by Betsy Draine
“Excuse me?”
“What kind of work do you do for a living?”
“I have a little shop in Castelnaud, where I sell fossils and minerals.”
“Oh,” said Dotty, flagging momentarily. “Fossils and minerals! I’ll have to visit your shop while we are here.”
“It would be my pleasure,” said Marc.
Dotty stole a glace at his left hand. No ring. “Maybe tomorrow? In the afternoon?”
“If you like.”
Tourist chatter filled up the next few minutes. Toby lingered at the bar, talking with Patrick. Meanwhile, at our table Dotty enthused over Périgord and Marc played the role of helpful local. When Dotty began asking him questions about fossils, he grew animated. With slightly flushed cheeks, he leaned over the table in Dotty’s direction and expounded on the life cycle of ammonites. It occurred to me that he had been drinking while waiting for us to finish our dinner, and now, with two more whiskeys under his belt, he was beginning to unravel. Dotty was a practiced listener. In fact, by the time Toby returned from the bar with her glass of wine, we were all getting quite friendly. Unluckily for Dotty, Toby interrupted her siege on Marc by asking him about the other restaurants in town.
I turned to Dotty and, reverting to English, complimented her on her French. “How did you get so good at it?” I asked enviously.
“Not in charm school, like some I know,” replied Dotty, with an unguarded candor. “My father was out of work for a long time, and so I was sent to my aunt in New Orleans. I worked at the Café du Monde. A girl can pick up a lot of French waiting tables in that town.”
“You must have a good ear,” I complimented her, and I meant it. I never “picked up” any language, no matter how long I was exposed to it. Visiting my mother’s relatives in Portugal for a month as a teenager, I came home with no more than “muito obrigada,” and that’s because Grandma Silva drilled “thank you” into me before letting me get on the plane.
Perhaps my impression of Dotty required a second take. Blinded by her girly manner, I’d underestimated her. When Marianne called time, I paired up with Dotty for the walk back to the van. “How’d you like New Orleans?” I asked.
“Loved it! How could I not? It’s a long way from the coal mines to The Big Easy. And I sure do know which I prefer.” I didn’t reply, walking along the street toward the car park. She continued, “Don’t get me wrong. I love my family, but life was pretty tough in West Virginia. I lost my daddy and one of my brothers to the mine, and that killed mama pretty young. So I’m grateful today for every nice thing life has to offer.” I couldn’t argue with that. We settled ourselves in the van, with Toby back at my side.
On the return drive, we passed Castelnaud and Beynac floating high above the valley, both dramatically illuminated by floodlights from below, standing out against the star-filled sky. I was sleepy by the time we pulled up in front of the château. We said our good nights and climbed the stairs to our room. Toby entered, flicked on the light, and headed for the bathroom. I hung back, pausing again before the strange portrait hanging outside our room. It was eerily lit by the light from our doorway.
I saw now that the painting had strength of a kind, but it wasn’t in the least attractive. Again I wondered what had prompted the artist to paint such a portrait with bitter brush strokes. He looked down at me with the hint of a snarl, this arrogant young man. The rolled sheet of paper in his grasp seemed brandished as a threat. Tomorrow I would start work in the archives. Maybe then I would find out who he was.
6
SLEEP DIDN’T COME EASILY. As I tossed in bed, I blamed my edginess on the after-dinner drink. But it wasn’t the walnut liqueur that had unnerved me, nor was it the portrait this time. It was our conversation with Marc. I had identified with his panic at being a suspect—being one myself. And his story about the injustice done to his father sparked my sympathy. With immigrant grandparents on both sides of my family (Portuguese and Irish), I tend to empathize with outsiders who can be pushed aside by the establishment. And now, between my sympathy for the underdog and Toby’s sociability, we had allowed ourselves to be drawn into a public alliance with Marc. How were we going to convince the police we weren’t involved with him?
