Caravaggio's Angel

by Ruth Brandon

  A little less than an hour later, I arrived at Meyrignac. When I got there, I could see why there’d been no cars on the road. They were all here. Tuesday was market day, and the only free parking space almost on the town’s edge, beside the station – not that that placed it very far out. The station itself was standard ministry issue: three arched and glazed double doors placed symmetrically in a flat cream façade, neat seats and shelters, planked pedestrian gang-way leading across the rails, stationmaster’s vegetable garden. At my grandmother’s there had been a model town set with a station just like this, and as soon as I saw it I knew exactly what the rest of the place would be like. There’d be a grey-shuttered Hôtel de la Poste, a Café du Commerce with brown plastic tables outside, a gravelled champ de Mars where they played pétanque under the plane trees, a church, a mairie with a tricolour and Liberté Egalité Fraternité over the grand front entrance, a square with a fountain. There they would all be, and there, as I made my way into town, they were, so that this place, which I’d never seen before, felt oddly familiar, as though it was already part of my life.

  My route brought me into the main square, today filled with market stalls. Beneath a plaque marking the spot where twelve meyrignacois had been executed by the Germans in 1944, an ancient man in faded denims and a beret stood beside crates of farmyard fauna, cheeping chicks and ducklings, round brown quails, baby rabbits, fluffy grey goslings, all oddly interspersed with ropes of garlic, possibly a serving suggestion. Further on a row of stalls sold monstrous bras and girdles, violently coloured tops, low-cut dresses in deeply artificial fabrics, and arrays of curiously unfashionable shoes.

  It was hard making headway through the throng. Judging by their faces everyone in Meyrignac was related to everyone else, and market day a big family party devoted primarily to gossip, with buying a poor second. The summer’s invading foreigners stood out like light-houses. Meaty, lobster-pink sweating men and straw-hatted, pastel-bloused women towered blondly above the indigenous gnarled ancients and orange-frizzed house-wives. Dodging a wall of slow-moving baby-pushers, I made for the church tower, which could be glimpsed at the end of a winding street beyond an ancient stone archway flanked by cheese-stalls. Here was another small square, filled today by a farmers’ market. Wandering in a sort of daze, I found myself at a stall announcing its produce as ‘biologique’. I was beginning to feel hungry: perhaps this would be the place to buy a picnic. Cherries, for example. Though the cherries here weren’t as big and black as on one or two of the doubtless less wholesome heaps I’d noticed elsewhere. Still, size isn’t everything. At least you could eat this stuff without worrying about washing off the chemicals.

  By the time I reached the tourist office it was almost mid-day, and the girl at the counter, like everyone else in the market, was looking at her watch preparatory to closing up. She nodded when I mentioned La Jaubertie, and marked its position for me on a map: it was just south-west of the town, near a hamlet called St Front. She gave me the map, along with a list of local bed and breakfasts. ‘This one’s near St Front,’ she said, pointing to the list. It was called Les Pruniers – The Plum Trees. ‘Try it, it’s very nice. Madame Peytoureau.’

  By now I was famished, though it was only just past midday. That was only eleven o’clock, London time, but I’d made a ludicrously early start – up at four thirty to get a seven thirty plane. I found a street that ran sharply down-hill to a river between ancient half-timbered houses. To the left, stone steps descended to a low embankment with a pair of benches shaded by a large willow tree. A fisherman sat immobile, cradling his rod, while the fish, ignoring his bait, drifted sideways on the current through glittering green flags of weed. Overhead, leaves twinkled hypnotic-ally in a light breeze. I ate my lunch, lay back, and dozed.

  When I awoke it was nearly two. The fisherman had dis-appeared, and the sun had shifted, leaving me in deep shade. Moving out into the sunshine, I called the bed and breakfast recommended by the tourist office. After five rings a woman answered. Yes, she had a room free; yes, I could come round now. She gave some complicated directions, but I knew, even as I heard them, that I was not taking them in. I’d just have to go to St Front and see what I found.

