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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
Seeking a quiet spot to write his memoirs, Laurent de Rodergues secludes himself in Saint-Chartier, a village in the heart of France where his grandfather once lived. Yet his tranquil life is soon disturbed by Carlos, an eccentric Irish-Argentine millionaire determined to give the town's medieval château a costly and controversial makeover. Where some see a benefactor, others see a high-handed intruder whose endless renovations have left their music festival without a home. And when the château is unveiled at last, after months of anticipation, the whole town turns out to gaze in wonder - only to find their host lying dead in a pool of blood. Laurent suspects foul play, and when the gendarmes find nothing, he makes it his mission to unmask the murderer. But where to begin? From jilted lovers to jealous rivals, disgruntled employees to shadowy associates - not to mention more than a few angry musicians - practically everyone had a reason to want Carlos dead. As Laurent quickly learns, beneath its idyllic façade, the town of Saint-Chartier is rife with resentment and secret passions.
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Seitenzahl: 510
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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Death in Saint-Chartier
IVO FORNESA
Translated by Allen Young
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Buried deep within the twists and turns of many a crime novel lies a fact seldom considered by the reader: the plot is inspired by events that, though they may not have actually taken place, have ardently been desired. Such is the case with the novel before us, a story that could well have been real, and which hews closer to the truth than one might wish.
The human mind is complex and gripped by untold troubles, and often mere chance or fear of punishment keeps our darkest desires from becoming reality. These deterrents – and nothing else – are the sole reason many crimes go uncommitted.
Let him who is free from the sin of intent cast the first stone. 6
CONTENTS
FIRST CHORD
8
THE VICARAGE
The rainy season was at its peak, and inside the vicarage logs blazed cosily in an oversized hearth, wrapping the sitting room in their warmth.
A bottle of chartreuse – the abbot’s grand reserve – stood on the desk as a bulwark against any rash or foolish urge to leave the house. Its green hue glowed brighter in the flickering light of the fireplace, as if to prove the wisdom of the motto of the Carthusian monks who make it: nunquam reformata, quia nunquam deformata – never reformed, because never deformed. Indeed, some things are so well made and reach such pinnacles of perfection that any attempt to alter them is doomed to failure.
I can’t go out, I won’t go out, I’ve got to get started on these memoirs. For Laurent de Rodergues, this line had become a mantra, one he’d repeated each day for the past eight months, ever since he moved to Saint-Chartier. Yet he still couldn’t get beyond the first sentence. His writer’s block surprised him, because he had a good memory and no lack 10of material. No, that wasn’t the problem. The reminiscences he wanted to set down on paper flowed in mighty torrents in his head, but he couldn’t manage to channel them into a story. For several days now he’d noticed an undeniable whiff of failure in the air.
Two things were now abundantly clear: that his life had indeed been exhilarating and unconventional, with an unusually intense combination of adventure and romance; and that the only constant in his life was his inconstancy, which meant that the task he’d set for himself – to write it all down – simply exceeded his capabilities.
True, there were plenty of extenuating circumstances: a lack of inspiration, a location – the Berry region of France – that offered an endless number of attractions and scenic spots to explore, a sumptuous local cuisine that demanded considerable time to prepare and even longer to digest, and neighbours who often popped over for a visit … and add to that the card games he couldn’t miss at the nearby tavern, the get-togethers and dinners his new friends held in their cosy homes, the pints he could never turn down, the occasional wooing and cooing (and everything that went with it), and perhaps his inability to write was understandable – justifiable, even.
Still, Laurent constantly agonised over his lack of willpower, and he was again reproaching himself when he saw through his window the headlights of a car stopping in front of his door. Cars rarely parked in the small church square in winter, especially so late in the afternoon on a day that would quickly give way to a bone-chilling night. No sooner had he noticed this unusual occurrence than he 11heard steps on the gravel, followed by a sudden vigorous tapping on his window. The smiling face pressed up against the glass was unexpected, to say the least: it belonged to Monsieur Jablard, and he’d brought along his assistant.
Laurent had only a passing acquaintance with Jablard, a lawyer in Châteauroux whose portfolio of clients consisted mainly of foreigners with interests in France. He was a foul-tempered man whom Laurent, in a flight of mean-spirited literary fancy, had privately nicknamed ‘Cocardasse’, after the swordsman who takes Lagardère under his wing in the swashbuckling adventure On Guard. Ever since he was a child, Laurent had made a habit of finding fictional twins in books or films for people he knew in real life, and in this case, Jablard bore no small resemblance to the actor who played Cocardasse in the film version of the story. Not only did the lawyer seem aware of the likeness, he practically went out of his way to accentuate it.
A large man of around sixty, he had a face that had once been attractive but was now loose in the flesh, with a noticeable wattle hanging from his chin. He wore a spectacular mane of hair, probably his most remarkable trait, pulled back and tied with a tacky black velvet ribbon. On more than one occasion Laurent was tempted to ask about his peculiar appearance, which seemed even more flamboyant in such a conservative region, but he never quite dared, because he feared the answer would be interminable. Jablard had a theatrical demeanour to go along with his striking appearance, though for all that he wasn’t a bad person: he had a certain sense of humour 12and a notable bonhomie, traits that in times like these are nothing to sniff at.
Puzzled, Laurent went to open the door and invite his visitors in.
‘Well, this is a pleasant surprise,’ he said. ‘Please come in.’
As he and his assistant stepped inside, Jablard gave the bottle a look that Laurent couldn’t miss.
They made some superficial, practically British chit-chat about the lingering rains in the region, the most recent gossip and the local rugby results. Then Jablard smoothed his hair, looked Laurent squarely in the eye and finally got to the point.
‘I suppose you haven’t the slightest idea what brings us by today. No doubt from the moment we knocked on your window, you’ve been dying to know what we’re doing here. No, don’t pretend,’ he said with a sardonic smile, seeing Laurent’s reaction. ‘We hardly know each other, and here I show up out of the blue in the middle of this cold spell, and with my assistant to boot. It’s only natural that you should wonder why.’
