The Patriarch, page 21
“What do you mean?” Chantal asked, her tone suggesting a challenge rather than a question.
“I’m pretty sure the money was his pension from the intelligence services for the work he did in Moscow during the Cold War. Can you imagine what that must have been like—the secrecy, the pressures, the strain?”
“But he was a diplomat. If the Russians had caught him, they’d have expelled him, not sent him to jail.”
“What about the people he worked with, the Russians who trusted him?” Bruno countered. “He must have felt responsible for them, knowing what their fate would be if he were caught and deported. That strain must have worked heavily on him. Isn’t that why he became an alcoholic?”
Chantal looked at him solemnly for a long moment before nodding. “I see what you mean.”
“If you think it’s not fair for Marc to have no money, you can always give him some,” said Marie-Françoise. “It’s not like you’re trapped by this. Bruno’s right, you’re in charge of the money, you can do what you want with it. And it’s not as though you or Marc were poor before this.”
“In that case,” said Bruno, smiling affectionately at the two healthy and wealthy young women who could afford luxury but preferred to ride bicycles and enjoyed sharing a student lodging, “you can each pay for your own lunch.”
Not for the first time, Bruno wondered how his life might have been different if he’d had better schools, better teachers and a chance to go to university. It might also, he mused, have meant the chance to meet intelligent and cultured young women like Chantal and Marie-Françoise rather than the hard-faced women who hung around the bars and discos outside the military barracks where he’d spent so much of his youth. Bruno didn’t regret his days in the army. He had seen a bit of the world and learned how to lead a group of tough young men and how to take care of them as well as himself. Above all, he’d learned to be self-reliant, self-disciplined and self-confident, with a good sense of his own capabilities and limitations. His education had been basic, but he’d always been curious and had discovered in himself a love of reading, history and biography at first, and then the classic French novels.
Women, Bruno knew, had been crucial to this awakening side of himself. Katarina, the Bosnian schoolteacher, had started him reading seriously. Isabelle had introduced him to the poems of Prévert, Pamela to horseback riding and classical music and Fabiola to the movies. And now Florence had started him reading some books on science and the environment. But his male friends had also played a role. The mayor started him reading French history, and Hubert had lent him books on wine. His German friend Horst had lent him some books on archaeology that had immeasurably increased his appreciation of the unique wealth of prehistoric paintings and engravings in the caves of Périgord. It was one of the great delights of friendships, Bruno thought, that friends shared their enthusiasms and broadened his horizons.
Musing as he strolled back to his parked Land Rover on how much he owed to his friends and how much he’d changed since arriving in St. Denis a decade earlier, he pondered how to spend the rest of the afternoon before driving home. His work was done; Chantal and Nicole had been put in direct touch with the notaire, so he had some time to himself. But his first action, once in his vehicle, was to label the evidence bag into which he’d put Chantal’s used tissue.
He knew Bordeaux well, so perhaps he’d call at La Bouquinérie, a secondhand bookstore he liked. But then he recalled that he’d never visited the contemporary art museum at the Entrepôt Lainé. Built in the 1820s as a vast warehouse for produce from France’s colonies, it had been saved from demolition by a popular campaign and now housed what he’d heard was a striking collection of contemporary art. He was just looking at the city map when he was interrupted by the vibration of the phone at his waist. It was not a number he recognized, but he answered and was surprised to hear Madeleine’s voice, saying she was returning his call about Fabrice.
“I need to talk to you about him, since he’s been arrested. It looks like he was responsible for tranquilizing some wild boar and then deliberately letting them loose in a prized garden,” he said.
“I can’t meet today, I’m in Bordeaux for a tedious political meeting that lasted all morning, and I have another one followed by lunch in the city tomorrow. Maybe sometime tomorrow afternoon? I don’t know much about Fabrice. It was my father-in-law who hired him.”
“I’m in Bordeaux myself,” he replied. “I was just about to walk my dog along the riverbank and then spend an hour trying to understand modern art at the Entrepôt Lainé before driving back, but perhaps you have some time free?”
