Daughters of Babylon (20 page)

The woman with alluring eyes and a pink flower in her hair crossed the tasting lounge of
La Croix de Cinq Diamants
winery to one of a dozen high round tables scattered across the room. They were the kind of tables one saw in French cafés, made of distressed wood with a circular ledge to prop your feet. Toinelle’s work station, as CEO and owner, was set apart from the other tables with a curving wrought iron half wall, filigreed with the vineyard’s logo, a cross made of four diamonds, surrounding a diamond in the center, meeting at the points.

The room itself was underground, an extension of stone catacombs, brightened with track lights and skylights and niches with stained glass set high into the arched ceiling. There were no right angles and no straight walls. Signs above wooden doors informed in half a dozen languages:
Cellars this way. Steep stairs. Watch your head, please.

“Thank you for waiting, Mrs. Robitaille.” Toinelle typed swiftly while she spoke into a hands-free headset. “Yes, we can give you twelve cases of the Estate Corbières, it is the same red that you and your husband enjoyed most at last year’s tasting … 2008 …
vraiment?
You must be so proud. Now, for your complimentary four, we have a blanquette, a light sparkling with a mint finish. Or you might enjoy our Minervois, a honey-tinted white…

The logo appeared everywhere on the vineyard premises, including the side of Jean-Luc’s shuttle van. On the bottles, it was a work of art. On a label of pastel teal, the diamond shapes were etched in gold, and each of the sixteen points contained a pearl, all black except the four outermost that were a shimmering opalescent white.

Toinelle finished her call and rejoined Silvie. “Sorry to have kept you waiting. The order is going out to Quebec City. The Robitailles have been ordering our wine for forty years. You are from Canada, are you not?”

“Yes, from Ontario, the province next door.”

“And fluent in French,
c’est magnifique
.”

“As you are in English.”

Toinelle gestured toward the bottle Silvina had been examining. “Would you like to taste the Gaillac? The grape variety is over a thousand years old.”

“On another day, I’d love to. I’m meeting with a priest in Cerabornes in an hour. I have to say, though, I can’t get enough of your winery’s logo, especially the labels. Whoever designed it was genius.”

“Thank you, we are quite proud of it. The cross of five diamonds is an ancient symbol that may even go back thousands of years.”

“A symbol of what?”

“That depends on who you ask. The geometric shape, open red diamonds on a white field, was used on banners during the Crusades. That’s what you’ll see on our shuttle vans, packing boxes, and so on. But the pearls, now they are special. They honour the restoration of
Reine du Ciel
by our most beloved native daughter, Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine.”

A breeze swept across Silvie’s back, almost with a humming sound, like the air from a swarm of bees.

“Our vineyard,” Toinelle continued, “is the oldest in Languedoc. It has been a known producer since the time of Christ. Our town is named for James the Apostle, who, according to Pyrenees lore, sat in Paradise beside Our Lord and mapped out portions of the Way to Compostela where the greatest likelihood of good fortune and miracles might occur. These catacombs were a favourite rest stop for pilgrims. You must visit our museum one day. There are wonderful displays of medieval daggers and items from the priory.” Toinelle checked Call Display on her handheld. “Give me thirty seconds?”

“Of course,” Silvina said. She thought about dropping in at the nearby Internet café and emailing Dr. Shirazi. He’d promised to be in touch once he made it safely to Tel-Hemat, but it had only been a week. He was probably still settling in. If she didn’t have easy access to satellite communication in the south of France, how much worse would it be in the Iraqi desert?

Toinelle turned off her phone and removed the earpiece. “So, would you like to see your rental car? We have it ready for you.”

“I’d love to.” She’d made the decision after several harrowing deliveries with Jean-Luc that her own set of wheels, four not two, would make life easier.

They climbed the stairs to a sunny garden that marked the main entrance of
La Croix de
Cinq Diamants
. With St. Jacques at a lower elevation than Viv’s house, the shrubs were in full flower. There were crocuses in lavender and deep purple and variegated tulips that looked hand-painted. They followed a path of crushed red tile to the parking area, where a flatbed push cart waited near Jean-Luc’s van to unload twenty-seven hat boxes filled with props for the St. Jacques Amateur Theatre Company.

She had noticed the low-slung, burnished yellow sports car in the parking lot when she and Jean-Luc arrived—it was hard to miss—but did not understand why Toinelle had stopped beside it and was smiling at her.

