Dying on the Vine (23 page)

One of the luminaries on the Paris scene, he was innovative and always eager to experiment despite retaining a love of the traditional, the article continued. He had just gained a third star from Michelin.

So why his visit to Le Petit Manoir and why was he masquerading as a butcher from Castellane? What was in the box and why had Monika pushed the Maserati to its limit in order to bring it to him? I now had a lot more questions to add to the long list that already baffled me.

Perhaps the box contained gold coins like the one I had held in my hand. Maybe Tourcoing was planning a chain of restaurants and he needed financing for them … I put a stop to this speculation. It could go on and on.

I recalled seeing a bookshop on the next corner. I locked the car and went to it. I found the section on travel guides and located a shelf of the excellent French
Entrée
series, each book dealing with a different part of France. I selected the book on Provence and turned to the pages on Palliac.

Le Petit Manoir was the first restaurant to be listed, as befitted its status. The service and decor were given high marks and the food was highly recommended. The reader was warned that the prices were elevated even though the quality justified them. Some of the dishes were described and reference was made to the extensive offerings of foods containing truffles. Le Petit Manoir was “a truffle lover's heaven,” said the author. It was the concluding paragraph that leaped out from the page, though:

“Alfred Rostaing, the owner and head-chef of Le Petit Manoir, continues to improve on his own high standards,” the entry stated, “and if he maintains this rise, he may soon eclipse even his cousin, Joseph Tourcoing of Le Reveillon fame in Paris.”

So … the two of them were cousins. What did that mean? It meant nothing right now but I filed the fact in my mind and was returning the book to its place when my stomach reminded me that it was lunchtime. I opened
Entrée to Provence
again and saw that it showed three places recommended for lunch. One of them was Le Chaudron, not far from here.

It was a delightful place with vaulted ceilings that dated back to when it was a wine cellar and shop, a plaque informed me. Now it had a reputation for seafood and the menu included bourride, the thick, creamy fish stew; baudroie, a Mediterranean fish that is no longer too common; grilled sardines; and another unusual dish, poutargue, a pâté made from red mullet roes, blended with salt and baked in the sun. It is then formed into small balls and cooked quickly in hot oil.

There aren't many opportunities to enjoy poutargue for it is a specialty of the Bouches du Rhône area, and is rarely found elsewhere. I ordered it to start and as a main course, a tuna steak Provençale style. For many people, tuna means opening a can, but there is no resemblance between that product and a fresh steak of tuna. The fish grows to three feet in length and its flesh is firm and savory. Being a little oily, it is ideally suited to the Provençal style of cooking which calls for studding it with anchovy fillets, marinating in olive oil and lemon juice, sautéing with onion, garlic, and white wine, then baking in the oven, basting frequently.

It was a very good meal and I drank a half bottle of a Willesford white wine with it, the one carrying the name Pont Vieux on the label. It was surprisingly good, the reason for my surprise being the unbelievably low price of eleven francs. I had avoided it until now because I had assumed that at such a price, it would be barely drinkable. Instead it was a fine Chardonnay, well balanced and as the wine buffs would describe it in their hyperbole, “… with flavors of oak and vanilla, finishing with ripe pear and a vibrant acidity.”

Why was it selling at such a low price? The question bothered me all through the meal even though it did not spoil my enjoyment of it. I don't let anything do that. The waitress brought a fine-looking Tarte Tatin to the next table and I was sorely tempted but resisted manfully. Some describe it as an “upside-down apple pie,” but when well prepared, it is considerably better than that.

At La Relais du Moulin, Madame Ribereau had a message for me. It was from Monika and I called the number given. There came a series of clicks, then some musical notes. A buzz followed, then one of those silences that only telephones can provide—a silence that is not a silence. On this occasion, no heavy breathing followed and I supposed it was a satellite relay telephone link. Perhaps Monika was in some impenetrable jungle either driving an all-terrain vehicle at an outrageous speed or modeling for Christian Dior. She came on the line promptly, though, and wasted no time getting to the point.

