by Kim Ekemar
“So tell me, why have you come?”
The priest drank a good portion from the glass.
“That was a good year, I can tell.”
“Only the best for our beloved priest.”
“My dear, I have come here with sad news”, he said, his face taking on the appropriate sombre look. “Yesterday, your mother passed away.”
Justine put her hands over her mouth to prevent letting out a gasp. Tears glimmered in her eyes. The priest reached out across the coarse wooden table and gently patted her arm.
“May her soul forever rest in peace”, he offered before downing the remainder of the wine in the glass that Justine had served him.
*
The next day Justine, with a mournful expression and dressed from top to toe in black, travelled to the hospital where her mother had died aged forty-eight. "Hospital" was really a euphemism to cover up the true purpose of the institution: she had been treated in a home for the witless for the past twenty years.
The institution formed part of a large convent that was run by nuns with a charitable yet firm opinion regarding the rules by which life should be arranged. Their regimen certainly hadn’t helped Justine’s mother, but neither she nor her daughter had been aware of this circumstance.
Mother Superior Brigitte received the bereaved relative of the defunct and explained that the burial had already taken place according to the directives of the convent. She asked Justine to sign some papers. When Justine had complied, the mother superior handed over a parcel containing the remaining earthly belongings of the deceased.
Chapter III
Patrice Lafarge visits his attorney
It was Wednesday, the day Justine usually went into Bercy to visit the market for those articles Clos Saint-Jacques didn’t or couldn’t produce on its own. As she was preparing to leave to catch the omnibus that passed on the main road twice a day, she heard the horn of Monsieur Lafarge’s dilapidated van honk for her to hurry up.
When she climbed onboard she realised that Monsieur Lafarge was offering her a lift into town only because he was going there himself. It was unusual, to say the least. In all the years she had worked for him, he only went to Bercy or beyond when he found it absolutely necessary, and rare had been the occasion when he had offered to take her along.
Patrice Lafarge dropped off his housekeeper near the marketplace that came alive on Wednesdays and Saturdays.
“Be here in two hours and I’ll give you a lift back”, he shouted after her over the rattling noise of the engine.
Patrice continued another three streets before turning a corner. He parked his utility van outside a two-floor stone building that announced it as the residence of “Hervé Bonnard, attorney”, rang the bell and was immediately allowed inside.
“Hervé, thanks for receiving me”, Patrice said as he shook hands with the giant who he counted as one of his only three surviving friends. “I expect you have the papers in order now.”
Hervé indicated a chair for Patrice to be seated, and called out for his housekeeper to bring them coffee.
“Yes, I have all the elements incorporated in the documents, ready for you to sign, Patrice”, Hervé replied as he sat down behind his desk. “Your fidei-commissum, which is the legal term for the trust fund you want to set up, can be established at the bank as soon as the documents are signed. However, because this is not an ordinary testament, you do have to go to the notary’s office in Annecy to get it officially registered. I’ve made you two copies, one that you may sign now, if you wish, with my housekeeper Anne and myself as witnesses, which would be your copy to keep.”
“Let’s go through the details first.”
For the next hour and a half Patrice went through every clause in the document with Hervé patiently explaining the full meaning behind each sentence.
“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” Hervé said when they reached the end. “Your children won’t like it, I’m sure.”
“I’ve never been more certain of anything in my whole life!” Patrice boomed pounding the desk with his fist.
He was late by fifty minutes when he finally arrived to pick up Justine. In that time she could easily have reached Clos Saint-Jacques by foot. However, since her employer possessed a choleric temper that he flashed whenever he was confronted by something that was disagreeable to him, she preferred to keep her tongue. She climbed into the passenger seat, and Patrice Lafarge put the truck in forward gear. He seems unusually happy all of a sudden, she thought as she listened to him humming a popular song.
Next to her on the seat was a yellow manila envelope that she hadn’t noticed on their way to the village. It had Bercy’s sole attorney’s name and profession printed on the top left corner.
“You went to see Monsieur Bonnard?” she ventured to ask him as the old vehicle zigzagged around the many potholes on the dirt road.
“Yes, Justine”, he replied in a good mood. “I’ve finally figured out what will happen to Clos Saint-Jacques when I’m no longer around to watch out for it. I’ll explain it to you, because there’s something I want you to do for me.”
Justine was accustomed to hear Monsieur Lafarge addressing her in a rough manner. Now that he was speaking to her in a kind voice, she paid him more attention than usual.
“Lately I’ve had a lot on my mind”, he began. “My birthday is approaching, which for years nobody has bothered to celebrate. But this year – yes, this year I want to celebrate it with my family again. Who knows how much time I have left? Now, I want you to call my children for a family reunion, long overdue, and you shall tell them it’s because of my upcoming birthday. Between you and me, the real reason is that I’ve finally come up with the solution to how my inheritance will be managed after I’m dead and buried.”
“When do you want them to come, monsieur?” Justine asked.
“This year my birthday is on the first Saturday in May. My desire is that they will all spend the weekend here with us! It would be the first time we would all be together since they left for city life … what – fifteen, twenty years ago.”
