Louise welcomed the chilly air and looked up at the starry sky. “You can see the Milky Way!”
“Yes, there’s the big bear,” said Matthieu, pointing. “And right there is the little bear.”
“In English, we call them the Big and Little Dippers.”
“Ah, oui! I can see how that would be.”
Louise opened the cottage door. “I think I’ll light a fire.”
“Would you like me to do it for you?” Matthieu offered.
“Yes, thanks.”
Matthieu came in and took three small logs from the woodpile and made a teepee in the fireplace. “What are your plans while you’re here?”
“I’d like to check out Beaune and Dijon.”
“That is a good place to start.” Matthieu placed some pinecones underneath the logs for kindling, lit a long wooden match and got the fire going.
“I’d also like to tour a vineyard or two,” Louise said. “Are there tours of your vineyard?”
“I can give you a tour if you like.”
“Yes, I’d love some insider information on how the vineyards work.”
“You sound like a stock trader,” Matthieu observed.
“It’s for my novel.”
“What is your novel about?”
“It’s a mystery. But I don’t want to say yet.”
“An unsolved mystery.” He put his hands in his pockets and headed toward the door. “Tomorrow morning, I start working very early and could give you a private tour for some real insider information.”
“That sounds perfect.”
“Bonne nuit, a demain.”
“Bonne nuit.”
T W E N T Y
January 5, 2002
Her eyes opened reluctantly to a sliver of sunrise that had trickled through the almost impenetrable shutters. In a state of torpid arousal, her dreams of stallions and cockerels, roused by new surroundings and a strong male presence, faded into her subconscious. She extended her extremities to get the blood circulating and realized the actual sound of horse hooves and a rooster crowing must have prompted the wild dreamscape. She got up and cracked open the door.
“Vous savez monter à cheval, non?” Matthieu sat atop a horse holding the reins of a second horse in his hand.
“Yes, I know how to ride.”
“Allez, work before food.”
“Give me a minute.”
Louise brushed her teeth and got dressed in jeans, a cashmere turtleneck, and boots. In the mirror she spied a soupçon of her natural blonde roots. She put on her cashmere béret pulling it down over her ears, then borrowed the Barbour coat hanging on a hook by the door and went outside.
“What beautiful horses!” She petted the neck of her designated horse. “I don’t recognize the breed.”
“They are Russian Dons,” Matthieu replied.
“Oh, I’ve never heard of them.”
“Allez, montez.”
Louise got on the sturdy horse and trotted alongside Matthieu.
“Very noble,” Louise said.
“Life in Russia demands a universal horse,” Matthieu said. “They are superb under the saddle and make good carriage horses as well.”
“He almost looks like a racehorse.”
“Russia is not known as a country of equestrian sportsmen and gentleman riders, like England. The Russian Don is well rounded, equally equipped for racing as for hard practical work.”
“A Renaissance horse,” Louise said.
“Ah, oui!”
“How did you happen to get Russian horses?”
“Russian wine wholesalers. Our international sales are significant. In-kind trades are taxed at a lower rate, and since 9/11, there are greater restrictions on cash transactions. One of our Russian clients shipped in horses to barter with.”
“Très intéressant.”
“Allez!” Matthieu kicked his horse into gear and they took off at a gallop through the undulating vineyards. Louise’s horse knew where to go, so she leaned forward and enjoyed the scenery. Clouds smudged pink across the blue horizon and the frigid air met the dewy warmth of the earth, creating a steamy haze.
They veered left and cut across the estate. Louise saw a fast-approaching stone barrier, but the horses weren’t slowing, so she braced her knees, feet firmly in the stirrups, prepared to use her legs as shock absorbers. Then the horses floated over the obstacle and landed gracefully with minimum impact. They rode a little further then stopped near a stone shed and tethered the horses. Matthieu gathered tools from the shed and explained his work. The “insider information” that “Karen” wanted for her “novel” had begun.
