I DROVE BACK TO Saint Symphorien, choosing the wider roads over lesser ones and with more than one nervous glance at the sky. One of those terrifying insects was enough—a horde of them would be like a scene from a John Carpenter version of Food of the Gods.
The busy center of the village was a welcome refuge. I parked and strolled around, not leaving the crowded pavements, but then I realized that I was hungry and the dilemma of where to eat took priority. As a change of pace, I chose Timgad, a restaurant serving north African food.
The south of France has a large population of “pieds noirs,” French who were forced to leave their farms and plantations in north Africa when the former colonies became independent. Another large group is the “Maghreb,” natives from those same countries who retained their French citizenship and could come to France to live and work.
Inside the restaurant, it smelled wonderful. Chilies, coriander, curry, and mint aromas floated in air that was without the “advantage” of air-conditioning. Colorful banners and posters covered the walls, basket chairs and tables had pale blue cushions and covers, and the blue and white tiled floor suited perfectly.
A smiling Arab girl brought me a menu. It was in both Arabic and French and I concentrated on the French side. I have had amusing experiences in Asian restaurants in France attempting to translate the French-named dishes into English when the original translation already left a lot to be desired. I had eaten in Arabic restaurants and was familiar with many of the main dishes. Foods there are naturally low in fat and lively on the palate due to the spices I had smelled in addition to garlic, cumin, and caraway. Cooking styles are generally simple. Whereas in the West, we cook aromatics such as onion and garlic first in either oil or butter before adding any other ingredients, in north African cuisine it is customary to put all the ingredients into one pot at the beginning.
I chose the fennel marinated in lemon and served with feta cheese as the first course. It is simple and very refreshing. The other diners were about half French and half Maghreb and I watched the latter to see if they were eating in true Moslem style. They were not—this requires that the diner eat only from around the edge of the dish, leaving the middle so that the blessing of Heaven can descend upon it. I ate all of my salad.
I followed it with a tiny bowl of “Lablabi,” a thick soup of garbanzo beans, a widely used vegetable. The Koran forbids the drinking of alcohol, but for nonbelievers the restaurant had a very acceptable rosé wine from Carthage. The main course offered several lamb and fish specialties but I chose the Chicken Tagine. A tagine is a stew and this one was strongly flavored with saffron, which also gave it a rich yellow color. Garlic, almonds, lemon, and cinnamon added a variety of tastes. The girl brought me a small silver dish of rice and honey cakes in place of a dessert.
As I stepped out into the dazzling afternoon sunshine, I was greeted by name. It was Aristide Pertois, the gendarme.
“Any progress on the case, m’sieu?” I asked.
“Ah, that is what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“How did you know where to find me?”
“Your car.”
“It’s a Citroen C2V, black, no distinguishing features.”
“Its license plate is unique,” he said suavely, motioning to a disreputable-looking bar a couple of doors away. The tables outside were dirty and piled with unwashed glasses and plates. A television was loud inside and from a small crowd of workmen came noisy arguments. A tough-looking man was waiting on tables.
“There?”
“Certainly,” he said. “We won’t be disturbed.”
He was right. We went in and sat at a table farther down the room and ho one threw us as much as a second glance, not even the waiter. Aristide took off his cap and set it on the none-too-clean tabletop.
“Pastis?”
“Are you having one?” I asked in surprise.
His eyebrows had that perpetually raised look I had noticed before. If it were possible, they went a fraction higher now.
“Of course,” he said. “I like pastis.”
“It’s not the pastis. It’s just that in England, policemen don’t drink on duty.”
“They don’t?” He sounded disbelieving. “Why not?”
“I don’t know—I think it’s something to do with alcohol affecting their judgment.”
He stared at me, then shook his head.
“You have some strange ideas in your country,” he told me, waving imperiously and calling loudly for two pastis.
“So what progress on the investigation?” I asked.
“The investigation … ah, yes.” The round lenses and his round black eyes made it hard to tell what he was thinking. “The wounds and injuries to Emil Laplace are all consistent with being gored to death by a sanglier,” he said carefully.
This gendarme wasn’t as dumb as he looked. There was certainly more to him than I had previously thought. So much for first impressions.
“Do you know something that makes you think Emil’s death wasn’t caused by being gored by a sanglier?” I asked him outright.
He didn’t answer for a moment, then he said, “I intend to investigate further. What can you tell me that might help?
“I’ve told you all I know. I’ve only just arrived here. I’d never seen Emil before, or any of the others at both the vineyards.”
The bouncer came and set down a glass of pastis in front of each of us and a carafe of water. The gendarme poured a little water into his glass and I did likewise. The liquid turned milky. Aristide eyed his for a couple of seconds, then drained the glass. I drank part of mine.
“You know much about wine?” he asked me.
“Enough to be able to write about it.”
“It should be an interesting article,” he said in a neutral voice.
“I hope so,” I said, trying to be just as neutral.
“You knew none of the people at the vineyards?”
“None of them.”
“What about Andre Chantier?” He shot out the name as if hoping to catch me unawares.
I shook my head. “I’ve never heard the name.”
He tried to drain his glass again but there was nothing in it. He half turned as if about to order another but he didn’t.
“Who is he?” I asked.
“Andre Chantier? He used to work at the Willesford vineyard.”
“Used to?”
“He left a few months ago.”
I finished my pastis. “Does this have some meaning?”
“I would like you to inform me if you run across the name.”
“Certainly.”
“Or any other information that might be of use.”
“Of course.”
He put his cap back on and stood up. I reached into my pocket to pay for the pastis but Aristide shook his head. “There is no need. I have an arrangement.” He gave the bouncer a nod and walked out.
He was a very unusual gendarme.