Bennett Sisters Mystery, Volumes 1-2, page 17
“Peuw. There’s big ol’ green mold on these,” Tristan said, pointing to one end where water had leaked in from above.
Merle stepped down the rack to examine the end ones. “Let’s take one up from here. And one from the other end, and that one.” She grabbed one, and let Tristan take two bottles. “Upstairs, don’t drag your blanket. Wait.” She found the bag of dead mice on the floor, relocked the cave, and followed him up the steps and shut the trap door.
They set the bottles on the oak table. Merle got a roll of paper towels and wiped the bottles clean, dabbing the paper labels gently. The vintages were the same three as the labels in the safe deposit box. Three wine labels to remind him what he had stored here.
Merle sat down. Château Pétrus ’46. Château L'Église-Clinet, 1949, a black and white label. Château Cheval-Blanc, 1947, the label faded. She pulled the labels out of the envelope. They matched the bottles exactly.
She opened the old menu and for a moment tried to see if there was some clue hidden among the kidney pies and mutton stews. Murky. Was this what “they” were after? Were these wines rare and exotic? She had no idea. “Tristan. You must not say anything to anybody about the wine downstairs. Even Albert. It’s our secret. Okay?”
He was huddled back in his bed. “Okay,” he said sleepily.
“Take your socks off, they’re filthy.”
“You coming to the tournament tomorrow?”
She pulled the blanket up under his chin. He hadn’t shaved in a week and whiskers were sprouting all over his chin, making him look not so much like her child anymore. She bent down and kissed him on the forehead. Hard to believe he’d be going home in a few days, without her. The thought of it made her sick.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, D’Artagnan.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
1950
The baby. The baby. The. Baby.
Marie-Emilie can’t get enough of him, the tiny, red creature. So helpless, so beautiful it makes her cry to look at him. She would stare at him all day long, as he slept, as his tiny hands plied the air. But she has to find food.
Stephan has left her a bag of stale bread in the alley behind the bakery. She has not seen Stephan for days, but he does this for the baby. She has searched the hedgerows for fallen fruit. She has begged at the old widow’s farm. The woman was unkind at first but when Marie-Emilie got on her knees and cried, she offered three eggs and a quart of goat’s milk.
The milk is necessary for the baby; Dominique will not nurse him. She refuses to hold him, turning her head away when Marie-Emilie exclaims about his little curl of hair, his tiny fingernails. She wants nothing to do with her baby. So Marie-Emilie is anxious for his survival. If only she could bare her own breast to feed him, to nurture him. Dominique makes her angry. Then Marie-Emilie holds the baby and the anger melts away.
Sometimes she thinks of Stephan but she is so tired the thoughts don’t stay long. He leaves bread sometimes but nothing more. She is devoted to the baby’s survival. That is all that matters.
Were there still such women as wet nurses? Marie-Emilie does not know. She has asked at the church and received only a shake of the old priest’s head. She fashions a nipple from goat hide, ties it to a bottle. Poor little thing. Poor baby. He suckles the makeshift nursing bottle. He looks in her eyes. There is love there. She sees it.
The priest does baptize the baby. Reluctantly, as long as Dominique doesn’t enter the church, he says. The baby is innocent, he must be saved. Both the baby and Marie-Emilie cry when the holy water is touched to his scalp.
The days are busy, finding food for the three of them, hoeing rows for a farmer who needs more help than he has, making Dominique eat broth, changing the baby, feeding the baby who demands so much and yet who is she to deny him? He did not ask for this. He is innocent, a baby.
Marie-Emilie names him Henri-Laurent, a noble name. She does not tell Dominique though, whispering the name to the baby alone. The girl worries her. She grows thin. She lost much blood with the childbirth and is weak. But the days grow warm and one afternoon Marie-Emilie returns from the farm and finds the girl in the garden, sitting in the sunshine with the baby on her lap. She has cradled him in her skirt and swings her legs back and forth as a song comes from her lips. But she doesn’t look at him while she hums. She looks away, at the birds flying in the sky, at the pear tree against the house, at the roses opening against the wall.
