Dying on the Vine (8 page)

I awoke, suddenly aware of a dull, low-pitched buzzing. A shadow passed across the sun and I looked up but could see nothing. I must have been dreaming. The buzzing noise was louder and the sky darkened by a shape above me. It was a monstrous insect—no, that was impossible … it was too enormous, too gigantic. It had green and brown wings and a beaklike nose—it was peering down, searching for prey.

I awoke—or thought I did. I stood up in alarm—or thought I did. Was I awake or still dreaming? A black dot materialized and grew larger, larger … it was blotting out the sun. Was the terrifying creature diving down at me? The only thought in my mind was to escape from this haunted place but I felt the terrifying certainty that it was too late.

I
COULDN'T TELL WHEN
the transition from dreaming to waking occurred. It was probably when the black shape, growing larger by the second, hit the cobbled square and burst into a thousand fragments. From inside it, a thick cloud of black gas emerged and spread instantly. Then it seemed that the cloud separated into individual particles as it spread further. I was certainly fully awake by this time. The pulsating black mass came toward me and I realized that the object that had fallen was a beehive and the separating particles were enraged bees.

They were all around me, buzzing furiously and looking for anyone to wreak their anger on—and the only one there was me. I flailed my arms wildly, fully aware that it was the wrong thing to do as it would only make them angrier but not able to stand there like a statue. More and more came, probably sensing that they had me outnumbered. I could see only a dark blur as they surged over me and I wondered vaguely how many bee stings it took to kill a person.

It was probably only seconds, though it seemed like hours, and then a new sound penetrated the belligerent buzzing. A sort of roaring noise rose in intensity. I flailed even more madly and through a gap in the dusky cloud I saw a bright red car shoot out of one of the side streets and enter the square like a champagne cork shot from a bottle. Tires screeched as it bounced and swayed over the cobblestones and the engine rose to a high-pitched whine. Brakes screamed as it skidded to a stop beside me.

A figure jumped out holding a small cylinder, red as the convertible. Then I was drenched in a cooling white gas and the bees were melting away magically. In seconds, almost all of them were gone. I was beating frantically at a few diehards that were reluctant to retreat and I saw that the red cylinder was a fire extinguisher and it was wielded by a girl.

All the salient features of young good-looking girls usually register with me very quickly, but I must admit that this was one occasion when it took longer. A few bees still persisted though their cause was lost and I slapped at them to encourage them to join their smarter comrades who knew when the contest was over.

“Are you hurt?” the girl asked in French. “Did they sting you?”

I was out of breath but I managed to gasp an answer.

“I think I'm all right, I—ow! there's a sting, on my neck. And—ow, there's another…”

In the tension of the moment, I had spoken in English but I didn't realize it until she replied in the same language, almost without an accent.

“Do you know if you're allergic to bee stings?” she asked anxiously.

“Not as far as I know, but then I've never needed to find out.”

“Better get in the car. I'll take you to a doctor.”

She tossed the extinguisher behind the seat, revved the engine, and raced out of the square as if all the bees in Provence were after us. I was beginning to calm down and was able to take stock of the situation. The girl first, of course …

She had hair the color of corn and it was cut in a seemingly careless manner that had probably taken hours. It draped down almost to her shoulders and fluttered gently in the breeze as I noticed too that this was a convertible. Her eyes were blue but a strong, almost dark shade. She had lovely features, mobile and full of character. She handled the car—I saw it was a Maserati—like a race driver, shifting expertly as we swept out through the stone arch and onto the road. She was wearing a tight-fitting jump suit in immaculate white. It had metal buttons and a wide brown leather belt. A forest green shirt in a silklike material peeked out at the neck.

“I have to thank you for saving my life,” I said, speaking loud enough to be heard over the thunder of the engine, which sounded as if it had enough horsepower for a jet bomber.

She smiled charmingly. “I was going to say ‘It was nothing' but that would be an insult in English, wouldn't it?”

