Blackbird Fly (18 page)

Fernand walked around the latrine, tapping the walls
with his metal tape measure. “
Voila
!” He said one side wall,
left as you entered, was thicker. There was a false wall on the
inside. They could make the laundry wider by taking down the
interior wall.

“
Très bien
,” she said. His
face dropped. He didn’t do stonework, he said sadly.

Low clouds clung to the hilltops above the vineyards
when the man from the water department showed up, to everyone’s
surprise, with his shovel. Merle suspected the mayor’s hand in
this; he wanted her finished with her house and out of town — or
behind bars — as soon as possible. Was this an anti-American thing,
she wondered, or did he hate all foreigners? She watched as the
work began in earnest. With the plumber and his son and Tristan
there were four strong backs. They took turns with shovel and
pickaxe on the rocky earth and had made it through the gate and six
feet into the garden when the rain began to fall. Merle moved the
metal tub from the garden to the second floor to catch rain that
fell through the hole, and then used it with a dose of bleach to
give the armoire another scrubbing.

By mid-afternoon the rain was steady. Fernand and his
crew took refuge somewhere and would probably not be back. Merle
gave Tristan the sledgehammer she’d bought at the hardware store
and put him to work inside the pissoir.

“
Just prop the door open,” she said.
“If you hit the rocks enough to loosen the mortar you can pull them
out. And try not to hurt yourself.”

Tristan flexed his muscles and gave the wall a whack,
dislodging dust mostly. He grimaced. “This should be fun.”

Merle watched him swat the wall again with the
enthusiasm of Mighty Mouse. They had been getting along well, with
minimal carping. He even seemed to enjoy the hard work. She knew
the feeling. Hard work kept the mind occupied, relieved the stress
of grieving. She backed away, feeling the rain run down her neck.
It was welcome rain, warm and nurturing, and felt good on her face.
Then she remembered the roof, frowning at the hole and the pigeon
perched in it.

“
Madame Bennett?” She turned to see
Albert standing under an umbrella in the arch of the
gate.

“
Hello, Albert. Any word on that
roofer?”

“
I will call him again. Can you come
for some tea? I have looked at those letters you gave
me.”

After a check on Tristan she followed the old priest
through his garden. Settled into a corner of his kitchen, she used
the tea towel he offered to dry her face and hands. She’d hardly
had time to say more than ‘can I use your telephone’ to Albert for
the several days. “The rain is nice, isn’t it?”

He put the kettle on his stove. “Very necessary for
the grapes. I am going out to a vineyard tomorrow, would you care
to come? You get wine, very cheap.”

“
I’m so busy, Albert. But thank
you.” His face dropped, worry replacing his usual smile. Could he
be lonely? She had seen the gendarme pass by Albert’s house, eyes
dark. Maybe he had no friends here anymore. She hadn’t heard him
mention any relatives. “Sure, I’d love to go.” The smile returned
as he poured water into the teapot.

She dropped a lump of sugar in her tea. “I saw Sister
Evangeline. I think.”

“
Really? But she left town.
”

“
They think she did. Do you think
her gray hair was a wig? Anyway, she had brown hair and she gave me
this.” Merle pulled the key to the garden gate from inside her
shirt where she’d strung it on a chain. “The key to the gate. But
what she said was strange. She said ‘they’ would kill for
it.”

“
They?”

“
I assume whoever pushed Justine.
But I don’t understand why would anyone kill her.”

“
Do you think she slipped, or
perhaps killed herself?”

“
My watch was on her arm. There was
a deliberate attempt to incriminate me.” Merle frowned into her
tea. “Maybe that was all it was, but it seems a bit much to kill
somebody just to frame me.” Albert frowned, thinking. “I don’t
think Evangline was a nun.”

His kitchen had the spare feel of a monastery, cozy
and dry while raindrops nattered on the windowpanes. “I had my
doubts. I’ve known a good number of sisters in my lifetime. Shall I
read the letters?” He pulled them from a shelf by the table,
smoothing the first letter with his gnarled hand. “The writing is
faint at times.”

