Dying on the Vine (16 page)

“I suppose that means it's about as accessible as the Mafia's account books,” I conceded.

“So if you know what the latest offer is, you have some red-hot information.”

“Just rumors …,” I assured him, adding quickly, “Don't your wines have something of a reputation for their medical value?”

“All wines are medically valuable, aren't they? Since the National Institutes of Health stated that wine can cut the risk of heart attacks by seventy-five percent, the public has been putting wine on a par with penicillin. ‘The Mediterranean Diet,' they called it.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “and when CBS put on a TV special in the US calling it that and linking wine drinking with a low mortality rate from heart disease, it was said that wine sales there went up thirty percent. But what about the locals? Don't they believe that drinking wine helps them live longer?”

“I doubt it. They just like to drink it.” He puffed away the last millimeters of the cigarette. “What makes you ask that?”

“Doctor Selvier's article in
La Voix,”
I said airily.

“Oh, you saw that, did you?” He grinned. “Didn't hurt our sales any.”

“So you don't make wine in any special way?”

“Special! Of course not.”

“Maybe the grapes … or the soil … or even planetary influences?”

Surprisingly, he didn't laugh. “Ah, you've been talking to the professor. Yes, there are accounts of extraordinary results from applying knowledge of the movements of the planets.”

“You believe them?” Such a belief didn't fit with his otherwise skeptical demeanor.

“I don't disbelieve them. I understand that Rahmani has reached some extraordinary conclusions from his work.”

His phone buzzed and he answered it. His French was fluent and the call was from a buyer who wanted a prompt shipment. Arundel took down the order and, hanging up, said, “Another satisfied customer. Didn't say if he wants me wine for medicinal purposes.” He got to his feet. “Have to get this moving. He wants delivery tomorrow.”

I walked out of me office with him.

“If there are any more questions, don't bring them around tomorrow. There'll be only a skeleton staff on duty.”

“Not a national holiday, is it?”

“A local one—the Feast of Saint Symphorien, the patron saint of the village. We'll all be there.”

“Maybe I'll come too.”

“You should. There's something for everybody and lots of good wine.”

“Willesford wine?”

“Naturally.” He gave me a lazy grin and stalked off across the yard.

S
AINT SYMPHORIEN'S DAY OF
the year was bright and clear. It was only midmorning and already the crowds were gathering. Tape barriers had been erected around the square to prevent parking and this time the police meant it. Shop windows were gaily decorated and buildings had red and white flower arrangements hanging from windowsills. Music blared out from speakers on every corner. Delicious aromas of baking bread, biscuits, and cakes declared that the bakers were making sure no one went hungry.

A light breeze ruffled the banners that stretched across street corners and a buzz of excited anticipation filled the men, women, and children thronging the square.

Provence is famous for its festivals. Even the smallest village has at least one a year and even the poorest puts on a brave show. It looked as if Saint Symphorien was really going to celebrate today.

A couple of sweating soldiers hurried past me, still adjusting their blue tunics, white trousers, and red trimmings. A sergeant would have been apoplectic at the sight of their headgear—one wore a blue and white pillbox shako and the other a sheepskin busby. A photographic flash temporarily dazzled me—it was Monika Geisler taking pictures of the crowds and the decorated square.

I pushed my way over to her. She looked like a stylish guerrilla, but then I saw that her light green battle-dress outfit was more likely supplied by St. Laurent than a quartermaster. She snapped off another shot of a tiny girl in lace and crinolines, then saw me.

“Staying away from beehives?” she asked with a sparkling smile.

“And deserted villages. I see you're working today.”

“Never miss an opportunity.”

“You'd better have lots of film.”

“It's wonderful, isn't it?” she said, looking around. “Are you staying for the parades?”

“I'll probably be here most of the day.”

“Good. See you later then.” She laughed as a clown smoking a big cigar approached and quickly raised her camera.

