by The Weather Baker's Son [Dreamspinner, World of Love MM] (retail) (epub)
The body of the blond young bicyclist lay by the shore. The shocking golden curls of the well-built young man might have looked effeminate on any other man, but his angular face was heightened even more in its masculinity by their profusion. His body gently tugged by the waters of the Rhone River, his face had ended upright when he had washed ashore among some reeds, his body now entangled and prevented from drifting farther downriver. A faint rosy hue was imparted to the water and earth around his head, the last remnants of blood that had seeped from a deep gash on top of his skull, a gash then hidden under the thick hair. One arm was free in the water still and bobbed up and down with the current, its hand graced by a gleaming ring. Clad in a multicolored spandex bicycle suit only pulled up to his waist, the chiseled white chest of his body was not hard to see if you were near the riverbank.
It was quickly apparent to Peter that the man was dead. At that moment as he glanced frantically around him, he noticed the shape of a person move behind bushes back down the way he had come. He yelled out, “Hello, please help! I have found a drowned man!” But the person did not move forward; rather the figure could be seen crouching low and moving off among the trees away from Peter, who could not make out any more about the fleeing individual or identify that it was Mario. Peter, while momentarily surprised by the flight of the person, could not focus on this event given the matter at hand. He called for emergency help on his cell phone and relayed over the phone what he had found to the responders who were on their way. The memory of the person who had slipped off passed from his addled mind. The police and ambulance came, and then he was caught up explaining what he had found.
Back at the bergerie, Hélène had spent a pleasant late Monday afternoon reading her book, seated outside in the walled garden. She also continued to reflect on the notion that had come to her about Peter and Gaston. The notion that perhaps they were friends and indeed intimate friends, and that she had somehow interrupted them as she approached the bergerie Saturday night and that Peter could not bring himself to tell her. She had come to accept the situation if it were indeed so but intended to visit with Céleste and through idle chitchat consider any suspicions she might have. Her love for Peter was without question. As she hoped for new beginnings, she wished the same for her son, for him to find his way as he so determined. She had now drifted off to sleep in the warm dry air of the twilight. A delicious evening of relaxation, so well deserved for one who had been through so much!
As the evening settled in, the twinkling glow of fireflies surrounded her, like little stars blinking on and off. She half opened her eyes and delighted in the show, drifting in and out of sleep in the garden chair, thinking of seeing Raymond the next day, when he would come again to feed the fish, thinking of gradually getting to know him better. Slowly, as she nodded off, the little lights morphed into tiny little fires in her mind and pulled her back… back to that night, the night she stood on the hotel balcony, trapped, unable to get down the stairs, which were plugged with debris, waiting for help, observing little fires among the ruins spreading out in the distance along the shore. She had tried to figure out a path for herself from the balcony to the ground, but nothing seemed safe, below were jagged shards of glass from the ground floor windows of the hotel restaurant, jumbled in a mass of other debris. There were no ledges or pipes she could access to lower herself, and no one was paying her heed as she called down from her balcony. They were all intent on finding their loved ones or helping those with apparent injuries; Hélène could wait.
Eventually a path was cleared down the stairs, and she wandered outside among the debris, looking for any sign of the bus on which she last saw Robert. Eventually she found it crumpled between snapped palm trees stripped of their fronds. There was no sign of Robert. Bits of clothing and debris were in and around the bus, and the windows were empty of glass, the occupants having likely been sucked out of the bus by the raging waters that had swept it along. She wandered here and there, looking for any sign of hope, inquiring among clusters of people if they knew anything of the occupants, looking for any clue as to whether Robert might be alive. But all was fruitless. Over the ensuing days, there was no sign of Robert in the hospitals, at the makeshift morgues, or among the survivors in the hills, and after two weeks of sheltering in the room with no electricity and finding whatever sources of food she could, she had no choice other than to leave with other evacuees. Peter had managed after much difficulty to get a flight to Thailand and had looked with her, insisting there was no more they could do. And nothing further was ever found out, either by her or the company’s staff overseas. A few bodies of convention attendees were eventually found, but never that of Robert.
