“And I gather that you’re stuck with me if we do qualify,” said Bruno.
“I doubt that we will. Fifteen-eight isn’t really good enough. And the best we can hope for is to qualify in second place. Freddy’s bound to win. Even if he weren’t such a top driver with a big corporate sponsor, he’s going to be the last car to race, which means he knows what time he has to beat. That’s a real advantage.”
“What do you mean ‘a big corporate sponsor’? What has that to do with how he races?”
She gestured at a large truck in the parking lot across the road with a big VW logo on its side. “That’s his support team with mechanics, spare parts and different sets of tires for the various conditions. There’s even a guy with a radio to tell him the times of the drivers who set off just ahead of him. These rally championships are big business, Bruno. Marcel isn’t paying for this car himself; he’s got Citroën behind him. You must have seen the Citroën advertising after they won the world rally championship. Victories sell cars.”
Bruno nodded, understanding that he was involved in something much bigger than he’d assumed when Annette had first appealed to him that morning. There was big business here and serious money, a great deal of organization and a whole subculture built around the rallies.
Suddenly, electronic feedback howled across the assembly area as the marshal at the blackboard started speaking into a bullhorn. He adjusted it, and the howl died. “No injuries,” he said. “Driver and codriver are unhurt. The car cannot be driven, so number seventeen is scratched. The race resumes.”
“What about the cars that were already on the track before the crash?” Bruno asked Annette.
“They’ll have been waved down by the marshals, and now they’ll have to come back and run again, once the tow truck has cleared the route.”
Marcel came up to them, his mobile phone at his ear. He said “Thanks” into the mouthpiece and then looked solemnly at Annette.
“I’m not sure you’re going to qualify,” he said. “I have a friend stationed on the course with a stopwatch. Number eighteen, Rostand, from Toulouse, was two seconds ahead of your time at the halfway point. Villeneuve from Cahors, number nineteen, matched your time. They’re two good drivers, both in Citroëns like yours, and then there’s the VW team.”
“And it usually helps to run again,” said Annette, looking crestfallen. Marcel shrugged.
“Come on, let’s take a stroll, see our friends,” said Bruno, taking Annette’s arm. “Until all the results are in, there’s nothing we can do but wait.”
Reluctantly, she followed across the assembly area to the hay bales where their friends were gathered with steaming mugs. Bruno could smell cinnamon and cloves.
“I know it’s not cold, but Miranda thought it would be fun to make some mulled wine,” said Crimson, holding up a large thermos. “You’re in the lead, so you deserve some.”
“Thanks, but not yet,” said Annette. “If there’s a dead heat we may have to race again, and there are some very good drivers to come.”
“This is my first time at one of these rallies,” said Gilles. “I’d never realized how popular they are. There are hundreds of people here and around the course. We had trouble finding a place to park.”
As he spoke, the marshal brought up the next car to the starting line and waved the flag to commence the run. Now Sylvestre and Freddy were no longer last in line; the three cars that had interrupted their runs because of the crash had returned to take their places at the rear. Bruno heard Fabiola and Miranda asking Annette what had happened to her English codriver, the three women drifting away to one side to talk among themselves. Good, thought Bruno, it will distract Annette from watching the clock.
“Do you know your face was absolutely white when Annette pulled up after her race?” Gilles asked. “You looked like you were going to be sick.”
“I very nearly was,” Bruno replied. With half an ear he could hear the women murmuring. He could pick up only individual words and phrases, like “migraine” and “handsome” and “serious” and “up to him.” They were evidently talking about Annette’s new boyfriend.
“You’ve no idea how fast it felt from the passenger seat,” Bruno said to Gilles and Crimson. “Make sure Annette doesn’t tempt Fabiola into taking up the sport. She drives fast enough already.”
The next car started badly, wheels spinning as the driver used too much throttle. He must have lost a second or two.
