Authors: Michelle Wan
Mara seated herself on one of the velvet settees, Jeanne on the other, drawing her shawl about her with care, smoothing its shiny nap with the palm of her hand. Mara studied her with interest. The old woman’s clothing was like the room, a gathering of oddments from better times, the dress of fine but much-worn gray silk jersey, the scuffed satin pumps dating from another era and too big now for the bony feet. The grayish-yellow hair was swept up at the sides and held haphazardly in place by two tortoise-shell combs, giving the woman’s head a flyaway look. The shawl struck a curious note. Mara realized with a mild sense of shock that it was in fact one of those souvenir tablecloths that one bought at seaside resorts; the word “Biarritz” was emblazoned down one side.
Jeanne was also staring at her, not just curiously but with a hungry interest that made Mara uncomfortable.
A slight, wondering crease crumpled the old
woman’s brow. “You are so much—” she began eagerly and then broke off.
So much what?
Mara wondered, but at that point the husband returned with a small tray bearing glasses and a bottle of Martini & Rossi. He seemed momentarily surprised to see his wife in the room, but merely said as he handed Mara her drink, “Ah, my dear, here is Madame Dunn, who has come to see us.” He served his wife and then himself before sitting down beside Mara.
He raised his glass.
“A votre santé, madame.”
“A la vôtre aussi,”
Mara toasted them both in return.
“How nice to have a visitor.” Jeanne de Sauvignac favored her with a crooked smile of naive and vacant sweetness. “We often used to have visitors in the afternoon. For tea, you know. I always liked to take afternoon tea, in the English manner, is that not so, Henri?”
“Of course, my dear,” murmured her husband. He delved in his pocket and drew out a thin black marocain case, snapping it open with a thumbnail. “Do you smoke, madame?” When Mara declined, he said, “I hope you will permit?” and applied himself to removing a cigarette, striking a match, lighting up, and placing the burnt matchstick in a plastic Cinzano ashtray, each movement carried out with fastidious care. His smoking fascinated her: both greedy and precise, as if he hungered for the taste and smell of the tobacco but apportioned each drag
sparingly. With every inhalation, he tapped the ash carefully into the ashtray.
They were clearly waiting for her to begin. For the moment, Mara really had no idea how to go about it. Gaston had not prepared her for such penurious eccentricity. In the end, de Sauvignac saved her the trouble.
Clearing his throat, he said, “You expressed an interest in the
pigeonnier
, I believe?”
“Yes, of course.” It was her ostensible reason for coming.
“Unfortunately, I don’t know how much I can tell you.” He tapped the cigarette. “It was built sometime after this house, probably in the late 1600s, and at one time stood on land that belonged to my family.” Momentarily, his voice took on a ring of pride. “In times past, the Seigneurie of Les Colombes extended some ten leagues east to west, farther than a man could walk in a day. In fact, until the last century, Les Colombes was one of the most important holdings in the region. Of course, things are now—how should I put it—much reduced.”
“I see.” She did not know what else to say.
“However, to return to the
pigeonnier.
But perhaps you are not aware of the historical importance of pigeons in France?” Once more he sucked deeply on the cigarette. Twin trails of smoke streamed thinly from his nostrils. “For centuries they were valued for meat, eggs, and fertilizer, especially here in our southwest, where we have little livestock. In my
grandfather’s, even in my father’s day, pigeon dung was so precious that it was given as dowries and passed down from generation to generation.
“It’s not surprising, therefore”—a wave of the hand—“that there are thousands of such structures scattered throughout the Dordogne. However, ours is one of the largest.” Again the note of pride. He craned around to frown at the bookshelves. “I believe somewhere there is an architectural drawing showing it in cross section so that you can see the niches set into the interior wall for the birds to nest. At one time we may have had over one thousand nesting pairs. I remember there was a tall, pivoting ladder in the middle for the keeper to climb up. In my father’s time, however, the bottom nests were blocked off to reduce the number of birds. Pigeons”—he gave a sardonic smile—“eat a lot of grain.”
He paused reflectively. “It no longer belongs to us, of course. The land was sold a long time ago, the
pigeonnier
with it.” His gaze traveled to the windows and beyond. “You know, I haven’t set eyes on that dovecote in years. I didn’t even recognize it when Gaston showed us the picture.” His eyes returned to Mara. “Is this sufficient information? I’m really not sure how much more I can tell you.”
