by Ivo Fornesa
As Laurent sat with a stunned look on his face, still processing what he’d just heard, the priest got up. At the church door, they shook hands.
‘Father, I’m immensely grateful for everything you’ve told me. And yet, the way Carlos died didn’t look like a suicide, if that’s what you were insinuating. The position of the body, the location … It just doesn’t seem possible.’
‘My good man,’ said the priest with a smile, ‘if anyone could contrive some thoroughly implausible set-up, it was Carlos Shennan.’
Laurent watched him walk off toward the City Hall, where he’d presumably parked his car. Waving once more, he turned toward the restaurant, meditating on the bundle of contradictions that was Carlos Shennan: an amateur theologian of the traditionalist school, and a radical anarchist in morals and customs; a playboy and seducer, but an obsessive family man; a businessman with ‘unusual’ dealings who nevertheless kept himself within legal bounds; a man who made enemies as easily as friends, who was afflicted with a mysterious illness yet as lovesick as a teenager.
He’d originally planned to get the lightest set menu, but circumstances forced him to abandon his scruples and order à la carte.
JEAN-PIERRE GIMBAULT
The meal was sumptuous, but later on Laurent concluded it may not have been a good idea to finish off an entire bottle of wine. His initial plan was to appear shrewd and persuasive with Gimbault, but his capacities had been somewhat depleted by the meal.
They’d agreed to meet in Gimbault’s house, near the stone-carving school by the riverside. He had no trouble finding it because Gimbault himself was in the yard out front, retying some rose bushes that had come undone. Apparently, the night before, there had been strong winds.
He looked very focused on his work, and when he heard his name he turned with a start. Laurent knew it wouldn’t be easy to get him to talk: from first glance he could tell he was the kind of person who rarely said any more than necessary, a typical trait among career bureaucrats, where discretion is at times a path to promotions, or at least keeps one from falling from grace in the purges that inevitably follow political changes.
Gimbault took off his gardening gloves and motioned him to come inside, studying him carefully as he walked down the noisy gravel path. Laurent shook his hand. He always paid attention to handshakes, and this time he noticed that the bureaucrat was a true local: in Berry even the women shook firmly, usually with hard, callused palms. Gimbault was no exception, and though one might not expect this of a man who worked in an office, he had an iron grip. His eyes showed a cold self-control, which seemed to confirm his first impressions from the party.
The inside of his house also surprised Laurent, because it was clearly the home of a music lover: on the walls hung instruments and posters from music festivals from around the world, while in the background hummed the chords of a cello from a professional record player sitting atop a cabinet.
‘Have a seat, Monsieur de Rodergues, and tell me what I can do for you. On the phone you weren’t very explicit.’
‘You’re right, and the reason is, I was afraid you’d refuse to see me,’ Laurent confessed.
‘You needn’t have worried about that. I’ll tell you right now that if I don’t feel comfortable with your questions, I won’t hesitate to ask you to leave.’
Laurent knew that Gimbault wasn’t joking – humour didn’t seem to be his strong suit –so he sought to be agreeable and create a friendly atmosphere for conversation. On the wall behind the sofa he noticed a vielle, an instrument used in local folk music that’s very expensive and very difficult to make, typically with a neck of finely carved wood. This one had a bust of George Sand.
‘Don’t tell me you play the vielle? I hear it’s exceedingly difficult.’
‘I’ve played since I was a child. I learnt from Les Gâs du Berry. My father and grandfather also played. It’s a pity that none of my children have taken an interest in it.’ He allowed himself a sigh. ‘It’s so hard to keep up traditions in today’s world.’
Laurent saw that the question relaxed his host, and immediately knew how to steer the conversation.
‘As a matter of fact, I’m here to talk about the festival. I live in Saint-Chartier, as I mentioned, just across from the château. You probably don’t remember me, but we saw each other at the opening celebration: I was watching the tango show and you were enjoying a beer.’