‘As a matter of fact, I am curious,’ Laurent said, and then hurried to add, ‘but in any event I’m happy to have visitors on such a dreary afternoon. So tell me, Monsieur Jablard, to what do I owe the honour?’
‘A very curious matter, but one that’s good news for you, because unless I’m mistaken, you’re quite the equestrian.’
Jablard didn’t take his eyes off Laurent’s face, studying his reaction. As Laurent made no reply, he went on. ‘I suppose you haven’t forgotten about the tragic incident at the château that took place during that splendid party Shennan threw.’ 13
‘Now you’ve got me intrigued. Why don’t you cut to the chase? And yes,’ he added, gesturing to the bottle, ‘be my guest.’
Jablard, always obedient when given such an order, proceeded to pour himself a drink with the touching generosity of a man who knows someone else is picking up the tab. Then, glass filled almost to the brim, he sat back down on the black leather armchair and gave a roguish smile, knowing his next words would unsettle his host.
‘As I was saying, I’m sure you haven’t forgotten that doleful day.’ He stopped again, perhaps hoping to catch a nervous twitch in Laurent. To no avail: Laurent had spent his childhood in Valparaíso under the care of an old Englishwoman who taught him the secrets of bridge, and his poker face could have got him a job on a Mississippi steamboat. ‘Nor have you forgotten who was there that day. In fact, I think you were rather good friends with Madame Shennan.’
Watch what you say, you smug, potbellied arse, or you’ll get a slap across the face, Laurent wanted to say. But he concealed his thoughts with an eloquent sarcasm.
‘How could I forget? It’s still the talk of the town. Saint-Chartier doesn’t exactly have the social life of Gstaad or Saint-Tropez, and Shennan’s untimely demise is probably the only thing of any note that’s happened here.’
He took a slow, deliberate sip from his glass, holding the lawyer’s gaze, and added calmly, ‘And yes, I was good friends with the couple. With both of them.’
Jablard might be many things, but he was no fool, and 14he quickly saw his best move would be to gallop back to the pastures of discretion and verbal decorum. As a young man, he’d been involved in enough scuffles to guess that Laurent would be quick to raise his hand if he felt offended. So he backpedalled:
‘Of course, Monsieur de Rodergues. I didn’t mean to imply anything else. Magnificent liqueur, by the way.’
Laurent smiled. He had that rare talent of not attaching importance to what doesn’t deserve any, and he quickly put the incident behind him.
‘One of my cousins is a Carthusian monk in Slovenia, in the Charterhouse of Pleterje, and every year when I visit him, he gets me two bottles.’
The portly lawyer, a hedonist whose first reaction to the soggy notion of voluntary sacrifice was to reach for his raincoat, looked puzzled for a moment, and could only muster the words, ‘Ah – well, I suppose it takes all kinds.’
‘Yes,’ Laurent shot back, ‘even lawyers.’
Sensing that the conversation wasn’t going as well as planned, Jablard dispensed with the small talk and asked his assistant, who sat in the corner enjoying seeing his employer humiliated, for the documents that had brought them there.
‘Now give me the papers, if you will, Monsieur Devaux … but my God, man, why didn’t you get them ready earlier, instead of just sitting there like an angora cat?’ Clearly, thought Laurent, he wouldn’t be an easy man to work for.
Laurent waited with expectation. His alarm bells were ringing loud and clear, for deep down he always knew that 15one way or another Shennan’s death would come back to haunt him. And this visit was the first sign.
The assistant dug both hands into an oversized leather briefcase and with no small effort extracted a bulky dossier that he handed to his boss. Jablard, without so much as a thank you, proceeded to open it and flip through the contents, licking his thumb every few pages.
‘Now, as I was saying, I have here the reason we’ve come by.’ He waved some very official-looking papers plastered with signatures and seals in Laurent’s face. Then he adjusted his reading glasses and read out in a formal voice: ‘I, Madame Mayumi Sayotaki Oden, widow of Carlos Shennan, sound of mind and body … blah blah blah, as the sole heiress of the deceased, and in accordance with my late husband’s wishes, do hereby give his entire collection of stirrups, spurs and riding gear to Monsieur Laurent de Rodergues, blah blah blah.’
He now understood why the lawyer had been giving him such sardonic looks. Laurent stopped listening and wondered why on earth he’d been given this inheritance. After all, his relationship to Shennan was cordial but entirely superficial, grounded more in neighbourly courtesy than actual friendship. Indeed, Carlos Shennan, though affable and pleasant in the extreme, was the kind of person who always kept the conversation limited to what he wanted to share and never revealed what his listener actually wanted to know.
Suddenly it occurred to Laurent that Shennan’s life and mind were like the château he aspired to make his home: full of doorways, hidden passages, underground chambers 16and tiny dungeons loaded with secrets. He had little time to reflect on all this, though, because his always practical mind had seized on something else the lawyer said: ‘his entire collection’. Laurent felt short of breath. He’d seen said collection in full, and it contained hundreds of pieces, perhaps more than a thousand: gleaming engraved silver spurs from Mexico, spurs from Chile with needles arranged in the shape of an enormous sun, gold-ring gaucho spurs from Argentina, thick-shanked spurs from Ecuador and Bolivia. The stirrups, too, came in all shapes and sizes: sets from Japan made of fine lacquerware; from China in coarse rattan or heavy bronze with dragons rampant on the straps; from Mongolia, Tibet and the Mughal Empire; leather stirrups in the Castilian style; and not a few of those impressive Peruvian extravagances that attest to that country’s past colonial riches. Without a doubt, it was a spectacular collection, but one he honestly couldn’t accept because it simply wouldn’t fit in his house. Nor did he want to waste a large portion of his life polishing it, no matter how much the childish side of his brain – the most creative half – yearned to make it his.
