Bruno 02 - The Dark Vineyard

tried.”
    The brigadier nodded. “I’ll take over the arrests. How many have you got? It looks like eight or nine. Criminal damage and inciting a public disturbance; they could get two or three years. And I get to interrogate them all, search their homes and confiscate their cell phones and computers. Lots of address lists. Many thanks, Bruno, for a gratifying haul. All this, and your little town stays remarkably calm, considering.”
    “I hope you note that your suspects Alphonse and Dominique were not part of this.”
    The brigadier raised his eyebrows and turned to wave the riot police into the research station compound. They trotted dutifully forward to take custody. The brigadier turned back to Bruno. “And now perhaps you’ll introduce me to your mayor.”

15
    Almost any French village can boast a weekly market, but Bruno was very proud that his venerable town of Saint-Denis had two. He was usually too busy to enjoy the justly famous market of the royal charter, which had been held every Tuesday since 1347. He preferred what Saint-Denis called the new market, held on Saturdays since the relatively recent year of 1807, when one of Emperor Napoléon’s prefects had a bright idea. He was running out of money to complete the new stone bridge, and his wife’s cousin was running out of customers for the output of his textile mill. So the prospect of a second market, which would double the income from tolls on the bridge and provide twice as many buyers for the wool, made eminent commercial sense. That was the theory. In practice, the Saturday market had never lived up to the prefect’s hopes, failing to attract as many stalls and merchants as expected.
    The Saturday market did survive, however, as an agreeable and useful addition to the amenities of Saint-Denis. Bruno admired the stubborn patience of the citizens in keeping it going. While the grand Tuesday market could comprise more than a hundred stalls and stretch from the main square in front of the
mairie
all along the rue de Paris to the parade ground infront of the gendarmerie, the Saturday market was a more intimate affair. Bruno seldom saw more than a dozen stalls, all manned by locals, and they never overlapped the small square that was on other days the parking lot for the mayor and his staff. In winter, the entire Saturday market could be accommodated under the arches of the
mairie
, benefiting from the warmth of the brazier that Bruno lit, his own small effort to ensure that the tradition did not die out.
    For Bruno, it was a gathering of friends. Stéphane was there with his milk and cheeses and yogurts with Dominique to help out at the stall, alongside Raoul the wine merchant and Yves with his fruit and vegetables. The fishmonger and
charcutier
were squabbling over which of them got the prime location at the corner of the bridge. Marie with her ducks and eggs and
magrets
was in her usual place under the arches and close to the café, the dubiously legal fat goose livers tucked discreetly out of sight in a cool box. Jeanne, plumper than ever and with her leather cash bag dangling from her shoulder, passed through the stalls exchanging kisses and gossip as she took the modest fees the town charged the merchants.
    The air was fresh and the sun warm but not oppressive. Fauquet had not bothered to open the sun umbrellas over his outdoor tables, where people were lingering over their croissants and newspapers. Light glinted on the ripples where the river shallows danced over the pebbles on the near shore. Far downstream, a group of pony-trekkers waited patiently as their steeds drank their fill while a flotilla of ducks paddled by. The golden stone of the old bridge and the local buildings glowed warmly in the mid-morning light. The clock on the
mairie
read 10 a.m., and the bells of the church in the rue de Paris began to strike.
    Bruno, still feeling a glow of satisfaction from the way his town had emerged unscathed from the demonstration, surveyedthe familiar scene from the steps of the
mairie
. He enjoyed the familiar rhythms of the town that had become his home, where he knew all the stallholders, most of their customers and some of their secrets. How much of this would survive the changes that the Bondino enterprise would bring? There would be more jobs and money and probably more American tourists and a handsome stall in pride of place selling Bondino wines. All that would be good. Raoul’s modest little wine stall, selling his choices of