During the service the previous Sunday, he had announced that he would be saying a grand mass on Tuesday evening at 8:00 p.m., so that all the townspeople could attend.
It was now Monday. He was rereading the opening passage of his text when he heard the church door creak. The big sacristy clock indicated 10:00 a.m. precisely. The Tarascaires, the Knights of the Tarasque, were early.
“Good morning, Father. I’ve come to fetch her.”
“Really? I thought you’d come to confess, you wicked sinner.”
Favier warmly shook the powerful hand of Marc Gouirand, the leader of the Knights.
“Tell me, Marc, how long have you been taking care of this creature?”
“The last festival made it twenty years.”
He whistled with admiration. Marc Gouirand was a solid fellow, forty-something, muscular, with a jutting chin and the look of a cheeky brat who had strayed into the world of adults.
“So, why do you look after the Tarasque?”
“My wife says that she’s my mistress … It’s a tradition, Father. And without traditions, we’re nothing.”
“There’s always Him up there,” said Father Favier, pointing toward the top of the church.
“Yes, true. But … I’ve been seeing the Tarasque ever since I was a little boy,” he replied, rubbing his chin. “When I was a child, all I dreamed of was being able to push her. And now here I am, right behind her.”
“I’ve been told that it was you who repaired her.”
“If you’d seen her, twenty years back when I took her over … she was in a real mess. Like a hippy, or a tramp. Good grief! No one had given her the slightest lick of paint since the end of the First World War. Think of it … since 1918 … She was hideous, really hideous.”
“Why, do you find her beautiful then?”
“She’s magnificent! Come and see.”
Marc Gouirand led Father Favier into the depths of the nave. The Tarasque was there, its bulging eyes wide open, both menacing and familiar, motionless in its special chapel. In the half-light, its huge Jurassic reptilian body could be made out, with its scales still filthy from the weeds of the Camargue and its red crest raised.
A gold and mauve ray of light lit up its face on the slant, making it look like a mustachioed villain. The Tarasque had the face of a turn-of-the-century wide boy or an Apache battered by fate.
“There she is, our famous beast,” Gouirand murmured, instinctively standing back.
“Is it a male or a female in your opinion, Marc?”
Its jaw drooping, the monster stared derisively at the entrance to the crypt that contained the tomb of Saint Martha.
“A big question, Father. La Tarasque is a female name, but it’s a monster. For me, she’s female, but people see her as they want.”
Favier went over to the legendary reptile and stroked its mane. He noticed that some chips of wood were missing from its face, especially on the right cheek and ear. A piece of mustache had also been broken off.
“Whatever happened to this poor monster?”
“We hit a car. Someone was double-parked just in front of the castle. It’s hard to stop her sometimes.”
The Knight raised the beast’s heavy head and made the fearful white teeth in its jaws clack together. Their massive impact echoed through the vaults of the church.
Favier glanced at the crypt of Saint Martha, hoping that the din of monstrous teeth would not rouse the holy lady in her marble sarcophagus.
Gouirand kneeled down in front of the reptilian mouth.
“It’s going to be a pain in the … to stick back the missing bits of wood. We’ll have to make repairs …”
The priest went over and bent down to look at the extent of the damage.
“You’ll have to find a wood carver. And a good one!”
“That’s no problem. For the Tarasque, everyone pitches in.”
Gouirand walked around it, examining the fabulous creature’s scales which were highlighted with gold and gray, as well as its bright red spikes. He finished with its tail, which was tied in a knot and tipped with the blade of a lance.
“And maybe a lick of paint on her tail …”
“And how about a little blood on the teeth?”
“Why not? She loves blood. If she could eat a couple of townsfolk before Saint Martha’s day, then she would.”
“Yes, but don’t forget Saint Martha herself!”
“Don’t you worry, Father. We’re not about to forget your lady friend.”
With surprising ease, Gouirand pulled the Tarasque toward him, taking care that the tail did not damage the altar behind it. The jaws clacked again as he turned it toward the church’s main door.
“How much does this contraption weigh?”
“Six hundred kilos, and she’s five meters long.”
“And you’re just going to walk it through the streets of Tarascon like that?”
“I’m used to it. She listens to me.”
Father Favier opened wide the double doors of the church and let out the Tarasque, led by its most loyal knight. A raw light invaded the transept, and the priest closed up again fast, raising a din that made the entire Gothic façade tremble.
Inside, quiet footfalls were echoing in the apse. Probably the first tourist of the day. Even though it was not yet visiting time.
Father Favier crossed the choir and went round the ambulatory to ask the visitor to come back in the afternoon. But he saw no one. He searched the house of God from top to bottom, including the crypt of Saint Martha. No one.
Yet he was sure that he had heard footsteps.
He went back to his sermon, with the unpleasant sensation of suffering from auditory hallucinations. And also with the certitude that he should not upset cranks like Gouirand. Especially since his parish was full of them.
