IN A FRENCH VILLAGE, the mairie is the seat of all power and the center of all authority. When the village is in Provence, Paris is merely the name of a city far away, and no local would accept for a moment any edict issued from it unless it was endorsed by the local mairie.
The mairie in Saint Symphorien was two streets from the main square and occupied an ancient building in a narrow cobbled street. A pretty fountain tinkled merrily in front of it but the stone steps leading up to the battered wooden door showed the wear of thousands of feet, from hopeful brides and proud parents to indignant taxpayers, furious homemakers, and angry motorists.
The massive iron handle creaked as I turned it but the door swung open easily and led into a chilly, dark hall. More stone steps led upward to a large friendly woman at a high wooden counter in a large busy room. I explained that I was a journalist from England, that I was writing an article on local vineyards and wondered about the question of water supplies. “So many English love to visit this beautiful area,” I explained. “But it is a dry climate and readers will wonder how grapes can grow here. They are used to a lot of rain there, you know.”
She nodded vigorously. All the French know of the atrocious English weather. She went to a rack of thin shelves and pulled out a crinkled map. Her long brown finger wandered over it then stopped at some broken lines. Those were the water pipes, she said, 150 and 250 millimeter, that supplied the two vineyards. The water came from the Gorges de Verdon reservoir.
There was plenty of water, she assured me. I asked about drought years and she shook her head firmly. “Emergency plans exist: cuts at certain hours, limited supply to nonessential businesses—”
“And the vineyards?” I asked. Her eyes widened at this foolish question.
“Oh, no, m’sieu. Their supplies are never affected. Wine is the most important product of Provence.”
While I was here, I raised the subject of the A8b, for the specter of that new autoroute slashing its band of devastation through Provence haunts even those not likely to be affected. It appeared that it would not be authorized for some years, and even then it would pass nowhere near the vineyards. No, she said in answer to my next question—no other projects had been approved or even contemplated that would affect the vineyards. Retirement homes? She shrugged off the idea. Down on the coast perhaps, she said derisively, as if referring to another world.
At Le Relais du Moulin, I had the pool to myself and when I went into the lounge for a Kir before dinner. Madame was eager to tell me of the day’s specialties. I selected the escargots in garlic, assured by Madame that these were the species known as “vigneron” as they are fed exclusively on vine leaves in the Burgundy region, and followed these with a fish casserole containing turbot, prawns, crayfish, mussels, clams, and rascasse. This latter is translated unfortunately as scorpion fish. It is tasty though short on meat, but ideal for a stew, bouillabaisse, or casserole.
A bottle of Willesford’s Sainte Marguerite went very well with it, and the chef’s use of bay leaves, saffron, onions, lemon juice, tomatoes, and marjoram was neatly done. He had, I was sure, added some Banyuls, a sweetish dessert wine, to balance the lemon juice.
I had a mandarine mousse that was light and fluffy as air—almost—and a cup of coffee. I was still enjoying this when Madame came hurrying over with an envelope that she said had been left at the desk.
Inside was a sheet of the squared paper that the French inexplicably prefer for writing notes. The message on it was in English. It was printed in large, blocky capitals and it was unsigned. It read:
IF YOU WANT TO KNOW MORE ABOUT THE DEATH OF EMIL LAPLACE, COME TO THE PLACE DES ARMES IN COLCROZE TOMORROW AT 11:00 A.M.