“I’m free until dinner, and we keep an apartment here that overlooks the Quinconces,” she said, referring to the huge square by the river with its statue to the martyred Girondins, the moderate delegates from Bordeaux to the National Assembly whose slaughter launched the Terror that followed the Revolution of 1789. “I like dogs, so bring him along. It might be one of the last days we can enjoy this sun on the balcony.”
She gave him the address and entry code for the street door, and within thirty minutes he’d parked, found the place and was installed on the top-floor balcony in his shirtsleeves, a fresh pot of coffee steaming before them. She had made a fuss of Balzac and greeted Bruno with a real kiss on each cheek, not the brief and contactless pout toward an ear that had become the fashion. And she’d held his hand a moment too long to lead him to the balcony. He was touched when he saw that she’d put out a bowl of water for his dog.
Madeleine was barefoot, wearing white capri pants and a sleeveless white blouse that set off her golden tan. Her hair had been pulled back into a loose ponytail that was held by a white ribbon that was tied into a bow. She gave off a faint scent of soap as if she’d showered after her lunch. Her face was free of makeup, but her complexion seemed as clear and youthful as her daughter’s. And yet to Bruno she was somehow more beautiful, more self-aware. There was something in her eyes that spoke of lessons learned and a life well lived.
Beside the coffee cups were two tall glasses and a bottle of mineral water. The view over the Gironde River was spectacular, and the balcony was as large as the ground floor of his own home. Balzac was exploring the place with his unfailing curiosity. A pair of pruning shears and gardening gloves lay on the tables, and a bucket full of weeds from the tall pots filled with red geraniums stood by the glass doors that led into the large living room.
“I was catching up on the gardening,” she said. “Thank you for saving me from that chore. You probably know more about it than I do. Do you think it’s time to bring the geraniums into the conservatory?”
Madeleine pointed to the glass-covered end of the balcony where he presumed the family could enjoy the view throughout the winter. Even so casual a gesture seemed elegant and poised. She’d have made a wonderful actress, Bruno thought, suddenly recalling a film with the young Catherine Deneuve. If anything, Madeleine was lovelier, perhaps because she had more animation or more of that toughness he’d seen as she demolished her opponent in the Bergerac debate.
“In Périgord I’d be surprised if we get any frost before December at the earliest, but maybe here in Bordeaux the weather is different.” Bruno felt relieved that he could focus on something as mundane as gardening. “You need to ask a local, or call Rollo, the expert with the radio program, the guy whose garden was just destroyed.”
“Destroyed by Fabrice, you believe.” She poured the coffee and turned slightly to look at the river, giving Bruno the benefit of her classic profile. He also noticed with a start of surprise that she was wearing nothing beneath her blouse. He felt his mouth suddenly go dry.
“The evidence points that way, but it will be up to the procureur to decide whether to bring charges. I gather you got to know him through hunting, when he transferred to your club after he was asked to leave his old one. Did you know about that?”
“I heard some gossip, yes, and I know about his being banned from rugby.” She continued to gaze across the river. Was she avoiding his eyes? “But if we banned every aggressive young man who goes a bit foo far, we’d end up living in a world of wimps. You ought to hear Marco on the topic. Fabrice is a fine shot and a good hunter. Marco had been out with him and been impressed, so we accepted him and then gave him the job. It was Marco who’d heard that Fabrice’s dad had been a gamekeeper, so he knew the life, and it’s not easy to find decent gamekeepers these days. I think Marco was just trying to do the young man a good turn. You should ask him.”
“I will.” He sipped at his coffee, enjoying its quality, trying to suppress the image of Yevgeny’s painting of her that came creeping into his head as he looked at her. “Do you know Fabrice at all well?”
“We chatted a bit when he joined, and naturally we were at the occasional casse-croûte after a morning’s hunting, and I think I recall a club dinner. But he was a bit shy at first, at least until he’d had a drink or two.”
“He was mainly hunting what, boar and deer?”
