A Noël Killing

by M. L. Longworth

  “Okay!” Verlaque replied with exaggerated enthusiasm.

  Marine poked him in the ribs. “Let’s go get a seat,” she whispered, pulling his hand.

  “The church is packed,” Verlaque said as they walked up the far right aisle, scanning the pews for a free spot. “It’s like Midnight Mass—”

  “It’s even busier than that,” Marine replied. “As we still have forty-five minutes before the service begins.”

  “What?!”

  “Maman warned me of the crowds, so I got us here early.”

  Verlaque sighed. “I should have brought some poetry to read.”

  “You can study the song lyrics.”

  Verlaque looked at his wife, who was grinning from ear to ear. “There,” Marine said, pointing to a small vacant spot in the middle of a pew about halfway up the aisle. “Pardon!” she said as she made her way for it, past a dozen people who were already sitting down. “Pardon!”

  Verlaque shrugged and followed. “So sorry,” he said in English.

  They squeezed together in a space big enough for one and a half people. Verlaque leaned in to Marine and said, “Everyone’s so cheery here, even when we made our way across all their legs just now. That’s the Anglo-Saxons for you. The French would have been grumpy, giving us a hard time—”

  “We are French,” the woman next to him said.

  Verlaque turned to her. She was a handsome woman in her sixties, sitting next to a man, perhaps her husband, who was bent over studying the songs.

  “I’m so sorry,” Verlaque said.

  She smiled. “We’ve been coming to this service for years. You’ll see; many of us are locals here today. It’s just such a wonderful opportunity to sing Christmas carols.”

  “I agree!” Marine said, leaning over Verlaque so that she could see the woman.

  “Well,” Verlaque said, shooting Marine a look with a raised eyebrow, “I guess I’d better start looking at these lyrics. Since the service isn’t starting for another forty minutes.”

  * * *

  Marine looked at her watch. “Any minute now,” she said. “Look! Here come Maman and the rest of the choir.”

  “Where’s your father today?” Verlaque asked. “How did he get out of this?”

  “He’s at a medical conference in Lyon.”

  “Retired doctors still go to conferences?”

  “When they’re all-expenses paid, with lunches and dinners in Lyonnais restaurants, they do.”

  “Of course. Especially given your mother’s cooking.”

  Marine laughed, despite herself.

  “While you were studying the congregation,” Verlaque said, “I memorized all of the songs, plus had a look around the church. Do you see those three tiny windows cut into the stone wall behind us? Up about two stories?”

  Marine turned her head and looked behind her, and up. “Above the chapel of Saint Roch?”

  “If you say so, yes,” Verlaque said, annoyed that Marine knew the name of the chapel. Saint Roch was Aix’s patron saint. “Any idea what they’re for?” He crossed his arms, waiting.

  Marine looked back to him and then scanned the crowd again. “They were for the sick, so that they could come to Mass but be cut off from the rest of the congregation. In case they were contagious.”

  She turned again to have another look at the three oddly shaped openings. “Wait a minute!”

  “What?”

  “I just saw someone up there.”

  Verlaque quickly looked around. “I don’t see anyone.”

  Marine shrugged. “It was just a flash. Perhaps it was nothing.”

  “Oh, look, something’s finally about to happen,” Verlaque whispered. “The head honcho’s taking the mic.”

  “The cathedral rector,” Marine corrected.

  “Welcome, everyone!” the priest’s voice rang out. “It is an honor for me, and the congregation of this glorious cathedral, to share our space with the Anglo-Saxon community today in this celebration of the Lord’s birth. Leading the service will be my esteemed colleague from Aix’s Protestant Anglo-Saxon church, Reverend David Flanagan, who insists I call him Reverend Dave—” Laughter broke out among the congregation and the priest paused, smiling. “I’d also like to thank the choir of Saint-Jean-de-Malte. This has always been a magnificent celebration, and each year I am amazed that so many people from so many different countries and backgrounds come here to pray, to sing, to be with their neighbors. Those of you who haven’t been to this service before will know what I mean when we sing “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” And so in these days of Europe closing in on itself, and closing its doors to those who try to escape hardships, escape war, escape poverty, let us remember this day, when we sang together no matter our differences . . .”

