The Bastard is Dead

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  After the organizer’s pitch, Burke agreed. He got some instructions, and the call ended.

  Another new experience on deck, although Burke guessed he’d likely be overwhelmed by the event and wouldn’t contribute much.

  Burke wanted to give his brain a rest, and the best way to do that was to go for a bike ride. He changed, grabbed his Cannondale and headed out, opting to climb over to nearby Vence. It wouldn’t be far, but it would be strenuous. When he reached the old village that seemed to be stuck in medieval times, he thought he might grab a coffee, and then maybe he’d pop inside the old chapel, where there were stained glass pieces done by Henri Matisse. He didn’t know much about art, but he’d always liked anything by Matisse, even his cut-and-paste paper creations.

  As Burke was leaving old Villeneuve-Loubet, he spotted Madame Marois walking Plato by the small green strip near the stream. The old woman was watching her dog root around in the bushes, and then she suddenly darted forward, kicking something away from Plato. She pulled him back, scolded him and then pushed the dog in another direction.

  Burke thought about approaching her to see how she was managing, but dismissed that idea. Someone else was going to talk to the old woman about having a meeting, and he didn’t want to upset any planning.

  If there ended up being a meeting, Burke expected it wouldn’t be pleasant.

  WHEN HE WALKED INTO Madame Marois’s living room that evening, he saw Jean and Bianca, Pierre and four others whose faces he recognized but names he didn’t know. He also saw Claude wedged into a small chair in the corner. His friend nodded at him and then tossed in a sly smile.

  Madame Marois was tucked into the side of her couch, looking like she wanted no part of this meeting. Plato was in her lap.

  “That is everyone,” Jean said, taking control.

  Introductions were made. Madame Marois barely looked at the others in the room. She had a small glass, filled with what looked like cognac, and sipped it occasionally. She sat rigid, stroking Plato’s head. The small dog had its eyes half closed, enjoying the attention of his mistress and ignoring the strangers in the room.

  Jean, who sat beside his wife on the couch, started by explaining that the people assembled were there because they wanted to make sure Madame was healthy and safe.

  “You’re sure it’s not because you are afraid for yourselves?” Madame said.

  Jean batted that one away. “Not at all,” he said, adding a warm smile. “We are here because we’ve noticed you have had a few—what is a good way to put it?—problems recently.”

  “I have not,” Madame snapped.

  Jean ticked off the kitchen fire, the occasions when Madame Marois had forgotten a task, and the lunch when she lost her keys.

  “All things that could happen to anyone,” she said. “Life is complicated, and it is natural to have moments of forgetfulness.”

  Jean was persistent and discussed other occasions, and he did so in a quiet, unassuming voice. He might have been a newsagent, but he sounded like a social worker.

  He continued, “Now, if your children were—”

  “No!” said Madame Marois. Her eyes flashed at Jean and then scanned the room. Her sudden energy was palpable. “I will not discuss my children, and I will not permit you to either.”

  “But, Madame, it is important to make sure you—”

  The old woman pointed a thin finger at the newsagent. “I said no.”

  Jean stopped. No one said a word.

  “How can we help you?” asked Bianca in a soft voice. “You need to be safe.”

  Madame Marois’s eyes no longer blazed. She tilted her head and looked at Bianca.

  “I will have someone come in and help me with meals,” she said. “I have a maid for the apartment. I will ask her. I believe she can cook.”

  She stood, forcing Plato to jump to the floor.

  “Thank you for your kindness,” she said. “But now I must take Plato for his evening walk.”

  And with that, the meeting was over. It had lasted three minutes at most.

  Burke hadn’t said a word, and he doubted his presence had added anything. As he walked out of the apartment with the others, he imagined everyone felt it had been a total failure. Still, he believed doing something was better than doing nothing, and Madame Marois certainly needed to know she was not alone.

  He just hoped there wouldn’t be any more fires.

  Someone grabbed his elbow. Claude leaned toward him.

  “Maybe you have time for a little drink?” he asked Burke.

  “Sure,” Burke said. “Your place or maybe mine?”

  “Yours will make for a nice change,” Claude said.

  Burke led him to his apartment, where he poured them both a cassis, adding some water to thin the rich liqueur. They sat in the living room, which was still warm despite the hour.

  Burke figured Claude wanted to discuss Hélène, and he didn’t have to wait long to find out he was right.

  “I think you like my niece,” Claude said. “Am I right?”

  Burke wondered how carefully he should select his words. He decided to be candid.

  “I do, Claude. She’s a very nice girl.”

  Claude laughed and waved a hand at Burke in mock exasperation. “A ‘very nice girl’? That’s it? You can do better than that.”

  “All right, Claude, she’s terrific. Attractive and smart,” Burke said.

  “That’s more like it,” Claude said. “Now, before you think I’m here to ask what your intentions are, I just want to say that Hélène knows her own mind and makes her own decisions. So don’t be nervous around me. Watch out for my niece. She’s a woman who means to get the most out of life.”