“Yes. At least where the
pigeonnier
is concerned.” Mara hesitated, then plunged. “Monsieur de Sauvignac, I haven’t been exactly open with you. It’s not so much the
pigeonnier
that I want to talk to you about, although that does come into it. I expect
Gaston has already told you something about me …” She drew breath. De Sauvignac waited for her to go on.
“My real reason for being here, as you’ve probably already guessed, is—I’ve come for my sister.” She was putting it awkwardly, yet she
was
there for Bedie, because of her and on her behalf.
If Henri regarded her impassively, the effect on his wife was electrical. The smile slipped completely from her face. Jeanne gaped at Mara in acute alarm, bordering on panic, as if Mara were a madwoman accusing them of body snatching. “But she’s not here!” she cried, appalled.
“I mean,” Mara corrected, feeling her cheeks go hot, “it’s about my sister that I’ve come.”
Quickly, to cover her gaffe, she gave them her version of Bedie’s disappearance and the link, through the photograph, with the dovecote. Throughout the telling, the deepening crease in Madame’s brow hung like a question mark in the air. When Mara finished, wife and husband were silent for a long moment.
De Sauvignac ground out his cigarette. “Terrible for you, of course, but I don’t quite see how we can help you.”
Mara explained. “I’d like to approach the people who own the farm below you, where the
pigeonnier
stands. The woman known as la Binette and her son, Vrac. I’d be extremely grateful if you could assist me in this regard.”
He frowned. “La Binette and Vrac?”
“I understood from Gaston that you have some influence with them.”
“Influence?” De Sauvignac gave a dry laugh, like a cough. “Only in the sense that we are, how should I put it, long acquaintances. I’m afraid those two keep very much to themselves. They don’t like strangers, and one has to respect their privacy.”
“Could you at least tell me something about them?”
He considered this, then shrugged. “What is it you want to know?”
“Well, how long have they been here? What kind of people are they?”
“They’re from these parts, of course. La Binette’s father, old Rocher, was a day laborer. Took on odd jobs round about—woodcutting, harvesting. La Binette and her mother did the rough washing for the house. When I was a lad Madame Rocher and little Binette used to wheel their wooden cart up here once a week to collect the dirty things, which they’d take to the stream down below because the communal
lavoir
in Malpech was too far away. La Binette’s boy, Armand—the one they call Vrac—grew up simple.”
Mara found it curious that he referred to the creature she had seen on the bicycle as a boy.
“I don’t like nicknames, do you?” Jeanne de Sauvignac interjected suddenly, pulling the tablecloth tightly around her. “They can be so cruel. Poor Binette had a perfectly proper name once. I can’t
remember it. Can you, Henri? Oh yes, that’s right, Marie-Claire. Such a pretty name. And to call her a thing like that. All because she had that dreadful
tache
on her face. She was born with it, madame, a purple birthmark over one eye. When she was a girl, she always used to try to hide it with her hand, as if she were shading her eyes from the sun.”
The old woman leaned forward, addressing Mara with gentle indignation. “Do you know what
binette
means, madame? Of course, most people nowadays think it merely means a hoe, the thing you use in the garden. But in the old days, it meant “ugly mug,” and also one of those big old-fashioned wigs, because of course poor Marie-Claire lost all her hair after she had her baby and had to wear that ugly old horsehair thing. I remember well when Vrac was born. Two days she was in labor. When her baby came out his head was badly deformed, and he never was right as a result, poor thing. It affected his brain. Everything shook loose. That’s why they called him Vrac.”
“I’ve seen him,” Mara ventured. “Frankly, he looks quite terrifying.”
“Oh,” the wife said softly, “you mustn’t be put off by appearances. He’s perfectly harmless, one of God’s creatures. If you tell him to go away, shoo, like that”—she waved her hand as if she were scattering chickens—“he just fades into the trees. He never bothers anyone.”
“Nevertheless,” Mara persisted, “Gaston mentioned … certain rumors.”
“Rumors?” The couple glanced quickly at each other.