  “Whoa, our padre’s getting political,” Verlaque whispered.

  “Yes! Take that and shove it, Marine Le Pen and your Front Nationale,” Marine whispered back.

  The priest went on, “And now I’ll take a step back and enjoy sitting here as a spectator. Please, Reverend Dave,” he said, gesturing to his spot in front of the lectern, “it’s all yours!”

  Thunderous applause broke out, as much for the priest as for the young Protestant reverend, Verlaque thought. He looked around at the packed cathedral and whispered to Marine, “This must have been what Sundays looked like not so long ago.”

  “You mean a full church?”

  “Precisely.”

  “And it’s warm in here for once,” Marine whispered. “All these people . . .”

  “There can’t be that many expats in Aix,” Verlaque whispered back. “Or I would have known about it.”

  Marine smirked. How would he have known about it? Just because he’s the examining magistrate? “Foreign university students,” Marine replied. “Here on the Erasmus exchange. I would always have a few sign up for my history of law class.”

  “Of course—”

  The Reverend Dave said a few words of welcome and then introduced the masters of ceremony, Cole and Debra Hainsby.

  “Please stand for our first song, “Joy to the World,” found on page three of your booklet,” Cole said.

  Debra Hainsby then repeated the instructions in French. Verlaque rolled his eyes and whispered, “Is the whole service going to be bilingual? It’s hardly necessary. I’m sure everyone here knows how to say ‘page three’ in both languages.”

  Marine held her fingers up to her lips and opened her songbook.

  * * *

  An hour later the ambiance in the cathedral was euphoric to Marine. She couldn’t imagine anyone not enjoying this service. She glanced over at her husband, who was listening intently to Reverend Dave’s sermon, which was, like the priest’s, centered upon inclusiveness and openness to others. She smiled as she thought of the young immigrant from Mali who in May had scaled an apartment building in Paris to save a toddler hanging precariously from a fourth-story balcony. When interviewed, the young man, evidently ill at ease with his new fame as a hero, simply shrugged and said that he climbed the balconies without thinking of himself, or the danger involved, but only of the child. The next day he was invited by the président de la république to the Élysée Palace and was given immediate citizenship, and a job as a firefighter. Take that, Front Nationale, Marine thought for the second time that afternoon. There’s room, and a role, for everyone here.

  The reverend ended his sermon and the Hainsbys returned to the lectern. “And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” Cole Hainsby said, “‘The Twelve Days of Christmas.’ For those of you who have been at this service before, you know how it goes. We’ll divide the congregation up into twelve parts. Twelve groups of countries, that is. France, the US with Canada, the UK with Ireland, Italy, Spain and Portugal, Germany and its German-speaking neighbors, eastern Europe including Belgium and Holland, Australi
a and New Zealand, China and Japan, Africa . . . sorry folks, I know it’s a continent but we only have twelve slots . . .”

  Verlaque groaned and whispered, “Quel con.”

  “Shhh, Antoine,” Marine scolded, though she privately agreed.

  Cole Hainsby went on, “The Middle East and Israel . . . behave, you two! Haha! And, finally, Scandinavia.”

  “We’ll repeat the order once again,” Debra Hainsby said, her face red. “And we’ll call out your country as we sing. When your country is called, please stand!”

  Despite Cole Hainsby’s tasteless jokes, the song was a huge success, with citizens around the world proudly hopping to their feet to loudly sing their line of the song. Marine pulled at Verlaque when he stood a second time during the third verse, when the UK was called. “Antoine!” she hissed. “You already stood up with the French!”

  “My grandmother! Emmeline!” Verlaque replied, louder than he meant to.

  Marine and Verlaque clapped as the group of veiled women to their left stood up and sang during the Middle East verse, and the Swedish family behind them joined in afterward.