  My map did not show the smaller country roads I’d now be using. For that I’d need one of the large-scale IGN maps, where even individual houses are drawn. Unfortunately, the papeterie where I might have bought it would not reopen till three. Still, the general direction was clear enough. Setting out, I followed a series of increasingly improbable signposts and at last found myself driving along a green-lit single-track road between thick chestnut woods. Even smaller tracks led off on either side, each with a crop of signposts bearing names that might indicate a house or a hamlet.

  Eventually, to the left, a sign read St Front. The road, sloping steeply downhill, led, after numerous twists and turns, to a scattering of more or less dilapidated houses grouped around an ancient fortified church, buttressed and blank-walled, a relic of the religious wars that once raged across this region. A volley of barks greeted the arrival of an alien car. However, not a soul moved – even the bar looked shut. Reasoning that bars never shut, I parked, got out and tried the door, but it was locked, and a sign announced that Tuesday was its half-day.

  Les Pruniers must be somewhere nearby, but where? I hadn’t passed it on the way in, and only one road led out of the village. I drove up it, and a little way along, at a left turn, found a number of signs nailed crookedly to a tree. One read: Les Pruniers 2 km. Three minutes later another signpost pointed down a gravelled track that led between tall horse chestnuts to a stone arch set in a high wall.

  I aimed the car through it into a square court. It was bounded on one side by the wall with the arch; the house, which was U-shaped and painted a faded apricot, formed most of the square’s other three sides. An enormous Magnolia grandiflora dominated the courtyard, its huge white flowers, scattered like moons amid the dark, leathery leaves, filling the air with lemony sweetness. To one side stood a dented silver people carrier. No one was in sight.

  I parked beside the people carrier and got out. Immediately ahead, in the centre of the façade, was a hefty planked door. There was no sign of a bell, just a knocker in the shape of a brass hand. I knocked: from somewhere to the back of the house the inevitable dog barked. I knocked again, and stood back to wait.

  The dog stopped barking, and I heard footsteps approach. Then the door swung open, to reveal a dishevelled-looking young woman wearing cut-off jeans and a blue T-shirt. She was perhaps thirty years old, with a mop of dark, curly hair tied back in a rough pony-tail, a thin-lipped, smiling mouth, and bright dark eyes. A fat black labrador, its muzzle grey with age and breathless with the effort of locomotion, followed some distance behind her, its tail furiously wagging.

  ‘Madame Peytoureau? I’m Reggie Lee – I phoned earlier.’

  ‘Of course – come in.’ She held out a hand. ‘I’m Delphine.’

  The door opened on to a big farmhouse kitchen, dim and cool, with a floor of unglazed pink terracotta tiles. The dog sniffed me comprehensively, then turned and trotted wheezily through a door in the opposite wall. We followed it into a small, elegant room, half-panelled in chestnut, its floor a pattern of thick oak cross-boards and thin length-ways strips. An open french window gave on to a garden, where the dog took its place beneath a hammock slung between two plum trees, closed its eyes, and began to snore loudly.

  ‘Do excuse him,’ Delphine said. ‘He’s getting old.’

  The plum trees were part of an orchard, from which, presumably, the house took its name. The hot air, perfumed with bursts of fragrance from the magnolia in the court-yard, echoed with the rasp of cicadas. Delphine rubbed her eyes, a juicy sound that was mildly alarming. She said, ‘Sorry, I was asleep. You know how it is, the children are out with friends, I sat down for a minute and I must have dropped off. What time is it?’

  I looked at my watch. ‘Nearly three. What a beautiful place.’

  ‘
Isn’t it? We used to live in Paris, and our Parisian friends wonder how we can bear it, stuck out here. But we love it. Olivier, my husband’s from round here . . . He still has to be in Paris during the week. But I wouldn’t go back there. Do you want to see your room?’

  We walked back through the kitchen to one of the side wings. The room was clean and bare, with twin beds, whitewashed walls, and white curtains. A small shower-room opened off it. Delphine threw back the shutters, let-ting in a shaft of sunlight and the scent of magnolia. ‘OK?’

  ‘It’s lovely. Am I the only guest?’

