Blackbird Fly (12 page)

Inside the rooms were small and tidy as befitting a
priest, full of books and little pretense, the old paint faded and
gray. Before she sat down she told him about Arnaud’s early phone
call. Albert promised to talk to the gendarme with her then
insisted she sit in the garden for a moment first for coffee and
something called
quatre quart
, a pound cake.

He said he had rarely seen Justine LaBelle, but with
her orange hair and odd dress she was easy to spot. They sat in the
morning sun in his small back garden, dominated by a large plum
tree and a tomato patch.

“
Odd dress?”

He grimaced. “I should not say.”

“
She dresses differently than other
women? How?”

“
Well, like a younger
woman.”

Scantily, she guessed. Was she hawking her wares on
the streets of Malcouziac? That might make her unpopular. “What do
you do here, then, Albert? For fun.”

“
I have my plums,” he said, bright
eyes looking for the developing fruit. “I will make the
eau de
vie
from them. And the fencing.”

“
Like the musketeers?”

He laughed. “Nothing so fancy. No feather in the big
hat! I teach some local boys, a few girls but mostly boys. At one
time I was the fencing, how do you say — teacher?”

“
Coach?”

“
Yes, fencing coach at a boys’
school in the Savoie. It is good skill, very ancient. It teaches
quickness in mind and body, to be light on your feet.”

Merle felt the weight of her legs. Ah, to be light of
foot. The bed at her hotel was calling. But this third cup of
coffee was keeping her going. She only had four days to get this
thing done. She thought about what Annie would say: why not have a
real vacation? She wanted to be in Paris with Tristan and Stasia.
Not mucking around here with weird old women. She sighed.

“
We should go see if we can catch
the gendarme,” she said, wiping her mouth with the tiny embroidered
napkin.

“
But what about Sister
Evangeline?”

“
First, the gendarme.”

The village of Malcouziac, with its thick defensive
walls and narrow streets, was like a miniature New York, an island
barely connected to the outside world where walking was the
preferred mode of transportation. There was nowhere to park a car.
Either you had a garage or you parked outside the city walls. She
liked that. Everything you needed was a seven-minute walk away.

At one of the arched gates into the city a small bus
was loading a line of tourists. Albert explained. “They go to the
shrine. Many tourists, and pilgrims, come for miles.”

“
Where is it?”

Albert turned back in the direction they’d come. He
pointed to a rocky cliff across the narrow valley to the east.
“There, on top of the rocks. See the chapel?”

The domed rooftop stuck out from the forest
surrounding it. “How do they get up there?”

“
The road goes in that direction.”
He pointed north. “Then back again, like a snake. But you can walk
up the steps. You can see just the top of them.”

A flight of steps was carved directly into the stone
face of the cliff. Bushes and the tops of trees obscured their
lower reaches at least a hundred feet below.

“
They look dangerous. And tiring,”
she said.

“
Oh, yes. Take the bus,” he
laughed.

“
What is the shrine called? I’ll
look it up in my guidebook.”

“
The Shrine of Lucrezia. Not a saint
but revered by the faithful. A beautiful little chapel there.” He
stopped in front of the building where the mayor officiated. “Here
we are. Around the back.”

The office of the gendarme was small and gray, a
post-war addition to the traditional stone
hotel de ville
in
front. Utilitarian would be the kind term. She had hopes that meant
the gendarme would be a logical, literal man who would see the
justice of her claim.

A gray counter ran across the room, with two desks
behind it. At one desk sat a woman, plump-faced with dyed blond
hair. She stood as they entered but stayed behind her desk.

“
Bonjour,
Madame Cluzet,”
Albert said, pulling off his beret politely. He spoke rapidly. She
replied in clipped tones.

“
The gendarme is away, having his
coffee,” Albert explained.

“
Let’s go see him there then,” Merle
proposed. Albert held up a hand as the clerk spoke again. “She will
call him to return. That is her job.”

They sat on the hard chairs beside the counter.
Albert was quiet, and with the woman obviously listening at her
desk, Merle sat silently too. The clock ticked. Forty-five minutes
later, the gendarme, who from his expression had forgotten about
them completely, stepped in the door.

Hatless, he wore the dark blue uniform well with his
broad chest. He was younger than she expected, around thirty, tall
with thick light brown hair parted carefully on one side, olive
skin, and an air of authority that she’d seen on policeman before.
Before they were introduced she disliked him. Be nice, she told
herself as she shook his hand.

His name was Jean-Pierre Redier, but Albert called
him
Monsieur le Gendarme
. Redier stepped around the counter
and leaned on his elbows, waiting for their pitch. Albert
translated.

“
These papers show I have full claim
to the property. Here is the original registry from 1949, and the
transfer upon death of his parents. Here is the new transfer
registry, the certificate of inheritance tax paid. . ..” She
pointed out each document that proved her claim. “The woman living
in the house has no right to live there. However, I wish to be
fair. I do not want to make anyone homeless. So I would like to
speak to you, or whoever is the social welfare authority here,
about finding a residence for Madame LaBelle.”

The gendarme listened then shot a look at Madame
Cluzet, his lip curled in a half-sneer.

“
You will buy a house for Madame
LaBelle, he asks,” Albert said.

“
No.
Non
,” she said to
Redier. “I want to help find her a place to live. There must be
some place for the elderly who have no homes.”

“
Not here, he says.”

“
How about in a larger city,
Bergerac or Toulouse or Bordeaux?”

“
You would send her away to
Toulouse, he says.” Albert frowned at her. “There is the general
perception that Toulouse — and Bordeaux — are, um, full of the
vices.”

“
Tell him I just want her to have a
safe old age somewhere. Besides my house.”

“
This is where she comes from, he
says.”

What the hell did that have to do with anything? She
could see why French lawyers got angry. Everything went in circles.
“What about my house?”