For a moment, Marie-Emilie is too stunned to move. She stands by the door of the house, watching Dominique and her baby, a horrible feeling inside her. Dominique will leave. She will take Henri-Laurent. She will take the baby away and they will both be gone forever. Her heart contracts at the thought of never holding the baby again.
Dominique’s hair is long and blond, and wet, she sees. She has washed at last. Such a pretty girl, small freckles across her nose, sweet lips, a high forehead that gives her a regal look. But young, somehow younger than her fourteen years. Weston had seen that right away, that innocence in her blue eyes, that willingness to follow, to be led astray. As if the world could be nothing but good. Only an innocent would see the world that way after this war. Only an innocent, or perhaps someone not right in the head.
Marie-Emilie takes a step out into the garden. Is Dominique not quite right? She has rejected her own child, refusing to nurture him. Is that a sign of derangement? Would she harm him? A flutter of panic rises in Marie-Emilie.
Dominique sees her, grabbing the arms of the metal chair. “Come then, where have you been?” She looks cross, waving her hand at the baby. “Get him, now. He drives me wild with his crying.”
And so the panic falls away. Dominique is still herself, childishly annoyed, selfish, never to be a true mother. Marie-Emilie rushes forward and scoops up the baby from her lap, cuddling him against her shoulder. It is only a small miracle, a mother quiets the son she doesn’t want. It won’t happen again.
Two days later she is gone. Marie-Emilie rises, carrying the baby down the stairs at daybreak, moving quietly outside to wash him. When she steps back inside a few minutes later she feels the emptiness. Dominique’s bag, a ratty thing made of scraps of rug, is gone.
Dominique herself, vanished.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The tournament was held in the small school gymnasium, a multi-purpose space about half the size of a basketball court, with a small grandstand of bleachers at one end. There weren’t many spectators, just a few parents. The opposing team had come in on a bus from Bordeaux and looked big and rough compared to the local boys.
Albert was busy when Merle arrived. She edged along the side of the gym, watching the fencing matches already going. A referee stood between two of the boys in white jackets and masks, their baggy pants an odd choice with the sleek protective jackets. The official spoke rapidly to the boys in a cautionary tone. Merle couldn’t understand what he was saying. She sat down on the end of the bleachers and searched the far side of the gym for Tristan. He was sitting with a couple other boys on the floor, their masks and foils next to them.
Tomorrow Tristan was scheduled to take the train back to Paris and get on his flight. He started camp at the end of the week. She didn’t like to think of him taking the trip alone, but there wasn’t much choice. She’d been to see the inspector again to plead with him to let her at least take him to Paris, but again she was refused. She had no passport, she couldn’t flee the country. She’d also pleaded with the American consulate in Nice but with legal action pending, a possible murder charge, they weren’t encouraging.
She fingered her new cell phone and looked at the people on the bleachers. They didn’t look familiar. She had no idea there were so many people this age in town, that is middle-aged. Maybe they ran the shops and restaurants. The phone was sleek and familiar, a Nokia just like her one at home. She’d been pleasantly surprised to find the counter at the back of the stationery store — where she’d also bought a rather bad British novel — to buy phones and start up cell service. The nice young man at the counter explained that with so many farmers and remote homes, cell phones, or mobiles, were gaining in popularity. Don’t use it in a restaurant though, he warned her with a smile.
She hoped to see Tristan fence before Annie returned her call. The display of technique, the swooshing and cracking, was fascinating but she had things to do. Would he be done before dinner? Probably not.
She looked up to see Pascal, standing in front of her. A man behind her said something and Pascal ducked down, sliding into the bleachers.
“Aren’t you supposed to be up on my roof?” she whispered.
“Albert insisted.” He glanced at her. “I will make it up to you.”
Merle felt the heat in her face and glanced up at the audience beyond him. Some were staring at them, talking behind their hands. Had her English identified her? Did they all think she was a killer?