A Von Suppe overture coming from the speakers was drowned out by a marching band representing the local high school, their jaunty enthusiasm overcoming their occasional failure to keep in step or stay in tune. Trombones blared, cymbals crashed, and drums thundered across the square. Proud parents pointed out their talented offspring and applause rippled through the crowd.

I scanned the sea of faces and saw Gerard Girardet, but he was too far away to hear me call. The thump of percussion persisted, but when it was finally lost in the distance, lines of small children filed through, dressed in Provençal costume, me girls looking particularly proud in their lace bonnets.

Another band came, dressed in crimson and green minstrel costumes with embroidered hats, tiny bells at ankles and wrists, and playing ancient Provençal instruments. Some carried the galoubet, a three-holed flute, others the tambourin, a hand-held dram, as they danced and weaved the farandole, one of the oldest dances in southern Europe. The effect was a tinny sound, limited in range and repetitive, but peculiarly hypnotic.

“I see ye're a music lover,” said a voice behind me in English.

Elwyn Fox wore his habitual leather windbreaker that he evidently found appropriate to all climates, temperatures, and occasions. He looked flushed and even more bleary than usual. His complexion was grainy but his eyes were bright as if they suppressed an inner excitement.

“I'm getting into the spirit of the festivities,” I admitted. “No place quite like Provence for the traditional songs and dances.”

“True, true. I'm into the jollifications myself—a great day it is.”

He squeezed alongside me. At closer range, I could see that the light in his eyes hinted at something more than the pleasure of enjoying a country fete.

“You look as if you just won the lottery,” I told him.

He was almost rubbing his hands with glee. He wanted to tell me all about it but something was holding him back.

“You finally found water,” I said. “Millions of gallons of it—pure and sweet.”

He shook his head. “It was a wonderful day yesterday,” he said joyfully. “Wonderful.”

“If you didn't find water, what did you find?”

Abruptly, his mood changed and the eyes under the heavy brows regarded me with an unfocused stare.

“What is it?” I asked. “What's wrong?”

He didn't reply. I don't think he could hear me—he was in another dimension. He shivered as if caught in an icy blast.

“You—I see you—”His voice was weak and he was looking through me as if I were glass. Whatever he could see terrified him. He tottered and was about to fall. I grabbed his arm.

“What's wrong? Are you ill?”

He struggled unsuccessfully to find words, then he pulled loose, stumbled away, and was lost in the crowd. I tried to spot him but it was impossible.

Local veterans were next on the parade list: World War II, Indochina, and French Foreign Legionnaires. The loudspeakers bellowed a stirring military march and the throngs cheered and waved.

Fox's strange attitude bothered me and I was still pondering when squeals arose from the children in the crowd and there was a surge backward. The cause was a bizarre creature like a giant green crocodile with scaly skin and bulging eyes. It raised its head, opening mighty jaws and now showing resemblance to a dragon as ribbons of red paper streamed out of its mouth, propelled by a blower inside and suggesting fiery breath.

“What is it?' I asked an old man standing nearby.

He smiled. “A ‘Barasque'—it is said to guard the sacred treasure.”

“What treasure is that?”

“Why, the Treasure of the Templars, of course.”

The monster came slithering over the paving stones while children clung tighter to parents' hands and even a few women screamed. Fearsome growls came forth and sudden forays at the edge of the crowd made it sway like a field of corn in a strong wind.

As the creature left the square, doubtless seeking more pulses to accelerate, the music from the speakers ended and a voice advised us that the ride of Gabriel Bonnard was now to be recalled. A mad clatter of horses' hooves on the cobblestones heralded the entry of a big black stallion, galloping fiercely and urged on by a rider in a pale blue uniform who was carrying a large satchel. As near as I could determine, he was bringing a French version of the Message to Garcia, and a motley crew following him had little chance of catching him.

I turned to look for Elwyn Fox. His condition troubled me. I wanted to help but I could see no sign of him. Instead, I saw a head of golden hair that could belong only to Alexis Suvarov. He saw me at about the same time, pushed his way in my direction, and pumped my hand.

