didn’t make the people ahead of me walk through it.’
The muscle-bound guard gave a good-natured smile as he proceeded to perform a discreet and extremely professional pat-down.
‘Your observation shows my actions are warranted, Monsieur. As do your athletic build and your foreign air. Monsieur Shennan gave us instructions us to avoid using the metal detector or frisking guests unless they stood out. You did. Does that answer your question?’
‘Perhaps. I suppose I should feel flattered. One question, though: have you taken similar measures with any women?’
One of the female security guards, who had caught Laurent’s eye, was listening to the conversation and joined in.
‘Yes, two in fact. I had to frisk them. Why do you ask?’
‘Just curious. Was one of them by chance an athletic woman, Madame de Flalois, and the other a woman with dark features and long, curly hair?’
‘Excellent deduction,’ the agent said, smiling coquettishly.
‘Thank you, Mademoiselle. Have a good evening.’
‘Not at all, Monsieur. My name’s Cathy. If you get bored, come back around and say hello.’
Laurent walked on, smiling on two counts: not only did this Mademoiselle Cathy clearly look hopeful about chatting some more, which flattered him, but he also had confirmation that Yael was indeed in attendance.
But on his way to the garden known as the rotunda, his happiness vanished as it occurred to him that Yael hadn’t even bothered to stop by and say hello.
THE SHENNANS
Laurent figured it wouldn’t be easy to talk to the Shennans. With all that crowd, they’d no doubt be occupied with the duties of being good hosts, which essentially consist of having enormous amounts of patience and finding a way to return the praise the guests believe they’re obliged to heap on them.
They had sensibly positioned themselves on the grand terrace, and he decided to bide his time hovering about, devouring canapés and washing them down with glasses of champagne. After he’d waited for around half an hour, when at last there seemed to be fewer people around them, he decided his moment had arrived and walked over, intending to take up as little of their time as possible. They were just saying goodbye to a tall priest with the face of a rugby player – a traditionalist, no doubt, as he wore a cassock and sash. Typical Carlos, thought Laurent, seeking refuge in the sacred from time to time, like a good Don Juan.
When they saw Laurent, Madame Mayumi smiled warmly and Shennan went straight to embrace him.
‘Laurent! It’s about time you showed up. You certainly like to take your time. Apologies for the pat-down at the entrance. Forewarned is forearmed, you know.’ Then he gestured to the priest. ‘Allow me to introduce Father Gérard de Montfort, an old friend I like to argue about theology with. He was kind enough to bless the château and say a Mass in the private chapel.’
Laurent offered his hand to the priest, who grasped it firmly with an amiable smile. ‘Shennan’s told me about you,’ said the priest. ‘I hope we get the chance to talk sometime. He’s quite discreet and wouldn’t reveal whether or not should I be worried about the salvation of your soul.’
‘Saint-Chartier is a very quiet place, Father, and God doesn’t think me important enough to tempt,’ Laurent laughed. ‘Nothing would make me happier than to give you cause to worry.’
The priest burst into loud guffaws, then remarked to Shennan, ‘I can smell a sinner from miles away, and I’m afraid we’re going to have to meet with Monsieur Laurent in your cellar to bring him back to the right path.’
The Shennans and Laurent all laughed. Then the priest, looking at his watch, cut the conversation short. ‘As much as I’d like to linger, I must be on my way. I’m giving a talk in Ardentes, and I ought to leave right now. Good evening to you, and again, it’s truly a magnificent party.’ And with a handshake for all, he trotted off down the stairs.
‘What do you think of the party, Monsieur de Rodergues?’ Madame Mayumi then asked. ‘As you can see, Carlos is immune to thrift and economy.’
What Shennan was immune to, it seemed, was his wife’s sarcasm, for he smiled with real affection and embraced her, kissing her on the cheek.
‘Well, just imagine what I’d be like if I didn’t have Jiminy Cricket here always chirping on my shoulder.’
Laurent, in a show of male solidarity with his friend, turned to Mayumi and said, ‘I sympathise with you, Madame, because I’m an admirer of your country, where even the simplest things can be elevated to the status of ar
t. But I also sympathise with your husband, and in his position, I might well do the same. It’s hard not to want to be surrounded by beautiful things, given the opportunity. But sharing them with others is pure generosity, and that pleasure, Madame, shouldn’t be denied to him.’
