A Vintage End

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  He found a small hotel near the main train station, a family-run operation he had used before. He got in just before the owners closed for the night. He was lucky – they had a room. If the hotel had been full, he’d have to go to a nearby chain hotel where he would pay more for less.

  Burke dropped his stuff off in the small room – the building dated back 200 years – but gave up on the notion of going immediately to bed. His body was tired, but his brain was still moving too fast in too many directions.

  He strolled through one of the gates of the old city wall and found a quiet café that was open. He ordered a 1664 beer with some tapenade.

  When the server, a young man who was at least 6’4” and rapier thin, returned with the beer, Burke asked if the events in Arles had made the news in Avignon. He expected the answer would be yes since the two communities were only 40 kilometres apart, but it didn’t hurt to check.

  “Of course,” the server said. “It was all over the news and on social media. I saw lots of video, too.”

  “Who do you think could have done it?” Burke asked.

  “Well, I doubt it was terrorism,” the server said. “If it had been terrorism, there would have been police and army all over the place. I’m not sure if it’s the work of someone who’s mentally ill either. I’m thinking it’s some kind of vendetta against that Yablonski.”

  “Did you hear about what happened with the two earlier vintage bike races?” Burke asked.

  “After Arles, I went back and checked. Pretty weird.”

  “Are you going to pay any attention to the next race up in Vaison-la-Romaine?” Burke said.

  The server shrugged. “I have exams coming up so I’m going to be studying a lot, but, yes, I think I’ll check out social media and some websites to see what happens up there.”

  “And the mainstream media, too?”

  “Maybe some TV if I get the chance.”

  Then a young couple took over a table and the server excused himself.

  Burke wasn’t surprised that the server, probably a student at the University of Avignon, was more tuned into social media than mainstream media. A lot of younger people the server’s age were the same.

  Sipping his beer, he pondered if the people behind the Yablonski acts, who were hacking into websites and using social media to comment, were of similar age.

  Chapter 43

  The next morning after breakfast, Burke figured he should book some accommodation for Vaison-la-Romaine. He had postponed doing so and then forgotten. His quick conversation with the server the night before reminded him that a lot of people would likely be going to Vaison to watch the vintage race, if only out of curiosity.

  Since the population of Vaison was maybe 6,500 or one-eighth of Arles’, there weren’t a lot of hotels and chambre d’hôtes. Burke figured his best chance might be a small gîte, or cottage, for a few days. He knew the area attracted cyclists from around the world because of its closeness – 10 kilometres – to the legendary climb of Mont Ventoux, the Giant of Provence, and, as a result, he expected there would be a fair number of gîtes.

  Two phone calls later, Burke had a place for three nights. It sounded perfect: new, in a compound of four apartments, on the northern edge of town near the community’s only supermarket and yet within a kilometre of Vaison’s lovely Old Town. The town’s expansive Roman ruins, featuring a wonderfully preserved amphitheatre, were even closer. And the price was reasonable, cheaper than if he had secured a room in one of the better hotels in town. Lemaire wouldn’t complain about the cost.

  Then he jumped into his car and headed north to pick up Claude Brière in a few hours.

  Because of the time he had spent booking the gîte, Burke knew he had to push the pace. Fortunately, the main highways were quiet and he saw no police along the way monitoring vehicles. His old Peugeot was more than 10 years old, but he kept it in good shape and it reacted well when he demanded extra of it.

  He reached the Corbas prison located just outside Lyon about 40 minutes before Claude was scheduled to be released. He drove around the outside which had an extended high wall and gloomy buildings inside. When he saw where to park, he quickly pulled in and went to the entrance.

  Knowing the French considered bureaucracy to be essential to life, Burke figured he’d need every spare minute to fill in forms and talk to officials.

  However, the process proved remarkably quick and efficient. A few signatures here, a couple of ID showings there and he soon found himself in a windowless room waiting for his friend.

  And then a door opened and out came Claude, dressed in black slacks and a long-sleeved white cotton shirt. The clothes hung off him because Claude had lost about 40 pounds since he had entered prison eight months before. Burke hadn’t visited Claude in six weeks and he couldn’t believe the changes in his friend in that short period. Besides the dramatic weight loss which had left him with a flat belly, Claude looked different facially with hollow cheeks. If anything, he seemed five years older.

  Claude walked up to Burke and they exchanged cheek kisses. Then Claude hugged Burke, thumping him on the back.

  “Now, it’s time to get out of this place,” Claude said.

  In the car, Burke asked if Claude needed to go anywhere first before they headed to the highway and the way back home.

  “If I never see Corbas or even Lyon again, I will be happy,” Claude said. “Maybe we can stop later for lunch, but for right now, let’s put some distance between us and this place.”

  Burke didn’t know what to say, so he just drove.

  Ten minutes later, they were on the highway.

  “I feel better already,” Claude said, finally breaking the silence.

  “Good,” Burke said. He paused, unsure what to say next.

  “Relax, Paul, everything will be fine,” Claude said, slapping Burke on the thigh and grinning.

  “I hope so,” Burke said.

