Blackbird Fly (35 page)

“
Where’re Pascal’s binoculars?” He
clambered up the stairs. “Where are they, Mom?”

“
What makes you think Pascal has
binoculars?”

“
Because I saw him looking out the
window. Up there.”

Annie asked, “It’s dark out. What do you need
binoculars for?”

“
There’s a huge fire, about a mile
outside of town. Valerie and I saw people going out there with
hoses and buckets, like an old-time fire brigade.”

They followed him upstairs. He was rummaging through
the toolbox left in the loft room. Merle pushed open the window and
scanned the dark countryside for the glow of flames. “It must be
out already,” she said.

What was Pascal looking at with binoculars up here?
Was he suddenly a birdwatcher? Or had he been using his job as a
roofer and handyman to spy on her neighbors? A prickle of suspicion
rose up her spine.

Tristan pointed over her shoulder. “There it is, on
top of the hill.”

The clump of trees on top of the far hill surrounded
the large manor house turned into a winery by the conglomerate. As
they watched a pine tree exploded in flames. “The house is made of
stone. It won’t burn, will it?” Annie asked. Another tree went
up.

From the garden came Valerie’s voice. “Tristan!
Allons-y!
We must go! They need every person to help with
the fire!”

The population of the entire village and surrounding
estates clogged the tiny lane leading to the hilltop manor. Annie,
driving the rental car, observed that it seemed doubtful all these
people felt a strong desire to save a multinational corporation
from destruction. Cars and trucks, bicycles and farmers and
children of all ages, streamed along the lane, parking in ditches
to keep the road clear. Somewhere a siren whined, then another.
When they’d pulled off the road, Merle opened the back and handed
shovels, buckets, and gloves to the Tristan and Valerie. They
vanished into the crowd running toward the blaze, into the
darkness.

Annie handed her a garden hose. “
Allons-y, ma
soeur
. Hit the road.”

Merle stood for a moment, watching the chaos and
excitement. She had felt uneasy leaving the house, double-checking
locks on the windows, doors, and shutters. With the village
abandoned, a break-in would be simple. At least Yves and Suzette
next door stayed home,
laissez-faire
about someone else’s
fire, drinking cognac on their front stoop. They agreed to keep an
eye out for hooligans.

Annie and Merle joined the stream and were half a
mile up when a fire truck arrived, lights, horn, and siren blasting
through the vineyards, shooting scarlet on the hillside. The
sisters stepped between two cars and covered their ears.

Up on the hilltop flames roared through the dry woods
at the hilltop, lighting up the sky. Smoke billowed, dropping ash
on the crews, farmers, young men, women, old people. Annie tried to
volunteer but the orders were incomprehensible. They saw Tristan,
running with buckets of water. The grounds of the chateau were
burning, bushes flaring as they incinerated. A gazebo went up in a
flash and a whoosh, collapsing as its roof burned. The fire hose
shot a stream of water onto the rooftops and the edge of the
woods.

Talk raced through the spectators. The old manor
house, mansard roof dating it in the late 1800s, was used as a
tasting room for the conglomerate’s winery housed in large
outbuildings — like Château Gagillac but grander. The manager of
the winery came back from the edge of the fire, covered with soot,
his eyes stinging and red. The women next to Merle called him some
unflattering names.

She felt a hand on her arm. Albert stood in his
coveralls and beret, staring into the fire and smoke. “Is my niece
in there?”

“
They’re are keeping the kids away
from the flames.”

He scuttled off to find Valerie. Later she saw him
talking to a man at the far side of the singed lawn. As a bush
nearby exploded in flames, his face was illuminated — it was
Pascal. He was talking, gesturing, then he ran back toward the
fire. She wondered again what he was, why he needed binoculars. Did
Albert know his true identity? Had Albert “placed” him with
her?

After two hours Annie and Merle walked back to the
car to wait for Tristan and Valerie. “I’m worried about them,
Annie,” Merle said, “but I’m also worried about leaving the house.
And with one hand I’m not much use out here.”

“
You mean, the wine?”