‘Spoken like a true friend!’ Shennan patted him on the back enthusiastically, at which point Laurent bowed to Madame Mayumi.
‘If I may, I have a gift here for you. It’s very dear to me, but after the work you’ve done on the château, I think belongs to you. Please accept it,’ he said, presenting his gift.
‘But this should be for my husband. He’s the one who’s made this all possible, not me,’ objected Madame Mayumi, confused.
‘No, Madame. You’ve followed him and supported him in this adventure, so it should belong to you. Your husband has no need for gifts: the family he has is more than enough.’
‘By God, Laurent, I’m touched!’ Shennan exclaimed.
Gingerly Mayumi unwrapped the package. Her hands trembled as she looked at the book.
‘Monsieur de Rodergues, this is too much. We can’t accept it, please take it back,’ she pleaded, looking suddenly shaken.
‘My wife is right, Laurent. This book must have cost you a fortune. I’ve had books bound for my library, I know what they cost, and none of them is as beautiful as this. You’ve outdone yourself,’ said Shennan, echoing his wife but still captivated by the covers of the book.
‘Then let’s speak no more of it. Your words do me honour, because they show you know the value of my gift, and that alone is enough. Madame, it’s for you. I hope whenever you look at it you remember this good friend and neighbour of yours.’
She took his hands and, looking at him seriously, answered, ‘Laurent, I assure you you’re wrong. I don’t deserve this gift. And even without it, know that we’d always remember you.’
Laurent kissed her hand, shook Shennan’s, and took his leave, leaving them in the middle of the crowd that was forming around them. As he descended the stairs, he ran into Thierry, who was on his way up. They both stopped.
‘Good evening,’ said Laurent. ‘What have you got there?’ He saw Thierry was carrying a bush with tiny round berries.
‘Mistletoe. Madame Shennan wanted me to bring some for the priest. And here I thought mistletoe was just for pagans.’
‘Well, hurry up then. The priest is probably in the car park now. The Shennans, though, are here on the terrace.’
Thierry looked where Laurent pointed but shook his head. He noticeably gritted his teeth. ‘No thanks. I have no desire to see Shennan. I’ll just run to the car park. Catch you later.’ And in a flash he leapt over the railing and onto the grass, and took off running.
Laurent watched him, impressed by Thierry’s youthful agility, and also surprised by this newly revealed animosity toward the host.
IN THE CHTEAU PARK
Laurent couldn’t help but be amazed by the festivities the Shennans had arranged in the park around the château. To his relief, they hadn’t done anything so tacky as hire mimes or magicians to chase after the guests, pestering them for their attention. Quite the contrary. In honour of his origins, Shennan had arranged for an Irish group to play pub music on the violin, harp, mandolin, French horn and bodhrán. A large crowd had gathered around the circular stone platform that served as a stage. According to the programme he’d been handed when he arrived, the group came from Cork and the woman on the harp would play Gaelic songs later on. The programme also mentioned that an accordionist would be playing tangos, with dances performed by three couples from the Argentine Society of Paris. Laurent thought that sounded interesting and made a note to watch their performance. But first he wanted to take a look at the now-finished garden and see some of the other attractions. What really caught his attention was something described as a ‘beer wagon under the supervision of Monsieur Gaston Le Juanch with a cask of Carterius’, which, according to the programme, was located not far from the entrance to the garden.
He had no trouble finding it. It stood in the centre of an open space in the park, a huge old-fashioned caravan wagon hitched to two majestic Percheron horses peacefully grazing on the hay spread out before them. Le Juanch greeted him effusively, handing him a ceramic stein with his brand logo in relief.
‘Wow, Gaston, your business has come a long way. The show you’re putting on here is really something,’ exclaimed Laurent. ‘Where did you get that monster of a cask? I feel like a Lilliputian visiting Gulliver,’ he added, pointing to the gigantic wooden barrel that served as a tap.
Le Juanch gave a laugh but didn’t stop serving beers to the guests gathered round. ‘The cask I had specially made, and yes, it’s big, but not just to show off: inside it’s got a whole refrigeration system. You like it?’ he asked, looking like a child who’s afraid of a negative response.
