Blackbird Fly (11 page)

“
American law is much different,”
Merle said. “You can leave whatever you want to anyone you want.
Even leave your house to your cat.”

He laughed and stubbed out his Gauloise. “A cat would
be easier to deal with than Justine LaBelle.”

The
hotel de ville
, city hall, was an
unpretentious, tidy stone building, recently scrubbed, with
geraniums blooming on the windowsills. The French flag flew over
the door.

As Monsieur Rancard introduced them and the clerk
went to fetch the mayor, he took Merle aside. “I will speak for
you. ”

“
But I can speak for myself. I’m
prepared,” Merle protested. She had taken several years of French.
Awhile back.

“
In French?” Now he raised an
eyebrow. He said something fast and complicated in his native
tongue.

“
All right,” she said. “But you must
tell me exactly what he says.”

The mayor came through the swinging gate. He was a
tall, thin man, with thick gray hair and an imperial manner. His
eyebrows were large and wiry, his clothes timeless and elegant. His
slender hand was cool to the touch and he did not smile at her. He
invited them back into his office, holding the gate for them both.
His office was large and sunny with flowering plants on the sills
and maps everywhere.

The mayor's name was Michel Redier. He and Arnaud
talked in clipped tones to each other, with Arnaud gesturing to
Merle passionately. The lawyer’s voice rose as he got shakes of the
head from the mayor. Suddenly Arnaud stood and leaned against the
desk to get closer to the stony-faced mayor. Merle was impressed
but wondered if this was for her benefit alone. The mayor didn’t
seem to care. He sat back and crossed his arms.

After ten minutes of this, Arnaud returned to his
chair and was silent. Was this a cue for her to speak? The mayor
leaned forward and spoke in low tones.

Arnaud listened silently, his eyes narrowed. When the
mayor finished Arnaud jumped to his feet, shouted, and stomped out
of the office. Merle looked at M. Redier who finally was beginning
to smile. She shook his hand and said goodbye.

Outside, Arnaud paced back and forth on the sidewalk,
flinging his arms around, talking to himself. Merle waited in a
spot of shade by a rose bush that grew out of an impossibly small
square of earth by a downspout. Eventually Arnaud ran out of steam
and looked at her. “
Pauvre con
! If he thinks that is common
behavior — ” He threw his hands up, disgusted.

“
What did he say?”

“
Stupid peasant. He thinks you
should pay him to evict your squatter!”

Merle thought about that. “How much?”

Arnaud’s face was red. He stuck his neck out. “You
will not pay him! It is your house, legally. And that means he is
your mayor. The gendarme is your gendarme. What have you been
paying taxes for all these years?”

“
My husband, you mean.”

“
You, your husband — it is
your
money already paying their salaries. It is bribery,
plain and simple. And there are principles at stake. You will not
pay him one centime, Madame. Not one franc!” He held up one
finger.

“
Not one Euro?” she said,
smiling.

He waved his hands again. “If he thinks I am so low,
so ineffective as to have to bribe village mayors, he does not know
who I am —
Vous ne savez pas qui je sais, monsieur!
”

People looked at him curiously, waving and mumbling
to himself, this well-dressed man so obviously from out of town.
But they looked at her the same way, with bright-eyed curiosity and
whispering. It was a small village; they had probably all heard
about the dispute over the house. She smiled at a few old women who
looked stunned and scurried away. Across the street she saw a man
staring openly at them. As Arnaud calmed down, the man, an elderly
fellow in a blue jumpsuit and black beret, came toward them.

“
Monsieur Rancard, bonjour
encore
!”

The attorney looked up, still frowning. He gave the
old man a nod. “
Pére
Albert.” The old man looked at Merle
expectantly. “Oh, yes, this is one of your neighbors. Father Albert
from across the alley.”

The old man had a round face and a double chin, with
black eyes and a near-constant smile. He asked her to call him
Albert as he was no longer a priest. She smiled at his jowly,
pleasant face. After all she had heard about French formality these
two men didn’t fit that mold.