“That’s why it’s good to be one of the early ones,” Annette called across to Bruno. “The start is getting chewed up. We’ll have to watch that if we’re told to race again.”
“Where did Annette learn to drive like that?” Crimson asked.
“Madagascar, when she was working for Médecins Sans Frontières,” said Bruno, thinking that the mulled wine smelled very inviting. “But I think she has a gift; it seems to come naturally to her.”
At three-minute intervals, the remaining cars took off, a little slower than the earlier ones, the drivers cautious after seeing the first wheelspin. Then they began to come over the hill to the finish line. The first one was clocked at 15:10, the next one was 15:09, and then Freddy in his VW was just 15:03, beating Annette’s time by five seconds. The VW pulled over, and Sylvestre and Freddy clambered out, their fists pumping the air, and ran to embrace each other at the front of their car.
Annette was still in second place, but then the last car passed the finish line, timed at 15:08. The marshals began to confer. Annette had one hand to her mouth, the other hand clutching Fabiola’s arm. Her eyes were opened enormously wide. Bruno felt himself being caught up in her excitement. Would they have to race again?
Sylvestre strolled across to join them. Bruno shook his hand and murmured congratulations. Annette was now bouncing up and down on her toes as she waited for the marshals to do something. Finally one of them turned to the blackboard. Annette’s name remained in second place as the marshal filled in the tenths of a second. Annette had been timed at 15:082. Her rival for the vital second place came in at 15:084.
“We did it!” she screamed and turned to jump into Bruno’s arms, her small body trembling with emotion as she planted a smacking kiss on his cheek. “We’re in the national championship!”
Bruno forced himself to smile as he hugged her and pretended to be delighted, although inside he felt a foreboding that was mixed with dismay. Once had been more than enough. Their friends clustered around slapping them on the back and cheering. Philippe Delaron was taking more photos.
“Thanks,” Bruno said to Crimson. “I hope there’s enough of that mulled wine left in the thermos for me to have a glass or two. In fact, give me two glasses; there’s someone I should talk to.”
He took the glasses across to Sylvestre, who was leaning against his VW, eyes closed and head back, enjoying the last of the autumn sun.
“Congratulations again,” said Bruno, and handed him a glass. “Where’s your partner?”
“Freddy is in the marshals’ tent doing the paperwork.” He took the wine, sniffed it, sipped and then nodded his thanks.
“I heard from the mayor that you’re having some problems with your property here, and he’s asked if I could look into it, see if we could help.”
“I’d be very grateful,” Sylvestre said, his manner suddenly businesslike. “It’s because of one of those foolish family feuds that’s made worse by jealousy. My grandmother had a brother, and they shared the family property here when their parents died. It’s a pleasant little château with about fifteen hectares of land. Since my grandmother moved to Alsace when she married, she couldn’t use the farm, and she agreed with her brother to split the estate. She got the chartreuse and garden, and her brother, my great-uncle Thibaut, got all the land. She didn’t bother to get a formal easement from her brother giving her a right-of-way onto the property.”
Bruno nodded sympathetically, thinking he could guess what was coming.
“It was fine as long as Thibaut was alive,
but when Thibaut’s son Fernand learned that our side of the family was becoming wealthy through property investments, relations cooled a bit. When my grandmother died, it got worse. Fernand asked for the return of some of the family furniture she brought to Alsace when she got married. Naturally we discussed it the next time we came down here one summer to stay at the house. We were very polite and friendly, but we said no. Our grandmother had wanted the furniture to stay with her grandchildren. The family feud began, and pretty soon it started to escalate. You know Fernand keeps geese?”
Bruno nodded. “So do I, just a couple. They’re pretty common in the countryside around here.”