“What do you think?” She jingled a set of keys. “I’m told she can reach 0-60 in under 3.7 seconds with a top speed of 202 mph. Not that you’d want to try it on these roads.”

“Um…this is a Lexus, Toinelle.”

“Yes, an LFA, crystal gold, specialized colour—lovely, isn’t it?”

“But I ordered a four-door Renault Clio.” She peered through the tinted passenger side window at the leather upholstery and dashboard that looked like something from a Marvel comic. “There’s not much space for…well, anything.”

“I know, and I do apologize. If trunk space is an issue, we’ll replace it as soon as we can. But we had a lovely elderly couple in our guest house whose rental from Toulouse broke down, and they needed to drive to Andorra for their daughter’s wedding. I gave them the Clio. This is all we have left. My brother Stephane bought this for his girlfriend in Dubai, and they’ve since broken up. He didn’t think she deserved to keep it. Of course, I’m not charging you anything beyond our agreed rates.”

“But this car is worth a fortune, the insurance alone…” Silvina earned a healthy salary at TPA, but all the cars she’d ever owned were mid-price and unsensational. “I’ve never driven anything so…low to the ground. My boss’s Jaguar is a hearse compared to this.”

“Your insurance is up-to-date, you gave us a credit card number, there’s nothing to worry about. Like I said, there’ll be no change to the rental rates.”

“But, Toinelle, I don’t understand why you would do something so exorbitant for a stranger.”

“Stephane and I have our reasons.”

“What?”

“We are both alumnae of Tri-Partite Academy. When you called the Business Centre and said you were a friend of Viv’s, I Googled you—we are all spies to one another now, aren’t we?—and saw that you work for TPA and that you’ve developed a new branch, all on your own. I’m hoping you’ll tell me more about it one day.”

“When did you attend Tri-Partite? We only entered France eight months ago.”

“We were children, ten and eight. It was the very early years. These huge boxes would arrive from Canada filled with workbooks and markers and audiotapes. We couldn’t wait for the next lessons, but we had to because Madame Pendaris was still developing them.”

“Holy cow, you were in on the pilot. How did you learn about her?”

“She’d lived here at
Reine du Ciel
, of course. She was one of the Daughters. My father and she were, apparently, something of an item at one time. Then everything ended abruptly, and she returned to Canada, but they stayed in touch. Fact is, Silvie, our business would not be where it is today, I would not be the person I’ve become, were it not for the Academy.”

“I don’t know what to say. Blythe should be hearing this.”

“You can tell her, of course. I’ve kept my maiden name, Jenah, brother is Stephane…and I’m hoping now you feel better about accepting this roadster until we can find you a Clio?”

“I, uh…yes, thank you.”

Jean-Luc and Gavriel appeared just then from the area of the guest cabins, chatting like old friends. The curly-haired chauffeur grinned and patted the roof of the Lexus. “Lovely,
non
? She handles switchbacks like a dream.”

“You knew about this?” Silvina said.

“I did, but Toinelle made me swear on the relics of St. James not to tell.”

Gavriel Navarro was carrying a tripod and wearing cameras around his neck. He glanced from the Lexus to Silvina and gave a low whistle. “Nice choice. Will you give me a spin sometime?”

“Once I’ve gotten the hang of not driving into a tree, I’d love to.”

“Off for the big shoot, are you?” Toinelle said.

“Not so big, a few photos.” To Silvina, he said, “I’m going to
Reine du Ciel
. Perhaps, I could call on you later, take you up on that invitation of wine?”

Olivier, the hardware store owner from Cerabornes, had changed the door lock a few days ago, and Gavriel had turned over his keys. He’d shown her the poems he was translating from Galician; poems was all they were.

“I have a meeting in Cerabornes,” she said, “but I’ll be home this afternoon.”

“Wine.” Toinelle gasped with girlish delight. “Gavriel, you must pick up a bottle of our Estate Gaillac—better yet, a case.” She slipped a hand under his arm and steered him toward the tasting centre. “You know, we offer a 15% discount for our cottage guests with delivery to your door.” Jean-Luc and Silvie laughed as Gavriel was led away, powerless.

“She’ll sell him three cases,” Jean-Luc said. “And probably shares.”