  “It could easily have been worse,” Claude said. “If I had ended up in one of those old dungeons they used to have for prisons in Lyon, I don’t know how I would have managed.”

  Burke had seen photos of the old prisons and they had looked like brutal places.

  “You know I heard those two old prisons are being turned into residential buildings,” Burke said in an effort to make conversation.

  “Yes, I heard that, too,” Claude said. “Corbas is different, very modern, but it has its own demons.”

  “Demons?”

  “I didn’t tell you this before, but the Corbas place is modernized in a variety of ways. You actually get into and out of your cell through an automated process,” Claude said. “The result is you don’t see the other inmates very much or even the guards, and that can make a man very, very isolated and lonely. You have cells which are fairly decent and clean, but you’re still left on your own. It can feel pretty dehumanizing. I don’t think that was the intention when the place opened in 2009, but that’s what’s happened.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Burke said.

  “That sense of solitude can be so overwhelming that you want to escape it at all costs,” Claude said. “There were a few suicides when I was there and I think you’d find that Corbas prison might even lead the way in that category.”

  “And what about you, Claude? Did it get really bad for you?”

  There was silence in the car for a few moments.

  “I had a few occasions when I felt totally removed from everything and everyone, but I got over those times because I knew I would be getting out soon,” Claude said. “I also kept my mind busy with lots of reading and endless crossword puzzles. In fact, I’d say I’m now addicted to crosswords. And whenever I got a chance to see a newspaper, I checked the stock markets just for fun, selecting a few stocks and seeing how they did over a few weeks. Anything to keep my mind away from thinking too much about where I was.”

  Then Claude changed the topic to Hélène and Burke filled him in about his niece and his old café.

 
“I’m happy she has shown a talent for running the place,” Claude said. “I’m even happier she likes the work.”

  They talked about the changes Hélène had made to the café’s menu.

  “OK, I’m now officially hungry,” Claude said as he patted his stomach. “If it’s acceptable to you, let’s take the turnoff to Saint-Rémy-de-Provence. I know this wonderful little café whose food will make me forget what I ate at Corbas.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they parked by the ring road of Saint-Rémy, a block from where Claude wanted to eat. When they got there, there was a single outdoor table that was vacant. They took it.

  “This is good luck – and a good beginning,” Claude said.

  A server came over and asked if they wanted anything to drink. Burke abstained, but Claude asked for a small glass of rosé.

  “I have to re-build my wine capacity,” Claude said.

  A couple of minutes later, the server returned with Claude’s wine. Claude took a sip, closed his eyes, moaned with pleasure and then smacked his lips. Burke could see his friend had definitely missed a decent glass of wine.

  Then they ordered.

  “What are your plans once you’re back and settled?” Burke asked.

  “If Hélène needs my help, I will provide it, but I don’t want to take over the café again,” Claude said. “I’ve actually considered other options but I still want to be involved in the food industry.”

  Burke wasn’t sure what that meant.

  “For a while I thought about writing a cookbook, maybe specializing in Mediterranean cuisine, but that has been done to death,” Claude said. “Instead, I think I’d like to get involved with food banks in some capacity.”

  Claude saw the surprised look on Burke’s face.

  “The prison management permitted me to do some cooking in the prison kitchen and, to my surprise, I enjoyed making vast quantities of food instead of single dishes for individuals,” Claude said. “Maybe it was because it got me out of my cell more, but maybe it was because I could see more people enjoying what I did although the prison menu was hardly haute cuisine.”

  Burke was still surprised.

  “I also learned there are two huge challenges with cooking for a larger number of people,” Claude said. “One is to make the food as tasty as possible under the conditions which isn’t easy. I mean, you need to keep the flavours in the food for a fair amount of time since a lot of people go through the line to get their meal.

  “Second, you have to recognize a lot can go wrong. The food can go cold or can get overheated. You can also allow contaminants in and not know it. It’s actually relatively easy to make people ill without trying.”

  “But why food banks?” Burke said.

  “I read French food banks serve almost 100-million meals a year,” Claude said. “They can use some help. I have something cooking – sorry about the pun – in the back of my mind that will allow me to pay the bills and, at the same time, help the food banks.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “I’ll tell you when I have matters organized. For now, let’s eat. I see our meals are coming right now.”

  Lunch went quietly because Claude was engrossed in squeezing every flavour out of his veal ragout which, he proclaimed, was as good as any he had ever tried. Burke, who had mussels in a wonderful curry, enjoyed watching his friend. Claude had clearly missed good food during his incarceration.

  Once the last morsel disappeared, Claude realized he lacked the funds to pay for the meal. Burke saw his friend was mortified at the situation; Claude always paid his share and often tried to look after a companion’s bill.

  “No worries, my friend,” Burke said. “Even if you had money, I wouldn’t let you pay, not on this occasion.”

  “Thank you, Paul,” Claude said. “You’ve been a good friend these last few months and, to be accurate, these last few years. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d very much like to get back to Nice, to see Hélène and to sleep in my own bed.”