“
How did it go with the mayor?” he
said in heavily-accented English.

“
Not well, I take it,” Merle said.
“You speak English.”

“
He is a buffoon, this mayor,”
Arnaud grumbled. He shot Merle a look as if to say, don’t repeat
that. “Are elections due soon?” He laughed nervously.

“
I’m afraid he was reelected in the
autumn,” Albert said. “And you know the gendarme too? His
nephew?”

Arnaud burst into another string of expletives.
“Conspiracy of dunces! Idiots!” He suddenly looked at his watch and
said in a normal voice, “I must go, Madame. I have business in
Cahors very soon. You will excuse me?”

“
I’ll speak to you
tomorrow?”

“
Mais oui
. I will call your
hotel in the morning.” He hurried off toward his car. Merle
suddenly felt the weight of the trip, all the plans and airplanes
and time zones, crash in on her. Without Arnaud the likelihood of
getting anything accomplished here seemed hopeless. Maybe even with
Arnaud.

The old man was still at her side. “A coffee,
madame?” he said, indicating tables outside a tobacco store,
le
tabac
. A ten-hour nap was what she really wanted but a chat
with the old priest might glean some information. Besides, it
couldn’t hurt to have friends here, especially English-speaking
ones. She sat in a small wooden chair while he went inside to
order. He bounced back across the terrace and sat at the round
table graced with a dirty ashtray.

“
You have a long trip, madame,” he
said, seeing her stifle a yawn.

“
Yes, sorry. A very long
day.”

A young woman brought out two small espressos on
saucers with lumps of sugar on the side. She took a long look at
Merle then went inside.

“
Does everyone know who I am?” Merle
asked.

The priest shrugged. “It is a small town.”

“
And they’re all related, like the
mayor and policeman?”

“
Oh, no,” he laughed. “But they all
talk. There is not much else to do.”

“
Have you lived here
long?”

“
As a child, yes, then I went away
to school, to the church. I only moved back two years ago, when I
retired. I live behind your house,” he added.

“
And what do you see going on over
at my house?”

He leaned in, over his coffee. “I only see a little
from my upper window. The old woman with the orange hair, she lives
on the grounds, inside and in the garden.”

“
Who is she, this Justine
LaBelle?”

“
Ah, you know her name. She was
living there when I arrived. I see in the village sometimes. Not
often.”

“
She’s not friendly?”

He shook his head. “I do not believe she has friends
in the village.”

“
Arnaud told me that she was being
protected by a nun, and some of the older people in
town.”

“
The nun, yes. She arrives last
week. Calls herself Sister Evangeline but she does not dress like a
member of an order.”

“
What does she want?”

“
To help Madame LaBelle. Who plainly
needs help, poor woman.”

“
Is she unbalanced?”

Albert sighed. “She is old, and clearly had a
difficult life.”

“
What did she do?”

Another shrug. “I think she has no family. So I am
glad that the nun has come to help her because Madame LaBelle seems
to accept her. She has given her the key to the gate so she can
come and go. She comes bringing the food and the clothing.”

“
Maybe the sister will take her back
to the convent.”

“
Peut-être
.
Maybe.”

“
Do you think this Sister Evangeline
will talk to me?”

“
Perhaps. If you can catch
her.”

“
Would you help me set up a meeting
with her? I would be so grateful,
Père
Albert.”

“
Just Albert, please.” He drained
his cup. “I will try, madame. I will try.”

A group of young men burst out of the tabac in soccer
shirts and baggy pants. They smoked cigarettes; one had a beer
bottle. They stopped laughing and stared at Albert and Merle.
Albert looked away, ignoring them. A cocky, short-haired one
called, “
Vous êtes le
Merle?”

The other boys began to crow like roosters and flap
their arms like wings. They danced raucously around the table then
nearly collapsed in laughter before Albert stood and shouted at
them. “
Allez! Allez
!”

