But when the town council came to vote, there was an unexpected objection from Albert, the head of the local volunteer fire brigade. They used plastic cups at their fund-raising stall in the market, selling iced tea, mulled wine, and lemonade, according to the season. Would the ban apply to them, too? Another councilor wanted to know if the ban applied to those little plastic cups that the Vinh family at their Vietnamese food stall used for the spicy sauce that went so well with their hot nems. Then Fauquet himself demanded that an exception be made for the disposable cups he used in summer to sell ice cream and frozen yoghurt to people who didn’t want one of the usual edible cones.
“You can’t have it both ways,” snapped the mayor, saying that charitable causes such as the firemen’s could use glasses from the mairie, so long as they washed them afterward. But Fauquet would have to come up with another solution for his ice cream.
“We all have to do our bit for the environment,” the mayor said piously as Fauquet grumbled.
“Plastic Wars in St. Denis” ran the headline in the next morning’s Sud Ouest. This was swiftly followed by people calling in to France Bleu Périgord, the radio station that most of St. Denis listened to. Those damn Greens are going too far, said some callers. The planet was being overrun by plastic, said others. Did the listeners know that every fish now contained micro-beads of plastic? That eight million tons of plastic went into the oceans each year? That France recycled less than a third of the million tons of plastic it threw away each year?
The public debate was still raging on the next market day when Léopold and Cali arrived with racks of white pottery cups, some of them a little oddly shaped or missing their handles but serviceable enough. They also brought big electric urns, one for water and the other for milk, and a sackful of ground-up Ivory Coast chocolate. A large jar of honey and another filled with cinnamon sticks stood beside them. A big sign hung from the giant parasol that protected their stall.
“Try our mélange, the African chocolate delicacy that Bruno loves,” it read. “Special introductory price today—just two euros.”
The rush began at eight as all the stallholders lined up to try it. Then at nine it began again as the mothers visited the market after dropping off their children at the nursery school. At ten-thirty, half the students at the local college sprinted up to the market during their break to try the new drink and by eleven the sack of chocolate was empty and Cali’s hands were chapped from all the washing of cups he had done at the fountain.
“Next time I wear rubber gloves,” he said with a beaming smile.
Tipped off by Bruno that his taxes had better be in order, Léopold was assiduously marking down each sale in a new notebook. Cali had registered himself as a self-employed auto-entrepreneur, Léopold confided, and was now planning to take his coffee and chocolate to the markets in St. Cyprien, Lalinde, Le Buisson, and Sarlat.
“That’s just the beginning,” said Cali. “I have a brother, a sister, cousins. We can franchise this idea, expand even faster.”
“Careful,” warned Bruno. “Right now you’re riding on Léopold’s coattails. He’s a long- established figure in the local markets with the right to a good spot. You’ll find it harder to come in as an unknown because I suspect Fauquet is spreading the word that you’re a threat to all the local cafés. They may not keep you out but they have enough influence to ensure that your stall will be placed behind a gas station or they’ll block you from rinsing out your cups.”
“That’s not fair,” Cali protested.
“He says your competition is unfair because he has to pay taxes, social charges, minimum wage,” said Bruno.
“But all the shopkeepers could say that about the competition from the markets,” Cali replied.
“And have you noticed how many of the small grocery stores and clothes shops have closed down in these country towns?” Bruno countered. “The café owners don’t want to be next.”
Léopold gave Bruno a thoughtful look. “Why not say what it is you have in mind, Bruno?”
“I think it’s time to see if you can reach some agreement with Fauquet and get him on your side. Otherwise this could turn nasty.” Bruno handed over a twenty euro note for a kilo of Tanzanian coffee and a bar of Ivory Coast chocolate.
He strolled back with his purchases to Fauquet’s empty café, where he ordered a hot chocolate and an espresso while standing at the bar and asked for an empty mug. Fauquet gave him a puzzled look but complied. Bruno poured both the coffee and the chocolate into the mug and took a sip.
“That’s good,” he said. “It’s different but it’s as good in its way as the one Léopold is selling. How much would you charge for it?”
“One euro thirty for the coffee, one-fifty for the hot chocolate. So I’d have to price it at two euros eighty,” Fauquet replied.
“It’s two euros in the market. Can you match that?”
“Not if I want to make a profit. If things go on like this I’ll have to put the place up for sale while I still have a balance sheet that looks healthy.”
“Have a piece of this chocolate he’s selling for two euros a block and tell me what you think.”
Fauquet raised his eyebrows. “I’ve been a master chocolatier for thirty years, Bruno. I know my chocolate a damn sight better than that youngster.” He broke off a small square and popped it in his mouth, then nodded slowly.
“It’s good, very good,” he said. “But I couldn’t even buy it through a wholesaler for two euros, let alone sell it at that price. I can’t compete with that. I presume they’re getting a special price from some relatives in Africa. And they’re probably importing the stuff in a way that’s illegal. I tried to get the chamber of commerce to help but when we rang the Customs office in Bordeaux they just laughed at us.”
