The lunar calendar said that the new moon made this a good day to plant broad beans, arugula and spinach, just as the previous days of a waning crescent moon were said to be the time to weed and to start a new compost heap. As Bruno Courrèges, chief of police of the small French town of St. Denis, planted the seeds he’d brought from his greenhouse, he wondered if this was some old wives’ tale. Other gardeners he knew and trusted, prime among them the mayor of St. Denis, swore that the traditional ways of the lunar calendar worked for them, and there was no arguing with the quality of the generous crops they harvested. So when the mayor had given him a copy of the lunar almanac and advised him to try following its advice, Bruno thought he’d make the experiment. At the far side of his vegetable patch, his basset hound, Balzac, gazed at Bruno curiously, probably wondering why he was not allowed to play in this part of the garden.
“There is some science behind it,” the mayor had insisted. “It’s like the tides of the sea. The moon’s gravity draws up the moisture in the soil when it’s waxing and lets it down again when it’s waning. So plant your aboveground vegetables when it’s a waxing moon and your belowground ones when it’s waning. It works for me.”
The last of the seeds planted, Bruno used his watering can to sprinkle the ground and then stretched to ease his back, turning his face to the early morning sun. He’d picked the last of his vegetables when the moon had said the time was ripe, and some of them were already in the big stockpot he kept atop his wood-burning stove. Cooking a couple of quartered chickens with the carrots, onions and potatoes had made a plain but filling meal for his friends the previous evening. Now with some more vegetables and garlic and a pack of green lentils added, it would provide him and his dog with a hearty stew throughout the week.
Back in the house, Bruno heard his guests moving around upstairs in the new bedroom he’d built under the roof. He added some logs from his woodpile to the stove, closed the damper and then reopened it a notch. It would keep the place warm all day and let the stockpot cook slowly, the way he liked it. He poured the last of the previous evening’s wine into the stew and added some hot water.
He wanted to clean his Land Rover and get to the tennis club early for the meeting and subsequent parade of classic cars, a new event in the calendar of St. Denis. His houseguests would get there on their own. Despite the work he had put into organizing the event, Bruno had never thought of himself as a car enthusiast. He did not read car magazines, and he seldom recognized the make of a new car until he saw its insignia. He put fuel in one end of his own vehicles and water in the other and expected them to function; they were merely tools to take people or goods from one place to another. He entrusted their repair and maintenance to experts and assumed they would be more or less efficient. He had driven many different vehicles, military and civilian. These days he mostly drove the utility police vans supplied to him by his employer, the mayor and council of St. Denis, or the aged Land Rover he had inherited from a hunting friend and for which he had developed a surprising affection.
The Land Rover was not a comfortable vehicle to drive, built before the modern conveniences of adjustable seats, power steering and antilock brakes. Indeed, it was nearly twenty years older than Bruno. He had been surprised to learn this qualified it as a classic car. But it could go just about anywhere—cross rivers, climb the steepest and most muddy slopes and negotiate the most-rock-strewn trails through the woods where he hunted the region’s abundant game. And it had never let him down. This was more than he could say for some of the fancy cars his friends drove, which seemed to require the skills of a computer expert as much as a traditional car mechanic. In his days in the French army, Bruno had driven jeeps, trucks, motorcycles and even the occasional armored car. He had a painful memory of the deafening and bone-shaking experience of driving an AMX-30, France’s main battle tank, on the testing grounds at Saumur and had vowed never to repeat it. Forty tons was more than Bruno felt he could handle, particularly when the instructor had closed the driver’s hatch so that Bruno’s vision was limited to two narrow slits and a blurry periscope. Driving held little appeal for him ever since.
Bruno took little pleasure in driving fast and had been called to the scene of too many road accidents to push his limited skills. He had once been taken frighteningly fast around a course by a skilled rally driver, his friend Annette, a magistrate in Sarlat. She had skidded around bends, missed trees by inches and accelerated over the crests of hills in a way that Bruno’s head repeatedly slammed against the roof of her specially equipped Peugeot. Bruno thought he had been saved from unconsciousness only by the helmet she had supplied. Such driving was not for him. Bruno’s sole ambitions as a driver were to be competent and safe.