“Odd behavior. I’m sorry to ask this, but I have to know. Would he have—has there ever been any history of incidents with Vrac?”
Henri, reaching for another cigarette, paused. “Incidents? I’m not sure I understand what you intend, madame.”
“Violence, attacks on people, that kind of thing.”
“Ah.” Her host was silent for some time, studying her speculatively. Finally, he asked simply, “Are you suggesting that Vrac had something to do with your sister’s disappearance?”
Mara chose her words with care. “The photo shows that Bedie was on their land. It may not be that he was involved, but he might have seen her, or else he or his mother might know something that can help me.”
“Madame …” De Sauvignac’s voice was controlled. He replaced the cigarette unlit, snapping the marocain case shut. Mara noted that his hands trembled slightly. “This affair of your sister happened many years ago. You must comprehend that Vrac can’t remember things from one month to the next. I doubt he would be able to tell you anything. In any case, as my wife said, he’s quite harmless, but simple, you see. It would be … entirely inappropriate for you to question him.”
“Monsieur de Sauvignac,” Mara appealed to him, “having come this far, I’m afraid I can’t just leave it.
The
pigeonnier
is the first concrete lead I’ve had in nineteen years.”
“Indeed. All the same, I must ask you to avoid upsetting him.” His tone grew emphatic. “When all is said and done, Vrac is one of us. I would feel required to intervene if I thought he or his mother was being harassed.”
“I don’t want to harass anyone,” Mara insisted, “but you must understand I have to find out the truth. You see, I have reason to believe my sister came to harm on la Binette’s farm.”
“You have proof of this?” Henri inquired sharply.
“No,” she admitted. “Only the photo of the
pigeonnier.”
He regarded her stonily.
“I don’t want to involve the police.” It was Mara’s only trump, a weak one. “But if I have no other choice …”
A dark stain spread slowly over de Sauvignac’s face. He spoke with cold dignity. “You must do as you see fit, madame. However, I assure you that neither you nor the police will find anything of interest in these parts.” He rose stiffly. “Now, I fear my wife is growing tired. You must excuse us if we bid you good-day.”
She had no choice but to rise, too, and follow him out. As she passed from the room, Jeanne’s voice wavered after her uncertainly: “Au revoir, madame. Do come again. For tea next time.”
The massive front door closed behind her with
heavy finality. Bleakly, Mara descended the stone steps. Well, the de Sauvignacs had received her. She’d asked her questions, and they had told her nothing. She knew the house would not be open to her again. She crossed the forecourt dejectedly, making for her car. Just before she reached it, a tall figure came striding around the corner of the house. She had to swerve to avoid a collision.
“You!” Mara exclaimed.
The man stopped short with a look of startled recognition. “Ah, of course. Bonjour, madame. We meet again. I hope in calmer circumstances?” He peered doubtfully down at her and extended a large sunburned hand. “Alain de Sauvignac.”
“Oh,” she said, taking in the significance of his name. “Mara Dunn.”
They shook hands, he holding hers fractionally longer than Mara thought necessary. He had his father’s handsome face, only more square-cut and deeply weathered. His sandy-colored hair was shot through with gray. A curious light came into his dark-blue eyes. “If I may ask, how is it that you’re here? When last we met you were the frightened rabbit in the woods.” It might have been teasingly said, but his look was serious.
“I came …” She paused, uncertainly.
“Of course!” he declared, remembering. “To see my parents. Papa said something about a visitor.”
She asked a question of her own. “Then you live here?”
“Not at all. I work abroad. I’m only back for the moment, visiting the old ones.”
Mara made up her mind swiftly. “Monsieur de Sauvignac, I know it’s awfully forward of me, but I wonder if I could impose on you…?”
“At your service,” he smiled gallantly. “What can I do?”
“It’s rather complicated. You see, I—I would very much appreciate the chance to talk to you. It would mean a lot to me. But I’m afraid it would have to be in confidence.”
“In confidence?” He frowned. “What about?”
She shook her head, dug in her bag and gave him her card. “Not here. This is my number. Can you call me? This evening, if possible? And please, will you say nothing of this to anyone?”
He looked perplexed. “Is it so important? But why the mystery?”
She had no time for more. The massive front door was swinging open.
“Until tonight, then,” she said and hurried to her car.