In Another Country, and Besides

by Maxwell Jacobs

  She disappeared and I held my head in my hands.

  “Okay,” I said, muttering wildly, shaking with every word. “Yes, well, I know where I stand. I’ve been brave long enough to know.”

  “You’re a coward,” a voice said from the kitchen.

  “Who said that?” I cried, not daring to look. When no answer came, I asked again. “Who said that?”

  “You’re a coward,” came the voice once more.

  “I’m no coward,” I said, shaking my head.

  “You’re a coward who lets other people take what’s yours,” said the voice.

  I walked into the kitchen.

  “No, you are wrong! I’m brave and nothing bad ever happens to the brave. I drink brandy and it makes me brave.”

  “Brave? You’re not brave!” laughed the voice. “You’re nothing. Nothing but a coward.”

  “Who said that?” I shouted. I could hear someone at the door again. I rushed out into the hallway and saw a silhouette behind the glass panel. I slammed my fist against it and shouted: “Nobody’s home! Go away.” I rushed back into the kitchen and found no one there.

  “Who are you?” I demanded. “Where are you?”

  “You let people walk all over you.”

  I whirled around, searching for the source, but found nothing.

  “No, I don’t,” I protested. “I don’t make trouble for anyone anymore. I know I made trouble in the past but I’m good now. I’ve been good, haven’t I? Haven’t I been good?”

  “Yes, and look where it has got you,” snarled the voice.

  “I made no trouble and I was happy,” I said. “I was so happy. And he took it away from me.”

  “And now you’re miserable because you became a coward.”

  “I’m no coward,” I cried. “Stop saying that!”

  “Then prove it. Take back what is yours and take your revenge. Become brave again.”

  “Yes, yes,” I said, nodding frantically. “You’re absolutely right. I can fix everything and show everyone just how brave I am. But I cannot do it here. I can’t think straight with all you people around. And Maria would never take me back in this state. Yes, to be brave again and win Maria back I must leave. I will return stronger and braver than ever before, and Maria will love me and I will get her and my family back and everything will be fine.”

  My daughter reappeared before me, her face full of fear. “If you leave I will worry about you.”

  “You mustn’t worry, snowflake,” I said. “I will go and plan my return and I will be brave once more. I will do it for you, just as much as me.”

  “Then drink this.” She handed me the brandy. “I know drink always makes you feel better.”

  “Why don’t you come with me?” I asked her. “We could have a lovely time. We could go to the south of France and you could play on the beach. You were always so very happy there.”

  “Where will you go?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, but somewhere splendid. I’ll go now.”

  “You can’t go now. You are too brave and had too many brandies.”

  “Yes, you are right, I feel too brave; I will leave in the morning at daybreak. But for now I drink.”

  I don’t remember much after that, only registering the cold kitchen floor. I raised myself up and by four o’clock in the morning I packed a bag and headed out. My head was cloudy and I felt nauseous. I had to stop on occasions to get air. When I knew daylight was coming I opened the window and took in deep breaths of the cold mountain air.

  The heavy wind had been blowing hard, and it took concentration to stay on the road until I reached the protection of the mountains and the wind calmed down.

  When daylight arrived, I was already close to Geneva and I could see the curve of the lake in the distance. I knew that in some thirty minutes I would be close to the French border. I was famished and hadn’t eaten anything substantial for weeks. As I looked at my face in the rearview mirror it looked gaunt and my skin almost white. The French do wonderful breakfasts, I thought, with wonderful croissants and delicious breads with jam and butter. My stomach ached.

  It was clear daylight when I crossed the border and a fine rain started to fall. The wind had fallen and I could see the tops of the white-capped mountains spreading out into the distance. I checked the map and thought that Annecy would be a good place to stop, but that was another forty-five minutes. I thought about bread rolls and strawberry jam and rich black coffee.

  As soon as I entered France I could feel the fog in my head starting to clear. It had been a hell of a few weeks. Yet despite the drunkenness and sadness, one thing had remained. I was going to kill Roberto and David. I just had to figure out how to do it and not lose Maria and Liv in the process.

  CHAPTER XX

  THE SUMMER OF CAME very late that year, and by early June I was living in a small white-stoned house close to the port of Camargue, a small fishing village north of Montpellier. The summer passed under blue skies, with only the occasional storm as a temporary relief from the heat.

  The house was solid and built on a narrow piece of land between a harbor and the open sea. When the wind was low and the air was light, I would walk out to a stoned jetty close to the house and fish for loupé. When the sun was bright I would eat lunch on the terrace, and some nights, if the mosquitoes weren’t too persistent, I would also have dinner there. It was a small but comfortable house and I rented it from a retired couple who lived in the house next door.

  Even in early June this part of France didn’t attract the masses of holiday seekers. The beaches were mostly empty and the sea was full of fishing boats. It was quiet and peaceful.

  That morning the sun was high on the window of the bedroom, and the room grew warm. The warmth made me uncomfortable and I slowly woke. I washed and went down to walk on the beach. I saw that Madame Duflow had left fresh croissants and coffee on the patio table along with a note inviting me for an aperitif that evening. I poured the coffee into a plastic cup and took the croissant with me along the path through salt grass that lead to the ocean.