This morning Bruno skipped his usual morning run so that he could wash and polish the Land Rover. He had scrubbed the mud from the wheel wells and used a touch-up pen to cover the deeper scratches in the faded-green paint. He had wiped clean the canvas-covered seats and washed the windows, inside and out. He had swept out the dust and gravel from the interior. He had tidied up the rear, putting his tennis gear in one bag, his rugby boots and tracksuit in another and his all-weather garments and hunting clothes in a third.
He had washed the dog blanket that now nestled between the bags, where Balzac could rest while waiting for his master. A newly washed bowl and fresh water bottle stood ready for Balzac’s refreshment. When Bruno drove, Balzac preferred to ride on the passenger seat where he could watch the road and landscape and, in the absence of a car radio, listen to Bruno sing. Other than his occasional attendance at church or on convivial evenings at the rugby club, Bruno had sufficient regard for the comfort of his fellow humans to reserve his singing for his Land Rover and his shower.
As Bruno, freshly showered and changed, drove into town, Balzac seemed to appreciate his owner’s version of “Que Reste-t-il de Nos Amours?” Bruno tried to catch the breathy, almost-playful tones of the Charles Trenet 1943 original. For Bruno, no other version would do, although most French singers had made their own recordings, singing it too slowly or making it too sad, Bruno thought. His own mood when he thought of his past love affairs was of fond nostalgia rather than tragic loss. The memories made him grateful rather than despondent, so as Bruno pulled his unusually clean and gleaming car into the parking lot by the tennis club, he was pleased to see a familiar ancient Citroën deux-chevaux.
Pamela, its owner and the woman who had recently ended their affair, was standing nearby and admiring the baron’s venerable 1958 Citroën DS, which still looked more modern than most of the vehicles on the road. The baron was leaning with one elbow on the roof of his car as he chatted with Pamela and gestured proudly at his second car, the old French military jeep that he used for hunting. It was being driven today by Sergeant Jules from the gendarmerie. Pamela waved and beckoned Bruno to join them as he let Balzac jump out of the car and scamper across to her. He waved back but went to greet his two houseguests, who had followed in their own car, and led them across the parking lot to meet his friends.
It was a fine turnout for the classic-car meeting, thought Bruno proudly, and a very international gathering. His English friend Jack Crimson was at the wheel of his white Jaguar Mark 2, his daughter, Miranda, beside him. Horst, a German archaeologist, was dressed for the part, wearing white gloves and a flat cap as he helped Clothilde, curator of the local prehistory museum, from the seat of her Porsche Speedster. A retired Dutch architect had brought his boxy DAF Variomatic, and someone else had an elderly Saab. Lespinasse from the garage was dusting his perfectly restored Citroën traction-avant from 1938, which was the oldest car of the gathering. To Bruno’s eye the most striking vehicle was a white E-type Jaguar. From its passenger seat Annette was waving at him, a good-looking and fair-haired stranger at the wheel beside her.
“Meet George Young, an English friend,” Annette said to Bruno as he approached, her hand on the young man’s arm. “He’s from London, where he runs a company bringing British drivers over to take part in French rallies and races. I met him at the Rallye des Remparts in Angoulême, and I persuaded him to bring his Jaguar to St. Denis for our parade. He’s going to navigate for me at the rally tomorrow.”
Her voice was animated, almost giddy, and she turned back with a shyly affectionate look at her companion as the two men shook hands, and then Bruno introduced his two guests from Alsace. It was about time Annette found herself a boyfriend, thought Bruno. The Englishman looked very suitable. He was about Bruno’s height, slim but with powerful shoulders and a friendly smile. His French was fluent as he chatted to the couple from Alsace about his visit—he called it a pilgrimage—to the Bugatti collection at the Musée National de l’Automobile in Mulhouse, near their home.
From the corner of his eye, Bruno saw movement in the woods behind the tennis club and recognized a sullen, skinny teenager named Félix lurking in the trees. Félix was a truant who shunned the tennis and rugby lessons Bruno offered to the other students in the town’s collège. He was the youngest child of two parents now well into in their fifties. The older siblings had long since left home, and the father had been unemployed for years. His mother, from a French island in the Caribbean, was a cleaning woman at the school. She had bequeathed to her son a skin just a shade or two darker than café au lait, which meant some cruel schoolmates sneered at him as a métis, a “half-caste.” Félix had suffered a number of brushes with the law for shoplifting, petty vandalism and one case of joyriding in a stolen car. Bruno reminded himself to check on the boy’s age; once he was sixteen, his next offense could mean juvenile detention. Bruno was disappointed that he’d never been able to straighten the boy out; he thought of Félix as one of his failures.