‘I’m speechless,’ said the newly named heir, giving a frown that many women would consider sexy and local men would mock as affected. ‘I never thought being written into a will would be an inconvenience, but honestly I don’t think I can accept it, even though its contents are entirely to my taste.’
‘If you’ll pardon me, Monsieur, that’s an unwise choice.’ The lawyer let his melodramatic side show. ‘It’s a magnificent collection, and I know you’re passionate about 17riding. Besides, Madame Shennan hasn’t the least interest in these things. Think it over, take your time. I’ll leave you the inventory with photos of each item, so you can mull it over in peace.’ And setting down before him a document that looked like The Merck Manual, he proceeded to stand up and shove poor Devaux toward the door. Laurent got up to see them out, and as the lawyer shook his hand, he whispered some parting words of advice.
‘Take the collection, don’t be a fool. I know an antiques dealer in Issoudun who can offer you a fantastic price should you decide not to keep it.’
As they drove off, Laurent stood there, hands on his hips, now understanding why the lawyer was so keen on him accepting the collection. He looked at the château walls, then went to sit on the church steps, which offered a better angle from which to view the towers and the walled grounds. A line from Tagore came to mind: ‘the Taj Mahal is a teardrop on the cheek of time’. The same could be said, he thought, of the Château de Saint-Chartier, standing proudly in the very heart of France after centuries of upheaval.
The image of Shennan’s lifeless body flashed through his mind. Laurent himself had found him in the search hastily arranged when some of the guests at the party noticed their host had gone missing. He remembered the scene as if it were a dream – or rather a nightmare. The circular stone tower with its enormous spiral staircases, the absolute silence, a cellar-like chill, and Shennan splayed out on his stomach with his head to one side, a permanent smile etched onto his face. Had it not been for the growing pool of blood, it would all have looked like another childish prank, like one of those 18jokes that used to make him burst into contagious laughter.
There were no signs of violence, and even his suit remained unwrinkled and unsmudged, its starchy shape unaltered. Thanks to some strange mechanism in Laurent’s mind, his first thought was of his own tailor, who was always insistently recommending styles and fabrics that Laurent, just as insistently, would reject, explaining that such lavish expenditures lay neither within his budget nor within his means. No doubt that man would have cried for joy to see how well the deceased wore that cut, even in such gruesome circumstances. Shaking himself out of these frivolous thoughts, he detected something in the atmosphere around the body that defied explanation, a vague whiff of intent. Maybe Shennan, with that savage energy of his, managed in his last seconds to imbue the scene of his death with an air of suspicion, if only to play with everyone’s minds, something he found endlessly entertaining.
In any event, in the days that followed, not a single piece of evidence turned up to lead the police to continue their investigation. The detectives and forensic experts unanimously agreed that Shennan had died in a tragic accident most likely caused by his habit of darting up and down stairs. In fact, Laurent recalled that on one occasion, after declining an invitation to play tennis, Shennan confided that he disliked sports but enjoyed going up and down stairs, especially after reading that it was the only physical exercise Cary Grant ever did to keep his figure. After the body was found, Laurent had run into some unpleasantness, but that was a whole different kettle of fish. 19
As he sat there enveloped in the smoke of the noxious cigars he liked to smoke – a blend of pungent Tuscan and reeking caliqueño tobaccos – Laurent de Rodergues let himself be carried away by his thoughts back to his first days in town, in the not yet distant past.
FOOD AND SHELTER
The train he’d boarded two hours earlier in Austerlitz left him at the station in Châteauroux. When he stepped outside, he could see practically nothing on that gloomy February morning except the gate of a girls’ boarding school, which inevitably brought to mind the novels of Enid Blyton he used to pilfer from his little sisters. From The Twins at St Clare’s to the more exciting Malory Towers saga, he spent his youth secretly in love with the alluring if contrived characters of Darrell, Pat, and Isabel.
A voice shook him out of his reverie. It belonged to a tall, energetic woman who held out her hand.
‘Monsieur de Rodergues? My name is Claudine, and I’ve got the taxi you requested through the town hall in Saint-Chartier.’ She cast a sideways glance at Laurent’s small, cheap travel bag. ‘Don’t you have any more luggage? Or are you just here on a short trip?’ Taxi drivers have a variety of interrogation methods, and no doubt the security services of several countries have adopted their techniques 21for making even the most tight-lipped passengers talk.
‘No, on the contrary, I hope to stay here permanently, but the rest of my things will be delivered by the movers.’
The driver’s eyes indicated her mind was already calculating how to extract as much information as possible from this outsider – information she’d of course pass on to her divorced cousin in Verneuil, such as the fact that the new arrival wore no ring and looked as tasty as a chocolate petit chou. Here in rural France, when it came to husband-hunting, women had to look out for each other: nearly all the local men were farmers who worked endless, draining days, and they weren’t always appealing, no matter how romantic the sight of cows lowing on emerald fields looked from afar.
Once inside the vehicle, the driver, who handled her car very well, didn’t let up until she’d learnt how he liked his vinaigrette on a duck gizzard salad. The battering ram she used to break through his defences was her praise of his perfect French – though she noted he had an enchanting accent she couldn’t quite place.
‘Is Monsieur from one of the overseas territories, from French Guiana, perhaps?’
Laurent welcomed the question with a laugh. He guessed at her intentions and decided to have a sense of humour about it. Certainly in the previous places he’d settled down, the rumour mill had been no less active, least of all in Chile, where he’d spent most of his life. Indeed, as Chileans themselves are the first to admit, they’re quite the busybodies.
So it was that Claudine gathered all the relevant data: he was forty-five, unmarried, his parents had lived in Indochina exporting tropical woods until they were expelled in 1954 22and had to move to Chile, specifically to Valparaíso, where his aunt and uncle owned several flower nurseries … As he answered her questions, Laurent took in the flat, pleasant, peaceful landscape of carefully tilled fields surrounded by several wooded areas. These he supposed contained wild boars, deer and roebuck, for he’d read that this was a region with a serious hunting tradition.