“Try making two cups of his coffee in your espresso machine, one for each of us,” Bruno said, handing over the bag he’d bought. “Tell me what you think. You might be able to reach an agreement with Léopold to buy his coffee cheaply. He’s a reasonable man.”
Fauquet looked grumpy but he poured some of the Ivory Coast coffee into the steel pan and pressed the button that triggered the steam pressure. Again he nodded approval when he tasted the coffee that resulted.
“It’s not the quality I’m complaining about, Bruno. And it’s not just me. The other café in town has been hit even harder because they don’t have my cakes and croissants. When they bought that place they paid a fortune because it had the tobacco license and you know what’s happened to that trade. This is probably the last straw for them and word is spreading to other towns and there’s been some angry talk.”
“What sort of angry talk?”
“You know, young hotheads.”
“You mean café owners? Or people who don’t like immigrants.”
Fauquet shrugged. “Both. I don’t really know, I just heard this secondhand.”
At that point, Bruno heard a crash, angry shouts and the roar of a high-revving engine coming from the market. He went out to see the source of the trouble and was almost knocked down by Cali, who was racing past in a vain attempt to catch a fleeing motorbike. Two men in black leather jackets and helmets were aboard and racing away down the Rue de la République. Bruno just had time to note that the rear mudguard was bright blue and looked new.
Cali stopped, saw Bruno standing in the café doorway, Fauquet peering over his shoulder. The young African glared furiously at them.
“I might have guessed you’d be on his side, Bruno.” He almost spat the words out. “You whites all stick together.”
Bruno ignored him, already walking quickly to the market stall where Léopold was trying to rescue his bolts of cloth and his other goods from the flood of hot milk and water that spilled from the two overturned urns. The tins of coffee were scattered on the ground along with several broken cups. Some of the tins had burst open
and the hot milk was dripping into the mess from the soaked stall.
“What happened?” he asked Léopold.
“A motorcycle,” he answered dully. “Two guys. They kept their helmets on. When Cali went to wash the cups, the guy on the back stepped down, then came around the side, pushed over the urns, knocked over the tins of coffee and the cups, and then jumped back on the bike and they took off.”
Other stallholders and shoppers were crowding around, all talking at once and none of them saying anything useful.
“You’re supposed to protect the market,” said Cali. He brushed past Bruno and bent down to collect the unbroken tins of coffee.
“Did you get the number of the license plate?” Bruno asked. He was addressing Léopold but spoke loudly so he could be heard by everyone. At that point the mayor arrived on the scene and demanded to be told what had happened. Once again a dozen people began to speak at once and Bruno used his parade ground voice to shout out, “Silence!”
“We know what happened but what I want now is information that can be useful,” he went on. “Did anybody get the license number of the motorcycle? Or recognize it? Or recognize the driver or his passenger?”
Nobody spoke at first. Then a boy of about ten whom Bruno knew from his tennis classes said, “It was a blue Suzuki four-fifty.”
“Thanks, Maurice, that could be very useful,” Bruno said, the boy’s name leaping from his memory just when it was needed. He turned to the mayor. “I’d like to suggest that Léopold, Cali, and Fauquet all join us in your office, Monsieur le Maire. It’s time for a serious talk.”
“I agree, but not all of us,” said Léopold, in a quiet but determined voice that brooked no opposition. “You stay here, Cali. Clean up and look after the stall and leave this meeting to me.” Cali looked a little mutinous but obeyed.
Once in his office, the mayor sat each of them around a small, round table and pulled up a chair to join them. “I’d like to start with a little history,” he began. “Monsieur Fauquet, why not tell us all how you and I met and how your café got started in St. Denis.”
Fauquet looked embarrassed and began haltingly, looking at the table rather than at any of the other three men around the table.
“We met in Paris thirty years ago at the Maison d’Aquitaine, a place where people from this region could get together, read local newspapers, attend talks by politicians. I was doing my apprenticeship to become a maître chocolatier and you were working in the office of Jacques Chirac, who’d just been elected mayor of Paris. You came to my graduation ceremony and you helped me get my first job as chef pâtissier in Chirac’s Hôtel de Ville. Then you told me there was a café coming up for sale in St. Denis and you helped me negotiate the price and get a loan from the bank. I’ve been here ever since.”
Fauquet paused, and then added. “And you were one of the witnesses at my wedding.”
Well, well, thought Bruno, to whom all this came as news. Not that Bruno was greatly surprised to learn that he was not the only young man whom the mayor had helped to become an established citizen of St. Denis.
“Thank you, old friend, and may I say you and your chocolates and your croissants have more than fulfilled my faith in you,” the mayor said. “Now it’s your turn, Léopold. How did you and I meet?”
“Through my aunt, who was working as a cleaner at the Hôtel de Ville in Paris. She was short of money so you hired her to do some extra cleaning at your own apartment,” Léopold said, looking the mayor squarely in the eye. “My father had died and you helped her bring me to Paris from Senegal and got me into a school where I did not do well. You knew another Senegalese who had a stall in the Marché de la Bastille, and who owed you a favor, and he agreed to take me on and teach me the trade. Then you loaned me some money to start my own stall in St. Denis. And you let me use the car you kept at your father’s place here while you were in Paris so I could go to the markets in St. Cyprien and Lalinde. And mine was one of the first marriages you performed when you became mayor.”