They ran down the side street laughing. Albert shook
his head. “Pardon, madame. Boys.”

“
I’m staying at the Hotel Quimet.
Please call if you have any news about the house or Sister
Evangeline.”

Chapter 12

Cher Marie-Emilie,

What you are telling me in your last letter is — if
true — a grievous sin. You must be sure, absolutely positive,
before you say anything to anyone in the village. Think of the
family — of both families. Your own reputation, at the very
least.

Have you spoken to your husband about this? Please do
not be so timid as to hide from him, hide your knowledge, your
feelings. This is too important. He must be ashamed. Accept his
forgiveness. That is your duty as a wife.

How I wish I could come to you. Your dear mother, may
she rest in peace, would have wanted it so. But things are not easy
here either. Jacques and I must be present for the birth of the
lambs belonging to the Grand-Duc as well as preparing the fields
for spring crops. You are surprised I call M. LeGrand such? His
family was stripped of their title centuries ago but to himself he
remains the Grand-Duc. He keeps us in many ways.

So, you see, we all have our troubles. We all
struggle to live after the horrible war. Be glad you are married
and settled. It will get better. Already I see signs.

Be brave, my darling niece—

Josephine.

She folds the letter and tucks it into her bodice. Be
brave, yes, she needs those words. Wiping her tears she ties the
scarf around her head and picks up the basket. She will walk to the
next town, maybe find something growing along the creek. Anything
to leave this village.

Chapter 13

Arnaud Rancard called before Merle had gotten out of
bed the next morning. She woke up at three a.m. then coaxed herself
back to sleep on the lumpy mattress.

“
I cannot come to the village today,
or even tomorrow, it appears. Too much driving, and now that you
are there you should be able to have some success with the
locals.”

“
Like who, for instance?”

“
The gendarme, for one. It appears
Pére Albert is correct. He is the nephew of the mayor. But he is
sworn to uphold the law and the law says that the house is yours.
Show him your papers, the registry. And take Albert with you, for
the translating.
Á bientôt, madame.”

After a breakfast in the outside terrace with the
other guests — croissants, yogurt, orange juice, and coffee — Merle
put on her running shoes and a pair of loose pants. She soon found
the light sweater too warm and tied it around her waist as she
walked through the streets of the village. Exercise, she told
herself, and god knew she needed it both mentally and physically.
She tried not to think much. That is what walking did for her. She
stared at the houses and cobblestones, their jeweled shutters and
tidy stoops, the rich golden stone of their walls traced with
centuries of war, children, heartache, joy, death, and rain
showers. The stones had a thousand stories. She headed through a
massive arched gate into the countryside, down a hill to a creek
overgrown with wild shrubs. Past a farm, some cows, more
vineyards.

When she returned to Hotel Quimet, a staid,
yellow-trimmed building a bit out of character with the medieval
village with its greasy brass fixtures and excess bric-a-brac, a
message from Albert waited at the front desk. He had written out
his address and told her to come by in the morning if she wanted to
try to talk to Sister Evangeline today. He had seen her early,
going to the grocery. “Often,” he wrote, “she is gone for most of
the afternoon.”

Not that he is spying on his neighbors, Merle mused
as she stuffed her wallet, a bottle of water, and the manila
envelope with papers, documents, and photos from the deposit box
into her backpack. The plaza was a little busier here this morning
with a few farmers selling eggs and jars of preserves even though
it wasn’t market day. That, she’d discovered, was Thursday. By then
she would have this house secured — or not. She would not be
bullied into doing something insensitive to the strange and
elderly, orange-haired Justine LaBelle.

Albert’s house was like many others in the village,
an ancient stone village house among a block of similar townhouses.
His front door was wider and a little more ornate than most, with
his green shutters pushed open. Over his door an iron scroll held
up a fan of clear plastic as an awning. He came to the door,
smiling, in what she would find his usual cheerful mood.