“You can have Paris in the springtime,” the woman said. “It may be the stuff of poems and songs, but Paris is too dreary for me at this time of year. Now down here, it’s different.”
The others nodded.
“Were you just passing by when you saw the race?” Burke asked.
“We’re staying up the road in Antibes and heard about the race in the news, and so we thought we’d come and watch it,” the woman said.
“Did you hear what happened with the Saint-Raphaël race with the skeletons?” Burke wondered.
They all nodded again.
“Bizarre, very bizarre,” said another man who had a Van Gogh beard. “And then to have these German reischmarks floating around, I don’t know who hates Yablonski, but he’s got at least one enemy.”
And with that remark, one of the group pulled out a smartphone and started to check social media for any mention of Yablonski.
So, Burke thought, people were paying attention.
That probably annoyed Yablonski, but pleased whoever was pulling the stunts.
Burke wished them a good holiday and, with Rousseau in tow, moved on.
He stopped by a bench, sat for a minute and sent in a few comments to Lemaire. Then he returned the phone to his back pocket.
“Have you finished investigating?” Rousseau asked.
“I’m just curious,” Burke said.
“Me, too, but I suspect you’re going to get more involved in what’s happening with these races,” Rousseau said.
They agreed it was time to eat and drink. Since they were close to the Old Town, they picked a small café on a narrow street that featured the best olive oil anywhere in the area. The owner, a transplanted Italian by the name of Sylvio Arlotta, was as passionate about his olive oils as he was about his kids, maybe more, and usually featured dishes that were unique and delectable. The wine was always excellent as well.
Burke heard his phone ring.
It was François Lemaire saying he had received Burke’s photos, videos and his written observations.
“I have a reporter down there now, but I might still have some use for what you sent me, Paul,” Lemaire said.
“I thought it would be better to send something than send nothing,” Burke said.
“And you were right to do so,” Lemaire said. “That’s part of why we pay you.”
“I know,” Burke said.
“Also, after today’s events in Nice, you have to be in Arles for the next vintage race,” Lemaire said. “This story is only going to get bigger.”
Burke couldn’t disagree.
“Where does the Arles race go?” Lemaire asked.
“It starts in Arles, goes to Beaucaire and Tarascon, slips into the Camargue and then returns to Arles,” said Burke.
“That sounds like a spectacular route. Great for photos and video.”
“Lots of scenery,” Burke agreed.
“I’d like you to ride the race, but I also want you to go there a couple of days early and talk to the locals. See what they think about what’s happening with these races, do some blogs, and take lots of photos and video. I might be able to send a reporter there on race day, but I’m not sure. Anyway, your costs will be covered within reason.”
“Within reason?” Burke asked, knowing the editor tended to be frugal with resources. Burke actually thought Lemaire would be happiest if Burke volunteered to sleep in his car for a couple of nights and eat leftovers.
“Go to Arles on Wednesday and stay till race day on Saturday,” Lemaire said. “I’m sure you can find some inexpensive hotel or chambre d’hôte to stay at.”
Then the editor outlined what he wanted from Burke – two static blogs, a video blog, some photos and some posts on various social media. If anything happened, Burke should be prepared to do more.
Burke was never entirely sure where a blogger’s job ended and a reporter’s job started.
“I don’t need you there to report on events,” Lemaire said, almost like he had read Burke’s mind. “I want you to provide some viewpoints, some colour, something that is Paul Burke-like.”
“What’s ‘Burke-like’ mean?” Burke asked.
Lemaire sighed theatrically. “Just tell people what’s going on from your viewpoint,” he said. “You’ll figure it out, or I’ll help you figure it out.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“And make sure you enter the final race, too with the same arrangements as for Arles,” Lemaire said. “Where is it again?”
“Vaison-la-Romaine,” Burke said.
“Farther away, but that’s OK,” Lemaire said. “Get yourself into it.”
A moment later, they ended the call. Burke told an inquisitive Rousseau the gist of the conversation.
“So, you’re off to the Arles race next weekend,” Rousseau said. “I wonder if anything will happen there.”
“Want to join me?”
Rousseau shook his head and grinned. “If I go racing for a third straight weekend, my wife will put me on fast-food rations. And that’s something I can’t stomach.”
“I understand.”
“And will Hélène be fine with another weekend of racing?” Rousseau asked.
“She won’t have any issue with it,” Burke said. “She’s very busy at the café with a new menu. Plus, she also has a big wedding coming up that she’s catering.”
“Ah, a busy woman – and an understanding one, too,” Rousseau said.
“But she’ll also tell me what I’ll be missing by going away,” added Burke, thinking about what often happened after a hectic night at the café when Hélène needed something to take her mind off food, wine and customers.
“I can see you’re still feeling the passions of young love,” Rousseau said.
Burke smiled.
“Now, let’s get going because I’m hungry and I hear Monsieur Arlotta has an especially good pasta dish he just created,” Rousseau said.