Hélène opened her eyes and realized she was in the bergerie garden with the twinkling fireflies all around her. She sighed—it was ever so. She might think she had finally found some peace but would be transported back to the events in Thailand so many years ago now. She slowly pushed herself up and out of the chair she had been sitting in, leaned over to retrieve her book, and made her way back to the house, feeling the weight of the years on her, and prepared to sleep, if sleep she could. A vision of Raymond then entered her mind again, and she resolved to try harder to put her cherished past behind her and aim for a new future.
But before she could lay her head on the pillow, a police van pulled up outside the bergerie… and out stepped Peter.
The police had driven an exhausted Peter back to the bergerie, his bike loaded in the back of their van. To Hélène’s astonishment she saw her son in a weak state, helped out of the van by two officers and escorted to the door. Peter thanked them as they left and fell into a big armchair, Hélène at his side, frantic and asking what had happened. A traumatized Peter spent the next few minutes describing to his mother what he had found at the Rhone.
Earlier Mario had wheeled into town out of breath and after quickly storing his bicycle away, snuck upstairs. His resolve to confront Peter had dissolved the instant Peter called out for help. He felt overwhelmed by the conjunction of events of Saturday night and Peter’s frantic cries for help. Instinctively he thought he could not get involved, and so he had fled. Mario’s head was spinning. Peter represented danger to those he cherished. He did not trust him and felt compromised being in the area where the body was found. Now, back above the shop, he needed those answers he thought could start to clear his mind. He waited to confront Gaston when Gaston would come upstairs, to have it out, and to demand why Gaston had not told him he was gay. Was he gay? How could this be so, for he did not know, and they were best friends? Why did he not know? Had Peter caused this?
He had assumed Gaston had left to make deliveries in the van. Time passed, but he did not hear Gaston come up. He looked down in the closed shop—no Gaston. He peered through Céleste’s windows—no Gaston. It was now Mario’s turn to sit in his room thinking of his friend, wondering where he was, fretting and punching his pillows, conflicted. He hated Gaston! No, he hated Peter! No, he hated Gaston! No! No! No! He buried his face in the pillows, confused yet increasingly alarmed, pondering, Where is Gaston?
Atop Mount Ventoux, Gaston, who had intended to make his way home, had instead finally fallen asleep in his parked van after two sleepless nights in spite of all his efforts to stay awake and leave.
Tuesday dawns
ON TUESDAY morning the rising sun illuminated the tiny town, at first reflecting in bloodred tones off the shop windows. The ominous colors belied the peacefulness of the otherwise warm and windless air. As the day brightened along the lines of plane trees marching up and down the lanes, their smooth white branches holding aloft their green tresses, among the townsfolk was nothing but consternation, half-spoken whispers, and sidelong glances. News of the tragedy quickly had spread through the little town, and people stood about inside and outside the weather baker’s shop. A dull drone of semihushed voices pondered over the situation.
“Indeed,” said one, “I saw myself the young man just this very Saturday. He got o
ff his bike as he entered town and looked in the shop windows. He seemed very pleasant, with a wide smile, not for anyone in particular, you know, but just happy so. To think the doctors believe he died that very Saturday night or Sunday morning!”
Another turned to a group about her and said, “I did not think it unusual to see a passing bicyclist in town. They do favor the route through our pretty little villages over the congested bigger towns, but he was a very energetic-looking fellow, someone who could take care of himself. He went to the washbasins to splash water on his face. I did see him linger there awhile. Isn’t it awful! Poor young man!”
As the murmurings went on, Padie was not seen to be stretched out as customary but rather whimpered at the unusual mood of the town as he peered from a safe distance over the terrace wall.