“
He says, there is another claim on
the property, from Madame LaBelle. You can sue her, then the courts
will decide who is right.”

“
I don’t want to sue her. I want
Monsieur le Gendarme
to do his duty. Protect my property
rights.”

“
He says you are not a citizen of
the Republic so you have no rights here.”

In dizzying circles, the gendarme wore her down with
his glib, nonsensical answers to every parry she made. He could
have been a lawyer, she thought, for all his dissembling. He never
broke a sweat. Supreme confidence could be very aggravating,
especially from someone in uniform. She felt like taking Harry’s
old advice and throttling him while he wasn’t expecting it.

She gathered up her papers, stuffed them into the
envelope and backpack, and stepped away from the counter before she
lost her temper.

“
Merci beaucoup
, Monsieur
Redier. We will meet again.” He gave her a little bow as they
turned away. “Isn’t there someone else here, like a welfare
officer, who can help Madame LaBelle?” Merle asked outside, walking
so fast through the square that Albert had to jump a little to keep
up. “Is there a state office here?”

“
Just the
hotel de ville
.
Everything goes through the mayor.”

“
How convenient.”

“
You will come to see Sister
Evangeline now?” Albert asked, taking her arm at the corner to halt
her. “
Pardon, Madame
.” He was out of breath and red in the
face.

“
I’m sorry, Albert. Are you all
right?” He was struggling with his breath but nodding. “I’ll get
you some water.”

At the grocery she bought him a bottle of water and
made him sit in the shade while they both cooled off. “Are you all
right?” she asked him again.

“
Yes. Thank you for the
water.”

“
Thank you for the translating. What
a jerk that policeman is.”

Albert smiled weakly. “But he is the gendarme. You
must respect that.”

“
I know. I was just angry with the
way he never gave me a straight answer. Or the answer I wanted to
hear.”

“
I do not think he will help
you.”

Stymied by authority, abandoned by her lawyer: she
had to get into that house, make nice with the squatter, and figure
out a suitable housing arrangement for her. She’d hoped to get the
house cleaned out, at least, and workmen hired to repair the roof,
to secure it from the elements. Her lists so dutifully made before
she came lay unused.

Her only hope was Sister Evangeline.

“
It is her custom to leave between
noon and one in the afternoon,” Albert said as he stepped up the
tall ladder into the arms of his plum tree. They sat in his garden
again, this time with his gate to the alley propped open with a
large rock. Opposite was the gate to the Strachie house where, with
luck, they would intercept Sister Evangeline.

Merle had gone back to the hotel after the meeting
with the gendarme, to take a quick shower and gather some lunch
items for the vigil. On the dusty iron table she’d laid out grapes
of two colors, red and green, cheese of two kinds: known and
unknown, and a sliced baguette. One thing she could get used to,
the food of France.

“
I will just check from up here,”
Albert called from the plum tree.

“
Be careful,” Merle said, watching
him disappear into the leaves. She steadied the ladder. “What do
you see?”

“
Plums,” he whispered back. “Wait,
someone left the back door. I think the Sister. Wearing a hat, it’s
hard to tell. I wouldn’t know Madame LaBelle without her orange
hair.”

Her hair must be an amazing color for everyone to
keep commenting on it. “Anything now?”

“
Can’t tell.”

With a creak the gate to the Strachie garden opened
and quickly closed again behind a short woman wearing gray cotton
pants, hiking boots, and small-brimmed sun hat. She had a walking
stick and a small backpack as if she was ready for a hike. Gray
hair, not orange. Merle jumped up. “
Madame! Soeur
Evangeline!”

The woman paused, looking over her shoulder.
“
Oui?
”

Albert was halfway down the ladder. She asked the
sister to wait. But she had taken a few more steps toward the
street. “
Pére Albert, il est ici
!” As she hoped the
invocation of Father Albert’s name made her stop.

He appeared with a leaf in his hair, smiling. “Ah,
Soeur
Evangeline.” He spoke to her quickly, asking for a
moment to chat in his garden. He pleaded, it was very important.
Five minutes was all she had, she declared.

Despite the gray hair she was a fit woman, energetic
with those well-used hiking boots. Her face was round under the
hat, with a sunburned nose and large teeth. She wore no makeup and
her hair was cut like a young boy’s, all one length mid-ear. Her
chambray shirt was clean but frayed, and the same could be said for
her hands and nails.

Albert sat opposite Evangeline in the shade and
offered her food which she declined. He spoke to her with a slight
irritation for that. She replied with the same tone.

“
She says Madame LaBelle has no
intention of moving out of the house. That it is legally her home
from an inheritance.”

“
An inheritance? Who gave it to
her?”

More words flew. “She says a relative years ago,
Marie-Emilie Chevalier, who was her mother.
C’est vrai,
Madame
?” he asked the nun again.

Sister Evangeline shot a look at Merle and mumbled
more French.

“
Not her true birth mother, she
admits. At first the sister thought it was a blood relation. But
Madame LaBelle says she was her spiritual mother, her godmother as
you say.”

“
Does she have proof of any of
this?”

“
A letter from Madame Chevalier that
proves their strong feeling, their close relationship.”

Letters
. “Her name was Strachie. Marie-Emilie
was married to my husband’s father. Can we see this letter?”

The sister disappeared back into her garden and
returned, giving Albert strict instructions before she would hand
over the letter.

“
She says she has the original in a
safe place.” With that the sister turned on her heel, swinging her
walking stick.

“
Just a second, Albert.” Merle
trotted to the street and looked in the direction the nun had gone.
She was a block away, walking purposefully, swinging her stick and
taking un-elderly strides. At the far corner she turned right and
went through the city gate into the countryside. Merle returned to
the garden where Albert was reading the letter.