  Delphine nodded. ‘It’s midweek. And the season hasn’t really started properly yet. It’ll fill up next week, after 14th July. Would you like something to drink? I’m always thirsty when I wake up.’

  We wandered back into the garden, picking up a bottle of cold mineral water en route, and sat down at a rough wooden table set under one of the trees. ‘Are you here on holiday?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I’ve come to see someone.’

  ‘Really? Who? Or perhaps it’s a private matter.’

  ‘Not particularly. It’s a Madame Rigaut. It’s in connection with an exhibition. I work for the National Gallery in London.’

  ‘The National Gallery, how interesting! I used to think I’d have a career. But then the children came along and somehow it never happened . . .’

  ‘It’s just a job,’ I said. ‘One must live.’

  What a lie! Without my job, where – who – would I be? I could never live out here, even with children, even in a place as beautiful as this. Whenever I’d felt tempted by Caroline’s life all I had to do was try and imagine actually living out there in Gloucestershire. Trees, fields, sheep. Or in this case, geese. Meyrignac’s byroads were bespattered with notices inviting tourists to come in and watch geese being force-fed – a curious entertainment, and not (one would have thought) calculated to sell more foie-gras. I doubt whether many butchers would think a glimpse of the slaughterhouse the best advert for prime fillet. But that’s the country for you: people so desperate for some-thing to do that they will even pay to watch geese eat.

  ‘Is that Madame Rigaut at La Jaubertie?’ Delphine enquired.

  ‘Yes – do you know her?’

  ‘She’s a friend of yours?’ The drawing-back was unmistakable.

  ‘No, I’ve never met her before. Why?’

  ‘Nothing, really.’ She fidgeted with her glass. ‘It’s just – there are some strange stories about her. About the family . . .’

  ‘The family?’ I said. Something for Joe, perhaps. ‘What kind of thing?’

  Perhaps I sounded too eager. Delphine shook her head and looked awkward, evidently regretting her indiscretion. ‘Nothing, really. Just gossip.’

  Suddenly, all my motivation seemed to have evaporated. Perhaps it was the air. If you breathed enough of it, the outside world would simply fade away, leaving this shimmery orchard as the only reality. Maybe that was what had happened to Delphine – she’d fallen under the spell, and couldn’t break out. I felt about in my brain for the remnants of urban edge. ‘Is she a murderess or something?’ I inquired, carefully simulating casual disinterest.

  Delphine laughed. ‘No, nothing like that. It’s just that – her son’s the Minister of the Interior, and not too popular with some people. Though I suppose quite a lot of them must have voted for him. And – oh, well.’ She lifted her empty glass, then put it down again. ‘More water?’

  I shook my head. The anaesthetic hadn’t taken long to wear off. ‘And?’

  Delphine shook her head. ‘Oh, it’s nothing. Really.’ But the mask of virtue was unmistakably slipping. One more push should do it.

  ‘Allez, you can’t leave it there!’ I said persuasively.

  ‘Well – they say – she was shaved. Tondue.’

  ‘Tondue?’

  Delphine put her hand up to her head. Of course. This was the punishment reserved, after the war, for women who had slept with Germans: to have their heads publicly shaved as the crowd jeered. There was a famous photo-graph – the weeping girl, the grinning barber, the crowd shouting obscenities, savage with hatred and relief, happy to pile the communal guilt on to a convenient scapegoat.

  ‘But that’s impossible! She was married to a Communist!’

  ‘Who knows. It’s just gossip.’ She gave an awkward little shrug.

  Once more the gauze dropped, the light dimmed. ‘Do people still remember that kind of thing?’

  ‘Apparently . . . Of course it doesn’t affect people’s daily lives any more. But everybody knows. When we arrived, it was almost the first thing I heard about her. The Resistance was very strong round here. Did you see the memorial to the men that were shot in Meyrignac? Most of the people who live round here were probably related to one or another of them. They don’t forget who was on what side.’

  ‘Even so. It was a long time ago.’