The towns they passed by may not have been especially remarkable, but their buildings had a consistent style and an undeniable tidiness. Also evident was that French tradition of preserving the past even when its symbols had nothing to do with the present: there were boundary crosses in every village, monuments to those who had given their lives for the patrie, church towers and a general air of undisturbed comfort. When they reached a lookout point, he asked the driver to stop. The little hillock offered views onto an area known as the Vallée Noire, a vast and charming patchwork of dark thickets, green pastures and little villages spread out underneath a haughty sky of the most magnificent azure.
Back in the car, Laurent decided that the best way to avoid repeating his story over and over again was to tell it all now, since Claudine would no doubt relay it in minute detail to every living soul in the area. He didn’t omit a thing: his education in a Jesuit boarding school in Santiago, his stifling career as a sales engineer, the outdoor activities that Chile’s extraordinary geography offers, the many years he spent working as a guide and ski instructor at high-end hotels in national parks: Torres del Paine, the Atacama Desert, Chiloé, Easter Island, Osorno … Obviously, there was no skirting around the question of why he’d come to 23Berry, and when the driver learnt that Laurent’s grandfather was a Berrichon, she couldn’t contain her excitement: an attractive man with local blood to boot! That was too good to be true. In Berry, having a local pedigree, even just a single grandparent from the area, was very important.
Laurent knew that the dreaded question about his future plans couldn’t be avoided, though he clung to the hope that he might reach his destination without having to comment. When the time came, all he could do was answer, ‘I haven’t the slightest idea. For some time now I’ve wanted a change, to live in a quiet, unfamiliar place where I can think, try to write a bit, ride, eat well and wait for destiny to give me a hint about what I should do next.’
‘Well, you’ve come to the perfect place, Monsieur. Saint-Chartier ticks all those boxes, plus a few more besides. Not only that, you’re in the land of Romanticism. Did you know that less than two miles down the road is the manor house that once belonged to George Sand? They hold the Chopin festival there, along with other cultural events where you can meet all sorts of interesting people. And once you get settled, I’d recommend getting a cup of coffee at La Cocadrille, where you can get to know some of the locals and find out the latest gossip. I’m pretty busy shuttling people to and from La Châtre for doctor’s appointments, but if you need anything, my cousin Annabelle in Verneuil will be happy to help you out.’ She looked at him in the rear-view mirror. ‘She’s cute as a button, I can tell you that.’ Here too, it seemed, the Amazons roamed free.
Laurent saw then that as peaceful as the town was, in 24Saint-Chartier, as anywhere else, the demands of the heart were anxious to be met. He sighed. That was one of the reasons he sought refuge here: at his former job he worked in idyllic settings that had left his emotional storehouse overflowing with enough fond memories and bedroom adventures to get him through several winters.
After paying and thanking the driver, Laurent spent a while figuring out which of the keys on the enormous ring would open the gate to the town’s vicarage or clergy house. No, his grandfather wasn’t a priest – that would have looked rather bad in France – but the sabotier, or clog-maker, and his home and workshop sat just behind the vicarage. Over many long years of hard work, he’d managed to save enough to buy the priest’s house and annex it to his own, hoping it might one day belong to his only grandson, whom he’d seen only in photos and once during a hurried meal in the Gare de Lyon. The thought of his grandfather filled him with regret. Laurent’s father had died when he was still a child, and his mother’s financial circumstances didn’t allow them to take holiday trips to the Old Continent, so he knew his grandfather only through the stories she told and a few letters and postcards he received. Now he was about to move into a house that the old man had bought for him with the savings of a life spent carving wood to make clogs, and he promised he wouldn’t let him down.
When he turned to pick up his single piece of luggage, he suddenly caught sight of a large structure that until then, unaccountably, he simply hadn’t seen: the château. He was astonished. Laurent thought himself very observant, and his 25failure to notice the large wall with turrets standing right in front of him could only be explained by how engrossed he’d been in the chit-chat with the taxi driver. He then recalled reading something about a château in the travel guides he’d looked through, but in France the word ‘château’ could be used rather pompously to describe anything a larger than a manor house. He hardly expected to find a medieval fortress looming in front of him, so close to what was now to be his home. Awestruck, he stood for a moment in admiration. A man motored by atop a huge tractor, raising two fingers to his brow in a sort of salute. Then an old woman appeared out of nowhere with a quart of milk in an old-fashioned brass container, eyes gleaming as she practically shouted at him, ‘Bonjour, Monsieur. You must be the grandson of Monsieur Fanchier. I’m your neighbour, and I knew your grandfather very well. I’ve brought you some croissants and some milk for your coffee.’ Before Laurent could thank her, the lady was already shaking his hand, telling him she’d be happy to help with anything he needed.
A slight breeze, so bracingly cold he shivered, seemed to seize him from the inside, and in his head he heard the quiet voice of experience whispering that he was going to feel quite comfortable in this town.
LA COCADRILLE TAVERN
Some days went by, enough for Laurent to clean the house from top to bottom: it had sat empty for nearly ten years. He bought appliances and everything else he needed that wouldn’t arrive in his shipping container, and he made several trips to the town hall to find out how to set up his utilities and fill his tank with heating fuel, since he sensed winter would come rough and rude. Most complicated of all was the purchase of a car, because he was naturally clumsy, and mechanics weren’t his strong suit. In a fit of patriotism for his new home, he opted for a Citroën Jumpy van – cheap and efficient and as French as the Andouille sausage from Angoulême.
After a week, once his home had taken on a certain comfortable air, Laurent decided to take a break and get to know his new surroundings a little better. But first he needed to reward himself with a real coffee, if possible with a few fingers of one of those liqueurs that soothe an adverse fate and placate the deities of the home. He remembered the advice he’d gotten from Claudine, the taxi driver, and 27he headed straight for La Cocadrille, the tavern on the main road through town that he saw each time he drove to La Châtre or Châteauroux.