  By the end of the song the whole congregation was laughing and chatting, so much so that Reverend Dave had to wait a few minutes for everyone to quiet down. “Well, that was certainly a success!” he bellowed. “And now it’s time for a more solemn moment, as our celebration is at an end. The lights of the cathedral will be turned off, as it’s now dark outside, and your candles will be lit by ushers passing up and down the aisles.”

  A dozen men and women began to walk through the church, handing a lit candle to the person at the beginning of each row, who then passed it down their row, so that everyone could light their own candle. In less than ten minutes hundreds of candles were lit and the lights were switched off. Marine gasped at the beauty of the scene.

  “Please stand,” Reverend Dave said. “We will sing ‘O Christmas Tree,’ found on page—”

  “Seven,” Verlaque said as he quickly stood up, tossing his songbook on the bench. “I know this one by heart!”

  Marine beamed as she listened to her husband’s out-of-tune baritone. She knew he must know the lyrics thanks to Emmeline. The congregation sang two verses, and then the music faded away. Reverend Dave said, “And now you may sit down, and I’d like to ask the German-speaking members to stand and please sing us a verse in German.”

  About fifty Germans, Austrians, and Swiss, scattered around the cathedral, stood up and sang loudly and clearly. Marine’s eyes filled with tears. A few rows up she recognized the German couple from the Sister City market, singing with what looked like bravado. Verlaque put his arms around her and pulled her close. “It’s so much nicer in German,” he whispered. Marine nodded in agreement. Verlaque raised an eyebrow as he saw Reverend Dave check his cell phone and quickly leave by a side door. Couldn’t the call have waited?

  Cole and Debra Hainsby stepped up to the lectern as the song ended. “Thank you all for attending this glorious service,” Cole said. “The lights will come back on in a few, then you can extinguish your candles.” He continued, “On your way out, please don’t forget to hand in your song—”

  “He’s so annoying,” Marine whispered, tuning out the emcee. She turned to Verlaque, who was playing with his candle, running his hand back and forth over the flame to the amusement of a small boy in the pew ahead who was watching, spellbound.

  Chapter Nine

  Noise from the cathedral’s dining hall boomed across the courtyard as Marine and Verlaque walked across, arm in arm. “You’re glad you came, I take it,” Marine said, squeezing his arm.

  “Yes, thank you,” he answered. “I didn’t know what to expect—”

  “Which causes fear—”

  “Certainly not!” Verlaque said, laughing at himself.

  “The food smells wonderful,” Marine said as they passed through a set of large wooden double doors. The scene before them was just as festive as—if not more than—in the cathedral. Dozens of candles lit the large space, along with electric wall sconces. A row of six or seven long tables lined the back of the hall, each covered in a white tablecloth and laden with food. Groups of people Marine didn’t know stood awkwardly behind each table. “The sister cities,” she whispered. “My mother told me that many of them offered food for tonight.”

  “That’s so kind,” Verlaque said.

  “Let’s get a glass of wine,” Marine suggested. “Then I’m going to go and say hello to Maman.” They walked across the room, carefully zigzagging through groups of chatting people, to the wine table. Verlaque beamed as he saw Olivier Bonnard, one of his favorite winemakers, pouring out glasses of red. A few years back, Verlaque had helped Olivier by solving a case of missing historic vintages, stolen from his cellar.

  “M Bonnard,” Verlaque said, shaking Olivier’s hand.

  “Antoine!” Bonnard answered. He handed Verlaque a glass.

  Verlaque turned to where he thought Marine should be, but she had been stopped by her mother and Philomène Joubert. Verlaque smiled, glad to have evaded their attack.

  “What’s new at Domaine Beauclaire?” Verlaque asked, taking a sip and nodding appreciatively.

  “Winter. A time of rest,” Bonnard said. “We just got the branch cuttings done last week. Victor’s coming home from his first semester at university next week. He absolutely loves it.”