  Burke nodded. Claude’s words had a sense of truth about them. Hélène had initially struck him as a young woman who was serious and had set goals in life. He now knew she was also passionate.

  “Now, let’s discuss Madame Marois,” Claude said, surprising Burke by the change in topic. “As we all know, she is not as sharp as she once was.”

  Burke said nothing. Claude’s point was indisputable.

  “I think it might be worthwhile to ensure Madame does indeed get more help at home,” Claude said. “She can certainly afford it.”

  Burke had no doubt about the last point either.

  “But why didn’t you talk about this when we were at her place?” Burke said. “We were all there.”

  “Because I knew it would do no good,” Claude said. “I have known Madame for many years, and I understand how she reacts. She is a very solitary person. She likes what she likes and is not open to other things. I told that to Jean when he was trying to organize the meeting, but he didn’t really hear me. I went along with the meeting, knowing nothing would happen. I believed the others needed to see that for themselves.”

  “Now I understand. You wanted us to see what Madame Marois is really like.”

  “That’s right and now you know,” Claude said. “For some strange reason, I rather like Madame and want to help her. She can be miserable and demanding, but I think underneath those characteristics, she’s a good woman. So, if someone else has a good idea that might help her, I would like to hear it.”

  Burke shrugged. “OK.”

  “We were talking about Madame getting more care. In fact, I have done some homework and learned that Madame can afford at least a little help,” Claude said. “Her husband made one fortune in Paris and then added a second one from other investments. He then got into real estate in the south and made even more money.”

  “Who are you, Sherlock Holmes or Inspector Maigret?” Burke said.

  “It’s amazing what you can find with Google,” Claude said. “Here, pour me another cassis and I’ll give you more information about Madame.”

  Burke tipped more of the sweet, dark liqueur into Claude’s glass, then sat back and waited.

  “Madame and her husband became quite the socialites in Paris. They also gave away a fair amount of money, which made
them even more popular. Then came the riots of ’68.”

  Burke couldn’t recall much about those riots. They happened before he was born, and Burke had never been one to read history books.

  “I was just a young boy when they happened,” said Claude, seeing Burke was struggling to recall the riots, “but I remember watching television with my parents and seeing all the violence. It started with university students going on strike against the discrimination among the different classes, and it went from there. Tear gas, rock throwing, beatings, arrests. Students and professors and workers. Very, very ugly. De Gaulle made a mess out of it. It was probably the end of him politically.”

  “So what did the riots have to do with Madame Marois and her husband?” Burke asked. “And what does all that have to do with Madame needing help today?”

  “Patience, my friend,” Claude said.

  Burke nodded. “Sorry, I’ll listen.”

  “Well, their son was arrested and convicted of all kinds of things,” Claude continued.

  “What did he do?”

  “It sounds like he might have been one of the ringleaders. Anyway, his real troubles began when he preached for a communist overthrow of the government and suggested violence would work,” Claude said. “He made it worse when he attacked a policeman during a riot and beat him into a comma.”

  “Damn!”

  “He was arrested and sentenced to four years in prison,” Claude said. “Apparently, when he was in the dock being sentenced, he screamed all kinds of foul things at everyone and included his parents in his rant, calling them the ‘new aristocrats’ and saying they profited from the misery of others.”

  Burke thought of Madame Marois back in her apartment and how she had reacted when Jean had suggested bringing her children into the picture.

  “A number of years passed, and then Madame’s husband lost a large portion of the family’s fortune with some bad investments,” Claude said. “Not long after that happened, he died from a heart attack. He was much older than Madame. It made the news, since he had been such a prominent businessman for a long time.”

  “What about the daughter? Did you find anything out about her?”

  “Ah, the girl, yes, I did,” Claude said. “She was arrested during the riots as well, but she was released without any criminal record. Apparently, she wasn’t quite the same believer her brother was. She moved away a few months later.”

  “Any idea if Madame stayed in contact with them?” Burke asked.

  “I don’t know, but I do know that shortly after her husband died, Madame became involved in business,” Claude said. “It turns out she had a very good mind for it, too. She was involved in a number of big projects and made back some of the money her husband had lost. In fact, as I’ve just learned, she was also involved in the early years of FP Developments.”

  “In what way?”

  “She sat on the board for a number of years in the 1980s,” Claude replied. “She actually got involved with FP Developments not long after the company hired Vachon, although he wasn’t the big shot he is now. Back then, he was just another vice president.”

  “I wonder if she knows he’s around here these days,” Burke said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What happened to Madame after the 1980s? Any ideas?”

  “Google isn’t as helpful for that period, except for a suggestion that Madame gave away more money and then moved from Paris,” Claude said.

  “To here?”

  Claude shrugged. “She’s been here for years and years, but I would wager she lived elsewhere after Paris.”

  “Who did Madame Marois give her money to?”

  “Some went to various arts projects, but most went to a private clinic dealing with mental illness,” Claude answered.

  “Interesting woman,” Burke said. “Do you know anything more about her kids beyond where they live today?”

  “On Google, the daughter, Sophie, is mentioned a couple of times for being a volunteer with some parents’ organization. There was a photo of her on one website. Very handsome woman. A younger version of her mother.”