  Delphine blushed. ‘I know, it’s shameful. Blackening people’s names . . . I don’t know why I mentioned it. Olivier would say it’s because I don’t have enough to think about, I’m becoming a local, that’s all they do round here, yap yap yap. I’ve nothing against Madame Rigaut, I hardly know her. She’s very old now, she doesn’t go out much. The few times we’ve met she’s been charming.’

  ‘Olivier doesn’t gossip?’

  ‘Oh, yes, but about politics, not local things.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He’s a journalist.’

  ‘Like my old boyfriend.’

  We laughed. ‘Why old?’

  ‘We split up.’

  ‘I sometimes think I might just as well have split up with mine,’ Delphine said. ‘We enjoy different things, that’s the problem. He likes city life and I really can’t stand it.’

  ‘So why don’t you divorce?’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s not so easy. There are Fabien and Magali. And when he’s here, I love him. He just isn’t here very often.’

  ‘What’s he like?’ I said idly.

  Delphine laughed. ‘Oh – normal. Charming. You’d like him. Everyone does.’

  ‘Perhaps I’ll meet him.’

  ‘Not if you stay here,’ she commented, glancing at her watch. ‘Heavens, is that the time? I’ll have to go and get the children in a moment, they’re at a friend’s.’

  I said, ‘How far’s La Jaubertie from here? Can you walk there?’

  ‘Absolutely. It’s a lovely walk. If you want I can show you the way on the map.’

  We went into the kitchen. She picked a map off a heap on a chair, spread it on the table and traced the route in red biro. ‘We’re here – you want to go out the back, then turn down here – and here. If you feel energetic you can do a circle, or else you can just come back the same way. Do you like walking?’

  I said I did, though I hadn’t done very much of it recently, apart from the odd few days in Gloucestershire. Of course one does walk in the city, but it’s mostly to the tube station and back: not something you could really call walking, even if it does involve putting one foot in front of another in a rhythmic way. Still, the basic technique was there. ‘Will I be all right in trainers?’

  ‘Of course. It’s not exactly mountaineering.’ Delphine pointed to a gate in the wall at the back of the orchard. ‘You go out there.’

  I took the map and set off into the hot, green afternoon. The gate had box bushes on either side of it, once clipped into neat balls, but now overgrown into enormous mop-heads. On the other side, a path of trodden grass led down a gentle slope to a wood.

  The way at first was along old green roads, some recently cleared, some almost overgrown, through copses and between fields of still-furled sunflowers and drying hay. Then the path plunged into thick woodland, emerging on to a bare hillside scattered with moon daisies. From here there was a wide view across a river valley to blue hills beyond; in the garden of a villa slightly below and to the left, children played around a bright cobalt swimming pool. The path led away from the
m; according to the map, La Jaubertie should be quite near, on the next ridge.

  By now it was getting on for five o’clock. The hillside was almost colourless in the heat, and by the time I reached the valley floor, my nose was dripping with sweat. But the path up the opposite slope led through a pinewood, scented and shady, and when I reached the crest of the ridge a breeze had begun to blow. La Jaubertie ought to be directly ahead, on the other side of a stand of tall lime trees. I thought I could just make out the pointed top of a conical roof.

  I plunged into the shade of the limes, then out into a clearing with a small building. It looked like a private chapel, not particularly graceful – built perhaps in the nine-teenth century – and now in a state of some disrepair. A gravestone could just be made out half-buried in the long grass beside it. I pulled the grass away and read: Robert de Beaupré, 1915–1937, fils bien-aimé d’Etienne et Véronique. RIP.

  So this was where he’d ended up. Back in the ancestral home. There must be a family vault somewhere – all families of this sort had one, a house of the dead where they awaited eternity stacked up in stone drawers – but if he’d committed suicide they wouldn’t have been able to bury him in consecrated ground.

  I continued walking, and emerged on to a long lawn. There, before me, stood La Jaubertie: a fantastical, four-square castle in pale limestone with a round tower at each corner. I’d arrived by a back route, and the two towers nearest me were comparatively small, but the two furthest away, flanking the building’s front façade, were massive. All had steep conical roofs, their fairytale quality intensifying my recurrent sense, on this hot July day, of having moved temporarily into some parallel life.