The town was on edge; surely no locals could be involved in the death of the young bicyclist? People theorized over the arrival of Peter and his chance discovery of the body, over the fleeing person he purported to have seen and that person’s possible involvement. Some said there was no such person, that Peter alone was somehow involved. Others stated that they had encountered Peter over the last few weeks and he was a fine young man. It was unfortunate he had to find this during his visit.
Mario entered the bakery sheepishly that morning, looking bleary-eyed and pale. His lie to Sylvie and Céleste that he had got hammered drinking Saturday night with soccer buddies and had stayed over at a teammate’s place seemed plausible and not without precedent. He indicated how embarrassed he was and that it would not happen again. Céleste and Sylvie might have asked more questions of him, but they would have to wait. The bakery was abuzz with clients talking about the death of the young man, and so they were distracted. Distracted by that and the fact that Gaston now had not shown up and that Gaston had also taken the van.
Gaston woke up atop Mount Ventoux, sitting in his van, shivering from the cold. The prospect had lost all charm for him as he faced another day of uncertainty. He knew he must return home but hesitated and only set off in the late morning.
At the bergerie Peter also had a slightly earlier start and, true to form, ended up at the bakery in spite of events. Peter approached the bakery from behind, through the private courtyard entrance, like a soldier circling an encampment, quietly entering the bake room, intent on seeing Gaston. He saw a figure bent over gathering things in a corner. From that angle and position, all that could be seen was that the figure was a strapping young man, and Peter had assumed it to be Gaston. He quietly approached the figure from the rear and placed his hand gently on the T-shirted back.
“Gaston, let’s talk. I miss you. We need to be together.”
His sentence was caught in the air as Mario bolted upright with a lurch and swung around to see Peter, who was equally startled and aghast.
Mario was going to punch Peter in the face, but as his muscles tensed to make a lunge, a sudden insight overwhelmed him, and like a deflating balloon, he settled right down. He was amazed at his own sudden change of course and self-control. It was not unlike his years of experience on the soccer field, where instantaneous changes of direction or play would come to him, causing him to brilliantly change course and come out victorious all the while concealing the outcome of his tactics from the other players. No wonder he was the star of the field. So too, he felt he had a game to win here; he had been handed the golden opportunity to control the ball, and he formulated an idea as to how to do it. So, he immediately said calmly to Peter, “May I help you?”
Peter was flabbergasted. He did not know Mario very well but had met him in passing. He had remarked to himself in the past that Mario was a handsome young man, looking quite like Gaston, but he understood him to be straight and therefore to be avoided. Peter fully expected to be involved in a fight due to his own rash and stupid maneuver.
Mario, meanwhile, as calm as a cat holding a twitching mouse by the tail, watched his prey’s befuddled eyes and shaking head.
Mario said, “You are looking for Gaston? I know where he is and would be happy to take you there. Give me a few minutes to arrange matters in the shop, and we can be off.” Mario left for the front of the shop. Peter could hear Mario talking to someone, presumably Céleste, and at most could make out that Mario was excusing himself for an hour while he went to get supplies. Mario hurried back into the bake room.
“Come with me,” said Mario. “Gaston is down a path by the gorge where we would play as children.”
With that the two men left the bakery by the back bake room door, but not before Céleste had had a chance to approach the room as the boys were leaving, unaware of her presence. She overheard their destination as they parted. She could see Mario leaving the room behind Peter, and his demeanor caused the blood to rush from her face. His fists were clenched at his sides, and he had a look of intense hatred on his face, a look that Peter could not see. Céleste trembled at the sight and was about to call out to them, but it was too late: the door had slammed shut, and they were both gone from sight when she had rushed to open it.