Chapter 14
Hélène was just getting dressed when Burke came home. The café would be opening in another 90 minutes and she needed to be there to review the dinner menu with her chef and his assistant. She would also have a few instructions for the other server who would be working.
“I heard what happened,” she said as soon as Burke walked into their apartment.
Hearing the door open and Hélène talking, Plato shot into the hallway, tail wagging and tongue hanging out.
Burke bent and scratched the ears of the small dog. Standing back up, he leaned forward and kissed Hélène on the lips.
“What part did you hear about, the fake German reischmarks or the tacks on the route?” he asked.
“Tacks? What tacks?” Hélène said. “I only heard about the fake German money with that Yablonski’s face on the bills.”
Burke asked how she had heard about it.
“It was on the radio and when I heard about what had happened, I checked social media,” she said. “There were lots of posts from spectators and even from a few cyclists in the race.”
So the stunt was paying off for the perpetrators, Burke thought; the media were paying attention. From his conversations back on the Promenade des Anglais, so were people in general.
Hélène asked about the tacks and Burke explained. When Hélène heard how Burke and Rousseau had gone off the road, her face went pale. She remembered the last time Burke had cycled off a road and how he had almost died.
“Do you think the two things are connected?” Hélène said.
“I have a feeling they were done by the same people. I also have a feeling these people aren’t done with Bosco Yablonski.”
“Your ‘feelings’ as you call them tend to be right,” Hélène said.
She then said she had to tell him something before she left. Burke was eager to clean off the road dirt with a shower, but postponed it to hear what she had to say.
Hélène explained her Uncle Claude’s lawyer had called again to say Claude’s release date from the prison in
Lyon had been moved up once more, this time to the Tuesday after the Arles race.
“And he said Uncle wants you to pick him up,” she said.
“You mean he wants me there, too?””
Hélène shook her head. “No, just you,” she said, tying around her neck a turquoise silk scarf that accentuated her golden skin.
Burke was happy to do it, but wondered why it would be him and not her.
“Monsieur Richard says Uncle thinks it will be easier on him if it’s just you there to get him,” Hélène said.
Burke thought the request must be upsetting to Hélène who loved her uncle like a father.
“Don’t worry, chéri,” she said, touching Burke’s left cheek with her fingertips. “I’m not angry. I know how Uncle thinks. And I think it will be easier if you collect him at the prison. When he gets back, then I can wrap my arms around him and hold him and tell him to never get in trouble again.”
Burke noticed tears in her eyes.
She hadn’t visited Claude once during his months in prison, not because she didn’t want to – she was desperate to see him – but because he had told her he didn’t have the strength to see her in person and then endure his time behind bars.
“You will collect him in Lyon and you will bring him back here to me, safe and sound,” Hélène said. “Then we will discuss what the future holds for Uncle.”
Burke nodded.
Hélène leaned forward and they kissed again.
She went to go out the front door. Before leaving, though, she smiled at Burke.
“I think I will put a curfew on Uncle, though,” she said. “He deserves one for all the grief he has given me.”
Burke laughed.
And then she was gone, the door closing gently behind her.
Burke bent again and scratched Plato’s ears. The dog started to hop around in excitement. Burke knew what that meant – treat time.
Burke went into the kitchen and dug out a small bacon treat from a bag stuffed in a drawer. Then he gave it to Plato who gulped it down and then looked up in anticipation of another.
“That’s it, little one,” Burke told him.
Plato’s tail slowed its wagging and the dog seemed to be frowning.
Burke relented and gave him another treat which disappeared as quickly as the first one.
“No more,” Burke said.
Then, postponing his shower for a few more minutes, he poured himself a glass of chilled rosé and went into the living room where he collapsed onto the couch.
He thought about Claude. He had visited his friend three times during Claude’s incarceration. Each visit had lasted 30 minutes during which time Claude had talked about the improving quality of the prison’s food thanks to his slight involvement once it had become known he was a café owner with significant culinary skills. A couple of times Claude had discussed the peculiarities of a couple of inmates. Mostly, though, Claude asked about life back in Villeneuve-Loubet and in Nice. Burke, who had wondered if getting such details would trouble his friend, nevertheless provided some basic information. At the end of each visit, Claude asked Burke to give Hélène a large hug for him.
Now Claude was about to come home.
Burke wondered how that would work out.
Chapter 15
Early the next morning, accompanied by Plato as usual, Burke went down to Jean’s newsagent shop.
“That was quite the race yesterday, Paul,” said Jean by way of greeting.
“Another strange one,” Burke said.
He unleashed Plato who immediately went to Jean, got a quick scratch of the ears and then retreated to his bed in a back corner, ready to spend the next several hours watching customers come and go.
With no others at the shop, Jean grabbed two cups of espresso and joined Burke at their usual outside table.
“Lots of coverage of the race,” Jean said, motioning to the rack of newspapers to the side.
Burke, who usually bought at least two papers each morning, had checked some news websites before coming to Jean’s. The coverage of the vintage race, especially the fake resichmarks, was considerable. He hadn’t seen much about the furniture tacks beyond a single mention; it was obvious no one was treating it as part of the PR assault against Bosco Yablonski which surprised Burke since the furniture tacks had been embossed with Yablonski’s image.
