‘Can’t be worse than the Jews.’ The gummy man stood and threw some coins onto the table so they clattered, and the dog growled.
‘Pah! Away with you. Begone!’ the eyebrow man cackled. ‘Always a sore loser, that one. Never mind him.’
Michel nodded and sipped at the wine, expecting it to be bitter and heavy with ethanol, but it was pleasant and ripe on the tongue.
‘It’s good, isn’t it?’ the eyebrow man said. ‘Even our cheap wine is good. Not a bad place to live, if you ask me. What’s your name?’
‘Michel.’
‘Well, Michel, I am Lucien, and this here under the table is my dog Coquette. And our waitress who has shown you so much hospitality is Madame Guillaume. Do not mind her; she is angry with her husband for drinking too much last night. He is still in bed.’
‘Nice to meet you.’
‘And you. Always good to see a new face, eh Coquette?’ The dog sat up and looked at Michel. Then, as her master waved his hand, she trotted over to meet the visitor.
‘She likes you,’ Lucien remarked, as Michel rubbed the old dog behind her ears.
‘I like animals.’
‘It shows. So, what brings you to our little village of Vodable?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Michel sat back in his chair and took a mouthful of wine whilst Coquette rested her head on his thigh. ‘I left Paris and I was thinking to visit Saint-Émilion, where my grand-mère lived, see if some friend of hers would perhaps give me a job for a while. But now I am not sure.’
‘What has made you unsure?’ Lucien raised his glass in a toast.
‘I don’t know,’ Michel said, feeling the warmth of the alcohol swirl around his brain, making him suddenly tired. He yawned.
‘Did you go off to fight when it all started? I wouldn’t blame you for wanting to get away from that life now. A soldier’s life is a sorrowful one – take it from me.’
‘No.’ Michel shook his head; tried to shake the tiredness away. ‘I couldn’t. I broke my leg a few years back. It healed badly. One leg is a bit shorter than the other now.’
‘Better for you. If you had gone, you’d be mincemeat by now anyway. Is it true the Boche are in Paris?’
‘They were arriving as I left.’
‘Not surprising. They’re a quick bunch, looking for the next bit of land. Not sure why they need so much. I tell you, just as I told my wife, they’d be better being a little more French, a little more relaxed. Drink some wine instead of beer, eat proper food. The wife says they eat nothing but pork. Now and again a bit of bread. You think that’s true?’
‘I’ve heard similar things.’
‘You like this wine?’
‘It’s very good, though I shouldn’t have bought it really.’
‘What is money for if not for wine?’
Michel laughed and nodded.
‘Where will you stay tonight?’ Lucien asked, draining his own glass.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘I tell you what. You come and stay with me, on my farm. I’ll let you sample my own wine – much better than this – and you can pay me with stories of your travels. My wife will not mind… Well, if we get her some flowers, she won’t mind so much, eh?’ Lucien winked.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’ve been married for forty years. Imagine that. Forty years – just me and her. No children. We welcome a friendly face from time to time; it gives us a little entertainment. Not much here – as you can see.’ Lucien indicated the quiet square.
‘That’s very generous of you.’
‘He who is generous will themselves be blessed, for they share their food with the poor – so say the Proverbs. You know the Bible?’
‘My mother taught me, but I can’t say I’m devout.’
‘No matter to me! You see, so many people around here – take my gummy friend Armand from the square who you met earlier. Says he is Catholic, says he is part of the Church, but you see how he is? Unfeeling towards anyone not like him. Not very Christian, is it? I say I’ve seen more Christian people in my life, proper Christians, who have never once stepped inside a church!’
‘They say Hitler is Catholic.’
‘See! Proves my point exactly. Says one thing yet then goes and does another!’
Michel yawned again.
‘You need food,’ Lucien said. ‘Come. We eat, we drink, and we tell some stories. What else is there to do around here?’
As he spoke, a gust of wind dragged a cloud of dirt around the statue and the Madame slammed the wooden window shutters, announcing the closure of the café, and thus the whole village. It was decided Michel would stay with Lucien.
Lucien did not live far, and Michel thought at first that he was being taken back into the woods and towards the river. ‘There were two cats there?’ he told Lucien, pointing at the thick branches. ‘Two, identical. They had blue eyes, I think, or green, and they watched me. Sorry.’ He stopped. ‘I sound foolish. The wine, you see, and little food.’
‘You saw the twins,’ Lucien said.
‘The twins?’
‘My cats. Twins, as I said. Same litter, the same markings, and as villainous as each other. They come and purr by the fire for a while, but then, my friend, they plot and scheme to make my life difficult. One minute I go to sit down and one of them runs underneath my foot, so I fall! But I look over and there they sit, together, their tails moving in time with each other. I know they are laughing at me; I know! But my wife, she thinks I’m mad. One day, though, one day, she shall learn the truth!’ Lucien’s voice had taken on a distinct edge that set the dog Coquette howling along with her master. ‘See?’ Lucien pointed at his dog. ‘She knows. She understands.’
Michel wanted to tell him that he mistrusted cats too, but his tongue was thick and heavy, his mind swam with tiredness, and the pain in his ribs had returned, reminding him of the afternoon’s adventures.
‘Not far now,’ Lucien said. ‘This heat makes the strongest of men wilt.’
‘It is not just the heat.’
‘Then it is your journey.’
A minute or two later, Lucien rounded the bend to reveal a tidy farmhouse with stables and barns to the rear, vegetable patches to the right, and to the left neat rows of vines that continued for a mile or so.
‘A few vines?’ Michel asked.
‘Just a few.’
Before they reached the green-painted front door, it was swung open by a squat woman with white hair, cheeks as rosy as apples, and eyes as blue as the sky. ‘Lucien!’ she commanded. At her tone, Coquette ran to her and sat at her heel, giving a perfunctory lick to the woman’s bare calves by way of apology. ‘Lucien!’ she shouted once more.
‘This, Michel, is my wife – my darling, darling wife, Isabelle.’ Lucien took the worn cap from his head and bowed deeply, as if visiting royalty.
‘Get up, you old fool! He has been drinking again at the café. I can tell. Why did you let him drink?’ she asked Michel.
‘I didn’t,’ he muttered.
Isabelle looked Michel over, head to toe. ‘You’re not from here?’