‘
Cher Marie-Emilie. It has been a
long time since I have seen you but I think of you every day. Why
don’t you answer my letters? Here is my address again. 743 Place de
la Bastille, Segala. My situation is not good. I work for a family
but they have no money. I only have the bread and a little cheese
in the evening. Can you help? You said you would help but now I
hear nothing. I am alone and sometimes in the night I cry. I cry
for all of us.’

“
There is more but I can’t read it.
But it is signed, Dominique.”

Merle sat back in the chair. “I saw that. I wonder,
who was she?”

“
Or he. Could be a man. And this
Marie-Emilie?”

“
My husband’s mother. She lived in
the house. Harry — my husband — was born there. But she was dead by
the time these letters were sent.”

“
It appears this Dominique was
someone she knew. Have you looked in the old records at the
parish?”

If she had time. How many days would she have here
before they gave her passport back? The inspector hadn’t been by to
make sure she was still in town. Even the gendarme had grown bored,
making a couple cursory passes of the house each day. “Do you think
she would be listed there?”

“
Perhaps. If we knew her full name.
Her address here is Segala. That is many kilometers away.
”

“
Please, continue.”

“‘
Cher Marie-Emilie. The days go by
so slowly without word from you. How is the boy? I fear when you do
not write. Have I offended you? The weather is fine for so close to
the new year. The hired man and I will be alone when the family
visits to the south. I do not like him. At night sometimes I think
of Malcouziac and your kindness and I cry. I hear nothing from
Malcouziac. I wonder if you do and what they say about me. I no
longer care but my heart remains there and always will.
Dominique.’”

“
So she must be from
here.”

“
It appears. This is the final one.
‘Cher Marie-Emilie. I will not bother you again with my letters.
The family has turned us out. There is no money, no food, no roof
over our heads. A new owner has come to the
mas
— the
farmhouse — and we are all dismissed. If you have a heart send
francs to
la poste
in Malcouziac.’”

“
A sad story.”

“
These happened long
ago?”

“
In the early fifties. Were things
bad here then?”

“
The war hit this area very hard. It
took much time to recover, to get the farms going, to rebuild.
There were few men here to work.”

Merle finished her tea and shook her head at more.
“Albert, do you think the inspector will find out who killed
Justine?”

He shrugged. “He is a good man, I think. Honest.”

“
But — ?”

“
He does not know these people and
they are not, well, open with him.”

“
Do you hear any talk about the
murder?”

“
Very little. They say it is bad for
tourist monies.”

“
I bet they wish I would go
home.”

Albert blinked. “Oh, no.”

“
You’re too kind, Albert.” No, they
wished the whole thing — crazy prostitute, greedy American, ugly
murder — vanished. Then they — whoever
they
were — could get
into the house, according to Evangeline. And do what? Steal pears
from the tree? There was nothing there but dry rot and cockroaches.
Even the grim, dirt-floored cellar revealed only sodden carpet,
spider webs, and moldy kegs.

The telephone rang in the other room. Albert
returned, smiling. “Good news. We find a roofer.”

Chapter 20

The next morning, while his mother and Albert went
out to a winery, Tristan broke rocks. He stepped inside the
outhouse, sweat dripping down his forehead. Luc and Fernand were
attacking the ground like wild men, almost to the house with the
trench. Swinging the sledgehammer would probably help build up his
right arm which had been sore from fencing.

It was strange, fencing, an antique sport, useless
but fun. Sometimes you felt a little gay with one hand behind your
back — like any minute you’d be pulling on a codpiece and puff
pants — but a few swishes of the foil made you forget about it. It
was hard work. Albert had given him an old fencing foil. After this
chain-gang project his mother had given him he had plans to make a
cardboard opponent to hang on the back wall. He was going to call
him Billy.