“It is important to prune even through the winter.” Matthieu tossed three logs into an old steel barrel placed sideways on a cart. He wheeled it to a row of vines, placed some dead sticks under the logs and kindled a flame. Using special clippers, he began pruning.
“How do you know what to cut?” Louise asked.
“I cut only the longest dead stray vines,” Matthieu explained, discarding the stems in the fire. “From a botanical standpoint, we are dealing with a vine in the truest sense of the word. If it is not pruned, it will grow without stopping. Pruning now helps the vine to grow even stronger in the springtime.” He pointed to the trunk of the venerable plant. “Different winegrowing regions have different pruning styles. Of course, the essential tool for pruning is the secateurs.” He opened and closed his pruning shears like a tiny raptor. The single-handed clipper, about eight inches long, appeared well worn but sturdy.
“Those look antique.”
“These have been in my family since the late 1800s when they were new. They are a fine example of the way things used to be made—solid and durable.” Matthieu pointed to one of the wide crescent-shaped blades. “This blade is replaceable.” He pointed at the specific moving parts. “This spring, safety clip, blade, and pivot are original and still work perfectly. Just a couple drops of oil and a touch with the sharpening stone keeps them fully functional.”
“If only humans were that maintenance free,” Louise quipped.
Matthieu laughed in reply. He checked the wires that the vines were attached to, then clipped off a small shoot. “The shoots attach themselves to these wires supporting the vines. Workers called tacherons are hired to remove the shoots.” He waved Louise closer. “Here, you can see each pruning technique. It may seem simple, but it requires a great deal of practice and an expert eye. The person pruning must select which canes and buds to cut, and which will bear the harvest.”
“Can I help?” Louise asked.
“Yes, stand near me to gather the trimmings and put them in the fire.” He thrust a handful of freshly cut shoots toward Louise. She was taken off guard and fumbled. But with a juggler’s reflexes, she grasped Matthieu’s hand and caught the shoots. The warmth of his hand steadied hers. She darted an apologetic look at him and realized he was watching her silently. His smoldering eyes, the flame having long been extinguished, seared the scar tissue of her heart. His gaze tested her well-tempered spirit long ago shatter-proofed by lost love. Habitually, Louise looked to a person’s right eye, as it was the closest to the soul. But, for some reason, she considered his left eye where she saw an icy rage. Something dark was stored deep down within his psyche.
“The fire serves as a heat source too,” Matthieu said. “That is why you will often see plumes of smoke rising in the vineyards in winter.” He continued to work nimbly as Louise gathered the shoots and tossed them into the fire. She stopped to warm her hands over the flames. “Ah, j’ai failli oublier.” Matthieu reached inside his jacket and took out a small thermos and two stackable tin cups. He handed the cups to Louise, and she held them as he poured hot coffee into each cup.
“My hero!” Louise drank the delicious French brew.
“Pas mal, eh?” Matthieu smiled.
“Not bad at all.” The sun cleared the horizon, its rays increasing the ambient temperature. “It’s magnificent here.”
After ab
out two hours they finished pruning a good-sized section of the vineyard. “Ça suffit pour aujourd’hui.” Matthieu picked up and wheeled the barrel. “I try to do about 200 square meters every morning. My back is getting too old to do more.”
“Do you hire workers?”
“In summer there are students who need the work, and I am happy for the low-wage labor.”
“So, where are the diseased vines?”
“We will go there next.” They got back on the horses and trotted across a road to an enclosure. “These are called clos, which are walled-in vineyards, usually for ancient vines.”
They dismounted and hung the reins over the stone wall of the enclosure. The morning sun cast a golden hue over vineyard that was beautifully framed by the opening of the clos like a painting. Louise followed Matthieu down one of the rows to where a section of the vines had been covered by a tarp.
Matthieu lifted the corner. “C’est horrible,” he muttered as though seeing his own child suffering.
“Does the tarp keep the disease from spreading?”
“Wishful thinking. These things find a way of spreading.”
“What are you looking for?”
