THE NEXT MORNING, BURKE read that Mark Den Weent’s body had been released. A funeral would be held in three days back in his hometown of Apeldoorn in the Netherlands. If it was closer, Burke would go, but Apeldoorn was just too far away.

After a quick breakfast, Burke decided to go for a ride and end at Rousseau’s shop, where he’d buy the heart monitor he’d been looking at the other day. If he was going to be serious about getting fit, it would be wise to log his efforts, and a heart monitor would help.

A typical July day, it was already hot and sunny by 9 a.m. Some people complained about the heat and humidity in summer, but not Burke. He didn’t have air conditioning, and there were times when he baked in his small apartment, but he loved the summer weather because it rarely demanded a jacket. As for winter on the Riviera, it sometimes got wet and chilly, but it could never compare with the often brutal winter conditions in his hometown of Montréal.

He wheeled his bike down the stone alley and by the small park that bordered the stream. The birds were singing up a storm in the bushes and trees.

Madame Marois was there, sitting on the same bench he’d seen her on the other day. She was watching Plato sniff the grass with an intensity that suggested he was on the trail of something special.

Burke was about to get on his bike and ride away, but decided he should say something to the old woman.

“Bonjour, Madame,” he said.

Plato stopped his survey of scents and studied Burke closely. The little creature then looked at his mistress, who waved him away. He seemed content to go back to cataloguing odors.

“Bonjour,” Madame replied.

“Beautiful day,” Burke said.

Madame Marois said nothing. She was back to watching her dog.

“I hope you understand that last night we were only trying to be helpful,” Burke said. “We don’t want to see anything bad happen to you.”

Madame shook her head. “It’s my business,” she finally replied. “I am fine. I know there have been some occasions where it has been awkward, but I am managing.”

Burke didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t want to push his concern.

He looked down. Plato was sniffing by his feet.

“He’s a good dog,” Burke said.

Madame turned and looked at him. “He’s an excellent dog,” she said. “He’s well behaved and very intelligent.”

Plato went to his mistress and sat contentedly against her left ankle.

“He’s certainly loyal,” Burke added.

“He’s more than that,” Madame said. “He’s highly sensitive.”

Burke hadn’t heard a dog described as sensitive before. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“He understands my moods,” she said, “and he reacts accordingly.”

Burke studied the small dog. At that moment, Plato was the essence of relaxed, having given up exploring the different odors of the outdoors. His head was half dropping, and his eyes were almost closed as he curled around his mistress’s feet. It was nap time.

“If I ever get a dog, I’d like one like Plato here,” Burke said.

Madame did something that surprised Burke—she smiled at him.

“You would be fortunate,” she said. “Are you fond of dogs?”

“I had dogs when I was young,” Burke said, recalling a couple of lovable terriers his family had owned. “But I haven’t had one in years because I did so much traveling.”

“Do you travel much now?” she asked.

Burke realized the old woman knew little or even nothing about him. That wasn’t a surprise, though. Why should she know anything? They had rarely exchanged more than a few words at any one time.

“Not much,” he said. “I was a pro cyclist. Now I’m retired.”

“You’re still very young, probably not even forty,” she said. She looked at Plato and smiled. “You should get a dog. They are always loyal, always faithful and always protective. You can rely on them.”

Madame Marois turned her gaze to the flowers beside her.

The conversation was over. Burke wished her a good day and then walked away, getting on his bike in the adjacent parking lot.

He rode to Nice, zipping along by the Promenade des Anglais. He pedaled around the Old Harbor, which, as usual, was busy with boaters and tourists. Then it was up the hill to Villefranche-sur-Mer. The hill wasn’t much, but Burke liked how it twisted and bent, forcing him to lean into the curves at the top and on the slight decline into Villefranche.

Burke loved Villefranche almost as much as he loved his home village. A town of 6,500, Villefranche was embedded into a steep hill that rose from a beautiful bay to the Moyenne Corniche, a road that climbed east to Èze and then Monaco.