Even at two o’clock in the morning the village was
lit up, shutters open. Down
rue de Poitiers
women stood
outside in their robes and curlers, talking. It was a relief. With
all these people about, mischief would be limited. Every other
night the village was buttoned up by eleven.

“
You’ll be all right?” Annie said.
“Look around. I’ll wait.”

The house was just as she left it. Waving to Annie,
Merle re-locked the front shutters and door. She turned on all the
lights, poured herself the last of the Château L'Église-Clinet, and
curled up with her novel on Tristan’s bed.

At five Annie drove up with the fire crew. Merle had
dozed a little but was up, unlocking the door for them. Tristan and
Pascal went into the kitchen to make hot chocolate. Valerie went
home with Albert. Pascal was covered in soot, his face half-wiped
clean, shirt sleeves rolled up, ash on his shoulders. On his head
he wore a dirty red bandanna. He poured them cups of cocoa and they
sat around the dining table, stunned with fatigue. Tristan
explained his duties, wetting down the lawn, in under three
sentences. He drank half his chocolate and put his head on the
table.

“
Some big corporation owns that
winery, right?” Annie asked Pascal. “Do they use imported
grapes?”

He raised his eyebrows. “There is a rumor that the
fire was set by other grape-growers,
les petits vignobles
,
who don’t like their practices.”

“
Like those rabble-rousers Albert
saw?”

Merle set down her cup. “Is that what you’ve been
doing up on the ladder and from the second floor window? Spying on
the vineyards?”

Pascal’s face flattened. Annie looked at her sister.
“I’m going to take a shower.” She went into the bathroom and shut
the door.

Merle couldn’t keep the outrage out of her voice. “So
all this was just an act? All this — ” Kindness? Affection?
Biarritz-ing? “You’re not really a roofer, are you?”

“
Yes. But — no.” He looked in his
cup.

“
You got Justine’s real name so
easily. You’re a cop.”

“
I wanted to tell you.”

“
Well, we aren’t that
close.”

He winced. “I am undercover. I can’t tell you what I
do. Even if I could I wouldn’t. It would put you in danger.”

“
So you are using me
and
protecting me?” She shook her head. “But what about the rest —
about — ” She looked down at her son. His eyes were closed. It was
all too trite. She wasn’t the helpless blond in this story. She was
just some fool, the widow on the rebound, an easy tumble for a man
with velvety eyes and a cute accent.

He said, “We can talk about it, later when we’re not
so tired.”

“
Why should we talk, Pascal? What is
it I don’t understand?”

He stood up. “When you feel like talking, we will
talk. But now, you are angry. And we have been up all night.” He
looked down at Tristan. “It is not a time for it.”

The house, and village, lay in silence all morning.
The rattle of a truck on the road up the hill woke Merle. She lay
on the bed next to Annie, numb. She had finished grieving. But
something was undone. Maybe she should just go home and figure out
the rest of her life.

She closed her eyes, fell back to sleep, and dreamed
about Pascal rubbing the duties out of her palm, as if remaking her
lifelines. It was very annoying. She woke up sweating. Today was
the day to get the cast removed. Albert had offered to go with her.
But Albert was the one who had found Pascal, so he knew Pascal was
a cop. He had used their friendship to get Pascal up on her
roof.

She went to the doctor’s office by herself. So there
had been a reason for her mistrust. Her gut was a powerful weapon.
But she also believed him good, hadn’t she? She refused to believe
intimacy meant nothing. But maybe for a man. What kind of man was
Pascal?

She tried to put it out of her mind, flipping through
ancient copies of Le Figaro and Elle Maison. What she wouldn’t give
for Better Homes and Gardens right now, or good old Good
House-keeping.

A woman came out of the back, holding a bandaged hand
and arm. Odile Langois’s hair was falling out of its pins, stuck to
her forehead and neck. Her sweater was off one shoulder, showing
her bra strap. She looked bewildered and tired, her clothes dirty
and stained with wine. “Odile?”