“Yes, mostly deer, from one of the hunting stands. I was only out with him once. One of the older guys had complained that Fabrice was too quick on the trigger, so I went out to the stand with him. He wouldn’t dare shoot before a woman.”
“Did you ever know Fabrice to use a tranquilizer gun?”
She turned back to face him, looking directly into his eyes and nodding pensively. “Just once, a pregnant deer with a broken leg, and I wanted to save the fawn. We had to take her to the vet, who said it would be the best way.”
“Were you there?” He held her gaze but felt his voice sounding a little hoarse, his throat drying in what he assumed was some hormonal response to her beauty. He took a sip of mineral water.
“Not for that. It was a bit too heavy for me, like the boar,” she said with an expression that was half smile, half grimace. On any other women it would have looked strange. On her it was charming, a touch of girlishness.
“A bit heavy for me, too, on rough ground,” said Bruno, smiling. A couple of times Bruno had brought boar back from a kill to the trail where the trucks could come. A full-size boar could weigh well over a hundred kilos, a heavy load for two men struggling up and down slopes thick with undergrowth, the boar slung on a pole over their shoulders.
“That’s why our club bought one of those new German trolleys with big wheels and a ratchet system to lift the boar clear of the ground,” she said. “It makes hunting a lot easier.”
Bruno hadn’t thought of that, hadn’t even heard that such trolleys existed. That must have been what Fabrice had used to take the boar to Rollo’s garden. That was the essential piece of evidence against Fabrice that he needed to get the procureur to take the case. But there was something else he had to ask.
“Fabrice told me that he was asked to attack Rollo’s garden, apparently by somebody with influence over him or a hold over him, but he won’t say who.” Bruno said it casually, looking for some kind of reaction. He was guessing but could think of nobody outside her family with that kind of power over Fabrice. If so, that meant Marco or Victor or Madeleine.
She stared at him levelly, her hands immobile on her coffee cup. “Maybe his girlfriend,” she said. “Or some close friend he wants to protect.”
Bruno nodded slowly, watching her but seeing nothing except that cool, self-confident beauty. There was nothing more to be gotten from her. “Well, thank you for your help, and for the coffee,” he said.
“You needn’t rush off,” she said amiably, no sign of relief that the interview was over. “You haven’t told me about your dog. Are you training him to hunt?”
“Yes, but it will be a long job,” he said, looking down at Balzac who had curled up in a sunlit corner of the balcony and gone to sleep. “Bassets have minds of their own. Still, he’s got the right instincts, tracks foxes, and he’s found his way to a few summer truffles. This winter I’ll start training him seriously. He’s already made friends with the other dogs at our hunting club, and they’ll probably teach him as much as I do.”
“You must come over to Lalinde someday and hunt our land as our guest. Another couple of weeks, and it’s St. Hubert’s Day.”
Bruno nodded. St. Hubert was the patron saint of hunting, and his name day, November 3, was celebrated in every hunt club in France. “It’s a big day for our club, too, so tradition requires I be there with my friends.”
She nodded, smiling. “Of course, we’ll find another day. You haven’t told me what brings you to Bordeaux, nor what you thought of the debate.”
“Just tracking down a witness on another matter,” he said. “And you don’t need me to confirm that you won that debate. I hear you’re now the favorite for the National Assembly seat.”
“You follow politics?” she asked, rising from her chair to go into the main room and return with two glasses and a bottle of Balvenie. She poured two moderate drinks, splashed in some mineral water, clinked her glass against his and took a sip. Suddenly they were quite close together, each leaning forward over the small table. He felt a stab of sexual tension and found himself wondering how she coped with the impact of her looks. It must become tedious, he thought, always having this effect on men.
“Not really,” he replied. “But enough to be curious why you decided on the National Assembly rather than the European Parliament.”
“It’s a lot easier to commute to Paris than to Brussels, let alone Strasbourg,” she said, smiling, and then she turned the tables on him. “I might ask you why you stay in St. Denis when I’m told there’s a much more significant job waiting for you at the interior ministry in Paris.”