‘No, I didn’t see you, but I have to say, ever since then I’ve become quite fond of that beer. I think it was a great idea for Shennan to support Le Juanch. He wasn’t a bad fellow. It’s a shame he died – I think he would have done good things for the region.’ He appeared to be sincere, and that left Laurent flummoxed, since he was prepared for scathing words about Shennan.
‘Do you really mean that? I thought you couldn’t stand him, or at least that’s what I understood when I heard you on the radio.’
‘You’re right, at first I acted like a fool. You have to understand, the festival is my life. I’ve been involved since I was a child, and for me it and the Château de Saint-Chartier are inseparable. When I heard Shennan wasn’t going to renew the contract, I flew into a rage. I lost my cool, something I very rarely do, though if you knew me, you’d understand how important the festival is to me. Forgive me, I haven’t offered you anything. Would you like some coffee?’
Laurent considered this. He’d had two coffees already, but one more would be a great help in fighting against the sleepiness barrelling down on him like an alpine avalanche.
‘Yes, please. Strong, if you don’t mind.’
‘The local life and the local food make one a bit lethargic, don’t they?’ laughed Gimbault.
‘Lethargic? I’ve spent my entire life in South America, and I never took a siesta, whereas here every day after lunch it’s all I can do not to collapse.’
‘I know exactly what you mean.’ Gimbault walked to the kitchen, and by the time he came back with the coffee, Laurent had already decided he wasn’t guilty of anything. Yet he was still curious about his change of heart about Shennan, so he resumed the conversation, taking a more direct tack.
‘I don’t want to deceive you, Monsieur. Shennan’s death left me rattled, and as you probably know, for a time I was considered a suspect. I can’t explain why, but I’m curious about everything that took place at the celebration, and I was surprised to see you there.’
Gimbault held his cup as he listened, and didn’t seem disturbed by his words.
‘Rest assured, you weren’t the only one surprised. And if it’s any consolation, the police paid me a visit, too. As I said, I was no fan of Shennan – I’d practically declared war on him. I thought it was a mistake to move the festival, and I told him so directly and indirectly, in every forum and using every means at my disposal. But in February Shennan appeared on my doorstep unannounced and said there was something he wanted to show me. At first I was reluctant. I was even afraid he was going to beat me up – you’ve no doubt heard the rumours about him. I told him to leave me alone and go to hell, but he didn’t react. He insisted, and was very persuasive: leaning over the wall in the garden, he began to talk about music, and we found common ground. Ten minutes later, I was grabbing my coat and hat and getting in his car to go to the château.
‘On the way, he told me he completely understood, and that in my place he would have reacted the same way. That’s why he wanted me to see the work being done, to show me that it wouldn’t have been possible to hold the festival in the château. I didn’t want to believe him, but I was already in the car, and like everyone else, I couldn’t help feeling a bit curious about the château and the restoration work.
‘Once inside, Shennan began showing me all the sections on the verge of collapse, and there were quite a few of them. He even showed me a certificate from the Department of Historic Monuments indicating that it didn’t recommend the château for large-scale events. The truth is, the terrace was crumbling, a wall had collapsed, a lot of the earth
enware tiling was barely hanging on. Thirty trees that were totally rotten on the inside had to be cut down, otherwise they could have caused an accident. In short, I realised it was true that without Shennan, the château’s days were numbered.
‘On the other hand, he also said he wanted the festival to regain its initial spirit, when the audience was smaller and more select, and he assured me he was willing to work with me to study how best to gradually hold festival activities in Saint-Chartier, in the château. Honestly, I don’t think he was lying, and in case I had any doubts, he made sure to show me his collection of exotic instruments, which he planned to open to the public.
‘When he brought me back home, I still hadn’t gotten over my shock. He explained that he preferred to find what united us than dwell on what divided us. And from that moment on I decided he deserved a chance, and I stopped attacking him.’