He pointed to a dark blemish on the vine. “According to my research, this particular disease, in this region doesn’t make sense.”
“I don’t understand.”
“This strain is from a completely different region that wouldn’t be anywhere near here. It’s almost as if it were…planted.”
“Is that possible?”
“With the GMOs and so-called designer agriculture these days, who knows?”
“Will you be able to salvage the vines?”
Matthieu suddenly remembered that Louise was a guest. “I’m sorry, you should not have to deal with this. It’s just that the timing is unfortunate. You booked our cottage in the off-season, and we weren’t expecting you. And this just happened in the past week. I apologize if this is ruining your stay.”
“Not at all,” insisted Louise. “Don’t forget, I’m writing a mystery novel. This is quite a fascinating mystery.” She could tell by his look that her words were insensitive. “I would love to help you solve it. Can you explain it to me?”
“The bank sent an agricultural inspector who discovered the infection in this small area of our Premier Cru grapes. I have been researching it on my own and it appears to be a new disease caused by a Botryosphaeriaceous species identified in Bordeaux and in other French vine-growing areas. This disease is referred to as ‘black dead arm’ or BDA, for the cankers caused on the grapevine. Symptoms range from leaves showing discolorations to complete vine wilting. Here we have discolorations so it’s in the early stages.”
“What’s the cure?”
“It is complicated and requires professional treatment.”
“Which is expensive.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
A gentle breeze wafted the scent of breakfast their way. Matthieu looked at his watch. “Mon dieu! You must be famished.”
“I could eat.”
They got on the horses and headed back to the lodge. It was only 9:00 a.m., but the day already felt long and productive as Louise sat down to breakfast.
“Alors, Karen, croque-madame ou croque-monsieur?” Magali asked.
“Croque-madame, s’il vous plaît.” Magali served the French equivalent of a grilled cheese sandwich but with ham and béchamel sauce on the inside and covered with crusty melted cheese. Topping it with an over-easy egg changed it from a croque-monsieur to a croque-madame.
“Luke and I gathered the eggs this morning.”
“You can definitely work up an appetite on the farm,” Louise said, eating with gusto.
“You are a true gourmand,” Matthieu said.
Louise ate properly with a fork and knife in the European manner. However, being left-handed, she held the knife in her left and fork in her right hand.
“Quelque chose ne va pas,” Luke said, holding his magnifying glass and looking at Louise’s hands.
“Je suis gauchère,” Louise said.
“Karen writes with her left hand,” Magali explained. “Opposite of the way you write. So, that’s why she holds the utensils the other way.”
Luke took his fork and knife and tried to imitate Louise to adorable results.
“What is on your agenda today, Karen?” Magali asked.
“I’m going to do a quick tour of several places to get an overview of the area in search of inspiration.”
“May I make a suggestion?” asked Matthieu.
“Please do.”
“An excellent way to tour Burgundy is by boat.”
“By boat?”
“Ah, oui,” seconded Magali. “Burgundy is laced with canals that were dug for transportation. The canals have locks every mile or so, allowing boats to climb over the hills.”
“Yes, there are actually two canals that bisect Burgundy with many branching off. The Canal de Bourgogne is a 200-mile engineering masterpiece of the pre-Industrial Revolution. It flows from Auxerre Southeast past Dijon. The other is Canal du Nivernais which links two of France’s great rivers, the Seine and the Loire, in the town of Vermenton. That is the one I recommend you explore first. If you like, I can accompany you,” Matthieu offered.
“No, that won’t be necessary.” Matthieu appeared rejected so Louise added, “Can I take you up on your offer next time? I tend to follow my instincts better alone and taking my first tour on my own would be better for my creative writing.”
“Of course,” Matthieu said.
Louise finished her café au lait and picked up her dishes. “May I help clean up?”
“Absolutely not,” said Magali, taking her plate. “You already helped Matthieu enough this morning. Please, go enjoy your inspiration tour.”