The tavern stood right next to the police station, up the street from the main entrance to the château. He stopped in front of the château gate, intrigued by the bustle he’d noticed from outside. Covering the building was an elaborate network of scaffolding of all shapes and sizes, while hoists, cranes and a bevy of small backhoes were scattered across the grounds, operated and surrounded by an army of construction workers. Clearly the château was undergoing a thorough renovation, as he saw from the notice that by law has to be posted outside every worksite. He couldn’t make out the names of the owner, the architect or the construction company, since the recent endless rains had partly washed out the lettering. But that didn’t matter, he thought, for the tavern was sure to be an extension of the taxi: a sort of living local newsletter. From the outside, though, it didn’t look terribly promising. With its slate roof and smoking chimney, it was identical to every other building in town. The only thing that stood out was the large sign hanging on the wall, a veritable tribute to traditional French ironworking, emblazoned with a strange mythological creature apparently made up of various animals that reminded Laurent of a velociraptor with feathers.
Nevertheless, what looked from the outside like an unremarkable house turned out to contain a delightful traditional bistrot, with little white marble tables with brass footrests and large rusty mirrors in antique gilt frames. Best of all, in spite of the signs forbidding smoking, an undeniable 28scent of tobacco hung in the air, and suspiciously empty coffee cups sat next to all the drinks the patrons were sipping.
The bartender, a hulk of a man with a head like a Roman bust and receding waves of black hair, didn’t look at all out of place in that setting. He wore his white shirtsleeves crisply rolled up to reveal hairy forearms that rested on the bar, and Laurent noticed him looking at him as though he’d been waiting for some time.
‘Good morning, Monsieur de Rodergues. I thought you’d never deign to stop by our establishment,’ he said, giving his hand an effusive shake. He had the hands of a pelota player. ‘I’m Gaston Le Juanch, the owner of this dive, and I can tell you I had a great fondness and respect for your grandfather.’
Then, noticing that the rest of his customers had turned to look, he took the opportunity to introduce Laurent. If anonymity had been one of Laurent’s hopes in moving here, he could strike that off his list. Still, he gladly agreed to be treated to a first round in memory of his grandfather, about whom everyone had something nice to say, and he had a nice chat with two old-timers who introduced themselves as friends who used to play belote with him.
Before long he was feeling tipsy but happy. Everyone insisted on buying him a drink to welcome him to town, on the grounds that it was time for the midday aperitif. He downed several glasses on an empty stomach: a sweet concoction of grapefruit juice and rosé, another of crème de cassis and white wine, as well as a pastis or two. Fortunately, the French take mealtime punctuality very seriously, and at twelve-thirty everyone left to go home for lunch. Laurent 29was used to eating on a Latin American schedule, and after unexpectedly ingesting all that alcohol, his stomach was in no mood for jokes.
When the others had gone, he sat alone chatting with Le Juanch, who turned out to be a crafty old fox and made his coffee a double-double. He downed it, and Le Juanch asked if he’d like something to eat. Even amid the distractions of the drinks and introductions, Laurent couldn’t help noticing an enticing and impressively wide variety of tapas and hors d’oeuvre arranged Spanish-style on one side of the bar, behind a pane of glass, and he could hardly say no. He was surprised to come across this bit of Spain here, knowing how rarely the French admit modifications to their culinary habits. Gaston explained that as a young man he worked in Andalusia for a French water-treatment company, and working as a salesman throughout Spain, he’d gotten used to having tapas at bars.
‘So whenever we don’t want to be understood, we can just speak in Spanish,’ he said, half in jest. Laurent raised his cup to that.
Then Gaston explained that the tavern, located as it was in a small town with few customers, offered a simple lunch menu consisting of an appetiser, a salade du jour and a traditional, hearty main course. They served no cheese course but did have homemade desserts. Laurent’s mind was made up – he didn’t even ask what the main course was. He felt at home in this place, and the smells wafting in from the kitchen indicated he was in for something rich and substantial.
He ordered the house wine Le Juanch suggested and sat down next to a large window looking out on to the château. 30From there, as the food was served, he watched the progress of the construction. The place had piqued his curiosity, and he’d tried to learn as much about it as he could, but the information he’d been able to find was limited. The Château de Saint-Chartier had, it seemed, quite a storied past, dating all the way back to the seventh century, when a Syrian monk named Carterius – or Chartier, in French – built a monastery fortress under the patronage of the Abbey of Déols. Later it passed on to the Lord and Lady of Déols, who married their daughter Denise to André de Chavigny, a crusader who followed his cousin Richard the Lionheart to the Holy Land and died in combat. A couple of centuries later Joan of Arc even stayed there, according to one historian, since at the time it belonged to the father of one of her lieutenants, a certain Lord Boutillier, and that was why the lone tower was still called the Tour des Anglais. The château survived the Hundred Years’ War, and several centuries and lords later it wound up with the Comte de Moreton de Chabrillan, Napoleon’s chief aide-de-camp. The emperor’s brief stay in the château after his defeat at Waterloo gave rise to the legend of its hidden treasure. In the nineteenth century, George Sand used it as the setting for her novel The Master Pipers, and since 1976 the château had been home to the famous Festival International des Luthiers. He had an easier time finding information about this event, an annual gathering of musicians and instrument makers that for over thirty years had been held on the château grounds. The previous year had been its last, because Carlos Shennan, the new châtelain – a term for feudal lords that the French still use for château owners – had decided he would no longer host the festival. 31He gave many reasons, the main one being the restoration work, for he intended to renovate the building as his home.
From what Laurent could gather, this decision provoked the ire of a lot of the locals, as well as many musicians, artisans, scholars and instrument makers who regularly attended the festival. They’d become his fiercest critics, though it wasn’t lost on Laurent that part of their criticism was directed at the new owner’s foreign background. In local newspapers, and in articles and columns about the festival, he came across some very pointed remarks about the sale of the château and its buyer, who fuelled all sorts of speculations. He even found a physiognomic study of Shennan’s facial features published alongside his photo, signed by a woman using the name ‘Thracian Zither’. She went so far in her searing conclusions that Laurent decided that either she was a loon or she was dying to get her hands on the new châtelain’s flesh.