“Glad you could come,” he said jovially. “Everybody's here …” He squeezed sideways to allow his companion to come forward. It was Simone Ballard. She wore light blue stretch pants and a blue and white sweater with white sandals. She looked quite attractive and her nod of greeting was accompanied by what was, for her, very nearly a smile.

“So you two have abandoned ultralights and wine for the day, have you?”

It was Simone who answered. “This is Saint Symphorien's biggest day of the year. Everyone comes. Besides, we have a stand selling Willesford wine and we're taking turns at it.”

“Good. I'll come and have a glass or two,” I said.

Suvarov's face became stern as he addressed me. “I'll know in a day or two who flew my Demoiselle on that occasion we talked about.”

Simone looked at him puzzled but he made no attempt to enlighten her.

“Staying for the aioli?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Good, we'll see you then.” They were hailed from a nearby window and wormed their way through the masses of people, presumably to get a location with a better view.

I thought about the aioli. It is the traditional lunch in Provence on festive occasions and takes place in an outdoor space, usually a park. The name derives from the word for garlic,
ail,
and the dish is made by pounding garlic cloves into a paste with egg yolks. It is seasoned and olive oil is added until it becomes like a thick mayonnaise. It is served in huge mounds, accompanied by boiled cod, snails, fennel, green beans, hard-boiled eggs, potatoes boiled in their skins, carrots, onions stuck with cloves, and sometimes squid cooked in its ink.

Some of the dishes that accompany the festive aioli I find a little bland, particularly the boiled cod, boiled potatoes, and boiled carrots. Still, when the dish originated, boiling was one of the few ways of cooking food. It was easy, and in those days healthy cooking was considered to be an oxymoron. I decided to go and contribute one more garlic exhalation to the cloud that would envelop the village in the afternoon.

It was eleven-thirty and the people showed no signs of moving so I presumed that more parades would come by before lunch. I had time to find out what had happened to Fox and I decided to start looking in the one place where he was most likely to be. Every establishment dispensing food and drink of any kind was open today and La Colombe was no exception, though it was empty but for a sole drinker. I joined him at the bar.

“I was worried about you. Are you feeling all right?”

A stein of Fox's favorite medicine was on the bar top before him and held only another two inches. He finished that in one gigantic swallow and the bored barmaid, with nothing to do, promptly refilled it.

“I'm all right,” he said. His voice, though quiet, was steady, but he didn't look at me.

“Do you have these attacks often?”

“From time to time.”

“Do you know what causes them?”

“It's nothing physical. It's this—this sense that I have. Sometimes it comes over me like a cloud. I feel chilled, drained.” He shivered and reached eagerly for his beer glass. When he had drunk half of it, he finally looked at me. His eyes were somber. When he spoke, his voice was grim. “Be careful. I don't know what else to tell you. Just be careful.” His voice throbbed with urgency.

“You were elated when I saw you earlier. You must have found whatever it was you were dowsing for.”

“Elated?” He thought about the word. “Aye, ye could say I was elated.”

The cries and shouts from the crowd in the square were growing louder and I decided to ease up on my interrogation for the moment and then tackle him hard when he had relaxed.

“Let's go out and see what the excitement is all about,” I suggested. He hesitated. The bar was a safe haven to him and he didn't want to leave it, but he finished his drink and nodded agreement. We went outside.

The crowd was thin here in front of the bar and we were able to move to the rope barrier. The increase in noise had been caused by a medley of entertainers. There was a stilt walker, a little out of practice, whose immensely long blue pantaloons flapped as he swayed uncertainly over the cobbles. After him came a fire-eater whose blasts of flame caused the children to gasp loudly. There was a distinct smell of brandy and I gathered he was enjoying his job.

The clown I had seen earlier now had a string of small dogs on separate leashes and all of them were intent on tripping him up. His falls and near falls brought shrieks of laughter. A juggler was next. He wore a moth-eaten tuxedo and he kept green bottles moving through the air while the crowd held its breath. When he dropped one bottle, it bounced and he swept it up neatly with a practiced swing.