“Him again,” said Yveline, commandant of the small gendarmerie in St. Denis, who had suddenly appeared at Bruno’s side. She was in uniform. “You know we’re going to have a lot of trouble with that kid.”
“We already have,” said Bruno. He gave Félix a stern stare, so the boy would know Bruno had his eye on him, before leading his friends to join a group congregating at a long trestle table set up in front of the club. One of the waitresses from Fauquet’s café was serving croissants and pains au chocolat and dispensing coffee from two large thermoses to the gathering of drivers.
Bruno had chosen this spot for the cars to assemble, away from the main road and out of sight of the crowds who were expected to line the main streets for the parade. He had almost finished his coffee when two strikingly modern cars arrived. Fabiola was at the wheel of her new Renault Zoe electric car, and behind her came Alphonse, the town’s only councillor from the Green Party, in his electric Kangoo van. Alphonse had persuaded the mayor to make a nod to the environment by welcoming electric cars into St. Denis’s first Concours d’Élégance. That was the title Annette had dreamed up for what Bruno thought of simply as a vintage-car parade, one of the events marking the name day of St. Denis on October 9.
The idea had come from the baron over a rugby club dinner at the start of the year when the mayor had been thinking aloud about ways to extend the local tourist season beyond the summer months. The first idea had been a visitors’ day at the town vineyard, then Stéphane had suggested a special rugby match, and Lespinasse had proposed a sports-car rally. That might usefully be combined with a vintage-car parade, suggested the baron, always keen to show off his splendid Citroën. Bruno had remained silent, knowing that whatever plans were made he’d be the one assigned by the mayor to turn them into reality.
It had been Xavier, the efficient deputy mayor, who had opened his diary and reminded his companions that the date fell on the weekend when the delegation from St. Denis’s twin town in Alsace came for its annual visit. They came each year to commemorate the welcome the refugees from Alsace had been given in 1939 and 1940. The first came just after war had been declared in September 1939, when the French government evacuated to the Périgord the civilians from the regions near the German frontier. The following year, after the German reoccupation of Alsace and Lorraine, German settlers were moved in, and Alsatians of French stock were deported. Most of them came to the Périgord. Inevitably, in the four years before France’s liberation, friendships were forged and marriages took place, and after the war towns throughout Alsace twinned with those where they had been welcomed.
So the weekend of the town’s name day now included a special market with stalls and vendors from Alsace, a rugby match with a team from Marckolsheim and a visitors’ day at the vineyard followed by a feast. Lespinasse had arranged that St. Denis would at the same time host the regional heats for the French rally drivers’ championship. Father Sentout had arranged a choral service for two choirs with his counterpart from Alsace, and Antoine the boatman had organized a fishing competition. Bruno had been assigned to coordinate it all and to arrange a fireworks display to round off the celebration. It was not what he had been trained to do in his course at the police academy, but this role as impresario of civic events gave Bruno great pleasure. It had also established a firm friendship with his Alsatian counterpart, Thomas, who with his wife was staying at Bruno’s home for the weekend, just as Bruno had been their guest during his visits to Alsace for the twin-town reunions.
“I don’t see Sylvestre,” said Thomas, a worried look on his weather-beaten face. “He’s a friend from Marckolsheim, and we’re counting on him to bring something very special for the parade. I hope he hasn’t lost his way.”
Thomas and his wife were devoted hikers, striding across the Vosges near their home most weekends and spending their summer vacations walking in the Alps. Bruno recalled with respect the pace they had set on a long day’s hike from Colmar to Mulhouse on his last visit to Alsace. A few years older than Bruno, Thomas was trim and fit, a few centimeters taller than Bruno. His wife, Ingrid, looked equally healthy, despite the bottles of Alsace wine they had brought and downed at Bruno’s dinner table the previous evening.
“I’d better give the drivers their briefing,” said Bruno, looking at his watch. “It’s almost time to begin.”
Thomas pulled out his cell phone to call Sylvestre as Ingrid turned to embrace Fabiola and Pamela, whom she had met at Bruno’s dinner the previous evening. Bruno took from his shoulder bag a sheaf of photocopies he’d made of the route the drivers would take through St. Denis and began handing them out. Each photocopy carried a number, indicating the order in which the cars would start.