  I walked past the jetty and into a small fishing village four kilometers away. There was a pleasant café that served strong espressos and sold the international papers. I sat there trying to read but my mind kept wandering. I felt I had weighed up all the options now and the only concrete solution was poison. It was the only practical way to do it and not get caught.

  That afternoon, I started again on my research in the local library. I was always careful not to leave any trace of my readings, but read everything I could get my hands on. Over the weeks I had become an expert on different types of poison, which would be the means by which I would eliminate.

  There are many different types of poison, and cyanide was a popular weapon of choice for novelists and spies over the years. But getting hold of the stuff would be practically impossible and would raise too many questions. It was really just a question of which type of poison. But it must be poison. It was only by poisoning that it could look like a heart attack or something and nobody would ask too many questions.

  I closed my book and embraced the idea of poison once again. My mind started racing with ideas. Perhaps the trick here was not to examine every little thing too closely, nor debate every option too much, but to go with a gut feeling when choosing action.

  Afterward the library, I walked down to one of the cafés that lined the canal close to the lighthouse of the town and sat in the corner with a heavy mug of beer and a packet of pretzels. There salty flavor and the way they made the beer taste were delectable. I watched the afternoon fishing boats return one by one with their sails down and motors chugging slowly by. They headed up the canal, which bordered a small road lined with cafés, and shops and one hotel. It was a quiet and friendly town. Tomorrow I would come here again and fish off one of the main jetties that ran out from the canal through the center of town and out into the sea.

  The pretzels were making me thirsty so I decided to stay for another
, and ordered a dark beer this time. I was now in the mood for fishing and wished I had brought my casting rod and tackle. The brightness of the road from the café and the glare of the jetty was too inviting. The sun was still high and it felt warm, despite the cool, fresh breeze. A young boy came in front of the café and cast out across the flow of the water from the side of the canal and over the rocks. His bright orange quill float and sand worm flew gently in the air from his long pole into the depths of where he guessed the fish might be feeding. I sat there watching the float.

  So there you are. I was sorry for him in a way, but it was not a thing you could do anything about, because right away you ran to David’s failings. I could picture it now. Death by poisoning. I really have a rotten habit of picturing death in all its forms.

  Madame Duflow had taken away the breakfast tray by the time I arrived back at the house, and had left another note reminding me of tonight’s apéritif. I really didn’t feel like socializing, but I imagined for her it would be nice, and if I wanted to stay some weeks longer—which I did—I had better try and make the effort.

  The mosquitoes were out and I brushed a few off my face as I walked up the dry and dusty white path toward Madame Duflow’s house. Madame Duflow was a retired guide for one of the big French tour operators and had spent thirty years of her life traveling the world. She spoke a number of languages and was always polite and hospitable. She had short gray hair and spoke with a slight Irish accent when she spoke English. Her husband had been a professional musician and played the cello. They were both retired and six years ago purchased the two neighboring houses with the intent of fixing them up and renting them out during the summer season. It gave them a steady income and something to occupy their days. She would clean, organize and handle the guests and manage reservations, while Monsieur Duflow would do very little, spending his days fishing and playing bridge with the local fishing croonies.

  “Bonsoir,” I said as I arrived through the opening of the thick green hedges that separated their garden from the dusty white path.

  “Ah, Monsieur Hoffman!” Mme Duflow said with an air of excitement.

  “Henry! Henry!” she shouted for her husband. “Monsieur Hoffman est là!”

  She turned to me.

  “Asseyez-vous, monsieur,” she said with a smile and pulled out a seat. I sat down and she poured three large glasses of rosé wine. There was a green and black olive tapenade with pieces of torn off bread in the center of the table.

  “Venez ici, Henry!” she shouted up to the window once more before turning back to me.

  “Alors,” she smiled. “How are you, Monsieur Harry? Are you enjoying your stay here?”

  “Yes, merci,” I said. “The house is wonderful and very comfortable. Thank you for the coffee and croissants in the mornings. It’s really very nice of you.”

  “Oh, do not mention it,” she said, waving her hand.

  Monsieur Duflow came outside with an unlit thick cigar in his mouth. I stood up and shook his hand.

  “Done much fishing, Harry?” he asked through his white beard.

  “Yes, I try to fish every day,” I said. “In the afternoons mostly.”

  “Any grande loupé come your way?” he asked. “Where do you fish?”

  “Not really,” I shook my head, “I only seem to be able to catch small ones, but they’re still big enough for a good dinner. I fish out on the jetty close to here.”

  “Ah yes, that’s a good spot,” he said. “You can also try the canal. There is good fishing there too. I should take you out on the boat one morning and show you what size of fish our small town can really offer. I don’t want you going away with the impression that we only have small fish in our waters!”

  “Yes, I’d like that.”

  Mme Duflow picked up her wine and held it up. “Santé,” she said, and we all touched glasses.

  “It’s the first time we have a writer stay with us here,” she smiled and seemed proud. “Tell me, are you working on a roman nouvelle here at the house?”

