Dead Horsemeat

Thursday 21 September 1989

Lavorel is sitting in the back room of a café in Vallangoujard with two gendarmes. The owner has given him a choice between white or red wine. He’s opted for the white, hoping it’ll be more drinkable than the red, right on top of his morning café au lait. It’s still quite acid. In front of them, a huge radio and a tape recorder. The wait grows longer. The owner comes over and sits down next to one of the two gendarmes.

‘Well, has my wine order arrived?’

‘Of course, yesterday evening, according to plan. I forgot to tell you, with all this trouble. Come and pick it up from the barracks, when you like, my wife will show you the cellar.’

The owner leans over towards Lavorel:

‘One of the gendarmes, Sallois, has a vineyard, in the heart of Bordeaux, and he makes this wine… say no more. He supplies all the local bars, and nobody’s complaining.’

A red light on the radio blinks, the owner discreetly leaves. A muffled, anxious female voice:

‘I’m coming, I’m opening the door.’ Louder. ‘Come up.’ A door closes. ‘Sit down.’ Chairs scraping. ‘Have you brought the bedspread?’

The voice of another, very young, woman. The rustle of paper: ‘Here it is. And have you got the money?’

‘Yes. But tell me again nice and slowly. So that I remember everything. This bedspread…’

‘Last year I took it on the pilgrimage to Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. Our gypsy pilgrimage. I touched the statue of the Black Sarah with it, while she was in the sea. You understand?’

‘Yes. So far.’

‘And I prayed to the saint, who has magic powers. She brings back unfaithful husbands. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. But I already bought a bedside rug that had touched Saint Sarah from you, and my husband didn’t come back.’

‘A bedside rug has less power than a bedspread, because you stay under the bedspread all night.’

‘I do, for sure, but he doesn’t, because he’s not there.’

‘The bedspread will make your wish come true. If you think about your husband very hard when you’re under the bedspread, the first night, you’ll dream of him, and he’ll be back within the week.’

‘Right. How much did we say?’

‘Come off it? Have you got the money or not?’

‘I’ve got it, I’ve got it. But I don’t remember exactly how much we said.’

‘Twenty thousand francs.’

Lavorel downs a second glass of white wine, in surprise. One of the two gendarmes leans towards him and murmurs:

‘She works on the checkout at Mammouth, on the minimum wage, and she’s already forked out ten thousand francs for the rug.’

‘I want to see the money.’ Sound of a drawer opening. They must be counting the notes. ‘It’s all there, take the bedspread.’

‘I’ll see you out.’

The gendarmes pack away their equipment, triumphant.

‘There. We managed to convince this woman to press charges, and now, at last we’ve caught her red-handed. You’ll see, once our devotee of Saint Sarah’s banged up, complaints will pour in, that’s what always happens.’

Gendarmes are waiting for the two girls in the street. They march them off to the gendarmerie, it’s in the bag. And now they’re in their stride, a search of the gypsies’ farm.

Lavorel follows, resigned.

At the village exit, two blue cars are parked near an ancient fortified farmhouse, four stone buildings in a square without an exit between them, all facing inwards, a huge timber carriage entrance, closed. That’s where the girl they’ve just arrested lives, with Rouma, the farrier, and a few other gypsy families.

First warnings.

‘Open up.’

Voices on the other side of the door.

‘There aren’t any men here. Only women and children. We’re not opening the door.’

After ten minutes of fruitless argument, the gendarmes break down the door and force their way in, brandishing their guns. Lavorel hangs back, his hands in his pockets, convinced that this is a sinister venture. Five caravans are drawn up in a circle in the beaten earth courtyard. In the centre, thirty or so women and children huddle together. The buildings looking onto the courtyard seem to be pretty much reduced to ruins. The gendarmes assemble the women and children in an empty room, place them under heavy guard, and the search begins.

While they gather up the bedspreads in their packaging, along with the cheap jewellery, two stolen cars, motorbike parts and other odds and ends, Lavorel goes through the caravans and all the buildings looking for a possible stash of drugs, without much conviction. The forge, the workshops, the garage, a large collective kitchen with all mod cons, there’s even a cold store. Nothing. It’s frustrating, all the same.

Lavorel leaves the gendarmes drawing up impressive reports. For them, the prospect of days and days of thankless graft. And I’m leaving empty handed.