“I’ll call them and tell them to be here, monsieur”, Justine confirmed. “I’m convinced they’ll come. It will, after all, be a special occasion.”
“But do make sure they understand that I want only my three children here! Mind you – no wives, so-called close friends or snotty grandchildren.
Upon returning to Clos Saint-Jacques, Justine was surprised to see her employer hurry into the kitchen, where their telephone hung on the wall. As someone who resented the advancement of technology, Monsieur Lafarge didn’t care for making his own phone calls – he usually charged Justine with these whenever they became necessary. Curious, she followed him into the kitchen where she put down her bags with groceries.
“Not until Monday the sixth, you say?” she overheard him say as she threw down the bags on the kitchen table. “Then kindly reserve a meeting between the notary and myself on that or the following day. It’s a matter of urgency, you see.”
As he left the kitchen, Justine wondered if the sudden urgency had anything to do with the manila envelope with Hervé Bonnard’s name printed on it.
Patrice sat down by the desk in one corner of his bedroom. He stared at the envelope with the only existing signed copy of his will inside. Perhaps I should have signed one or two additional witnessed copies, he thought, now that I can’t get to see the notary until after the weekend. Damn! All my children gathered here for the first time in twenty years, and I can’t get it notarised beforehand! When I tell them about the changes in my will, they won’t like it a bit … what if one of them goes through my desk while I’m out hunting or walking? Just to spite me because they won’t be able to convert Clos Saint-Jacques into money they’re desperate for, they may steal the will or burn it or destroy it some other way. I’d have to do the damn thing all over again, which in turn would delay my trip to Annecy to see the notary. No, I’d better keep my bedroom locked, just in cas
e.
No matter how far-fetched the notion, once Patrice had decided that something needed to be done, he was stubbornly determined that it had to be carried out. The problem was that, years ago, he had lost the key-ring, which among other keys held those to his bedroom and his desk. With no one else but Justine and Gaspard living on the estate, he had never bothered to make the replacements. Besides, the only thing of value he possessed was Clos Saint-Jacques itself, so what was there to steal?
*
While tidying up after their luncheon, through the kitchen window Justine could see how Monsieur Patrice set off towards the cottage where Gaspard lived. As usual, he was surrounded by his four dogs. She watched him until he disappeared among the trees.
As Patrice reached the cottage in which Gaspard lived as part of his remuneration for working on Clos Saint-Jacques, Patrice heard his hammer resound against the anvil. The boy was always anxious to be a smith, Patrice thought as he strode across the littered yard. Suits me fine. Less mischief that way.
“A nice day for some extra work, Gaspard”, he greeted. “There’s something I need you to do for me before the coming weekend.”
Gaspard took off his cap and scratched his neck. Drops of sweat gleamed like dew on his forehead.
“What is it that you need?”
“For a considerable time, I haven’t been able to find the key that fits the lock of my bedroom door. I’ve been meaning to tell you, but somehow it always slips my mind. So, I want you to remove the lock from my door and make a new key for it, do you understand? One single key, mind you. Can you do this?”
“I’ve never made a key before in my life, but I guess it shouldn’t be too difficult.”
“It’s important that I have the key working in the lock by Thursday evening next week, so you’d better get started.”
Patrice abruptly turned around and left without another word.
“I’ll do my best”, Gaspard called out after him. “Next Thursday it is.”
As always Gaspard felt impotent anger well up inside because of the condescending way his father treated him.
Just having finished washing the dishes, Justine could see Monsieur Patrice returning towards the main building, before taking the path to the woods. She wondered what his business had been with Gaspard, who he always treated with such contempt. She felt convinced Monsieur Patrice did so because he had been obliged to accept his fatherhood when faced with overwhelming proof, although at first he had denied ever being within a stone’s throw of the mother. That Gaspard was at a disadvantage mentally hadn’t help to improve Patrice’s attitude.
Half an hour later she heard noises from the hallway. She found Gaspard kneeling by Monsieur Patrice's bedroom door while dismantling its lock with a large screwdriver.
“What are you doing, Gaspard?”
“Father wants me to make a key for this lock, because he says the one that used to be here went missing.”
“A key? I didn’t know you can make keys?”
“So far I haven’t, but for everything there’s a first time.”
*
That evening, Patrice Lafarge withdrew to his bedroom earlier than usual. After dinner in the large kitchen, it was his custom to spend a couple of hours in front of the fireplace reading a book. Tonight was different, and Justine suspected it had to do with his visit to the attorney.
Justine sat at the kitchen table reading by candlelight. It was a book that she had found in Monsieur Patrice’s extensive library. With a sigh she slammed it shut after finishing the last chapter.
She remained seated, staring into the flame of the candle she had placed directly on the ancient wooden table. Repeatedly, she extinguished and lit the candlelight, dropping the used matches back into the matchbox. Justine thought of her mother, who had died at such a young age. Not once had Monsieur Patrice bothered to visit her, despite her many years in his service.