A warm breeze was rising from the sea and blowing along the dirt track that led up to the sparse meadows of the Alpilles. Eugène Bérard’s sheep were sheltering from the heat of the sun beneath a limestone overhang.
The shepherd kept his eyes fixed on the Baron. His luminous stare was analyzing each gesture and each expression.
“Have you hurt your hands?”
“Can’t hide anything from you!”
“You look as if you’ve been fighting the whole earth.”
De Palma smiled, rubbed his hands together, then stuck them into his jeans pockets.
“Last time, you told me about the Downlands. Do you remember?”
“That’s the land on the other side of the Maussane road. It’s called the Chemin de Galibert. On the top, there are vines and some lavender. It belonged to poor old William.”
“And this land is cursed?”
“Those are ancient beliefs … In the old days, people used to say that there was the statue of a Roman god there. I can’t remember his name.”
“Hercules, or Heracles.”
Bérard glanced at the Baron, a flash of fire in his eyes, like a flame from a canon’s mouth. His voice grew harsher.
“Who told you that?”
“I looked up a few archaeological records that mention it.”
Bérard was now on his guard. He took a step backward and leaned on his stick.
“I didn’t know there was anything about that in the books.”
“And you? Why don’t you tell me a little bit of what you know about the Downlands.”
“Oh, they’re not worth much. They’re full of stones as big as houses. There’s nothing to be done with them.”
“So why did they mean so much to William Steinert?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to.”
Bérard just whistled to his dog.
“You’ll have to, M. Bérard. Steinert was murdered.”
The shepherd stood up, like a bamboo rod that had stayed bent too long. De Palma had not been expecting this reaction. In the old man’s face, he read an expression of great sadness.
�
��I think you ought to tell me the truth. There are powerful forces at work that are threatening everything and everyone around here.”
“Oh, those forces won long ago, M. de Palma. All the land now belongs to outsiders.”
Bérard turned back toward the valley and fell silent for a moment.
“Outsiders like the Steinerts?”
“William was different.”
“Could you tell me a little about him?”
The shepherd bent down and plucked a blade of grass which he split between his nails and stuck in his mouth.
“Do you have time?”
“I’m at your disposal.”
“I’ll have to take the animals back. Come with me to the farm. It’s not far. Then we’ll talk.”
Eugène Bérard lived in the farmhouse of Les Fontaines: two buildings, one for him, the other for the sheep, formed an L in front of a large barn, in which slept a 1960s Massey-Ferguson, a harrow and a haymaker, all of them covered in rust.
His flock pushed its way through the entrance to the fold. Lambs that had lost their mothers were bleating. The shepherd went up into the barn to fetch some hay for the mangers, then he gave the lambs their ration of barley.
“Goodness, they’re hungry! With this heat, there’s nothing left to eat in the pastures.”
“You take good care of them.”
“I certainly do!”
Despite his great age, he still moved among his jostling charges without losing his balance.
“William often used to come here. Sometimes he gave me a hand. But he didn’t want anyone to know that. It reminded him of his childhood, when he helped with the harvesting or haymaking.”
A last ray of dusty sunshine came in through the double doors. The air was charged with the animals’ vitality and the grinding of their jaws as they quickly reduced their hay to a fragrance of mint and thyme.
“Come on, we’ve earned a drink.”
The farmhouse living room was plunged in total darkness. Bérard opened the shutters to let in the evening light. He placed a jug of water, two glasses and a bottle of pastis on the table. Then he disappeared.
The room was partly taken up by a huge table covered with oilcloth. At the far end, there was a large freestone fireplace and a modest grandmother clock. The only other piece of furniture was a tall, dark, walnut cupboard.
Bérard returned with a small package under his arm.
“I knew William when he was very young. His father came here, before the war.”
He poured two pastis and raised his glass.
“Your health, sir.”
The old man rummaged through his papers, careful not to let de Palma see anything.
“William’s father carried out digs in the region. He was looking for sarcophagi and old stones. One day, I bumped into him not far from here, just as I did with you, and the two of us got on. Look, here’s a photo of him.”
Steinert senior was standing beside Bérard, his hand on his shoulder. Both of them were smiling at the photographer.
“That was the day when we found the statue of Hercules. I was the only one who knew where it was.”
The old man sat down in front of the Baron.
“William’s father was a good man. His name was Karl. He’d studied archaeology back in Germany.”
“Archaeology?”
“He was interested in the ancient Greeks and Romans who came to this region. And as the people round here knew that I was interested too, they sent him to see me. That’s how we got to know each other.”
The old man pushed his cap back, freeing a lock of silver hair which stuck onto his damp forehead. He took a swig of pastis.
“And then the war broke out. Round here, we didn’t see much of the Germans. Just a few patrols. After all, nothing much happens in the countryside! Then, in 1942, Karl came back with a whole gang of Boches. They were students from Munich University. They started digging again … this was the time of the Vichy government. They worked with some students from France.”