She startled. “
Oui?
”

“
Ca va? Votre main
?” Merle
pointed to her hand. Odile blinked, turned on her heel, and ran
out.

The doctor snipped off the cast with sharp
pincher-scissors and rubbed her skin with various potions. The arm
looked puckered and damp, almost moldy. The doctor told her to be
careful with it for a week or two. No handstands.

“
Did you just treat Odile Langois?”
He said yes. “Did she get burned in the fire last
night?”

“
Oo la la, many burns. Docteur
Angiers was up all night.”

“
Was she hurt badly?”

“
No, not Madame Langois. A cut.
Sixteen
points de suture
, how do you say — stitches. She cut
herself on a wine bottle. While packing them for
shipment.”

Merle flexed her hand as she walked home, dismayed
with the wrinkled skin and puny muscles, the tan line from the faux
beach. Château Gagillac had no bottles of their own. How had Odile
cut her hand? What were they up to?

She and Annie walked to a sidewalk cafe for lunch.
They ordered house white with coffee on the side. Their lunches
came, huge salads. Annie groaned, “I’ll fall asleep before this is
done.” As they finished Annie leaned close and said, “There’s an
old woman watching us. Over your left shoulder, on the
sidewalk.”

“
What’s she doing?”

“
Talking to a shopkeeper, that woman
at the grocery store. They are both looking now.”

“
At us?”

“
There’s nobody else out here. And
they’re pointing.” The rest of the cafe was deserted. “Okay, look
now, she’s about to go.”

The woman was plump with gray hair pulled back from
her lined face, wearing an ordinary black skirt and blue blouse
ensemble, low black shoes. “I might have seen her at the market.
She’s probably just related to the punks who flap their arms and
caw like crows whenever they see me.” Annie looked incredulous.
“Something about me they find ridiculous.”

“
Did you whoop their puny French
asses?”

“
I’m trying to set a good
example.”

That night the violence continued. Roving bands of
farmers tossed empty wine bottles at trucks as they passed on the
highway and dropped water-filled bottles from second-story windows
in town. Pascal came by just before dark as they were eating
dinner, to warn them to stay inside. The rumor was the farmers had
set the fire.

Annie pulled him inside and gave him a glass of wine,
Château Gagillac from the plastic jug. Tristan jumped up.

“
I better go tell Valerie and
Albert,” he said. “Unless you did already?”

Pascal watched the boy dash out the back. “I think he
has, what do you call it, a shine? For the mademoiselle. You have
it off,” he said, grabbing the jug and pouring Merle a glass. “Your
arm.”

She stretched out the pale limb. “Gorgeous, isn’t it.
All skinny and moldy.”

He was smiling at her when a crash of breaking glass
came from outside. They ran to the windows in time to see a group
of teenagers running away from a pile of green glass shards on the
neighbor’s steps. Pascal said, “Come, let’s close the shutters.”
Outside, they pushed the shutters of the front windows into place.
Pascal was last in, closing the door shutters and locking them with
a padlock from the inside.

“
And how will you get out, Pascal?”
Annie said, smiling. “Or maybe you could stay and protect us from
roving grape mobs. Just what are they after?”

“
A sort of peasant revolt. Probably
they are not linked to the fire. They are using the fire, and the
news coverage, to stir up things. They get into the paper, get the
ear of their representative. When some persons rise up against the
government, or corporations, the feelings that they are the little
man, the peasant, the oppressed, all boils out.”

“
Like the revolution?”

“
Exactement.
” As they latched
shutters upstairs he said, “A short jump from water in bottles to
the Molotov cocktail. Then, whoosh. Another fire.”

“
Who’s behind this?” Merle asked.
“Gerard Langois?”

“
And others. They want the
government to control imports. A little revolt is good for
business. The price for grapes is very low because the imports
flood the market. Many small vineyards like the Langois’s will go
out of business.” Shouts, footsteps, boots running on cobbles,
tinkling of broken glass punctuated the night. “It is a French
tradition, I’m afraid, to strike or make a riot to get what you
want from the government. The people do not like violence. They
will demand an end to it.”