  Minutes later they were back on the highway. Burke could see the meal had lifted Claude’s spirits – he was a true Frenchman, bound eternally to his stomach – and the idea of seeing his beloved Hélène had put a gentle smile on his face.

  “By the way, have you been involved in those vintage bicycle races that have been in the news?” Claude said.

  Burke told him he had participated in the first three, done several blogs and chatted with the police about what had happened.

  “I might have known you’d have your nose in there someplace,” Claude said with a grin.

  “How did you hear about the races and all the incidents aimed at Yablonski?” Burke wondered.

  “We had TV time and I read the newspapers in the prison library,” Claude said.

  “So you’re up to date,” Burke said.

  “I am. I also heard about those three people drowning in Arles. Were you there for the storm?”

  “I was and, between you and me, I don’t think those deaths were accidental.”

  “Why do you say that?” Claude said, no longer smiling.

  Burke explained how the individuals had died and related his theory, helped in significant part by the formidable Madame Benoit. Then he explained his ideas about what kind of individuals were behind the Yablonski protests. It helped Burke deal with the passing kilometres and also aided him in sorting out his thoughts.

  “So, you believe there’s some kind of connection between those extremists and the deaths,” Claude said.

  “Extremists?” said Burke who hadn’t ever considered labeling them that way.

  “Of course, what else could you call them, Paul?” Claude said. “Now, if they’re only trying to blackmail Yablonski, that’s another matter. They’d just be crooks. But everything I’ve read and heard tells me this isn’t about blackmail.”

  “I agree it has nothing to do with blackmail,” Burke said. “If it did, they wouldn’t be playing it out on social media and on various websites. Somehow I think we have a group whose members are disagreeing over tactics. The tacks on the road just out of Éze Village showed a different attitude. And burning Yablonski in effigy had a totally different tone to it. Then there was the bombing of Yablonski’s limo.”

  “Maybe they’re just upping the ante.”

  “That’s possible, but I don’t think so. I think the body of that cyclist in Arles is connected to this group. He hasn’t been identified yet which means he was trying to stay hidden. He’s definitely not from the region because someone would have recognized his face in the news, even though his eyes were closed. He may not even be French, but I believe he’s linked to the anti-Yablonski group.”

  “So why did he turn up suspiciously dead?” Claude said.

  That was the question that had been bothering Burke the last few days.

  “Maybe he disagreed with the others,” he suggested.

  “So, they killed him and made it look like an accident?” Claude said in disbelief.

  “I know, I know, but maybe it was more than a disagreement,” Burke said. “Maybe he threatened to go to the police about what was happening or what was being planned.”

  “OK, but it still sounds bizarre,” Claude said.

  “It might not have been the entire group participating in the cyclist’s murder,” Burke said, starting to get a feel for the scenario he was describing. “Maybe it was just one person who did it. The others could be so scared of this individual that they’re going along with whatever he says.”

  “If that’s the case, they’re accomplices and, if they get caught, they’ll spend a long time in prison and it might be worse than Corbas,” Claude said.

  Burke heard his friend’s voice starting to accept the theory.

  “The question is whether one person could control two others that much,” Burke said.

  “The right person, or the wrong one in this case, could easily do it,” Claude said. “I saw it in prison. There are people who just have to look at you and you’ll do
whatever they say.”

  Burke wondered what Claude had experienced in Corbas.

  “And if that’s what we have here, there’s no way the other two individuals are going to go to the police now,” Claude said.” If they do, their future is done.”

  “I expect you’re right,” Burke replied.

  There was silence in the car as the two men considered where their discussion had gone.

  “You know this probably means they won’t stop with what they did in Arles,” Claude said. “They’re going to Vaison and they’re going to be more aggressive than ever. And because it’s the last race, they might decide they need a truly violent ending.”

  “I know,” Burke said.

  Then Burke realized his theory about a fatal disagreement within the group was wrong.

  If the anti-Yablonski people were all cyclists as he suspected, they wouldn’t have left the dead rider with improperly tied shoelaces and a seatpost that was too low. They would have laid out the scene correctly out of habit. Burke cursed himself for not recognizing that earlier.

  The death was the work of someone else.

  “What are you thinking, Paul?” Claude said.

  Burke told him.

  “So, do you have any idea who did it?” his friend asked.

  “Maybe but, like your career plans, Claude, I will keep them to myself for the moment.”

  “And you’re going to be in Vaison for the final race, correct?”

  “I am,” Burke replied.

  “Well, my friend, you better be careful when you’re there.”

  “I promise to keep out of harm’s way,” Burke said.

  “Unless harm’s way finds you first,” Claude said.

  Chapter 44

  Burke watched as Claude eased his way around the corner of the Café de Neptune. His friend wanted to see Hélène without causing a scene. But that wasn’t going to happen when she saw him. Dropping her dishes onto the nearest vacant table, she sprinted to her uncle and threw herself into his arms, hugging like she would never let him go. From his vantage point, Burke could see both were crying.

  It was an incredibly personal moment for the two and Burke felt like an intruder, regardless of his connections, but he really didn’t have anywhere to hide. Besides, by then, everyone on the café terrace was watching the scene.