“I'm doing a photographic assignment at a Provençal fair,” she said crisply. “Traditional dances, displays, exhibits … there's a wine tasting, too, and some good food. Thought you might like to come along—it's your kind of thing.”

“Where is it?”

“An old château, only a hundred kilometers or so from the Relais. It's a big event. I think you'll enjoy it.”

“Sounds great,” I said.

“Good. Pick you up about ten o'clock tomorrow morning.”

“Okay, I'll be ready.”

“Pack an overnight bag,” she said breezily. “I have an invitation—the accommodation there is said to be excellent.”

The connection broke with a few more clicks and tones.

T
HE NEXT MORNING, I
had plenty of time for an invigorating swim and a change into undamaged clothes, of which my supply was running down. I packed an airline carry-on bag and was sitting outside in the morning sunshine when the grating of tires on gravel announced Monika's arrival.

I climbed into the Maserati alongside her and made sure the seat belt was tight. She looked entrancing in a dove gray pants suit with vermilion piping.

“I don't know how you keep your hair looking that way with all your activities,” I told her.

She tossed her head and her hair swirled in a glittering fountain of yellow gold.

“I'm lucky. It stays this way, I don't have to do much to it.”

She let in the clutch and the engine snarled as we raced out to the main road. There, she accelerated to the speed limit and well beyond it, though her control was expert. She didn't allow even a tire to cross the white center line—in contrast to most French drivers. She shifted gear on the tightest of bends with a sure, deft touch.

I was reluctant to say anything that might disturb her concentration, but it seemed that driving fast and conversing were two things she could mix as smoothly as if she were mixing a martini, so I asked about her racing record. She told me of successes in Australia, Italy, and Japan, near successes in Mexico and Argentina, and a crash in South Africa.

“The car was completely demolished,” she said casually.

“Weren't you hurt?”

“I walked away from it. Not a scratch.”

“You must love race driving,” I told her.

“I love anything that has excitement.”

We were going north but the road was not familiar. Signposts flashed by but on the rare occasions when Monika was driving at a speed at which I could read them, the names meant nothing. Eventually I caught a fleeting glimpse of a sign pointing to Digne so I knew we were in the northern part of the Var, one of the two regions of Provence.

On a craggy ridge, a shattered ruin of a castle thrust up fingers of black stone. Fields of lavender blanketed hillsides, and when I saw herds of sheep, I knew we were reaching a fair altitude.

Despite Monika's ability to drive and talk at the same time, I preferred to avoid any distraction. An occasional sideways glance at her proud profile and steady hands reassured me that she was in full control. She drove on and slopes covered with olive groves spread a dark gray-green blanket over the terrain. We passed a sheep farm and an old mill, but vast expanses of empty land lay between the few signs of civilization.

At length I noticed that she was slowing, and she gave me a quick look.

“There's a little restaurant along this stretch. Watch out for it—it's easy to miss.” I looked at the dashboard digital clock. It was nearly one o'clock.

We found it—the Belle Aurore. It had a pleasant shaded garden and we both had braised salmon, the specialty of the house. The proprietress was delighted to explain how her husband, the chef, prepared it. He put fresh-caught salmon in a pan with white wine, tomato puree, butter, and some crushed garlic cloves, then braised it in the oven. He removed the fish, boiled down the liquid, added a spoonful of cream, cooked a little, then added hollandaise sauce, mixed, and poured it over the fish. It was superb and we had an unexpected treat with it—the white wine from Cassis. This comes from vineyards that are crowded between the Mediterranean and the hills of me Esterel, making expansion impossible, so it is hard to find. The cellar of the Belle Aurore had several bottles left.

“This is a section of road familiar to rally drivers,” Monika explained. “The tight turns and the narrow road are exhausting, so the Belle Aurore is a popular place to stop.”

I must have dozed off after we resumed our journey for eventually, through a somnolent haze, her voice penetrated. “We're almost there.”