Silvina headed for the Business Centre to fill out the rental documents. Forty minutes later, she knew how it felt to sit behind an idling V10, 552 horsepower engine, staring eyeball to eyeball at a gridlock of sheep. Gold Lexus FLA roadster or not, she was going to be late for her date with the parish priest of Our Lady of Perpetual Succour.

Carretera #175
north of Oaxaca City, Mexico
SUMMER, 1972

“Ay, ay, ay, ay! Canta y no llores! porque cantando se alegran, cielito lindo, los corazones.”
The blended voices of Mariachi Vargas, Bill Carver, and Karin Albrechtsson filled the VW camper van with a sort of Old World-New World, NATO-positive free trade in the making, kitsch. The Nagual Lupo Sanchez hummed along, head bobbing and rocking in a serene figure eight, while Ívano, nestled in a reed bassinette on the floor, gnawed teething gums on a hunk of sugar cane.

The nagual, the witches, the professor, and his Swedish assistant were on their way home from the Guelaquetza festival in Oaxaca where Dely danced with a Zapotec troupe wearing a crown of pink and red carnations, and Tita haggled with lazy mechanics for spare auto parts, and Malvine sold honey and witch’s brew to tourists, who were titillated at the idea of fruit juice steeped by a
bruja.
The carnation wreath sat on the little camper fridge beside Dely who sat across from Lupo in the “living room” behind the driver and passenger seats. She still wore her white embroidered blouse with puffed sleeves and petticoats of cotton beneath a skirt woven with deep reds, purples, green, and gold stripes. Malvine and Tita rode in the back of the van on the convertible bed seat, one watching scenery, the other half-dozing while listening for unwelcome pings in the engine. Karin was behind the wheel.

“Did you know,” Bill said, when the song on the radio finished playing, “that ‘Cielito Lindo’ was inspired by the courage it took for people to travel through
bandito
-riddled territory in seventeenth-century Spain?”

“I thought it was a Mexican song,” said Karin.

“It is. It was written in the 1800’s. I’m just saying, the
ay, ay, ay
is not all sweetness and light.”

Karin glanced at Lupo through the rearview mirror. “Are we driving through
bandito
territory now, nagual?” She asked this in a hopeful way.

“What would you do if we were?” Lupo was admiring Dely’s evenly spaced brown toes.

“Watch.”

Karin glanced into the driver’s side mirror and tapped the brake at a tail-gating diesel truck carrying a load of live pigs. The truck driver responded with three angry hoots of his air horn. The eighteen-year-old Swede rolled down the window, thrust out her arm, and gave him a playful finger wave. Even with a tan from three months in Las Cuevas, she was twelve shades lighter than most anyone around her, and her nails were lacquered hot pink, and she wore beaded macramé bracelets on her slender wrist. The trucker slowed down and drove into the oncoming lane of the two-way highway. For a few minutes, pigs and truck rode alongside camper, while the two drivers engaged in hot and heavy Swedish-Latino flirting until a school bus heading toward Oaxaca forced the trucker to pass the van and drive off.

“
Eso
,” Karin said in her fast-improving Spanish.
I would do that
. She blew on her nails and buffed them on her skimpy tank top.

Dely smiled at Lupo and shook her head.
Youth!

Malvine leaned forward in her seat. “We’re coming up to the
finca de nopales
. Our guests might enjoy seeing it.”

“That’s a wonderful idea,” Dely said. “We’ll buy
agua fresca
. Ívano will love it.”

The anthropology professor couldn’t crane his neck all the way to the back row of passengers, so he asked Lupo, “What are
nopales
?”

“
Opuntia,
prickly pear.”

Tita, who’d been snoozing, bolted upright and mumbled something in Zapotec. She glanced around and seemed surprised to find herself inside a camper van. “I thought I saw a mule. I must have been dreaming.”

“Why does one farm cactus?” Karin asked. “They grow wild everywhere.”

“It’s not just the cactus,” Lupo said, “it’s the
cochinilla
insect that’s used to make red dye. The nests are little woven baskets developed by the Zapotec ages ago, about the size of your finger. You hang them over the cactus, bugs lay their eggs inside.”

“Oh, yeah, carmine red, the cochineal bug. I’ve heard of that,” Bill said. “I’d like to see the place.”

“We’re nearly there. There’ll be a gate house on the left.”

The flat expanse of a prickly pear field, fenced with barbed wire, came into view. Standing in rows, the cacti resembled green, upright, ping pong paddles. The gatehouse was a white-washed, colonial style arch at the edge of the highway.