As he rode through the new part of Villefranche, Burke looked down at the bay, which was dotted with sailboats and, at that moment, being visited by a massive cruise ship. He remembered the first time he’d seen this picturesque community. It was on TV; he and his parents had been watching the movie Dirty Rotten Scoundrels with Steve Martin and Michael Caine. He’d thought the region was so beautiful that he’d like to visit it one day. His dream had come true.

Burke turned off the main road and went up a steep switchback through a residential section. It was tough cycling, but Burke was loving it. He was slowly getting back into form, and he liked how his body was beginning to feel.

Soon, he was on the Moyenne Corniche and flying toward Éze, a small village that offered one of the best views of the entire Mediterranean coast of France. Once there, he stopped to watch a couple of busloads of tourists enter the Fragonard parfumerie, which attracted visitors from around the world. Then he turned and headed back the way he had come.

He covered the return trip to Nice in a third of the time, plunging down the descent at speeds up to eighty kilometers per hour. Back in Nice, sweating heavily but feeling better than he’d felt in months, Burke cycled to Rousseau’s shop.

“Are you coming to buy something today, Paul?” Rousseau said when Burke walked into the shop, which was busy with customers.

Burke laughed. “I am, André. The heart monitor I was looking at the other day. That one there,” he said, pointing at the item in a display box on the counter.

“Good selection,” Rousseau replied.

Burke told his friend to attend to the other customers while he looked around.

“All right, but please don’t stink up my shop too much,” Rousseau said. “You’ve been riding hard, it seems.”

Rousseau moved to a couple checking out some carbon-frame racing bikes, the cheapest of which probably cost two thousand euros.

Burke put his bike against a wall and poked around. Rousseau carried quality stuff for the pro rider and good gear for the amateur. Burke checked out the latest edition of an electronic shifting system he had heard about. It looked heavy, but then he picked up the main component and was surprised how light it was. The price tag was high enough that he put it back.

“It’s a good piece of equipment,” came a voice beside him.

It was Petit, who was rubbing some cleaner cream on his hands. Petit nodded at the system. “Soon, everyone will be using this,” he said.

“Well, I think I’ll keep what I’ve got on my bike for a while yet,” Burke said.

“Sounds like the thinking of some pro teams I know,” Petit said. “They’re afraid of change and refuse to use the latest technology or new training methods, or even new ways of massage.”

“It sounds like you keep up with changes,” Burke said, surprised at how chatty the mechanic was today.

“I work hard to be current with equipment, nutrition, massage and homeopathic remedies. I could work as a soigneur if I wanted.”

Burke couldn’t tell if Petit was boasting, because the man didn’t show much expression. If what Petit was saying was true, he had some strong skills. Burke couldn’t recall hearing of anyone who had the knowledge to be both a mechanic and a soigneur—someone who works with riders on their physical well-being during competition.

“You could do a few jobs on a team,” Burke suggested.

“And I have. I’ve done massage at times, when my mechanical duties were complete or when a soigneur was ill. I’ve also worked with the team chef on introducing high quality nutritional aides.”

“You’re a busy man,” Burke said, starting to feel that Petit could be a little overbearing once he started talking. On top of that, the man seemed to be devoid of a sense of humor.

“I like to stay busy, and that’s why I’m here. I could wait till the Global situation has been sorted and not work until it is, but that’s not my way.”

“No family to keep you busy?”

“No, just my mother, and she keeps herself busy with her work,” he replied.

“Yes, I met her at McManus’s funeral,” Burke said. “By the way, she seemed to know McManus.”

“She only knew him a little. She was there to show support for me. I better get back to work, or Rousseau will get angry.”

Burke shrugged and watched Petit return to the back shop where repairs were done. Then he went to the counter and paid Rousseau for the heart monitor.

He rode easily out of Nice and toward Villeneuve-Loubet. He wondered if he was losing any weight with his new program. Probably too early for decent results.

A kilometer from home, he saw three police cars and a police van speed by. They seemed to be heading into the area with all the new condo developments and resorts.

“It’s getting to be a noisy neighborhood,” he told himself as he took the turn to his village.