“Whoever is pulling these dirty tricks is lucky it’s happening during a slow news period,” Jean said. “Except for some flooding south of Lyon, there isn’t much real news. So the media are jumping all over this Yablonski thing even though they don’t know what’s behind it. It’s ridiculous and more than a little irresponsible.”
“Irresponsible?”
“These stunts are suggesting Yablonski, or his family, is somehow involved in Second World War atrocities or something like that,” Jean said. “But there’s no proof, just what some anonymous individuals are implying and yet the media are giving legs to the story. I know it’s a slow news period but really? At the outset, I was intrigued, but now I think what’s happening to Yablonski is a little unfair.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Burke said.
“Of course, I have the right to change my mind again,” Jean added with a smile.
“As always,” Burke said.
“Well, whatever group is behind all these anti-Yablonski stunts, I have the sense they aren’t dangerous like the old Action Directe bunch,” Jean said.
The name rang a faint bell for Burke, but not enough so he asked his friend about Action Directe.
Jean sat back and smiled like an uncle about to provide some ancient story for a youngster.
“They were an anti-capitalist guerrilla group here in France, very nasty, very deadly,” Jean said. “They were in business from the late 1970s for almost a decade until they got caught – I think they were captured in 1987. Anyway, they targeted government offices, army buildings, property management agencies and a bunch of other places they considered to be run by imperialists. They robbed, bombed and assassinated, but their biggest coup was murdering Georges Besse who was the head of Renault.”
Burke had a slight recollection of Besse’s murder from an old magazine story or documentary on TV. He asked how Besse had been killed.
“As I recall, he was walking to his front door in Paris when two women came up to him from behind and opened fire. He died right there.”
Burke asked what had happened to the group and Jean told him they had been arrested and the ringleaders, who totalled four or five according to Jean, had been sentenced to life imprisonment for their crimes.
“Well, I don’t think that’s what we have here,” Burke said.
“I agree, but I’m not sure the French criminal justice system is as quick to dismiss the possibility,” said Jean. “Maybe the secret police and the flics err on the side of being too aggressive these days, but after the Charlie Hebdo massacre, not many are going to disagree with their approach.”
Burke nodded, recalling how a small group of Al-Qaeda extremists attacked the Paris offices of the satirical magazine, slaughtering everyone they could find. Over the next 48 hours, more violence continued in Paris and in a small community north of there. Seventeen people were killed by the extremists. Memorial services were held across the country and Burke had been among more than 100,000 who marched through downtown Nice to honour the victims and to show support for the nation’s efforts against terrorism.
Burke put away those memories and looked at Jean who seemed to be waiting for another question. Burke was sure his friend had never gone to university, but he dared anyone to match Jean on current affairs or even recent history. The newsagent had a remarkable memory and an insatiable interest to know what was going on in the world. He was a walking, talking encyclopedia who dispensed information, coffee and good humour in equal measures.
“How much do you know about Oradour-sur-Glane?” Burke asked.
“I know what every child of France learned in school – h
ow the village people were slaughtered by the Nazis,” Jean said. “I believe it was on June 10 in 1944 if memory serves.”
“Have you visited the site, Jean?” Burke asked.
Jean’s demeanour changed. He looked at his cup of coffee for a few seconds and then back at Burke, his eyes sad.
“I went there as a young man,” he said. “I had been taught about the massacre in school and seen photos, but when I was 20, I thought I should visit it, especially since I was in the area.”
His recollection was interrupted when an elderly village couple came in and picked up the national newspaper Le Monde, nodding at Burke as they did so.
“Ah, Plato is on guard as always,” said the woman.
Plato responded by jumping out of his bed and trotting over to her where he was rewarded with more scratches of his ears.
“Plato aspires to be the manager of my little shop here,” Jean said, returning change to the couple.
The couple left, Plato returned to his bed and Jean came back to the table.
“Where was I? Yes, visiting the village as a young man,” he said, his mood slightly brighter than what it had been a few moments before. The brief exchange with the elderly couple and Plato’s eagerness to be petted had been a tonic for him.
“I had seen many photos and even some videos of the site, but I was not prepared for what I saw in person. I don’t think anyone can be prepared for that. When you stand in front of homes and stores that were once attractive and alive with families and customers but are now ruins, it’s humbling and profoundly sad. And when you know the story, you can almost feel the terror from what happened that day.”
“Did you stay long?” Burke asked.
“That’s a good question,” Jean said, nodding to himself. “I have no idea if I was there one hour or four. I just recall that time disappeared. Now that I think about it, I’ve never had that timeless feeling since.”
Jean sipped his coffee.
“I do recall it was a remarkably nice day, very warm, all blue sky, which made the entire experience seem almost surreal,” Jean said. “After I was there – and I was alone – I drove to a nearby village and had a huge pastis. I needed it. In fact, I got truly drunk and stayed the night at some nearby hotel.”
A Vintage End Page 7