‘The beer is fantastic. And the set-up is like something out of a movie. You’re going to be rich,’ he said between sips. ‘What I’d really like is to take some of your beer home with me.’
‘One step ahead of you. At the end of the summer we’ll start bottling. It will all be artisanal, very high-end.’
‘Sounds like quite an investment. You must be mortgaged to the hilt.’
Le Juanch sized him up, then discreetly leant over to speak more quietly.
‘Actually, it was all Shennan. When he tried the beer that day after that dust-up with the construction worker, he offered to go in with me on the business. He’s treated me very well, we’re splitting it fifty-fifty, and he lets me do whatever I like, so long as he can handle the design and the publicity. And that suits me just fine, since I’d pay to not have to do that. But it’s a secret.’
‘Good move, accepting his offer. At the very worst, he’ll just drink all your beer himself, being Irish. Congratulations again, and rest assured, I won’t tell a soul.’ Laurent patted him on the back and went on his way.
Gaston had a lot of people to attend to, and Laurent wanted to continue his tour. As he walked through the park, he thought about Shennan’s almost magical ability to combine business and pleasure, as if he had one of those capes they tell of in Irish legends, thin enough to be invisible, but woven with a fibre made of steel.
THE ROASTING SPIT
AND THE ARCHITECT
An unmistakable scent rendered the map on his programme superfluous. Rather than follow it, he could now let himself be led by his nose to where meat was being roasted in the Argentine style. Several men dressed as gauchos were cooking chitterlings, sweetbreads, sirloin strips, skirt steaks, tenderloin and blood sausages over the coals spread out in various pits dug into the ground, while two other gauchos, with traditional facón and verijero knives at their waists, kept watch on a dozen thick iron spits stuck into the ground, each roasting a whole lamb. Behind them was a table piled with pyramids of Argentine empanadas, salad bowls in the purest porteño style, and sauce dishes brimming with chimichurri, all overseen by a gaucha. Also on offer were all kinds of alfajores and cakes made with dulce de leche.
The hosts, the programme explained, were devotees of French cuisine, but on this occasion, to introduce the townspeople to culinary traditions from other lands, they chose to feature products from two of the countries dearest to their hearts. Hence all the wine was Argentine and the whiskey Irish, something which seemed not to have offended the national pride of any of the locals. Even the Green Goddesses, who had stubbornly nationalist tastes, appeared quite happy enjoying empanadas and roast meat on a stone bench alongside their friends.
Chileans and Argentines will always have their differences, but that wasn’t going to keep Laurent from a good Argentine steak. He walked up to the stand, asked for his medium rare and was already on his way with a beautiful piece of meat on his plate when he succumbed to the temptation to go back and add several empanadas and a roast potato covered in chimichurri. With all this and a good Malbec to boot, he looked for a place to sit down.
The only place he could
find was a bench where, as luck would have it, Pia de La Tressondière sat by herself. For all her Parisian chic, the architect was literally stuffing her face with an empanada and didn’t even notice that a stream of sauce was running down her wrist. Laurent sat down next to her and showed himself to be adept in the difficult art of managing a dish overladen with food and a full glass.
‘Monsieur Laurent, what a pleasure running into you here.’
‘The pleasure is all mine,’ said Laurent, mouth filled with a heavenly bite of beef, giving the architect a look that made her blush.
After a pause she replied, ‘You’re more dangerous than you look at first glance. Pity I didn’t meet you earlier. My work here is done, and I don’t think I’ll be back around these parts. Still, I’ll give you my number in case you ever happen to come up to Paris.’
Laurent couldn’t conceal his surprise. ‘What do you mean, your work here is done? I assumed you’d handle Shennan’s other projects in the area. You’ve done an impeccable job in Saint-Chartier, and people are falling over themselves in praise.’
‘My experience with Monsieur Shennan has been draining, to say the least. He’s very possessive and, with him, everything ends up getting too personal. Besides, he’s the kind of difficult client who leaves hardly any room for creativity or ideas from the people around him. Believe me, it’s for the best if I don’t do any more projects with him.’
Laurent noticed that the architect had replaced her intimate, indiscriminate use of ‘Carlos’ with a strict use of ‘Monsieur’. He didn’t know what to say, so Pia, wiping her mouth, opened her miniature handbag and broke the silence by taking her leave.