“And you repaid my small loan ahead of time,” said the mayor, smiling at Léopold with affection. “And now Bruno here not only helps you unload your van but he’s also teaching your sons to play tennis and rugby. And you, Léopold, are not just the best bass voice our town choir ever had, but you’re also helping another young man to make his own start in life. What do you think of that, Fauquet?”
“I take your point,” Fauquet replied. “You’re saying we all have a duty to help the next generation. And I agree, but I have a payroll to meet—a baker who has a young family and an apprentice chocolatier and three part-time waitresses. I’m paying more than two thousand euros a month in social charges alone and this young man’s coffee has really hurt my business. The supermarkets are a big enough problem, selling four crap croissants for the price I have to charge for each one.”
“And yet most of us would rather have one of your croissants, despite the price,” said the mayor. He turned to Bruno. “What do you think we might do about all this, Bruno?”
“I’m wondering whether there might be room for cooperation,” Bruno replied. “Maybe Cali could sell Fauquet’s croissants on commission at the other markets. And since he seems to be getting his African coffees and chocolates at a lower price than you’re paying the wholesaler, Fauquet, maybe you could start buying from him.”
Fauquet pursed his lips, looked at the mayor and blew out a long sigh before saying, “It might be worth a try for a trial period.”
“When does your current apprentice get his qualification?” the mayor asked Fauquet.
“June, next year.”
“Would you then be looking for a new apprentice?”
“Possibly,” Fauquet said cautiously.
“Might that interest Cali as a career?” the mayor asked Léopold.
“I don’t know but it could be an idea worth exploring,” he replied, and turned to Fauquet. “I really don’t want to put you out of business so perhaps you and I could discuss an agreement on pricing.”
“Good,” said the mayor, standing up. “I think you two and Cali have the basis for some further discussions among yourselves and we all need to get back to work. I’m sure Bruno will want to track down the thugs who attacked your stall.”
They all shook hands and left the mayor’s office, and as they went down the spiral stone staircase, Bruno heard Fauquet and Léopold arranging to meet after the market closed. Back in his own office, Bruno logged onto the police computer and began checking new registrations for motorbikes. There were several Suzukis, but mostly they were trail bikes. The one Bruno had seen looked like a more conventional model. There were two four-fifties registered, one in Montpon, in the far western corner of the département, the other in Sarlat, and the address given for that one was a café. Bruno called a friend in the Sarlat municipal police and asked about the café. It was a bikers’ place, he was told, less a café than a bar with an unsavory reputation.
“You can’t miss it,” Bruno was told. “It’s still got the Front National posters up from the last election.”
Sarlat was out of Bruno’s jurisdiction so he called his friend Jean-Jacques, chief detective for the département and known to all as J-J, and explained the situation. Bruno added that he had seen the bike drive off and that he had another witness.
“I suppose we could charge them with criminal damage but they’d probably get off with a fine. I doubt whether the Procureur would think it was worthwhile bringing charges,” J-J said. “Still, I’ll have a word with my colleagues in Sarlat. We’ve been having some trouble there with drugs lately. The local cops might welcome the chance to look the place over, ask a few questions. Leave it with me.”
The next morning, with Balzac at his heels, Bruno went into Fauquet’s for his usual croissant and coffee. Taped to the front of the cash register was a small poster, printed out on a computer.
Fauquet pushed one across the bar to him and slid a still-warm croissant onto a plate and said, “You can pay for the croissant but this mélange is on the house.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it,” Bruno said. “I didn’t know that history of you and the mayor.”
“And I didn’t know the history of the mayor and Léopold,” said Fauquet. “He’s a good man.”
“We’re lucky to have him,” Bruno said, giving Balzac his share of croissant before taking his own bite. He then sipped at his mélange as Fauquet watched, his nervous look turning into a grin when Bruno told him it was excellent.
“There may be something else you can do for me,” Bruno said. “Remember when you told me that word was spreading to other café owners about your problems with Cali. I’m hoping that you weren’t the one who spread it to a certain bikers’ café in Sarlat.”
Fauquet looked him in the eye as if willing Bruno to believe him. “Not me, Bruno. I only spoke about it to a friend in St. Cyprien and to the guy who runs the café and pâtisserie section at the chamber of commerce in Périgueux. He was the one who came back to me and said there’d been some ugly talk after the radio show.”
Bruno nodded, thinking that made sense. “This mélange is really good. I think it’s even better than the one Cali makes.”
“That’s because I use the full cream milk from Stéphane’s cows, the milk he uses to make his cheeses,” Fauquet said proudly. “Oh, and by the way, that reminds me. Philippe Delaron from Sud Ouest was in here just before you and tried the new mélange. I told him he had a new story, now that the war of plastics is over in St. Denis.”
“What’s the new story?”
“That the chocolate war is over.”
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