Within a couple of minutes, she slowed and turned into a wide entrance at the side of the road. A drive weaved through a dense pine forest along a rough road that looked as if it had been recently cleared. Then the forest thinned and we came to a pair of massive iron gates, set in a towering stone arch. A stone wall, weathered and cracking but still intact and about eight feet high, went in each direction as far as the eye could see.

Two men on tall ladders were mounting an elaborate metal shield on top of the arch. I could make out a dragon with wings and the armored helmet of a knight but I couldn't identify the rest of the heraldic emblems, nor could I decipher what appeared to be Latin lettering at the bottom.

One of the men on the ladders gave us a wave. He hammered a couple more securing spikes and the other man gave it a shake to make sure it was firm. They came down the ladders and set them against one side of the arch. I saw that they wore black uniforms with red trim.

“I suppose that's the symbol of the fair?” I said to Monika.

“No,” she said. “It's the family crest of the owner.”

“Our host?”

She nodded. “Yes, the viscomte de Rougefoucault-Labourget.”

M
ONIKA DROVE IN SLOWLY
through the huge gates. The two men both had close-cropped hair and one called something to Monika in German.

I was having second thoughts about this visit. It was the spider and the fly syndrome. It was clear that I was the fly and I was now suspecting the name of the spider.

“Do you know this viscomte well?” I asked her point-blank.

“Fairly well. He's sponsored me in a few races.”

“There's a rumor that he's dead.”

It was fortunate that we were creeping along slowly. She turned to stare.

“What?” She recovered and laughed, seemingly with relief. “What nonsense! He's very much alive. He's trying to revive interest in the fair. He wants to make it once again into the major event it used to be.”

So I had tracked down the viscomte, Dien Bien Phu notwithstanding. Or he had tracked me down. Anyway, there was surely safety in numbers, and the activity in the grounds suggested large crowds, judging from the tents and marquees.

People swarmed everywhere and the air was thick with cries and chatter. The sun was near its zenith and it was warm despite the altitude. The smells of herbs and flowers mingled with the tang of freshly cut grass. It was all very bucolic. Through all the noise came a thin buzzing sound. Monika slowed even more and pointed. “Look!”

A speck was visible in the sky. In the sparkling air, it could be seen clearly as it dropped lower. It grew in size and became a craft with large rectangular wings and a flimsy frame.

“It's Alexis!” Monika said excitedly. “That's his new two-seater—look, there's someone with him!”

It drifted nearer. There were two figures inside the cube of girders. The craft came lower, banking slightly, and sank out of sight on the other side of the château.

“Who's his passenger, I wonder?”

“I can't see from here,” she said, shading her eyes.

I saw the château clearly now for the first time. It was built in the style of the fortified manor house—a very large and substantial dwelling but with battlements, towers, and arrow slits dating from the days when the home would have to be defended against: Moors, Saracens, pirates, freebooters, bandits, and quite often one's envious neighbors.

Monika parked and a servant in the black uniform with red trim came out of the house, took our luggage, and led us inside. We went along a hallway and emerged into the main hall. It was impressively cavernous, with wood-paneled walls, armor and weapons, banners and tapestries. Voices echoed from the high ceiling where a massive chandelier hung.

An elderly gray-haired man appeared and introduced himself as Gilbert. He was the head of the household staff and told us that the viscomte was not here yet but was expected during the afternoon. He had the servant who had carried in our bags show us to our rooms. We were both on the third floor, Monika's room a few doors down the corridor from mine.

The carpets here looked new and the hunting prints on the walls were in new frames and under sparkling clean glass. The room had mullioned windows with a seat all round the window alcove. The bed looked new, too, and the wallpaper had a subdued flower print; clean, fresh rugs were spread on the polished wood floor. The whole chateau had obviously had a thorough rejuvenation very recently. I took a shower, put on a shirt and slacks, and went out, locking the door with the big, old-fashioned key.

I considered knocking on Monika's door but decided to do some reconnoitering on my own first. There were no other rooms on this floor but bedrooms, so I went down the wide staircase to the floor below. It appeared to be the same and I had hardly stepped onto the staircase to go down to the ground floor when a uniformed servant materialized at my elbow.