“Yes, but they’re very noisy. When we said no, Fernand moved a couple hundred geese to within about five meters of the back of our house, on land that was his. They started cackling just after dawn, and it went on until nightfall. That was the end of our vacation, and for about ten years we didn’t bother coming down here. But on principle we determined to keep the house. We paid the taxes, and then five years ago my mother came down for the twin-town reunion, staying at a hotel. She went to see the house and hired a local company to come and do maintenance, repaint the place, repair the roof and so on. She tried to see Fernand, but he wouldn’t let her into his house.
“Two years ago, I came down with her and saw the possibility of converting the house into three really nice residences, selling them and washing our hands of the place and of the other branch of the family. My mother refused. It was her family inheritance. She died last year, and I telephoned Fernand to invite him to the funeral, but he slammed the phone down on me. Then I wrote to him, saying what I proposed and that I’d send the builders in, put a swimming pool where the vegetables used to be and fix up the garden. He wrote back saying he had no objection to any building works I proposed. So I wrote thanking him and went ahead, putting over a hundred thousand euros into the conversion. When I came down this time with Freddy, I parked the car, unpacked and went to see Fernand, hoping that we’d be putting the feud behind us.”
“But it didn’t work out like that.”
“No, he met me on his doorstep, didn’t invite me in, and then gave me a nasty smile as if he’d been looking forward to this moment. He asked how I intended to sell any of these conversions when he wouldn’t allow any of the new buyers to cross his land to get to the place. That was when I found out there was no right-of-way.”
“He can’t stop you from getting access to your land.”
“He doesn’t have to. I can use a small and very narrow dirt track. But I can’t sell the residences as luxury holiday homes if that’s the only way in. And then this morning, Fernand fired the second barrel. The geese are back.”
7
When Annette came back from the caravan the race marshals were using as an office, she was hanging on to the arm of George Young, who was beaming, evidently delighted at her success. He seemed to have recovered from his migraine, if that was what caused him to miss the race, and shook Bruno’s hand to congratulate him.
“This calls for a celebration,” he said. “My treat—but you’ll know better where we can go around here, Bruno.”
Bruno scratched his head. On Sunday evenings out of season, Ivan’s bistro was closed, and there was not much choice in St. Denis beyond the local pizzeria. But Young was right; Annette was entitled to a celebration. Bruno had planned to make dinner for his guests from Alsace, a simple meal featuring some of his homemade pâté, followed by his vegetable stew, cheese and salad, all accompanied by the big round tourte of country bread he’d picked up from the bakery that morning. But Annette’s success deserved better than that. Had it been anyone else, Bruno would have called on Maurice, a local duck farmer, and picked up some fresh foie gras to fry very fast in its own fat and serve with a sauce of honey and balsamic vinegar. But although she was no longer a vegetarian, Annette drew the line at foie gras. Maybe he could call the baron and see if he’d caught any trout that day.
“Didn’t the mayor say there was going to be a special marché nocturne tonight, in honor of the race?” Annette asked. “I’m sure lots of the other drivers will be there, so I wouldn’t mind going.”
“I’ve never been to one,” said Young. “Let’s do it.”
The idea for a night market had started just up the road in the hilltop village of Audrix, where the local farmers were invited on Saturday evenings in summer to sell their produce from stalls erected around the village square, which the mairie filled with tables and benches for the public. It had begun modestly with pâtés, salads and strawberries, foie gras and cheeses, a stall that grilled steaks and lamb chops and another selling wine by the bottle. It proved highly popular with the locals as well as tourists and quickly expanded to include haricots couennes, beans cooked with pork rind, as well as pommes frites, omelettes and soups. Then a local farm began offering snails in their shells with butter and garlic, and the mairie rebuilt the village’s old stone baking oven in the center of the square to produce fresh bread and pizzas. By the end of the first season, local bands and singers were performing, there was a donkey cart to take children around the village, and it was hard to find a place at the tables. By the second year, half the villages of the Périgord were offering similar events.