Laurent set his cup on the table. ‘I’m not surprised by what you say. Shennan liked to grab the bull by its horns. I don’t think he was lying when he said he wanted to work with you. He was restoring a historical monument, and he wouldn’t shy away from his duty to restore the festival, too, at least in part. I hope someone does in the future. Anyway, I appreciate your taking the time, and thanks especially for the coffee. If you’re in Saint-Chartier, you know where to find me.’
Gimbault, now totally at ease, promised to keep Laurent posted about the events held throughout the year. Back in his car, Laurent scratched him off his list, and decided that, once he got home, he would take a siesta after all, and that he’d put on some music by Eartha Kitt to fall asleep to.
JEANNETTE AND CLAUDE MONATTI
Laurent was rereading his notes, sitting in the park outside the small château in Montgivray. It was a nice afternoon, and he’d always liked that town, especially the path along the stream to La Châtre.
He was killing time, because he’d decided to approach the Monattis. They hadn’t responded to the note he’d sent them by mail a few days earlier; perhaps it had gone straight to the rubbish bin, or maybe they’d simply chosen to ignore it.
After deciding on the steps he’d take that morning, he got up from the bench and headed to the cafe opposite the château. It wasn’t the first time he’d been there, and he had to admit its somewhat bohemian atmosphere had its charm. He sat down at the bar and ordered an espresso with a dash of Ricard.
The waitress had a chatty air as she brought him his coffee, and Laurent tried to strike up a conversation.
‘I’m on my way to see Madame and Monsieur Monatti. Do you know them? I’m told they live in the old mill.’
‘Are you a relative or friend of theirs?’ the waitress asked.
The fact that Laurent was neither of those things made her very talkative.
‘Oof. Well, good luck, they’re a piece of work. Insufferable radicals, those two.’
‘I can see you’re very fond of them,’ Laurent laughed. ‘Now I definitely want to meet them. What makes you say they’re radical? That strikes me as a pretty strong word for people in the music profession.’
The waitress gave him a hostile look. ‘I call them that because they’re extremely arrogant. The Monattis are the kind of people who see everything in absolutes: either you’re with them or you’re against them. And they go on all day as if traditional folk music were the only kind of music. In any case you’ll meet them soon enough; they’re not especially likable. And if you think I’m wrong, stop by afterwards, and your next drink is on the house.’
‘I will, but first tell me how to get to the mill,’ insisted Laurent.
‘There are two mills here,’ the young woman explained. ‘They live in the one off the road to the right, on the path that goes behind the cemetery. It’s the last house, in a beautiful setting. They say the trail there used to be one of the paths pilgrims took on the Camino de Santiago. Head out that way until you get to a small bridge. There’s a beautiful view of the mill there. A lot of newly-weds go there to take wedding photos.’
Laurent paid and thanked her. He decided to walk out to the Monattis’ house.
The path alongside the river out to the mill was worth it, especially since there were no cars. Really, the whole landscape was worthy of the Musée d’Orsay, with terraced stone pools covered in lotuses and yellow water lilies leading up to the waterwheel. The house, with its large, stone-framed windows and various species of ivy climbing the walls, had been tastefully restored, and the surrounding garden was enlivened by all kinds of colourful bushes. Laurent walked once around the house and had to agree with the waitress: it really was idyllic. Retracing his steps, he found a very short woman of around fifty, in an odd get-up of purple stockings and pointed gold slippers, engaged in some sort of work around a hole in the ground.
Right away Laurent could tell she was preparing a méchoui, a North African roast lamb, and seeing a table set out not far away, under an arbour, he mused that feasting on a succulent lamb in such a beautifully manicured garden must be an unforgettable experience. Yet dining al fresco with the Monattis was not on his wish list.
Laurent addressed the woman. ‘Excuse me, I’m looking for Jeannette Monatti and her husband.’
The woman looked him up and down rather brazenly. ‘You’re the South American who lives in Saint-Chartier, aren’t you?’
‘How did you know?’ asked Laurent, taken aback.