  “Congratulations,” Verlaque said. He liked Victor, a boy who, despite the fame of Domaine Beauclaire, was bien dans sa peau. “He’s studying enology, right? Montpellier?”

  “C’est exact.”

  “And Elise?”

  “She’s over there,” Olivier said, pointing across the room to his handsome wife. “I’m donating the wines tonight, and she lent out a load of fancy serving dishes from her shop.”

  “So that’s why the hall doesn’t look like a church basement,” Verlaque said.

  Someone reached across Verlaque’s chest and grabbed a glass, striking up a conversation with Olivier about the wines, so Verlaque moved away from the table and began looking around the room. He was happy, and to his surprise, he was happy during the Christmas season. The joy of the carol sing seemed to hang in the air. People toasted one another and laughed. No longer shy, the guests had formed a line at the food tables, and the Sister City guest cooks were spooning food onto porcelain plates. They no longer looked out of place as they laughed and gestured, mingling with the guests. Now very hungry, he looked for Marine, but she was still in the throes of listening to some tale from Mme Joubert, whose head came up to Marine’s shoulder. He turned to his right and saw the Hainsbys, their heads pressed together, neither smiling. Embarrassed, he quickly looked away and saw a young woman staring at him. He thought he might know her and was mildly unsettled by her regard.

  “Did you get me a glass of wine?” Marine asked.

  “Oh, you managed to get away?” Verlaque asked. “Here, have some of mine.” He handed his glass to Marine and returned his attention to the young woman, but she was gone.

  “Maman and Philomène have some serious bees in their bonnets,” Marine said, taking a sip. “Wow!” She held up the glass up and looked at it in the light.

  “It’s Olivier Bonnard’s.”

  “That explains it.”

  Verlaque asked, “What are they on about?”

  “Oh, how the Protestant service was fine and all, but lacking in theological references.”

  “I thought Dave did a fine job.”

  “Me, too.”

  “But I didn’t like those emcees,” Verlaque continued. “They spoke to us like—”

  “We were simple.”

  “Exactly. Is that a thing in the Protestant church?”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” Marine said. “There are many kinds of Protestant churches, and each one is different. Just like our churches.”

  “
No, Catholic churches are all the same,” Verlaque said, rolling his eyes.

  “Now, now.”

  “Let’s get some food,” Verlaque suggested. “I’m starting with the Germans and working my way down in strength.”

  “You mean fat content,” Marine said. Verlaque opened his mouth to protest but then Marine added, “I hope they made their spaetzle.” She charged on ahead, and Verlaque had to swerve around two old men to keep up with her.

  * * *

  “We’re lucky we found spots to sit down,” Verlaque said, ripping off a piece of bread and dipping into some eggplant Parmesan the Italians had made. “Made with Tuscan olive oil. You can see its gooey green goodness running out the sides.”

  Marine asked, “Did you try this?” pointing to a Pecorino cheese with tiny streaks of black running through it.

  Verlaque took a piece and put it in his mouth. He closed his eyes and leaned back, his hands on his stomach. “Truffles.”

  “It’s like a drug,” Marine said. “It must cost a fortune. What generosity.”

  “Yeah, and we’ll all be lined up tomorrow morning at their food stand. Good marketing, I’d say.”

  A woman on Verlaque’s right got up and someone else sat down seconds later, his plate piled high with food. “May I join you?”

  Verlaque turned and saw the cathedral’s deacon, or rector, or whatever he was, smiling at them.

  “Père Fernand,” Marine said, holding out her hand. “Please do.” They shook hands and she introduced Verlaque as her husband.

  “You’re the examining magistrate,” the priest said, shaking Verlaque’s hand. “Marine’s mother has told me a lot about you.”

  “That’s right,” Verlaque said. “That was a lovely service.”

  “Yes, I thoroughly enjoyed it as well.”

  Marine asked, “Did you attend the service last year?”

  “Oh, yes. They began this tradition six years ago. I’ve been to all of them, of course.”