I introduced myself, using my cover story.

“Monika Geisler. I am from Stuttgart.” I noticed now the slightest of German accents as she went on, “I am a magazine photographer. I am doing a piece on hilltop villages and I heard about this one.”

“It's off my list,” I said. “Too dangerous.”

“Where did all those bees come from?” she asked, paraphrasing George Custer.

I hesitated. It sounded silly to talk about giant insects dropping beehives on me—silly even to me. “I fell asleep and the next thing I knew, I was surrounded by them.”

She darted me a sympathetic glance. “Do the stings hurt?”

“Not if I don't move.”

“There's a village just here. We can have those stings examined.”

“Oh, I don't think they're serious—”

She gave a dismissive wave of one hand. “Ah, you English! So stoic!”

She didn't bother to put her hand back on to the wheel, steering expertly with one hand around a sharp bend in the narrow road without slackening speed.

“If you hadn't told me you're a photographer, I would have thought you were a race driver,” I told her.

“I am,” she said matter-of-factly. “I was second in the Formula Two at Monte Carlo last year and winner of the Mercedes Cup at Nuremberg the year before.”

A handful of ancient cottages heralded our arrival in a village with a sign announcing its name as Beauvallier. It turned out to be more sophisticated than it first appeared and there was a row of modern shops and stores. Monika stopped in front of a
pharmacie
with its green on white plaque depicting a serpent coiled around a staff.

“The pharmacist can advise how serious your stings are,” she said.

I was aware that in France the course of studies to become a pharmacist is lengthy and difficult. The pharmacist is highly regarded in the community and many smaller villages do not have a doctor as the pharmacist can handle most medical problems.

Monika's imperious manner brought prompt attention and two of the staff, a man and a woman, examined me inside the shop. A few dabs with an ammonia-smelling fluid and they pronounced me in no need of a doctor. It seemed much ado about nothing now, but a while ago, when I had been smothered in a cloud of angry bees …

As we went outside, Monika asked, “How did you get to Colcroze?”

“I had a car.”

“I didn't see it there.”

“I forgot about it,” I said. “I was so glad to be able to get away with you, I didn't think of anything else.”

“How do you feel now? Do you want to go back and get it?”

“What I want to do is buy you the best meal in France as a way of saying thank you for saving my life.”

She smiled delightfully. “I would be happy to accept although I think you overstate it. In any case, I have another assignment today. Suppose I take you back to get your car and we have lunch tomorrow?”

“Excellent,” I said enthusiastically. “If you could choose anywhere to eat, where would it be?”

She shook her head reprovingly. Her blond hair danced as she did so.

“You don't mean that!”

“Certainly I do.”

“I have always wanted to eat at—but, no, it's not fair to ask you …”

“Yes, it is. Ask me.”

She eyed me mischievously for a moment. Then she said, “Very well. The Louis Quinze in Monte Carlo.”

I had to admit I had asked for it. Probably the most illustrious and famous restaurant on the Riviera. As for cost … well, never mind that. After all, hadn't my life been saved?

“Okay,” I said casually. “The Louis Quinze. Tomorrow.”

I
DROVE BACK TO
Saint Symphorien, choosing the wider roads over lesser ones and with more than one nervous glance at the sky. One of those terrifying insects was enough—a horde of them would be like a scene from a John Carpenter version of
Food of the Gods.

The busy center of the village was a welcome refuge. I parked and strolled around, not leaving the crowded pavements, but then I realized that I was hungry and the dilemma of where to eat took priority. As a change of pace, I chose Timgad, a restaurant serving north African food.

The south of France has a large population of
“pieds noirs,”
French who were forced to leave their farms and plantations in north Africa when the former colonies became independent. Another large group is the “Maghreb,” natives from those same countries who retained their French citizenship and could come to France to live and work.