Still, after he studied the photo for a moment he could easily draw his own conclusions, since in his life he’d run into more than a few individuals like him. Carlos Shennan was one of those men born with all of the charms Mother Nature has to bestow, and which she so often distributes unfairly. He possessed an angular face and classic Irish grey eyes with a mischievous or cocky gleam. Laurent could tell he was thin but sinewy, with a good figure and skin made leathery by a sun that doesn’t shine in the more genteel latitudes. He also noticed a scar over his eyebrow, and another on the bridge of his nose, no doubt due to a type of boxing not sanctioned by the Olympics. But what stood out most to Laurent was his smile: it seemed to defy the whole 32world. He could tell that the face, while handsome, could swiftly and surely go from kindness to cruelty.
Yes, that was a portrait of a conqueror and a lone wolf. He exuded intelligence, skill and relentlessness, along with a healthy dose of worldliness, of course, and the air of someone who knows how to use his charms. The physiognomist wasn’t far off, he thought. What would she say about him? Bah! he snorted. Best not to think about it.
Lost in his thoughts, Laurent didn’t hear Gaston approach and quietly set down before him a plate filled with all sorts of petites bouchées. He looked down in delight at the little bites and wondered which one to start with when Gaston pointed out the window toward the château park, where two people were engaged in what appeared to be a very heated debate. The one gesturing wildly was none other than Monsieur Shennan. His face was illuminated with a demonic light as he stood shaking a roll of blueprints and shouting at a large man in a hard hat, who did his best to weather the storm.
‘It’s not an uncommon sight with the head of the Portuguese crew. Who knows what he botched this time?’ explained Gaston. ‘His employees are excellent, but he’s a fool, and I bet Monsieur Shennan’s patience has reached its limit. I’m afraid we won’t be seeing much of them any more. I feel bad for his four employees, who are wonderful, not to mention good customers.’
‘Well, I imagine a restoration project like that isn’t easy to oversee. Doesn’t he have a construction manager or someone helping him out?’ He had trouble getting the 33last words out, because he’d stuffed a small roasted pepper filled with hot goat cheese into his mouth, failing, in his gluttony, to properly calibrate the time between the end of his sentence and insertion of the bouchée.
‘Yes, another idiot, a guy from Barcelona by the name of Andrés … he had us all fooled at first, but he turned out to be a cheap con artist with a fake engineering degree. Since Monsieur Shennan didn’t live here, and his business kept him away, he couldn’t keep an eye on him, but as soon as he found out he gave the guy the boot, just as he did with the carpenter, Carlo Melisso, another swindler. Believe me, a lot of people talk bad about Monsieur Shennan, but I’ve lived in front of the château since I was a kid, and it takes a pair to do what he’s doing. If it weren’t for him, in a few years the château would have been a pile of rubble.’
Laurent speared a mini sausage with a stick of celery inserted in the middle and wrapped in a piece of fried pancetta.
‘I’m not one to judge, because I just got here, but from what I gather he seems to have more detractors than friends.’
Gaston looked at him squarely in the face. ‘You can say that again. But you can also bet that none of them are from Saint-Chartier. I’d even wager that none of the people badmouthing him have ever done a thing for the town except attend the festival. Personally, I like him. He’s a straight shooter and good drinker, and he’s fixing up our monument – because incidentally, here we feel the château belongs to all of us. Your grandfather felt that way too. So Shennan’s a foreigner. Who cares? Madame Curie was Polish, Chagall was Russian, Louis de Funès was from Seville, and Yves Montand from Italy. And you’re from 34Chile, so you probably know that Matta, the painter, was from your country. Same with Jodorowsky. And they were all adopted by France, weren’t they? Right now the main thing is to support him so his project is a success, because it’ll be a boon for everyone, you can be sure of that. Besides, despite all the grumbling about the festival, I know La Châtre wanted to move it to the Château d’Ars, which is owned by the town government.’
All Laurent could do with his mouth full was nod while his host held forth, especially since he saw nothing to quibble with. But mostly he wanted to give the matter a rest, because the wise diner, if the dish is good, savours his food in silence. Luckily Gaston was a professional and quickly grasped the situation. He apologised for the rant, saying he’d let him enjoy his food in peace while he went to the kitchen to check on the salad and the main course. On the menu today were Berry lentils with rice pilaf, blood pudding and fried onion. Not exactly light fare.
Laurent spent the rest of the time relishing that simple yet superb meal, which concluded with some unreasonably delicious poached pears and a plum liqueur made in house – in a private still, as Gaston whispered in a tone meant for serious matters that require discretion. To tell the truth, he said, with all the regulations and red tape nowadays, you didn’t know which hand to wipe your arse with.
A GREAT DANE AND A CHINESE CRESTED
Saint-Chartier was a small but picturesque town, and Laurent decided to explore the area on foot in a series of outings. After he got his dog, a black Belgian Shepherd he christened Chimay (after the beer of the same name), he set about carrying out his plan with gusto, since his companion turned out to be a tireless walker.
He spent these walks thinking about what his future might hold. He’d arrived in France with luggage and gear but without a clear, definitive plan – just the certainty that he needed a long break from his job and social life. Specifically, he needed to get away from a certain gorgeous but problematic woman … and above all from the powerful politician she was married to. It wasn’t his fault if he kept meeting unsatisfied women in search of a stud to alleviate their marital troubles – troubles of a largely sexual nature. What else could he do? ‘It’s a question of patriotism,’ said his uncle in Valparaíso, the one who had the flower nursery, stroking his white moustache. ‘A Frenchman must never let 36anyone question our reputation for romantic prowess.’