When dawn filtered through the curtains, I dressed quietly and went to seek that cup of early-morning coffee Madame Martin had said would be waiting in the kitchen. She looked startled to see a guest that early, but she cheerfully left off cleaning raspberries to pour me a cup, served with a pitcher of steaming milk. We chatted about what types of raspberries were ripe and when, and by the time I had finished my coffee, we were both ready to leave the kitchen. She was off to the patisserie in Beynac to pick up brioches for the breakfast trays. Sensing that I was out of sorts, she offered to take me along. I hated to say no to her, but I had another idea in mind. I thought a walk to the little chapel on the cliff might repair my spirits. (It was early enough that I probably wouldn’t risk meeting Guillaume.)
Following Madame Martin’s instructions, I turned the key in the French doors at the back of the salon and took the path into the gardens and around the cliff. Already near seven, the sun was warming the earth and the dew was burning off into mist. I made an effort to take deep breaths, savoring the moist air and the calm of the wooded path. My stride grew long and free, and I felt calmer by the time I reached the shrine at the end of the path. Its door was open.
I took two resolute steps and stood before the Black Virgin on her white altar. Once again I noted the offering plaque on the wall inscribed “Deliver us from evil.” Murder, suspicion, and uncertainty had thrown me off balance, and the message seemed to speak for me. This time, I would light a candle. The roses were still in their vases, and there was the same mix of spent and half-used candles piled next to the four-pronged candle-holder. And again, there was no match. Even in the growing morning light, the grotto was dim. There must be a match-holder somewhere on the altar. I fumbled around with my hands, first behind the rose vases, and then to each side of the statue. Feeling nothing but altar-cloth, I leaned forward and reached back to explore the area behind the Virgin.
“Ah, non, Madame!” I heard, as I felt my right arm seized at the elbow. I swerved, to see Fernando looming over me, about to grasp my other arm and pull me back.
“Stop!” I protested.
“No, you stop, Madame!” he replied harshly.
I mustered just enough French to ask him what he was doing. He rudely shot the question back to me: What was I doing?
“Nothing but looking for a match to light a candle with,” I replied.
“Ah!” He looked surprised, then suspicious. “You are a believer?” He still had me by one elbow.
“Do I have to be a believer to light a candle?” I asked testily, shaking my arm free of his grasp.
Confusion played across his features. He grunted and took a step backward. “Excusez-moi, Madame. I’m responsible for this shrine, and no one is allowed to go beyond the candle stand in front of the statue.”
“Very well,” I conceded. “Next time I come, I’ll bring my own matches. And of course I’ll respect the boundary line in front of the statue, as you wish.”
He nodded curtly. The rudeness with which he stood his ground irritated me. Not to stoop to his level, I uttered a polite, “Au revoir, Monsieur,” as I turned to regain the footpath and return to the chateau.
Describing this encounter to Toby over brioche and coffee only roused my ire. Toby was incensed. “Let me know if he ever tries to lay a hand on you again. He’ll end up looking like pâté.”
“Don’t worry, I will.” While Toby showered, I lay back on the bed, reliving my misadventure with Fernando. I must have fallen asleep, for it was almost ten when Toby waked me gently, saying it was time to get ready for the cooking class. The nap had done me good. I felt much better.
When we arrived in the dining room, all but Dotty were assembled. Roz and Patrick were chatting about whether brioche was properly French or, rather, I
talian. David and Lily were peering, with some repugnance, at the stuffed heads of deer and boar mounted on the long wall of the dining room.
As we approached our fellow students, we heard Dotty calling from the salon behind us, “Don’t start without me—I’m coming!” And sure enough, she made a grand entrance, swishing great volumes of flowered skirt. Her waist was cinched tight, and the lace on her white blouse dipped recklessly at the strategic point. I tried not to notice. And not to disapprove. The woman needs a man, I told myself, and she’s using what she’s got to get one.
At this moment, the kitchen doors opened, and Marianne appeared, to lead us into the great cuisine. She looked different today. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, and she was dressed in chef whites. Very clean, very efficient. “This will be your classroom,” Marianne said with a smile, looking more attractive as she did so. “We hope you’ll enjoy learning here as much as I did, many years ago.” She led us deeper into the kitchen. “We have kept the grand fireplace, as you see—now it’s a display space for the big old pots and the copperware. Today we have ovens and stovetops to do the work the fireplaces used to do. And here at this oaken table, which has been in this room, we believe, since the beginning, we are going to cook—and eat, and talk—just as our ancestors did, in centuries past.”