St. Denis, never a village to rush into things, watched and waited. Bruno and the mayor and their friends sampled the other markets, observed what worked and what didn’t and carefully planned their own version. They didn’t want loud rock music, since they had learned that the diners liked to hear themselves talk. They decided to offer folksingers, jazz groups and balladeers until ten o’clock, and then a disco took over so the people could dance. Bruno and the mayor had tasted the cheap plonk sold at inflated prices in other markets, so they insisted on offering only good local wines and kept a close eye on the prices. With the local butcher they set up a proper barbecue that produced steaks, lamb, chicken and fish. Huge cauldrons were brought in to cook moules marinières and paella. Bruno persuaded his friend Stéphane to bring his cheese stall, the Vinhs to offer their Asian food, and Fauquet to keep his café open until midnight and to make vast quantities of his own ice cream.
They had brought Florence into their plans from the beginning, since she had persuaded the local education authorities that the best way to teach environmental sciences was to have schoolchildren run their own small farm at the collège. It was doing well enough to provide the night market with eggs, chickens, tomatoes, zucchini and lettuces. Florence also insisted on proper plates, glasses and cutlery rather than plastic forks and paper plates and arranged for the use of the collège’s industrial dishwashers. The older schoolchildren earned pocket money for setting up the tables and benches in the town square. Since Florence reckoned that there was not much use in the children growing food if they didn’t know how to prepare it, she had set up a voluntary cooking class in the collège kitchens after school hours. So the children had their own stall offering the pâtés, lemon tarts, apple pies and brownies they had made.
Bruno was proud of the town’s night market and happy to agree to Annette’s request. “It’s a warm enough evening,” he said.
“And it’s going to be a spectacular sunset,” said Young, looking at the scattered low clouds in the west, already touched with pink and gold as the sun began its slow decline.
“We arrange those specially for occasions like this,” came a new voice, and Yveline joined them, embracing Annette and adding her own congratulations. She was in her gendarme uniform, with the two white stripes of a lieutenant on her shoulders. “You’ll have to show me how to drive like that.”
“Please don’t,” said Bruno. “My nerves couldn’t stand it.” He introduced her to George Young as Annette’s friend, to make it clear he’d be joining them. “Are you on duty this evening, or can you join us at the marché nocturne in town?”
“I’m on duty, but I can take a meal break, and I’d probably take a stroll around the market anyway.” She glanced at Bruno’s fire-retar
dant driving clothes, smiling as she raised an eyebrow. “Will you change into your uniform, or will you be eating disguised as a snowman?”
“You’re right, I’ve got to change, but first I’d better call my houseguests to tell them where we’ll be having dinner. You’ll enjoy meeting my friend Thomas, Yveline. He’s another flic, municipal police like me.”
“Merde,” she said, rolling her eyes in mock horror. “Just what we need, another cop like you.”
After calling his friends, Bruno steered Young toward Monique’s, the new wine bar on the rue de Paris, to wait while he and Annette changed in the mairie. As they came out, they ran into Florence, who was supervising her pupils as they unloaded crockery and cutlery along with some of their pies and pâtés from the back of her car. Annette invited her to join their table for dinner.
“I’d love to. Another of my pupils is babysitting my kids this evening,” Florence replied. “But I may have to be up and down a bit, since I’m supposed to keep an eye on the youngsters.”
“I may have to take a turn at barbecue duty,” said Bruno, glancing across to where Valentin, the town butcher, was manning the grill. The tables in the square were beginning to fill, and Florence and Yveline sat at one to reserve spaces for them all. Annette and Young went to collect plates, glasses and cutlery from the stall run by Florence’s pupils. Bruno bought a bottle of white wine and another of red from Raoul at the town vineyard’s stall and took them to the table where Thomas and Ingrid had just arrived. He introduced them to Yveline and went to place an order for the meat.
Young joined Bruno at the barbecue, carrying plates and insisting on paying the bill. “I’ve ordered a small steak and a lamb chop for each of us, but chicken for Annette,” Bruno said.
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