He let his big hand drop onto the tablecloth. The mechanism of the clock started up, and seven chimes filled the room with sound.
“And did they find anything?”
“Nothing much … but they all stayed at La Balme, except for William’s father, who refused to live in the farmhouse. So, you see, he lodged at the central hotel in Maussane, while the youngsters slept in the barn! But all went well. I mean, this wasn’t a crowd of Nazis. I can still picture them all in the farmyard. They were nice and helpful. But then, in 1942, the Wehrmacht turned up, and everything changed. Some of the students left, while others put on army uniforms.”
Bérard showed a photograph from the war years. To judge from the various people’s dress, Steinert was surrounded by local worthies.
“That’s the old mayor of Maussane, and this is the father of the present mayor of Eygalières.”
De Palma waited for the old shepherd to resume the conversation of his own accord. Bérard stood up, walked over to pat his dog’s head, then took a packet of tobacco down from the mantelpiece.
“At the end of the war, we were visited by bogus members of the Resistance from Marseille, Arles, Tarascon and round here. They were real thugs. Especially the ones from these parts …”
Bérard paused. He clenched his teeth and seemed to be short of breath.
“I must tell you that I was in the Resistance and Steinert knew it. I was in the Vincent network. It was a small organization that we set up with some local lads. Steinert even helped me out a couple of times. But try and explain that to a load of lawless ruffians.”
“What happened?”
“They shaved the head of Mme. Maurel, the owner of the farmhouse, and they shot one of her brothers. If you go into the farmyard, you can still see the bullet marks in the barn wall, to the right of the door.”
Bérard thumped down his empty glass and stared into space. The clock chimed the half-hour. He removed a deckle-edged photo from the pile. It showed a young woman of about twenty, with a beautiful face lit up by rather a fixed smile and tender eyes.
“This is Simone Maurel … I could do nothing to help them. Not a thing. Poor old Emile. His body had been torn apart by the time I got there.”
“What about Mme. Maurel?”
“She died shortly afterward. Of shame … How can you live with that?”
The shepherd sat back down. His figure had shrunk once more. Through the window, he watched the dust in the yard rise up toward the sun.
“You’ll have another one, won’t you?” he asked, pouring out a fresh glass without waiting for a reply.
“What about the other brother?”
“He died too. But much later … A tractor accident. He’d got a job on the Janson farm.”
The shepherd finished his sentence with a gesture that de Palma did not understand. Evoking the past had evidently upset him. He was an emotional man concealing a long-standing anger.
Outside, the two tall olive trees in the yard were changing color in the evening light. The dog went out and growled.
“In 1946, a man came to see me. I never learned his name. He simply told me that Steinert had sent him and that he was going to buy La Balme. Then he asked me if I’d agree to look after the land. And I did so for several years. I don’t have much in the way of land myself! After my wife died, in the 1980s, they bought the Downlands. William arranged the purchase. His poor father was already dead.”
“And you knew there was this real estate scheme?”
Bérard’s eyes filled with anger.
“If they ever do that …”
“So long as the Downlands aren’t for sale, they won’t be able to do anything!”
“Don’t you believe it! I own part of it, and I’m very old. I’d left everything to William. But now he’s dead and they could turn us out if they want. They make the laws, and adapt them as they want. And now William’s gone. He knew what he was doing, plus he had money and lawyers. No one argued with him! Bu
t poor people like us … we count for nothing!”
“And is the mayor of Eygalières in on this?”
“Of course he is! All the big cheeses are in the know. Anyway, I’d rather not say any more. There’s no one left to save our little corner of Provence.”
“There’s still William’s wife! She’s very rich too, and the Downlands are hers now.”
“I don’t know if she’ll stay. I don’t think so, without her husband …”
Bérard had spoken as though he was expecting an answer.
“His wife intends to stay.”
“I don’t know if William told her.”
“Told her what?”
“William was Simone Maurel’s son. He was born in 1942. It was poor Simone’s only sin: having the child of a man she had loved during the war.”
De Palma was lost for words. The light had changed. In the cooler air, the birds were starting to sing, while the sheep had fallen silent. There was a smell of sweat, rancid wool and strong milk.
“She died and left her son behind … When she was shamed like that, she sent him to his father, in Germany …”
Bérard shivered. These memories were exciting his heart. For a moment, his features changed; his face emptied of the remnant of life that had been driving him on just a few minutes before.
“What I’ve just told you, no one else knows. William found out when he was much older. I told him. When his mother died, he was only three. He didn’t remember her.”
Bérard blew his nose loudly.
“William was like a son to me.”
On the road that led down toward Fontvieille, de Palma tried to put his ideas in order. The day before, he had learned nothing from Morini, except for the confirmation of what he already knew: the mob in Aix was laundering money in business deals such as this amusement park. There was nothing surprising about that. The only detail that provided any progress was Morini’s origins: he came from Tarascon. One day, that could turn out to be relevant.
The Beast of the Camargue Page 17