A length of about four feet in the middle of the long oak table was covered by red oilcloth, which was stabilized at one end by a wooden cutting board, flanked with knives and pounders. The other end was weighed down by four white bowls, each filled with ruby-red raspberries. Marianne motioned us to seat ourselves on the cane-backed chairs flanking the two bare ends of the table.
“I think you already know my helpers,” she continued. “Madame Martin will be my sous chef, which is ironic, since I learned to cook at her mother’s knee.” Madame Martin, standing just behind Marianne, smiled proudly.
Gesturing toward the big sink in the corner of the room, she pointed out a male figure in a white outfit, with a bright blue scarf holding back black curls. He had been hidden from view as we entered. “Our assistant will be Fernando, who, you will find, is a jack-of-all-trades.”
I flinched as he turned his unsmiling face and gave us a quick, severe glance. I was sorry to be seated so I had a full view of his station, but I was glad my back wasn’t to him—that would have made me even more nervous. Toby shot a warning look in his direction, but by then Fernando had already turned away. I patted Toby’s arm to reduce the tension. He nodded reassuringly; we didn’t need a scene.
“This will be your menu for the day,” Marianne said, producing for each of us a single sheet headed with an announcement of the three courses for our lunch:
Salade de chèvre et d’huile de noix
Green salad with goat cheese and walnut oil
Escalopes de dinde sautées aux morilles et noix
Turkey scallops pan-fried with morel mushrooms and walnuts
Coupes de framboises marinées
Cups of marinated raspberries
Underneath the menu, the salad title was repeated and there was a list of ingredients followed by a blank space. I looked on the other side of the paper and found that the turkey and dessert dishes were treated the same way. The name of the dish and a list of its ingredients were there, but there was an empty space where recipe directions ought to be.
“Our sessions will be collaborations,” Marianne explained. “For each class, I have selected two courses for which the technique is easy. I will prepare those quickly in front of you. Then there will be one course where you need to practice a technique, and I will call on you to do that. Meanwhile, for all the dishes, you will write the directions down as you observe me. Don’t worry, at the end of the course you will receive a booklet of the recipes with my directions—but what you write down yourself is what you’ll remember best. So, have faith in your eyes and ears, and don’t forget to keep taking notes.”
The raspberries got tackled first. Marianne cautioned simplicity in treating fresh fruit and yet encouraged creativity in choosing an accent flavor. She proceeded to toss one bowl of berries with a few tablespoons of sugar and shreds of freshly cut mint. There was no mixing spoon, just Marianne’s clean hands, taking care not to bruise the tender berries. With each bowl, she upped the ante—adding lemon juice and a larger quantity of sugar to the second bowl, dousing the third bowl with two tablespoons of raspberry eau-de-vie and a dash of sugar, and lacing the last batch with cognac and honey.
Toby, I noticed, had lost his focus because he was periodically casting about for Fernando, who was in and out of the room. Whenever their eyes met, Toby sent him a piercing glance, which Fernando shrugged off nonchalantly. I began to worry that Toby was getting too worked up.
Within a short time, Madame Martin was carrying the berry bowls to a closed cupboard, and we were on to the next course, or rather, to the first. Marianne explained we had started with a dish that benefits from advance preparation—those berries could marinate for half a day, if necessary. We would proceed to a dish that should be prepared just before serving, a simple salad dressed with walnut oil. And we would serve it (to ourselves) immediately, as a first course, even though in France the traditional place for salad is after the meat. The salad proved delicious, a concoction of lettuce leaves coated with walnut-oil vinaigrette and topped with a slice of warmed goat cheese and a fresh leaf of basil.
I was totally absorbed in the lesson and for the time being forgot about Fernando—until his sudden presence at my right side put me back on edge. He was only taking away my salad plate, but I reflexively pulled in my elbows and avoided his touch. As Fernando reached to remove Toby’s plate, Toby stayed his hand by grasping his wrist. “I’m not finished yet,” Toby said slowly, looking down at his plate, which still held a few leaves of lettuce. Then he relaxed his grip, a second later than was friendly. Fernando shrugged and moved away. “Just a little pissing contest,” Toby whispered cheerfully, “to give him something to think about.”