“Where did you hear that?” It must have come from the brigadier, he thought, recalling that he’d been invited to the Patriarch’s birthday party.
“At Marco’s party. Marco asked Brigadier Lannes about you; they’re old friends, and I overheard the conversation.” She paused and then looked at him roguishly. “I hadn’t known you were so interesting.”
“It’s very simple. I love living and working in St. Denis, and I don’t want to move to Paris,” he said. “I wouldn’t be able to keep my dog and my horse. And I don’t want to work for Général de Brigade Lannes.”
“I’m told you’re wasting your talents while waiting to succeed Gérard Mangin as the next mayor of St. Denis.”
Bruno chuckled. “That’s just the mayor’s joke. He knows I don’t have a political bone in my body except on Election Day, and then I tend to vote one way for the presidency, another for the legislature.” He smiled broadly, teasing her. “It’s a way to keep you politicians under control.”
“Good for you, we need that sometimes,” she said and then added, her eyes twinkling at him, “Just as sometimes we all need to be a little out of control.”
What on earth did she mean by that? Bruno cast around for a safer topic to discuss. “I enjoyed your wine tasting, but I was really impressed by the quality of tennis played by Marc and Chantal. I saw them when I parked and stayed to watch; they must be tournament level.”
“You must come and join us for a game at the vineyard,” she said. “You can play with me.”
This time he was in no doubt of the double entendre in her words. Her foot was resting lightly on his beneath the table, and she was leaning forward over the small table, her arms in front of her, pressing her breasts together to deepen her cleavage. Somehow without his noticing she had undone another button on her blouse.
Yevgeny’s portrait rushed back into his mind, and he could remember the sight of her breasts and the achingly desirable length of her, the brazen look on her face and the ivory skin. The expression on her face in the portrait was the same expression she was wearing now, and she stretched out a hand to take his. He felt suddenly flooded, liberated by the sexual tension he had been trying to suppress. Bruno rose eagerly, helpless before this twin assault of her warm and living presence moving into his arms, her mouth opening with soft urgency beneath his, and the surging power of the painted image becoming a glorious physical reality that was blocking out all other thoughts in his mind.
27
There had been no political dinner she had to attend, she told him as they lay entwined on the long couch in the living room, the twilight gathering in the eastern sky. The night was theirs, she said, and led him into the half darkness of her bedroom. He felt at once helpless and yet hugely empowered. He had never known a lover so accomplished, so tantalizing in her shift of moods and pace, so seductive in her murmurings and her soft laughter.
At one point she had asked if he was hungry, and he was about to reply that his hunger was only for her when he realized that he felt famished. She wearing his shirt, and he wrapped in a towel, they explored the kitchen. Bruno found a packet of premade pizza dough in the fridge, along with tomatoes, onions, cheese and lardons. She opened a bottle of the Réserve du Patriarche, poured each of them a glass and then stood watching him as he fried the onions and lardons, set the oven, grated the cheese and slipped the tomatoes into boiling water to peel them.
Attracted by the scent of cooking, Balzac came in from the balcony to join them, and Madeleine sat on the floor, fondling his long ears, but her eyes stayed on Bruno.
“It’s very sexy, watching a man cook for me before taking me back to bed,” she said. Bruno knew he’d remember every moment of this evening, every word that she spoke, every touch and gesture.
The evening had turned cool, so she closed the door to the balcony and they sat on cushions on the floor. Madeleine curled into his arms and fed him and Balzac pizza. Bruno could not take his eyes from her. She ate the way she made love, with appetite and appreciation, suddenly overtaken by a lustful hunger as she took a deep drink of wine. Then she put her lips against his and let the wine trickle from her mouth into his.
He left with Balzac not long before midnight, leaving her asleep, his head filled with thoughts of her as he drove back to St. Denis. But some of the thoughts became questions as he played back the evening in his mind. Bruno was no fool; he knew that he had been deliberately and delightfully seduced by a woman of extraordinary skill.