Justine wondered what she should do with her life, now that Monsieur Patrice had pronounced that he suspected his own was coming to an end. What would become of her the day he was gone? Gaspard, she knew, could count on his share of the inheritance, but, despite the wealth he would receive, she doubted that he would make do without the supervision of someone like Monsieur Patrice. It was more likely that he would be tricked into losing his inheritance to someone more astute.
As for herself, where could she go once Monsieur Patrice was dead? She could look for work at some other farm or winery in the vicinity, of course, but after all the years of running Clos Saint-Jacques, she perceived these prospects dismal.
The grandfather clock in the drawing room struck nine. Justine felt more depressed than ever as the evening proceeded. When the time was up for Monsieur Patrice, she was convinced that he would leave her unprotected. She depended on him for her livelihood, and her only hope was that he wouldn’t die any time soon.
Chapter IV
The preparations for Patrice Lafarge’s seventy-fifth birthday
Justine began her task of calling Patrice Lafarge’s children as instructed by their father. They lived scattered in different corners of France, far from the village where they had been born. The first one she talked to was Henri, a bachelor who lived in Lyon. Although she wasn’t familiar with the details of his financial situation, he had always given her the impression of being near constant ruin. Henri called his father regularly, and by overhearing the conversation through no fault of her own, Justine knew that Henri was always in want of money for some reason or other. Grudgingly his father eventually accepted Henri’s long-winded explanations and rode into town the following day to wire him the requested money.
“Monsieur Henri, your father has asked me to tell you he wishes your presence on the first weekend in May.”
“Yes, Justine, but I’m not sure I’ll be available … what's the purpose of the invitation?”
“It’s his seventy-fifth birthday, have you forgotten?” Justine replied quietly.
“Well, to be honest … yes, I had.”
“And he has something important to tell you and your brother and sister about his testament.”
“Why didn’t you say so from the beginning, Justine?” Henri replied. “Of course I’ll come. When do you want me to be there?”
“Please come on Friday May the third, as early as possible. There is one more thing …”
“Yes, Justine?”
“Aware as I am of your father's needs, maybe you’d allow me to suggest what he’d appreciate from his son … as a birthday present, I mean?”
“A present? For his birthday … yes, of course! By all means. What do you think he’d like to get from the fair city of Lyon?”
“I know that you and Monsieur Patrice share the same interest in literature, and we have books stacked all over the house just waiting to be sorted and accommodated like a proper library. So I was thinking, since you – from what I understand – are a merchant in these things, maybe you could make Monsieur Patrice a nice-looking bookcase as his gift.
“Oh, that is really a good idea, my dear Justine”, Henri replied delighted. “I know just the thing! Thank you for telling me.”
After finishing her call to Henri, she dialled the number to his elder brother Michel’s office. Michel Lafarge was a successful wine merchant in Bordeaux who, besides arranging the sales of his father and father-in-law’s wine production, also handled exports of French spirits, such as Armagnac and assorted liqueurs. A secretary took her call. Justine had to wait a good five minutes before Michel came on the line.
“This is Michel Lafarge speaking.” His voice came across as cool and arrogant.
“Monsieur Michel, this is Justine, your father’s housekeeper. He has instructed me to ask you to come to Clos Saint-Jacques for the weekend starting May the third. It’s his birthday on the fourth, as you may recall.”
“Yes, of course I remember. I will talk to my wife and children –”
“I was told by Monsieur Patrice that he wanted only you and yo
ur brothers and sister present”, Justine interrupted him. “As I understand it, there’s some important information about his will that he wants to talk to you about.”
“His will? Oh, I see!” Michel’s voice suddenly sounded enthusiastic. “Very good. I’ll be delighted to go.”
“Perhaps you don’t mind if I suggest that you bring a couple of bottles of your best Armagnac as a gift? He always speaks so highly of it, and I’m sure he would appreciate your gesture.”
“Armagnac? Of course, a splendid idea!” Michel replied. “Thank you for suggesting it.”
After her conversation with Michel, Justine repeatedly tried to call Constance, who had left for Paris to work as a music hall artist. When the children had been young, Constance had been Patrice’s favourite. She had been able to make her father promise him anything she fancied. Then, at twenty-one, she had left for the glamour in the capital and had rarely been in contact with her father, except when she was low on money. Although she had disappointed Patrice on many occasions, he still had a weak spot for her.
At one thirty in the afternoon, Constance finally picked up the phone.
“Yes, hello?” Her sleepy voice made Justine suspect that she had just got out of bed.
“Mademoiselle Constance, this is Justine who takes care of your father’s household.”
“Has anything happened to him, Justine?” Her voice was matter-of-fact and not at all alarmed.
“On the contrary”, Justine assured her. “Your father has asked me to call you and your brothers to come for his birthday on the weekend starting on May the third.”
“Is it his birthday again … how time flies. It’s going to be difficult for me to go to Bercy, though, since I have this engagement at Moulin Rouge …” Justine heard her finishing the sentence with a yawn.
“Seventy-five years this time. Your father’s not getting any younger, he claims, and he told me that he wants to announce some important things about his will.”