  “Not really,” I said, “I’m down here more on a fact-finding trip.”

  She seemed disappointed.

  “Would you like to set one of your stories down here in the south?” she asked.

  “It’s possible, yes. It’s really inspiring country.”

  She seemed happier.

  “What do you think of the wine here in France?”

  “It’s lovely,” I said.

  “You know, there wouldn’t be any vines in France if it hadn’t been for America.”

  “How so?”

  “Back in the 1860s, a beetle killed almost every vine in France. Then they found out that some American vine was resistant to the bug, and they brought over millions of vinestocks and grafted the European vines onto them. There you go—the basic history of modern wine in thirty seconds.”

  “Very interesting.”

  Monsieur Duflow abruptly changed the subject. “Is there good money in writing these days?”

  “There is if you can write well.”

  “And can you?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Write well?”

  “I try my best.”

  “So have you published anything?”

  “Henry, I told you this already,” his wife scolded him. “You really never listen. Harry gave me a copy of his last book. I’m really enjoying it, Harry.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and quickly tried to change the subject. “This is good wine Madame Duflow. Is it from the region?”

  “Mais oui!” she smiled. “It’s actually from my cousin’s vineyard. It’s close to Nîmes. About an hour’s drive from here.”

  “It’s okay,” said Monsieur Duflow with disinterest. “I’m more of a cognac drinker.” He leaned in. “When I want to get drunk, I don’t want to spend all night trying.”

  “Oh, shut up, Henry,” Mme Duflow scolded him before turning back to me. “Excuse my husband.”

  “I would really like to visit a vineyard while I’m here,” I said. “Does your cousin give tours?”

  “Normalement, non,” she said. “Mais, I could call her and ask.”

  “That would really be something. I’ve always wanted to see the wine making process.”

  “It’s no problem. She used to run tours but stopped a few years back after a man collapsed and died in the middle of her tour.”

  “Heart attack?” monsieur asked.

  “I told you about this,” she snapped at him once more.

  “How did he die?” I asked. She leaned forward and took a piece of bread and topped it with the green tapenade, ate it and sat back.

  “He died from carbon dioxide poisoning, CO2,” she said, shaking her head. “You see, my cousin makes mainly rosé wines and the methods used are different from red wines.”

  “So how did he die, exactly?” I asked.

  “From visiting the tanks when there was too much CO2 in the air from the fermentation.”

  “I understand very little about fermentation or the winemaking process.”

  “Let me explain. So we cut the grapes, yes?” she began. “We cut them from the vines and bring them back to the château and press the grapes for their juice.”

  “That I understand,” I said. “And when you press them is it still done with your feet?”

  “Non, monsieur,” she tutted, shaking her head. “Most vineyards these days have modern presses, except maybe those in Champagne. So then, once pressed, the juice from the grapes gets decanted for one night and then put in big tanks with yeast inside. That’s when the fermentation process happens.”

  “And that’s how it becomes alcohol?” I asked.

  “Exactement,” she nodded. “The sugar from the juice with the help of the yeast turns it to alcohol, and when it’s turning there is a lot of CO2. Let’s say you have breathing problems, it’s not advised to go and visit these tanks when the wine is in the fermentation process.”

  “And that’s how this tourist di
ed at your cousin’s vineyard?” I asked.

  “Oui,” she sighed. “My cousin has a fermentation room with about twelve large tanks. It’s damp and has very little air inside. He was asthmatic, and during the days when they were changing one or two of the tanks, by taking the new wine out and removing the yeast which had fallen to the bottom, the CO2 was at its most deadly.”

  “But isn’t CO2 impossible to smell?” I asked. “How could you know it’s at a high and dangerous level?”

  “Some of the more modern vineyards have fans inside the tanks,” she said. “But what’s dangerous for one person is quite different for someone else.” David was asthmatic, I quickly thought to myself.

  “So when is the CO2 at its most deadliest?” I wondered and sat up straight.

  “As I said,” said Mme Duflow. “When they start emptying the first few tanks and remove the yeast. The air is heavy and it smells very strange, almost like a mixture of sweet grape fruit and alcohol. It’s really a very strange and unique smell.”

  “But I guess more and more vineyards these days are modernizing so the risk is less and less?” I asked.

  “Not really,” she shrugged. “Vineyards tend to stick to the old fashioned ways of winemaking and they reject much of this so called technology.”

  “Could you please call your cousin and arrange a tour for me tomorrow?” I asked.

  “It’s a bit late to call now,” she said. “But I will call in the morning. What time would you wish to visit?”

  “Anytime,” I said.

  CHAPTER XXI

  IT WAS STRANGELY EASY to forget any morals when plotting a murder. I imagined David in the tank room; the sound of his voice in my ears was exactly the same as I had remembered it. I could even smell his overpowering cheap cologne. I could picture him taking an interest in the tanks and listening attentively, but finding it strangely difficult to breathe and then a sudden drop to the floor. There would be some coughing, crouching, suffocating and then a half-baked attempt at resuscitation by me; Then gone, dead and silent.