  “And the son?”

  “His name is Gabriel. He was involved in some anti-development protests in the early 1990s in the Alsace region, but that seemed to be the end of his protesting days. After that, it seems he settled down, even got involved with a few small businesses. These days, he runs an antiques store in Vienna. Maybe he’s waiting for her to die so he might collect an inheritance, although with what Madame said about him, he might not be in the will.”

  “There is definitely some animosity, at least on her part,” Burke said.

  “The question remains—how can we help her?” Claude said.

  “I think we can only monitor her from a distance,” Burke said. “Maybe we can talk to the helpers she hires. I guess we could also talk to someone in social services to see if they can help. Beyond that, I doubt we can do much more.”

  “Those were my thoughts as well, Paul,” Claude said. “I think I’ll chat with her helpers in the next few days. And I’ll phone social services and tell them there are people in the village willing to help. But mostly, like you, I will watch out for her and hope for the best.”

  Claude lifted his glass. “To our Madame Marois. Let us hope she lives well in her last years.”

  “Absolutely,” Burke said, clinking glasses with his friend. Looking after neighbors was something he had never done before, and he was surprised by the odd sense of loyalty he felt.

  THE NEXT MORNING, BURKE read that Mark Den Weent’s body had been released. A funeral would be held in three days back in his hometown of Apeldoorn in the Netherlands. If it was closer, Burke would go, but Apeldoorn was just too far away.

  After a quick breakfast, Burke decided to go for a ride and end at Rousseau’s shop, where he’d buy the heart monitor he’d been looking at the other day. If he was going to be serious about getting fit, it would be wise to log his efforts, and a heart monitor would help.

  A typical July day, it was already hot and sunny by 9 a.m. Some people complained about the heat and humidity in summer, but not Burke. He didn’t have air conditioning, and there were times when he baked in his small apartment, but he loved the summer weather because it rarely demanded a jacket. As for winter on the Riviera, it sometimes got wet and chilly, but it could never compare with the often brutal winter conditions in his hometown of Montréal.

  He wheeled his bike down the stone alley and by the small park that bordered the stream. The birds were singing up a storm in the bushes and trees.

  Madame Marois was there, sitting on the same bench he’d seen her on the other day. She was watching Plato sniff the grass with an intensity that suggested he was on the trail of something special.

  Burke was about to get on his bike and ride away, but decided he should say something to the old woman.

  “Bonjour, Madame,” he said.

  Plato stopped his survey of scents and studied Burke closely. The little creature then looked at his mistress, who waved him away. He seemed content to go back to cataloguing odors.

  “Bonjour,” Madame replied.

  “Beautiful day,” Burke said.

  Madame Marois said nothing. She was back to watching her dog.

  “I hope you understand that last night we were only trying to be helpful,” Burke said. “We don’t want to see anything bad happen to you.”

  Madame shook her head. “It’s my business,” she finally replied. “I am fine. I know there have been some occasions where it has been awkward, but I am managing.”

  Burke didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t want to push his concern.

  He looked down. Plato was sniffing by his feet.

  “He’s a good dog,” Burke said.

  Madame turned and looked at him. “He’s an excellent dog,” she said. “He’s well behaved and very intelligent.”

  Plato went to his mistress and sat contentedly against her left ankle.
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br />   “He’s certainly loyal,” Burke added.

  “He’s more than that,” Madame said. “He’s highly sensitive.”

  Burke hadn’t heard a dog described as sensitive before. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “He understands my moods,” she said, “and he reacts accordingly.”

  Burke studied the small dog. At that moment, Plato was the essence of relaxed, having given up exploring the different odors of the outdoors. His head was half dropping, and his eyes were almost closed as he curled around his mistress’s feet. It was nap time.

  “If I ever get a dog, I’d like one like Plato here,” Burke said.

  Madame did something that surprised Burke—she smiled at him.

  “You would be fortunate,” she said. “Are you fond of dogs?”

  “I had dogs when I was young,” Burke said, recalling a couple of lovable terriers his family had owned. “But I haven’t had one in years because I did so much traveling.”

  “Do you travel much now?” she asked.

  Burke realized the old woman knew little or even nothing about him. That wasn’t a surprise, though. Why should she know anything? They had rarely exchanged more than a few words at any one time.

  “Not much,” he said. “I was a pro cyclist. Now I’m retired.”

  “You’re still very young, probably not even forty,” she said. She looked at Plato and smiled. “You should get a dog. They are always loyal, always faithful and always protective. You can rely on them.”

  Madame Marois turned her gaze to the flowers beside her.

  The conversation was over. Burke wished her a good day and then walked away, getting on his bike in the adjacent parking lot.

  He rode to Nice, zipping along by the Promenade des Anglais. He pedaled around the Old Harbor, which, as usual, was busy with boaters and tourists. Then it was up the hill to Villefranche-sur-Mer. The hill wasn’t much, but Burke liked how it twisted and bent, forcing him to lean into the curves at the top and on the slight decline into Villefranche.