“What is it?” Pascal said.
“Nothing.” She tried to shake the feeling that everyone had tried and convicted her of murder. “It’s good of you. To sit with me.”
His dark eyes flicked up the bleachers. “When does Tristan fight?”
“Soon I hope.”
They watched two bouts, clapping politely. In one round a small boy fenced a much bigger one who whacked him with a side cut that was apparently illegal. The small boy began to groan and moan and the bout was called.
“Is he one of ours?” Merle whispered, nodding toward the writhing fencer.
Pascal nodded. “On the drama team.”
Her phone twittered in the middle of the next bout, causing frowns and comments from all around. “Come on,” Pascal said. “I’ll walk you out. I have a roof to finish.”
She answered the phone on the way to the door, waving to Pascal as he left. It was Annie. It was so good to hear a friendly voice. Outside the gymnasium the late afternoon was warm but not as hot and stuffy as the gymnasium. “You won’t believe where I am. At a fencing tournament, watching Tristan.”
Merle talked about the house, the colors of paint, the garden. How the woman, the squatter, had moved out. That was the way she was putting it. That her roofer was good looking, all the positive stuff. Annie told her that she had a ticket left over from an old boyfriend’s Christmas generosity, a trip to Barbados she declined to join him on.
“It’s burning a hole in my money belt. Can I come?”
“I would love it. Just tell — ”
Inside the gym Merle heard shouting, a commotion. She turned to the door and heard a name. “Annie? Call me tomorrow, I’ve got to go.”
* * *
Tristan had stepped up to the table to register before his mother arrived, her money tight in his fist and his mask under his arm. The small gymnasium was hot and getting hotter. Albert told him several out of town groups were coming, and the boys standing at the far side of the gym looked foreign, all right. They were wiry, mostly tall and dark-haired, with stubble on their chins.
The boy in front of him, one of Albert’s students named Francois, finished filling out his paperwork and moved away. Tristan took a step forward and suddenly dropped his mask and foil with a clatter, prompting chuckles. He gathered them up and bent to sign his name on the registration forms.
The man behind the table, a wrinkly old guy who was completely bald, said something in French. “Pardon?” Tristan said. He repeated it, just as fast but louder. “Je ne sais pas,” Tristan said. He for sure did not know what the old man was saying.
The bald guy turned to a referee standing by the table, and said something about Tristan. The referee looked at him and waved his hand. Bald Guy — his name, Tristan found out later, was actually Guy — took his money and rattled off directions that were incomprehensible. Tristan went to find Albert.
“I couldn’t understand what he was saying at the table,” he told the old priest.
Albert patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry. All you do is start when they say ‘Commencez’ and stop when the buzzer goes off.”
“Where are those guys from?” He looked toward the bearded crew.
“Bordeaux. They look tougher than they are.” Albert lowered his voice. “They are in some kind of summer camp for delinquents, I heard.”
Tristan put on his borrowed jacket over his shorts and t-shirt. He slipped on his mask and warmed up with Francois, feeling the muscles in his right arm tense. He was nervous, feeling butterflies in his stomach.
A voice said something over the loudspeaker. Francois, who didn’t speak English, stopped fencing and turned to his friends. Tristan saw his mother come in and sit by herself on the bleachers. He watched the first bout, a fencer who was way too quick for the other, with the referee calling off points like an auctioneer. Albert said they were trying to get electronic scoring for the next tournament, that it eliminated lots of arguments, and sure enough, in the next match-up one of the Bordeaux boys erupted after a call, arguing with the ref about where a hit occurred.
His turn finally came. He had drawn a short boy, with reddish hair and freckles who didn’t look too tough. Good, there was a chance that he wouldn’t totally humiliate himself. He took his position on the line. The referee was the one who had waved him into the tournament, but now he was saying something long and complicated, in French.
Tristan froze, his feet in position to fence but his foil pointed down. Did that mean ‘Begin’? The red-haired boy didn’t seem to be paying attention. Tristan raised his foil to the ‘en garde’ position, vertical against the face mask.