Inside the restaurant, it smelled wonderful. Chilies, coriander, curry, and mint aromas floated in air that was without the “advantage” of air-conditioning. Colorful banners and posters covered the walls, basket chairs and tables had pale blue cushions and covers, and the blue and white tiled floor suited perfectly.

A smiling Arab girl brought me a menu. It was in both Arabic and French and I concentrated on the French side. I have had amusing experiences in Asian restaurants in France attempting to translate the French-named dishes into English when the original translation already left a lot to be desired. I had eaten in Arabic restaurants and was familiar with many of the main dishes. Foods there are naturally low in fat and lively on the palate due to the spices I had smelled in addition to garlic, cumin, and caraway. Cooking styles are generally simple. Whereas in the West, we cook aromatics such as onion and garlic first in either oil or butter before adding any other ingredients, in north African cuisine it is customary to put all the ingredients into one pot at the beginning.

I chose the fennel marinated in lemon and served with feta cheese as the first course. It is simple and very refreshing. The other diners were about half French and half Maghreb and I watched the latter to see if they were eating in true Moslem style. They were not—this requires that the diner eat only from around the edge of the dish, leaving the middle so that the blessing of Heaven can descend upon it. I ate all of my salad.

I followed it with a tiny bowl of “Lablabi,” a thick soup of garbanzo beans, a widely used vegetable. The Koran forbids the drinking of alcohol, but for nonbelievers the restaurant had a very acceptable rosé wine from Carthage. The main course offered several lamb and fish specialties but I chose the Chicken Tagine. A tagine is a stew and this one was strongly flavored with saffron, which also gave it a rich yellow color. Garlic, almonds, lemon, and cinnamon added a variety of tastes. The girl brought me a small silver dish of rice and honey cakes in place of a dessert.

As I stepped out into the dazzling afternoon sunshine, I was greeted by name. It was Aristide Pertois, the gendarme.

“Any progress on the case, m'sieu?” I asked.

“Ah, that is what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

“Your car.”

“It's a Citroen C2V, black, no distinguishing features.”

“Its license plate is unique,” he said suavely, motioning to a disreputable-looking bar a couple of doors away. The tables outside were dirty and piled with unwashed glasses and plates. A television was loud inside and from a small crowd of workmen came noisy arguments. A tough-looking man was waiting on tables.

“There?”

“Certainly,” he said. “We won't be disturbed.”

He was right. We went in and sat at a table farther down the room and ho one threw us as much as a second glance, not even the waiter. Aristide took off his cap and set it on the none-too-clean tabletop.

“Pastis?”

“Are you having one?” I asked in surprise.

His eyebrows had that perpetually raised look I had noticed before. If it were possible, they went a fraction higher now.

“Of course,” he said. “I like pastis.”

“It's not the pastis. It's just that in England, policemen don't drink on duty.”

“They don't?” He sounded disbelieving. “Why not?”

“I don't know—I think it's something to do with alcohol affecting their judgment.”

He stared at me, then shook his head.

“You have some strange ideas in your country,” he told me, waving imperiously and calling loudly for two pastis.

“So what progress on the investigation?” I asked.

“The investigation … ah, yes.” The round lenses and his round black eyes made it hard to tell what he was thinking. “The wounds and injuries to Emil Laplace are all consistent with being gored to death by a sanglier,” he said carefully.

This gendarme wasn't as dumb as he looked. There was certainly more to him than I had previously thought. So much for first impressions.

“Do you know something that makes you think Emil's death wasn't caused by being gored by a sanglier?” I asked him outright.

He didn't answer for a moment, then he said, “I intend to investigate further. What can you tell me that might help?

“I've told you all I know. I've only just arrived here. I'd never seen Emil before, or any of the others at both the vineyards.”

The bouncer came and set down a glass of pastis in front of each of us and a carafe of water. The gendarme poured a little water into his glass and I did likewise. The liquid turned milky. Aristide eyed his for a couple of seconds, then drained the glass. I drank part of mine.