A new life: that’s what Laurent had decided to build, and he believed it wasn’t too late. He hadn’t yet reached fifty, he was in perfect shape, and he’d never let himself be carried away by any dangerous pursuits save sports. He had no time for drugs, gambling, alcoholism or other vices. Nor did he smoke or eat to excess. In fact, women were his only weakness.
His saving grace was that his interest was not merely sexual. He loved everything about women: he adored talking to them, listening to them, watching them, even going shopping with them. In fact, some of the ones he’d lived with openly mocked him for his obsession with organising their wardrobe.
That was the problem: Laurent fell in love with each and every one. What’s worse, he fell in love with them all at the same time. If only he could become – to quote a Nobel prize-winning writer whose name he couldn’t recall – a serial monogamist! No, he was a sentimental philanderer and couldn’t bear to go without even a single one of his women. But therein lay the rub: keeping them all happy took a physical, psychic and monetary toll on him, and robbed time from everything else, since Laurent, to top it off, was a considerate man who never forgot to call, write, send a postcard or, when his grim finances allowed, buy a gift that was ‘simple but heartfelt’, as he’d say as he presented them.
No doubt, he needed a long sabbatical, far from the temptations that Latin America offered him.
37First of all, as a form of therapy, he resolved to do all household chores himself and to maintain a Prussian tidiness. Neither cleaning, nor washing, nor cooking, nor ironing posed any challenge, but the house had a tiny yard and came with a small plot in a community garden next to the old wash house, out on the footpath to the town of La Preugne, so he’d set about learning the basics of growing and gardening to keep the landscaping in his small terrain under control. He also found he had to become a handyman, since the rates technicians charged in France were so high that when he received his first bills he nearly died of shock. Little by little he started exploring the daunting array of publications on such disciplines available in bookstores and kiosks, and gradually his intimidation gave way to enthusiasm, as he noticed a certain level of success in his work.
He began to enjoy everything he did, even running into neighbours from the village and exchanging a courteous ‘Bonjour, Madame’ or ‘Bonjour, Monsieur’ as everyone in rural France still does when they see each other on the street. And with his two daily walks with the dog, he now had, for the first time in his life, something that could be called a methodical, orderly existence, a prospect that years back would have made him retch.
In the afternoons, right after lunch, he took a route that led down a path by the church and on to the cemetery, and then continued on up to the farm where Monsieur Roger raised his Appaloosa horses. From there Laurent would head down toward the police station, past the tavern and the post office, around the town hall and onto a path 38carpeted in dense mown grass curiously called the ‘Ladies’ Path’, which led past the Bodard chapel and along the river to the main road.
One peaceful afternoon, not long after starting out on his walk, he heard a huge commotion of dogs barking, little girls squealing and shouting in English, and an adult woman yelling something after them in some incomprehensible tongue. Chimay went tense and pricked up his ears. Suddenly a tiny freak of a dog rounded the corner of a moss-covered wall and shot toward them. A bounding Great Dane came hard on its heels, followed in turn by three girls, each in a multicoloured parka – and not cheap ones, as Laurent, veteran skier that he was, could tell from afar. Running and stumbling after them came an inconceivably overbundled something or other, shouting in a high voice and clearly not in the local dialect. Laurent stood, mouth agape, though in his defence it should be said that he reacted with presence of mind: he’d spent too much of his life doing outdoor sports not to see that the dogs had gotten off their leashes and were heading straight for the road. As he knew, Great Danes are as dumb as they are playful, so the scene could end in a dramatic accident if that gang of dogs and girls made it to the road.
To keep this from happening, Laurent saw that he first had to stop the freakish little dog, which, to judge by its barking, was having a ball. Its breed was anyone’s guess: it was a little thing, about as tall as a beagle but much skinnier and mostly hairless, with just a few moles on its body and tufts of fur on its ears and its lower legs, and a crest on the top of its head. It was wrapped in what looked like a doll’s 39dress, in a cheery fuchsia, with – and here Laurent thought he was seeing things – a purse of the same colour slung over its leg, bouncing back and forth as it ran.
Good Lord, he thought, it takes some nerve to dress up a dog like that out here in rural Berry. But a tug by Chimay yanked him out of his thoughts and forced him to react. He had to do three things: first, make his dog obey and not bolt off; second, grab the little dog as best he could; and third, and most difficult, not let the Great Dane tear the other dogs – or him, or his clothes – to pieces.
This is what happened: Chimay was restless but stayed put. The little pink creature leapt into Laurent’s arms (he had, after all, a certain animal magnetism), and the Great Dane … well, there was no way to stop it from tackling him and covering him in mud and strands of slobber as thick as the curtains in the Château de Chambord. At this point Chimay, instead of defending his master, began to lick the muzzle of the mutt or whatever it was in the pink dress. The damned thing must have been in heat, because it seemed to enjoy it and got so agitated and hot that it peed all over Laurent. The Great Dane, meanwhile, managed to slip its rope of a tongue inside the collar of his raincoat. To top it off, suddenly three pairs of children’s feet began to kick him in the buttocks and lower back, shouting, ‘Dog thief! We’ll tell our daddy and you’ll be sorry!’ ‘Let Barbie go, you bad man!’ ‘Olaf, kill him, he’s trying to kidnap your girlfriend!’ It should be said that this last instruction, despite shedding light on the Great Dane’s name, was none too reassuring.
As if to prove things can always get worse, a delicate little child-sized foot hit him squarely in the jewels, and 40at that point Laurent realised all he could do was bear it with as much dignity as he could. Clearly the proverb about a good death bringing honour to your life wouldn’t apply here. Fortunately for him, someone appeared at his side and began pulling the animals and girls off him.
From the person’s tone, speaking now in English, he guessed that it was the bundle wrapped up to the eyebrows he’d seen running behind the girls. Her voice was calmer now, sweet and angelic – although, truth be told, any voice of rescue, even the rum-soaked growl of a pirate, would have sounded to Laurent’s ears like the song of a castrati choir.
