Bruno 02 - The Dark Vineyard

the local Bergerac wines, would face stiff competition, but that was not much of a price to pay. So why did Bruno have so many doubts about this project? Why did it feel like an oversized and alien intrusion that would change the way of life in Saint-Denis?
    He was surprised to notice that one of the shoppers pausing at the stalls was Bondino. Bruno wondered if he had seen the previous day’s
Sud Ouest
, with its front-page report headlined “Riot in Saint-Denis” and a photo of the riot police pushing men in handcuffs into the police bus. Bondino was wearing jeans and a polo shirt, with a camera around his neck, looking like just another tourist rather than the sleek global businessman Bruno had disliked on sight. He was buying honey and beeswax candles from Margot, the housekeeper at the home for retired priests in Saint-Belvédère, who was almost as old as her charges. Then he stopped to purchase some of the small
crottins
of goat cheese from Alphonse, walked quickly by the man selling mussels and oysters from the bay and came up to Bruno.
    “Bonjour, monsieur,”
he said, putting out his hand to shake. Bruno returned his greeting. “I like this market,” Bondino went on. He smiled an apology. “I speak French poorly, I regret. Saint-Denis has much charm.” He gestured with a look of puzzlement at the stall behind Bruno. “What is it?” he asked.
    Now that Pierrot had his driver’s license back, he was in the market once more with his ancient Citroën bus, whose sidefolded down to display some of the oddest merchandise in France—black mourning clothes and bonnets for widows, felt slippers, long skirts and shawls and flat caps, and the gaudy wraparound aprons that farmers’ wives used to wear. In tiny cubbyholes beneath were the useful items that could be found nowhere else: typewriter ribbons and crochet hooks, little gas mantles for paraffin lamps and smooth wooden domes used to darn socks.
    “The farmers and their wives find Pierrot very useful,” Bruno explained. Bondino smiled and moved on to buy some strawberries, with a last look at Pierrot’s display of hand-operated mixers and can openers and the blowpipes the farmers used to shoot medicine deep into the throats of their livestock. Pierrot hardly attended his wares, spending his time in the café or helping Raoul’s customers taste his wines, which was why he had lost his driver’s license six months earlier.
    As Bruno headed for Fauquet’s café, Jacqueline appeared in front of one of the stalls. She stopped, smiled and held out her hand. He tipped his finger to the brim of his cap and then shook her hand.
    “Not shopping yet?” He gestured at her empty bag. She shook her head.
    “Meeting someone for coffee,” she said, appraising him. “You were brilliant at the demonstration, taking charge like that.”
    “Max seemed to get you out of the way without any trouble,” he said.
    She shrugged. “Not my kind of scene, but Max gets so passionate about this GMO stuff. How about you? On duty again?”
    He nodded. As far as Bruno was concerned, he was always on duty, even though he was supposed to work only thirty-fivehours a week. If he charged for all his overtime, he’d bankrupt the town budget. In fact, he was about to drink a coffee and then go to his office to see if Isabelle had sent another e-mail. This was the weekend she was supposed to come down, but there had been no more word from her. His cell phone number had not changed. She knew how to reach him. But he wanted to check his e-mail, just in case.
    “I’ll be heading off to a friend’s
vendange
soon,” Bruno told her. “It’s probably too early, but he picks his grapes at the same time every year and feeds us all a grand lunch of cassoulet.”
    “Does he take volunteers?” She spoke in correct and fluent French but with an unmistakable Québécois accent that derived from the eighteenth-century Bretons and Gascons who had planted the fleur-de-lys in the New World. “I’d love to take part in a French wine harvest. It would be a first for me.”
    She was better like this, Bruno thought. For the first time since he’d met her she seemed genuine, with all the eagerness of youth. It made her easier to like. He smiled at her. “There’s always room for one more. Come and have a coffee so I can explain what you’re getting yourself into.” As they walked the few steps to Fauquet’s, Bruno asked, “Have you picked grapes before?”
    “Often, back in the