Spilt Wine

21. Added Complexity

Tuesday 1 April 1986

Catherine and I had returned late Saturday evening, and we immediately replayed the thirty-one messages on the answering machine tape. The press had identified Domaine Ducroix as the scene of the theft, and there had been calls from many reporters, one particularly annoying one, who left a series of increasingly insistent messages. Others were more polite, and many were simply the clicks of the hang-up. There were no calls from Louis, Murielle, Francine or Pierre, nor was there any from the Gendarmerie.

We spent a rather quiet Easter Sunday, with only a few phone calls, then on Monday, the frequency increased. When Catherine had tired of turning reporters away, I had taken over a little less politely. Similarly with knocks on the door. "What inconsiderate bothers these people are," Catherine said, "Don't they realise we have enough bothering our lives at the moment?"

I had phoned Lieutenant Grattien in Gevrey on Monday morning and asked if there was any development – any news on Louis and Murielle. I also mentioned the many messages on the answering machine and asked if they would like to listen to or analyse the tape. It had been taken out of the machine and a fresh one inserted.

I also told Grattien that Catherine had not yet received replies to her repeated phone calls to Louis' sister and brother in Paris. She gave details on them, and Grattien said he would request that Paris follow up.

As we sat at the kitchen table on Tuesday morning with our coffee and croissants, Catherine said, "I still have the chants vibrating my whole being. My soul is still gently pulsating."

I nodded. "Other than sitting under the Chagall windows in Notre Dame de Reims a few years ago and listening to the Gregorian Choir practice, I cannot think of anything close. The choir was one of the few things that I found appealing about my days as an altar boy. We had a fine one at Saint Bernard's, but only for High Mass on Sundays and for Vespers on special days."

I took another sip of coffee. "The other masses Sunday, and those during the week had no choir. They were dead ceremonies. Most of the priests raced through their mandatory service so they could get back to other things. I much preferred serving the eleven fifteen on Sundays, the High Mass."

"But surely they weren't like Saturday at Cîteaux. That was so special."

"No, nowhere near it. The Holy Saturday Vespers are the longest and most complex of the year. The monks at Cîteaux have spent most of their lives praying, meditating, and practising their chants. They live in peaceful harmony together, and their chants reflect this."

After enjoying a bite of croissant, I continued, "Holy Saturday is sandwiched between two major events in the Christian year – death and resurrection. I have often thought of it as celebrating being knocked down and getting right back up again. That's likely the lesson the scribes wanted to pass along in the second and third centuries when they began embellishing stories and myths about Jesus of Nazareth and writing them as fact. God, how all that's been distorted now."

Catherine nodded and fell silent, running her finger around the rim of her cup and gazing out of focus across the room. "Vrouwe Catharina ... My cousins used to call me Lady Catherine when we played."

"Dame Catherine?"

"No, Lady Catherine. They are Irish."

"So, that's where the red hair comes from?"

"Oh, for sure. Mamère's family all had flaming heads like this," she said, patting her thick hair and smiling as she picked up a long tress that curled down the front of her right shoulder.

"They would come over to Brittany to visit with you?"

"No, I had gone to live with Mamère's sister and her family in Ireland after Mamère, Papa and my brother died in a car crash. That was just after I got back from the summer in the péniche."

"How did it hap ..." I caught myself.

"No, it's okay. No, it was a long time ago. I don't know how it happened, everyone said it was a miracle I'd survived. It looks like I was thrown out of the car when it crashed into the rocks, just before it went over the embankment. A driver had stopped later to look at the view and spotted me bloody and unconscious. We don't know how long after the crash this was."

She unwound the hair from her finger and gazed into my eyes. "When I regained consciousness in the hospital, I was confused, and they said it took me a long while before I realised the doctor was asking me for my name and for my father's so they could let him know I was there."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," I whispered, taking her hand and gently pulsing it.

"The following morning the police found the wreckage."

I winced. "Just back from the barge, so you were only fourteen."

"Thirteen, my birthday was the following week." She closed her eyes and remained silent for a long while, then said, "Seems everyone is leaving me – you won't leave me, will you?"

"Not until Louis comes back."