Freeing him was no easy task, and the girls clearly didn’t care one whit that the woman with the heavenly voice was telling them to get off. Even in such a plight, what Laurent most desired was not to get the peeing dogs off him but to see the face that went with that siren’s voice. Perhaps the woman in question read his mind, for she unwound the scarf and threw back her hood, revealing one of the most beautiful faces Laurent had ever seen: she was small, with large eyes, golden skin, long earlobes stretched by a pair of heavy gold earrings, a mouth with coral lips and gleaming white teeth. Her smile made abundantly clear how sorry she was about the situation and what sympathy she felt for the man on the ground.
Laurent looked up at her, silently imploring her to sort out the mess, though he knew full well she couldn’t. Even struck with Cupid’s arrow, he still had enough sense to see that this young woman, a sort of governess or nanny he supposed, was pleading in an unknown language to no avail. 41
Luckily, just then, through the frigid wind of early March came another voice, clear and decisive, issuing an order that would brook no disobedience. The rabble quieted down, the slobber practically crystallised from fright, the girls leapt off Laurent as if he had the plague, and even the dogs moved a prudent distance away. Only Chimay continued rolling on the ground, eyes fixed on the little dog.
As Laurent, now a mess, got up and tried to pull himself together, another Asian woman walked over, apparently their mother. Tall and thin, she possessed that rare, elegant beauty that has something of the supernatural about it. She had devilishly dark eyes and a face full of angles, each more unsettling, intriguing, fascinating than the last, while her marble-white skin set off the straight, jet-black hair that waved gently as she walked. Everything about her exuded elegance: no doubt her ancestors had enjoyed power and regular meals for many generations, two things that ultimately give their descendants character and great confidence.
When the woman reached the group, she looked at the girls and the dogs, whose eyes were all glued to the ground, and then turned to Laurent with a surprisingly friendly smile. He saw a distinct sense of humour from the edges of her lips and the fine lines around her eyes, which remained firm, even if not immune to time. She extended her hand and introduced herself in proper French.
‘Good afternoon. My name is Mayumi Shennan, and I apologise for this mishap. Rest assured it will not happen again. The girls and I are going to have a serious talk.’ Saying this, she turned to look at them again, and all three girls were overcome by an identical shudder of terror. 42Laurent could tell that the Japanese woman who radiated authority was, in all likelihood, a good mother, meting out intelligent punishments, which also tend to be the harshest. He couldn’t help but laugh when he saw the panic written across the faces of each of the girls, and even those of the Great Dane and the little dog.
‘It’s nothing,’ he reassured her. ‘Forgive them, please – they’ve practically done me a favour, since I certainly needed a little exercise,’ he said with a smile, apologising for the girls.
Madame Mayumi looked at him fondly, and feigning seriousness, responded, ‘You’re very kind, and I appreciate your goodwill, but we can’t let them get off scot-free after the mess they’ve made of your clothes. By the way, you’ve got some saliva and a bit of moss hanging from your ear.’ She handed him a tissue. ‘And apparently our nanny lost control of the situation.’
When the nanny heard this, a stricken look came across her face. Then, to Laurent’s surprise, Madame Mayumi put her arm around her affectionately, and she immediately recovered her calm. It was a strange gesture, as if the girl were like another daughter to her, or a little sister. Finally, Madame Mayumi issued her judgment.
‘Still, I think we can overlook it this time, don’t you? On one condition: that you come back with us for tea, so we can get those clothes cleaned up. I’m sure we can find something of my husband’s for you to wear in the meantime. I think you two are the same size.’
‘I’d be delighted, mostly because I suspect you won’t take no for an answer,’ Laurent replied. 43
Madame Mayumi gave a hearty laugh. ‘You’ve got a shrewd eye, Monsieur …’
‘Laurent, Laurent de Rodergues.’
‘So you’re Monsieur de Rodergues. We’ve heard of you; you’re the new neighbour who just moved into the vicarage. My husband is very eager to meet you. Sadly he’s in Châteauroux today, arguing with the architects from the Heritage Office. I’m sure the two of you will have a lot to talk about, such as your experiences in Patagonia and Araucanía – along with the customs and habits of the native women, no doubt.’
When they reached the town hall, a local who was just coming out of the building stopped to stare at them with an unmistakable look of disgust. Putting his beret on his head, he muttered audibly, ‘Lovely! Now everyone’s become all buddy-buddy.’ Then he spat on the ground and walked deliberately away. Laurent had half a mind to run over to him and slap him across the face, and he made a move to do so, but Madame Mayumi grabbed him by the arm with unexpected strength.
‘It’s nothing, let it go. Only fools think they can be liked by everyone.’
The farmer’s attitude and Mayumi’s words left Laurent more than a little confused. A gust of frigid air blew over him. He knew her words weren’t meant for him. And yet, taken together with the local’s scornful remark, it showed that the sleepy town of Saint-Chartier wasn’t the haven of peace and tranquillity he thought he’d moved to.
That’s the second drop of vitriol she’s dispensed in the last few minutes, he thought. Then he began to wonder 44whether perhaps the life of Carlos Shennan wasn’t as carefree or happy as it seemed, at least not domestically – because if one thing was clear beyond a shadow of a doubt, it was that his wife didn’t bow down before anyone.
Lost in these thoughts, he walked through the château’s magnificent gates, with one girl’s hand in each of his own and the third hanging onto his jacket. Suddenly he felt himself being watched. He turned and saw the farmer, still staring at them with a scowl of deepest loathing.
Fortunately, he was distracted by the Great Dane, who gave a woof and set off bounding happily across the château grounds, unaware that the crafty Chimay was trying to snatch his morsel – a vivid illustration that many a romantic betrayal is due less to the villainy of the usurper than to the cluelessness of the usurpee.
As he walked on, Laurent saw that the château was in a frenzy of construction, especially the exteriors and the garden, where several workers struggled to move heavy blocks of stone.