Mario was trembling internally. His maneuver had taken more out of him than he thought possible. While feeling triumphant he could not help but start to shake visibly, as the play had required him to suppress all of his natural being, which was more geared to stand and fight on the spot than plan ahead. He was not sure he knew fully how to carry out his next move, but he indeed felt that he could not lose the opportunity to lead Peter on, to divert him from Gaston. He had an opportunity to control Peter that might not come again. His mind raced through a half-dozen potential outcomes as he strategized where to take this—once at the gorge should he confront Peter as a witness to the events of Saturday night and demand he stay away from Gaston, causing him to be fearful of consequences otherwise? Should he harm Peter, beat him up, demanding that he leave Gaston alone? Would that work better?
As Céleste turned back into the front shop to attend to clientele, the bottom fell out of her world as the police came by. They were distributing a pamphlet with information on the death of the German cyclist. She obtained one at the bakery door and was seen to cover her mouth with her hand and run into the shop, while other older women nearby laid their hands on their cheeks and shook their heads. The menfolk looked up toward the bakery, lost in thought, uncomprehending.
How the young man had come to be struck in the head was not apparent. The banks of the river had been combed for further evidence, but there appeared to be none at that time. The only explanation that seemed to make sense was that he had been attacked, that someone had possibly thrown a rock at him or had come up to him from behind while he was unawares and struck him over the head. Surely such a tall and muscular man could not have been overcome more directly! However, his bicycle and personal effects were nowhere to be found nearby, nor in evidence up and down the banks of the Rhone River itself.
In their attempts to identify the unknown tourist, the police had quickly distributed notices in hopes of gaining further information and showed among other things a picture of the ring he wore.
The ring was Gaston’s ring. Everyone in town knew this ring through contact with him while shopping at the bakery. Of course there could be similar rings elsewhere, but the coincidence was too great as the ring was a school signet ring with a coat of arms used at the local school. In addition it bore the initials G.L., which could only be those of Gaston Latourelle!
Within minutes of handing out their notices, the police received a tip as to who may be the owner of the ring. They showed up at the weather baker’s premises and asked for Gaston, wanted to question him with regard to the body found in the river, wanted to know where he was over the weekend as reports had filtered in that he was known to have the exact same ring as the deceased.
Céleste stood helpless and could only say, “Gaston is not here. I do not know where he is.”
In the air
AS PETER lay on the stretcher, he was struggling to understand his situation. How had he gotten
here? The rescuers were adjusting and strapping his stretcher more firmly for the helicopter ride when Peter felt the bump of a second stretcher and saw the bloodied muscular arm of another person next to his. He reached to squeeze what he thought was Gaston’s arm but before doing so stopped short as his memory improved and he realized it was Mario.
Previously Mario had finally determined that he would lead Peter down a secondary old path to the canoe landing, a path that he and Gaston had used since they were little instead of the main path to the canoe launching area. Along the deserted path, he thought he could confront Peter at an opportune moment. The old path had a warning sign at the top about unstable soil but both Mario and Gaston had used the path carefully since childhood and knew every twist and turn well. However, Mario was not his usual cautious self that day. He did not take into account the tenseness he felt as he led Peter down the path. Occasional pain from his still recovering wrist distracted his attention from what he was doing. The sound of Peter’s steps behind him, the occasional heat of Peter’s panting breath on the back of his neck when Peter caught up too closely, also annoyed him greatly. His anger was increasing with each step. He was walking with a heavier and faster pace than he had ever approached the trail before.
Mario’s heart was pounding fast as his anger increased. Why had this stranger disturbed the close friendship he had always known? Why had he led Gaston astray? Overhead the skies were darkening from the approach of an impending storm. Distracted, he examined the line of clouds. Still looking up, he was at the point of turning to confront Peter when he flinched at the sound of a familiar voice yelling down at him from above. “Mario!”
Losing his balance, he felt the ground slip away beneath him, with the river still two hundred feet below. He lost his footing as the earth gave way and went sliding down the cliff, his body cushioned by long tufts of grass, before landing limply on a ledge fifty feet below and losing consciousness. Peter likewise was caught in the small landslide and slid down to a point some twenty feet above Mario. Neither of the men was fully conscious nor able to yet comprehend their predicament.