10

After breakfast, Virgile showed up at Château Prada, looking for Benjamin. Beatrice Bouglon told Virgile that the news of the baron’s arrest had spread through Labastide like wildfire. People all over town were expressing mixed feelings about the whole sad affair. Few were shedding tears for the baron, but some were feeling sad for Evelyne Cantarel. She had never married Francisco, but she had certainly lost the love of her life, and everyone knew it.

“Benjamin’s off at the market,” she concluded.

“If you see him, tell him I’m with Joachim,” Virgile said before leaving with a little skip in his step.

§ § §

An even row of corpses, most of them covered in white, lined the shelves. Shopping bags at the ready, women in berets and woolen shawls lifted the cloth coverings to inspect the fowl, making sure there were no cuts or bruises. Plumpness was a priority, as well as an ample liver. Destined to be dismembered and cooked, the limp-necked ducks and geese practically implored the prospective buyers to put an end to their humiliating ordeal.

Despite the bitter cold, the Eauze market was teeming with noisy wildlife of the human kind. The morning meat market brought together people from all over the region. Benjamin was fond of this atmosphere of mysterious transactions, knowing smiles, euros quickly tucked into pockets, and handshake deals. It reminded him of the truffle markets in Lalbenque and Richerenches, gourmet pilgrimage sites. He loved to go to Lalbenque with Elisabeth. He wouldn’t miss this tasty spectacle for anything in the world. It was more like horse trading than shopping.

In this bustling milieu, Benjamin came upon Alban de Castayrac, accompanied by his wife. So he had turned up. The Nadaillac son-in-law was strutting as if nothing had happened. His father was behind bars, and the APC had convened again that very morning to elect him chairman of the organization. There he was, shaking hands like a politician, plotting in a hushed tone with some of them, and gesturing dramatically with others. Alban de Castayrac knew how to work a crowd. Benjamin overhead snippets of his conversation, which ranged from the market value of Armagnac to promised assistance from Brussels, which would curb the endemic crisis in the eau-de-vie trade. Jean-Charles de Castayrac’s arrest and the resignation he was forced to submit a few hours thereafter had been quite convenient for Alban. Seeing him hold forth in this market, where he even slipped in some words in the local dialect, one couldn’t help but wonder if the son had dealt his father’s deathblow.

Alban de Castayrac walked toward the winemaker. Benjamin knew it was more for the sake of courtesy than honest conversation.

“Still with us, Mr. Cooker? You must be very fond of Gascony!”

“You are fortunate, young man, to live in a part of the country that does not readily reveal itself. A person has to travel through it, sniff it, and tame it, in fact, to unlock all its mysteries. And heaven knows, everything is mysterious here. Don’t you agree? Oh, by the way, congratulations on your election.”

Alban took his wife by the elbow and melted into the crowd. Benjamin Cooker felt a little mischievous as he ambled toward a vendor selling hot chestnuts. Benjamin imagined that the man’s face was just a bit anxious now and his handshake a tad weak.

The winemaker moved along, a warm paper cone in his hands. Seeing the ducks, he poked two or three with firm skin before settling on a fat specimen. The vendor, an old wizened woman, assured him that the liver weighed at least two pounds. Benjamin was trusting enough to take her word for it.

He decided to return to Médoc that morning. Virgile would stay on, but he missed Elisabeth, who had graciously put up with his prolonged absence. When he got there, he would light up the fireplace and slow-cook the duck in one of the large copper pots hanging above the sideboard in the kitchen. He’d do the work, and Elisabeth could just enjoy the warmth of the fire. The ensuing meal would be devilishly caloric, and a little heavy on the salt, but what could be more flavorful than confit? At the Cookers, a Crozes-Hermitage, a Madiran, a Cahors, or an excellent Gaillac would transform this gluttonous meal into a feast fit for a king.

§ § §

That very evening, Joachim, quicker and more agile than ever, attended rugby practice. He made two conversions and scored a fantastic goal. Virgile, however, was not permitted on the field. The Cazaubon coach had not appreciated his outrageous lie and intended to make him pay for it.

The people of Gascony weren’t the type to forget. Virgile would have to make note of that, but he thought the coach was overdoing it and grumbled over not being able to play. His friend tried to console him at the Café de la Poste with a Maison Gélas vintage Armagnac. A few words from Constance would have lifted his spirits, but she only had eyes for her hero of the night. The first place in the Aquitaine championship was within reach. The Hagetmau players would be weak in the knees and shaking with fear. As proud as an Andalusian and as obstinate as a Castilian, Joachim was ready to take all bets. But his apparent enthusiasm could not conceal all the unanswered questions coming to light with the sudden fall of Castayrac Armagnac.

Francisco: so meticulous. There was no way in the world that he could have caused that fire. He had distilled at Blanzac year after year for more than a half-century. What about the lighter that no investigator had taken the trouble to examine, somehow assuming it was an archaic part of the Armagnac still? And how could this wise cellar master have been in the dark about his employer’s multiple and repeated crimes of deception? All that eau-de-vie spirited away in order to pay off the carefree baron’s gambling debts. Surely Francisco knew about it. His silence was as valuable as his blendings!

“Castayrac figured he could reduce the place to ashes and start all over again, like that bird that rises from the ashes,” Joachim said.

“The phoenix,” Virgile replied as they drove along the road from Cazaubon to Labastide. “The baron had to be desperate to do something so extreme.” No sooner had he said this than a figure sprang up from the side of the road and leaped in front of the car. Joachim swerved just in time to miss him.

“Who was that nut?” Virgile shouted.

“Was he trying to get himself killed? Shit, the rush of adrenalin! Are you sure we didn’t hit him?”

“Stop, Joachim. We’d better check.”

The car came to a stop in the middle of nowhere. The beams from the headlights illuminated a stand of mossy oak trees and old bracken. The two athletes ran to the spot where they had seen the stranger. A nimble and graceful shadow finally rose up and quickly vanished into the fog-suffused woods.

“Forget about it, Joachim. He’s a poacher. Look, he’s running away like a rabbit.”

“No, no,” Joachim answered. “It’s the Castayrac son Valmont. I’m sure of it. I’d bet my life on it.”

“Come on, Joachim, you’re seeing Castayracs all over the place!”

“No, Virgile. He has the eyes of a wolf. I’d recognize him anywhere.”

“What’s he doing around here at this hour?”

“I’m telling you, the whole family is crazy.”

Once again, Virgile had trouble sleeping. To get at the truth, he had to figure out how to be as shrewd as his boss. Everything in Labastide, it seemed, was disturbing.