“Men!” I muttered, shaking my head. But I wasn’t entirely sorry he had done it.
As Fernando continued with his removals, Marianne began preparing the meat course. She stood at the cutting-board end of the demonstration area and accepted from Madame Martin a plump but small turkey breast, about the size of an open hand. With a thin carbon-steel knife, Marianne cut quarter-inch slices and gave each a light pounding, to halve its thickness. As she worked, she explained this turkey breast came from the aviary kept by Fernando’s wife, Elena. The household relied on Elena’s bird pens for quail, partridge, and pheasant, and on her fowl runs for free-range chicken, duck, geese, and turkeys. Marianne added that we should make a point of walking over to their cottage to see the birds. I looked up at Fernando, who was about to wash the salad dishes, but he seemed not to have heard. He stood stiffly, with dishes in either hand.
For the next hour, we worked at the stovetops, frying bacon and onions, tossing morel mushrooms in the bacon fat, and creating a vegetable sauce by adding chopped green peppers, shallots, celery, and white wine. While all this simmered, we sautéed the turkey scallops and sprinkled them with chopped walnuts. It was almost time to eat. I turned from the stoves to get another glimpse of Fernando, and there he was, rapidly resetting the table for the main course—that is, working well in tandem with his boss, Marianne. I turned my attention back to our teacher and took notes on her instructions about presentation. Then, like the rest of the students, I returned to my place at table, with a filled plate in hand. Marianne and Madame Martin sat in the middle, where the oilcloth had been, and ate with us, while Fernando attended, pouring wine and water, and waiting for the time to clear.
In true French fashion, coffee came after dessert, and we chatted about our plans for the rest of the day. David and Lily were going to visit the archaeology museum at Les Eyzies, but David suggested we four should take a walk over to the bird coops beforehand. I was for it. That would revive my energy, before my long sit in the library. And I was secretly
grateful I’d have company with me when I ventured onto Fernando’s turf. I was curious to see the birds, but I wouldn’t want to go alone.
A path led us behind the old stables and across a mown field to a group of outbuildings. Between a wooden shed on one side and a two-story house on the other, the ground had been cleared and covered by a neat structure of poles and chicken wire, creating an open-air aviary that was almost as large as the house itself. All manner of fowl were caged in there, kept from flight by a mesh roof. They huddled into the half that was shaded by a linden tree. I recognized the quail and pheasants Marianne had mentioned, but there were many smaller birds too. The pen was clean, and the birds looked alert. They gave only a healthy pungent scent, which was lucky, since the house was feet away, and outside the kitchen door there was a pebbled patio with table and chairs, where Fernando and his wife doubtless took their summer meals.
Lily and I lingered in front of the aviary, trying to name the birds and wondering whether the medium-sized ones were crows or some French species with a more appetizing name. Our men had moved quickly toward the vegetable garden, which lay beyond the house. We noticed the garden was as large as a tennis court, and its rows were meticulously hoed. The midsummer crops were closest to the house— lettuce, peas, beans, peppers, tomatoes, and summer squash—with ranks of corn and leeks and onions behind, followed by plants that would ripen later: carrots, potatoes, and winter squash. Behind the aviary a grassy field was cordoned off for a pen containing ducks and small turkeys. Next to that was a chicken yard with a thickly canopied tree and a roofed hut for egg-laying and chick-tending. Beyond the pens was an orchard of walnut trees, fenced round to keep in a huge flock of geese. Wherever there was shade, fowl were waddling and pecking at the ground.
David returned, tapping his watch, and announced he and Lily had to hurry off. I didn’t see where Toby was but assumed he was exploring, so I decided to do the same. I said goodbye to the Presses and started walking toward the goose yard, when I noticed the squat tower at the left of the house’s roof-line. That was a pigeonnier—or dovecote. The tiny windows were for the entrance and exit of mourning doves. I raised my eyes, hoping to see one emerge. But I didn’t have to wait for that. A pair of slim gray doves was perched on the roof. I hesitated and then tried my version of a coo. That did it. One of the two birds flapped down and landed within two yards of me, on the doorstep of the dovecote. Suddenly I felt my pulse racing. The pierced bird in Lascaux could have been the twin of the one at my feet.