“If I could have your attention,” he began, using his parade-ground voice. “The route of our motorcade is clearly marked on your maps. Please set off in order of the number on your map. We’ll go through the main streets before turning onto the quayside, where we’ll park on the long stretch before the bridge. Please park as I do, facing the stone wall and with your back to the river. Leave enough space for people to walk all around the cars, and keep an eye on your vehicles in case kids try to climb in. I’ll lead the way, so nobody should get lost. The baron will bring up the rear in his Citroën DS. And I’d like you to keep at least two car lengths’ distance from the vehicle ahead.”
As he finished, what looked like a furniture truck turned the corner, sounded its horn and pulled up on the street, too big to fit into the already crowded parking lot. Two young men in white overalls, white skullcaps and goggles jumped from the driving compartment, waved at the crowd and went to the rear of the truck. One opened the big double doors while the other pulled out a long ramp, lowered it to the ground and then clambered inside. Bruno heard the sound of a powerful engine being started, dying with a ragged cough and then starting again. A large cloud of exhaust smoke drifted from the rear of the truck, and then a bright blue, open-topped racing car from another era backed down the ramp.
The windshield was no more than four inches in height and the hood took up two-thirds of the car’s length. The front wheels and axle were at the very front of the vehicle, ahead of the curved, flat radiator. Leading back from the driver’s seat, the sides of the car curved in to form a pointed rear that looked as sharp as an ax blade. There were no mudguards above the wheels, and a spare tire was attached to the car’s side with thick leather straps. The driver revved the engine and unleashed a harsh and potent roar before turning and driving slowly to face the crowd that had been stunned into silence. Bruno could read the red badge on the arch-shaped radiator: BUGATTI.
“Sylvestre always likes to make an entrance,” Ingrid said drily once the throaty roar of the engine had quieted. “That’s the one he bought last year. He paid seven hundred thousand euros, and he says it’s worth a lot more now.”
“A Type 35 from 1928, the car that made Bugatti’s name,” said Thomas, something close to reverence in his voice. “It was the only car of its day that could be driven both on the road and in Grand Prix races. And despite the name, it’s a French car, designed and built in Alsace.”
“It won every race going,” said Young, Annette’s friend, in a worshipful tone. “It took the world championship in 1926 and the Targa Florio five years in a row.” He moved forward to help the driver from the cockpit and, as if suddenly released from bondage, the rest of the crowd surged forward to cluster around the small Bugatti.
“Welcome,” said Bruno, introducing himself and handing the driver his photocopied map. “We’re honored to have your car here. You’re number nineteen, next to last in the parade. You’ll follow the traction-avant and be just ahead of the DS.”
“Thank you, and please call me Sylvestre,” said the man in white, pushing his goggles back onto his brow. He looked to be in his thirties. He had bright blue eyes, a prominent nose and a firm jaw. The grip of his handshake was unnecessarily strong but his smile was affable.
“This is my friend, Freddy, he’s from India,” Sylvestre said, beckoning forward his companion, also in white overalls. “We’re both glad to be here. My grandmother told me a lot about this place. She was born just outside St. Denis, and I thought this was a good opportunity to take a look at some property she left me.” His expression was arrogant, almost haughty, as he gazed around at the crowd, before raising his voice to ask, “And which of these charming ladies would like to ride in the Bugatti with me?”
Sylvestre’s eyes settled briefly on Fabiola, standing alone. “How about you, mademoiselle?”
“Thanks, but I’m driving my own car, the new Renault,” she replied coolly. “We have electric cars in the parade.”
“Excellent,” said Sylvestre, and looked at Bruno. “In that case, would you have room for one more? I’ve got a Tesla in the back of the truck, and Freddy can drive it.”
Suddenly he seemed aware of Félix, who had somehow pushed himself forward to stand at the side of the Bugatti and gaze reverently into the driving compartment.
“What about you, young man. Would you like to take a spin?” Sylvestre asked. And with what Bruno thought was an understandable glance of triumph at him, Félix clambered inside and seemed to glow with pride as he took his seat. He looked up at Sylvestre in awe.
Bruno had heard of the Tesla, an American-made electric sports car that ran on some revolutionary new battery, but he’d never seen one. Freddy clambered into the back of the big truck and backed out a sleek gray car. When Sylvestre turned off the Bugatti’s engine, Bruno realized that the Tesla was utterly, eerily silent.