“Thank you for the delicious breakfast.” Louise gave Magali four cheek kisses, now that they had grown familiar enough to do so. She did the same to Luke, but when she turned to Matthieu, he walked out. Louise looked at Magali. “Did I say something wrong?”
“He’s very protective. I think he would have preferred you to let him take you on the tour.”
“That’s very sweet, but I can take care of myself. Besides, what danger could there possibly be?”
Magali suddenly spoke in accented English, “Just be careful. There’s a lot of mystery in our history.”
“Mystery in our history,” Louise repeated. “I’ll have to write that down.”
Satisfied with her little rhyme, Magali went back to speaking French. “Perhaps Matthieu will explain someday. It is not my place. Just beware of people you don’t know. It’s best to associate only with people to whom you have been introduced.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
T W E N T Y – O N E
January 5, 2002
Louise decided that renting a boat and skippering it herself would offer greater discretion and different opportunities than exploring Burgundy by car or guided boat tour. She went back to her cottage and searched the Internet for the geographical location of the canal Matthieu had suggested. Then she changed into Wellies, got in the car and headed north.
She made a call on the mobile phone. “Hi, Charlie.”
“Hello, mademoiselle Baker. How’s France?”
“There’s not much to update you on yet. But I am pursuing a couple of leads and following my gut instinct.”
“Take your time. It’s better to assimilate slowly.”
“That’s my thinking too. In a few days I might have something more substantial.” She saw the freeway signs to Vermenton. “Sorry, gotta go, this is my exit.”
She hung up and turned off. On Matthieu’s advice, and what she found on the Internet, she would take a tour of Canal du Nivernais in Vermenton. which was close to Vézelay, the ancient village near Les Fontaines Salées.
She arrived in Vermenton and stopped at a bicycle rental shop. After speaking to the owner, she learned of a local fisherman named Clément who might h
ave a boat for rent on the River Cure. She hitched the rental bike to the back of her Peugeot and drove a short distance to the marina. She walked down the dock where she met a scruffy type with dark hair and olive skin.
“Clément?”
“Oui, c’est moi,” he replied. Despite his burly ruggedness he was jovial and easily enticed by a pretty woman.
“Bonjour. The owner of the bicycle shop in town said you might have a boat for rent,” Louise said in French. “I would just need it for a few hours.”
“Navigatrice solitaire? What if you have engine trouble?”
“Je sais bricoler.” Louise dropped some nautical terminology persuading him she could handle mechanical issues.
“Okay,” he agreed, “Five hundred Euros now, and I refund you 200 Euros when you return the boat the way you found it.”
“Deal.” Louise handed him the cash.
“Here are the keys and a map of the canals.” He handed her the key to the 1982 Inland Waterways Cruiser, which had a champagne cork as a float, and the dogeared map.
“Parfait, merci.” She loaded the bicycle and supplies onboard. Her mental compass was set to head south. But she took off north from Clément’s dock to explore the locks Magali had mentioned. The boat wasn’t what she was used to on the island. But driving it was easy enough once she’d mastered the sluggish response to the steering. She piloted along a bucolic stretch of the Canal du Nivernais, weaving in and out of the River Yonne. She passed the village of Cravant with its vineyards, cherry orchards and timber-framed houses. After about thirty minutes she turned around and retraced her trip back past Clement’s dock and continued south.
She scanned the map for points of interest along the River Cure. Starting from the tributary at Cravant, it flowed past waterfalls, forests, limestone cliffs, and caves, to the medieval town of Vézelay. A mile downriver perched atop the high riverbank was the enchanting 14th century Reigny Abbaye with a stone refectory and a 17th century dovecote. Feeling hunger pangs, she took out the Brie and cornichon baguette that she had picked up in town and rummaged around the small galley to find a corkscrew and a wineglass. In addition to the well-appointed galley, two separate cabins and two heads made the 32-foot boat a comfortable river cruiser. Steering with one knee, she popped the cork of a Chablis and washed the sandwich down with the rich buttery white wine.
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