The woman saw his surprise, and Laurent in turn saw how delighted she was to have caught him with his guard down. It looked like the interview wasn’t going to be easy.
‘You were pointed out to me a while back, at the flea market in Thevet-Saint-Julien. We don’t get a lot of new people here and, naturally, for a time they become a topic of conversation. We’re from Clermont-Ferrand, and when we moved into the mill people spent a season gossiping about us. Maybe the things we do still give people something to talk about.’
The woman continued her work without inviting Laurent in, and the conversation, maintained over a boxwood hedge while he stood in wet grass, wasn’t ideal for his plans. He decided to remedy that situation, extending his hand over the hedge.
‘Well, as I suppose you know already, my name is Laurent de Rodergues.’
The woman gave an impish, girlish laugh. ‘Yes, I know. Just as you know who we are. I’m sorry I can’t invite you in, but my husband’s gone to the bakery, and a handsome man like you in the home of a woman like me, all by herself, could only give rise to rumours.’
Laurent looked at her, trying to determine whether or not she was joking. Madame Monatti could no doubt be many things, but she was in no way an object of desire for him. Covered in beads and baubles and rings, and draped in a kaftan so large it made her body look misshapen, the diminutive woman wore spectacles as thick as a pirate’s spyglass and had a headful of frizzy hair tied up by a scarf that looked dirty. Least appealing of all was her excessively generous neckline, which revealed two breasts tattooed with a motley thicket of flowers that could well have been a source of inspiration for Baudelaire. To his horror, he realised she was speaking entirely in earnest. He decided to respond in jest.
‘My goodness, Madame Monatti, reading your newsletter, and seeing your modern and uninhibited sense of style, I’d never have thought you cared about what people said.’
A coquettish glance flashed under her heavy eyelids.
‘Aren’t you a devil, Laurent? See why we can’t be alone inside? You’re undressing me with your eyes, and I admit I’m not immune to your manly aura. Don’t give me that look; you’re a dyed in the wool Casanova.’
Laurent, totally petrified, didn’t know what to say. If this was how she reacted ten minutes after meeting, with a hedge in between them, in a more intimate setting she must metamorphose into a fearsome Hydra. He spared a thought for poor Monsieur Monatti, who must have been inventing endlessly long lines at the bakery to delay his return.
For his part, Laurent decided that his best course of action would probably be to accept the cold that the we
t grass was going to give him.
‘You’re right, Madame. It’s better for both of us to continue talking like this. I wouldn’t for all the world want to sully your good name.’
‘I agree, Laurent. It’s best if we leave our mutual attraction in the hands of fate. Besides, my husband will be back any minute, and he’s terribly jealous.’
Just then Laurent heard wheels rolling up on the gravel path that led to the front door of the house.
‘That’ll be Claude. Go around to the front and ask for us as if you hadn’t just spoken to me,’ she commanded, blowing him a twilight kiss.
Glad to have escaped unscathed from such a predicament, Laurent walked around to the entrance to the house.
Laurent didn’t need to be a psychic to know that the man getting out of the white Peugeot was the male version of Madame Monatti. He was nearly bald and determined to wear the few remaining strands of hair he had left in a straggly ponytail. Pretending to arrive by the footpath, Laurent watched as Claude looked himself over in the rear-view mirror and gave himself a wink of approval. He couldn’t help finding that gesture of self-admiration endearing.
He said hello and introduced himself while Madame Monatti made her entrance, acting out the most innocent surprise; she opened her arms and rushed to Laurent, imprinting two loud, sticky kisses on his cheeks, which made him feel like a baby unable to free himself from some especially irksome relative.
As soon as Laurent managed to extricate himself, the husband, who seemed to be the more easy-going of the two, invited him into the house, which was tropically warm. They told him to have a seat, and as he did so, the wife, claiming to be hot, removed her jacket, revealing only a sheer camisole that showed off the lush vegetation on her breasts and almost made Laurent forget about the investigation and take flight.