The wall was coming down, rock by miserable rock. A
space about a foot high across the top had been liberated. He took
a break to put his head under the tank. The rain from yesterday had
left the yard steamy. Stripping off his t-shirt he wiped his chest
and face. Across the garden the roses were pink and red, perfect
buds opening toward the sun. He couldn’t remember working in the
yard like this, ever. He didn’t hate it either. Which was really
weird. Maybe he’d be a carpenter or a builder when he grew up. He
liked working with his hands. He’d always thought he’d be like his
dad, a wheeler-dealer, a Wall Street suit. But maybe not.

He was chewing on some bread when the refrigerator
and the electric range arrived. The stove was basic, and the fridge
was a quarter size of theirs at home. Now they could have cold
drinks, at home. There was a concept. He plugged the refrigerator
into the new outlet the electrician had installed and lo, and
behold — zilch. No electricity. Not hooked up yet.

He was closing the door after the delivery man when
he saw another man on the street, looking up at the house. He held
out his hand. “
Bonjour.
You are the man of the house?”

“
You speak English.”

“
Oh, yeah.” The guy was kind of
cool. He had a crooked smile and long, curly hair. He was taller
than his dad, almost as tall as Tristan, but had bigger muscles
under his black t-shirt. “I hitchhiked around the U.S. Six months
and voila!” He snapped his fingers.

The guy was staring at the front of the house. “Are
you here to do something?”

“
Sorry. I am Pascal d’Onson. I heard
you need a roofer.”

“
Oh, yeah. We have an attic full of
flying crappers.” Tristan ran through the garden to Albert’s to
borrow the ladder. He watched Pascal climb up to the high roof and
examine the hole. The roof was too wet so he climbed down
again.

“
First, the pigeons. We must send
them bye-bye. Otherwise, you have a stink like no tomorrow.” Pascal
said he would be back the next day with a smoke bomb. “You have a
very old roof. Perhaps some water damage inside?”

They tramped upstairs, leaving their muddy shoes at
the door. Pascal discussed the hole in the ceiling for a long time,
staring at the bucket of sudsy water his mother had left and the
limp sheet of leaky plastic she had nailed over the hole to keep
the birds out of the house. This talking was the French way. No
quick decisions. Much talk must take place first, a few cigarettes,
maybe a glass of wine or a coffee. Pascal jawed about joists,
plaster, tiles, a possible skylight, a possible dormer window.

“
A big job, will take time,” Pascal
said as he left. “But we will get it licked. See you in the
morning.”

In the garden the heat rose from the damp earth. The
man from the water department smoked a cigarette under the acacia
tree. He had decided to watch today, it seemed. The plumber and his
son were throwing mud like demons. Fernand’s wife was complaining
about his dirty clothes so they were determined to be done soon.
Luc made a scary face describing his mother’s wrath. He was a short
like his father, but young and strong, and his enthusiastic digging
encouraged Tristan to keep swinging the sledgehammer.

An hour later he put down the hammer and sat on the
plywood covering the
pissoir’
s hole. His arms burned with
fatigue and his back had a cramp. He stepped carefully over the
piles of mud and found the flashlight in the kitchen. He had peered
over the false wall several times, once when he sent a rock flying
over the top, but it was too dark and full of dust to see anything.
Curiosity was a good excuse for a break.

“
Terminé
, Tristan?” Fernand
said, his muddy hands on his hips. “You are finish?”

“
Just want to see what was so secret
behind the wall. Maybe a million bucks.” He twirled the big
flashlight as Luc stepped out of the trench, handing his father the
shovel. “Want a look?” Tristan asked.

Luc followed him inside the cramped space. Tristan
mimed for him to stand on the plywood toilet top and lean over the
now five foot high wall. Luc stepped up and flipped on the
flashlight.

“
Is it pirate booty? Gold coins?”
Tristan crossed his arms and grinned. Luc stood still, pointing the
light down into the dust. He stepped slowly down from the wood,
solemn as he handed Tristan the flashlight.
“Vous vous
regardez,”
he whispered.

“
All right. I’ll look for myself.”
Tristan hopped up on the toilet and draped his long arms over the
wall. Outside Luc was calling to his father. Fernand and the water
department man came to the door.