“Non, non, non!” The referee was yelling and walking toward him. The boys waiting their turns quieted, watching. Strange words flowed from the ref’s mouth. What was he saying? Now two boys jumped into the argument, in his face, talking loudly. They seemed excited and were poking their fingers in his chest. Tristan felt confused and anxious.
The referee saw Albert walking over and began to point in the old man’s face. Tristan felt helpless; the boys from Bordeaux were pissing him off. He pulled off his mask and glared at them.
“Get the fuck out of here! Mind your own business.”
The boys looked at each other and burst out laughing. And Tristan did the only thing he could think of to shut them up. He heard his father’s advice, dropped his foil, and punched them — one, two — in the face.
* * *
They dropped like timber, crumpling onto the floor. Merle’s heart sunk. Thundering shoes of the spectators in the stands running into the fray echoed throughout the gym. A melee ensued, boys fighting, pushing, yelling at each other, parents holding them back and some egging them on, even swinging a few rounds themselves. Bedlam for a few minutes, not long but long enough to get a bunch of adolescents worked up, no matter what their ages. Finally a voice came on the loudspeaker demanding quiet. The fighting stopped as quickly as it started.
She clenched her jaw and stepped up to Tristan. Albert was yelling at the referees who were doing a good job yelling back.
“Catch ‘em unawares, did you?” she said to her son. He squinted angrily at her, his face red. He’d taken a hit to the chin. He raised his hand, shaking it. “Did you break your hand?”
His knuckles were swelling. “It was worth it,” he grumbled.
The gendarme burst into the gym. The two boys on the floor had picked themselves up, sitting now with friends or family at their sides. One’s nose was bleeding. Jean-Pierre was talking rapidly with the referees, who pointed at Tristan. Albert joined the lively discussion, pointing fingers at the two boys. Lots of finger-pointing. Very mature, she thought.
“Come on, buster.” She picked up his mask and foil. “You’re out of here.”
Jean-Pierre, the gendarme, cut them off. He said something to Tristan, about Tristan. Merle turned back. “Albert? Could you come here?”
The old priest shuffled over, his face rosy with heat and anger. “I am so sorry, Merle. If I’d known they had a language requirement I would never have brought the boy. No one has ever said such a thing. I never thought.”
All Albert saw, after the referee stopped poking his finger in his face and ranting about fluency tests, was a swarm of boys from the stands and floor. They rose up en masse to take sides. The friends of the boys on the floor began to swing at Tristan, and other boys helped Tristan fight them off.
“It’s over. Now tell the gendarme that we are going home.”
Jean-Pierre yelled again. Albert turned to her. “He says you can’t leave until we have a full investigation of what happened.”
“Tell him this. These boys were harassing my son. My son put a stop to it. End of story.” Merle folded her arms. She had recognized one of the boys now. He wasn’t from out of town at all. He had been one of the boys in front of the tabac who laughed at her name. “He can find us at home if he needs anything else. He knows where we live.” She took Tristan’s arm, walked around the gendarme, and out the gymnasium door.
* * *
Tristan looked ashamed, appalled, his head bowed. Merle plunged his hand in a bowl of ice to keep down the swelling. The bruise on his chin didn’t amount to much but he held ice on it too. She held her tongue. If ever there was a good explanation of consequences of hitting someone, a riot was pretty definitive. He’d never gotten to fence. So much for channeling that aggression. A perfect ending to the rural French idyll.
At six Pascal knocked on the back door, signaling his departure for the day. Merle opened the door. “How did it go, the tournament?”
“Just great.”
“Yes?” He looked at her again. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing.”
Tristan hollered from the front room: “World class fuck-up lives here!! Photographs ten cents!!”
Merle closed her eyes. “You better go see for yourself.”
Albert showed up a half-hour later with a bottle of wine and a bunch of flowers, like a suitor. He felt terrible, he said over and over. He was so angry with the officials that made rules that they told no one. He stayed for dinner on the condition that he help cook.
