David's buying trip in France is interrupted by the disappearance of a friend and millions of francs worth of wine. When he stays behind to assist and comfort his friend's wife, Catherine, their lives are threatened. As the danger intensifies, they...
As I always have, I marvelled at the dramatic change from the Burgundy vineyards to the broad floodplains of the Saône. From the corduroy patchwork of vines on the concave slopes of crumbled limestone and marl that line the lower slopes of Côtes, suddenly the land is flat, rich alluvial soil. The vineyards stop immediately at the appellation line; across the line are grain fields and sugar beet plantations. It is about twenty-five kilometres from the foot of the vineyard slopes to the Saône, and the route from Dijon is a little longer, winding through small villages not far from the Canal de Bourgogne. Near each community are grain elevators and silos that load crops into the péniches.
Arriving in Saint-Jean-de-Losne, I drove across the humpbacked bridge to the basin at Saint-Usage, where I parked in front of Atelier Fluvial and checked my watch – just over ten minutes early for the appointment, as usual. While waiting, I questioned the habit. Yes, of course, it's impolite to keep others waiting. More than that, though. Navigational training in the Navy taught us to always keep some time in hand for contingencies. I chuckled to myself. Some see me as annoyingly rigid in my comings and goings. Others find me extremely dependable. I much prefer the latter point of view.
Four minutes later, a grey Citroën drove along the basin and pulled to a stop beside me. The driver rolled the window down and nodded in greeting, "You must be David. I'm Jean-Luc." He parked, got out of the car and thrust out his hand, saying, "Welcome to Saint-Usage. The first barge is just along here in the inner basin – we'll walk."
Jean-Luc provided some background on the péniche as we walked past the dry dock and picked our way around pieces from works in progress. "I have only one to show you. The other one received an offer last night – a strong one, and I recommended the owner accept it." As we reached the edge of the inner basin, he lifted his arm and added, "It is just along there. The one we're looking at is over here." He pointed in the opposite direction.
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"This one was built in 1922, also to Freycinet gauge, as an automoteur. It worked mostly along the Saône and the Rhône until about four years ago when the owner retired. He sold it to two couples from Oregon who had dreams of setting it up as a communal home. Now with nothing but unfinished projects and no money to continue, they have finally given up and are selling. It is not complete inside, but the hull is sound."
"Thank you for warning me." As we climbed the steep steps toward the deck, I added, "It seems very high in the water aft, needing re-ballasting."
"The engine and generator were seized and removed a few months ago to partly cover unpaid yard expenses."
"So it's an unpowered empty shell, then?"
"No, no, a lot of construction has been done inside; it's just not finished. It is only 90,000 Francs. We will begin below." Jean-Luc keyed the padlock open, flipped back the hasp, slid the hatch forward on its rails and opened the low doors.
I followed him down the steep steps and into the cavernous hold, where the pungent smells of mould and wet rot hit me at once and caught in the back of my throat. After scanning the skeletal stud walls, the water-stained insulation, the uneven plywood sub-floors and the light bulbs dangling from wires in the battened but unfinished ceilings, I said, "Let's go look at another barge; this saps my energy. Let's go!"
