Cast Iron

Chapter eighteen

Sunlight fell across his bed, warming him even through the quilt. It had been a hot and restless night, in spite of falling temperatures outside, and now Enzo realised with a shock that he had slept until after nine.

He sat upright, blinking in the light of the bright southern sun that glanced off all the roman tiles of the rooftops beyond his window. His mouth was dry and his eyes gritty from too much wine consumed the night before. He slipped from his bed and walked stiffly into the bathroom to empty his bladder and splash his face with cold water. And as he pulled on fresh socks and underwear, and slipped into his trousers, he wondered why it was that age seemed always to be accompanied by pain — in muscles and joints and bones that had once moved freely and easily. As if it wasn’t bad enough just growing older.

He stumbled barefoot through the hall and into the séjour. Beyond the dining area, through the arch, he smelled coffee and warming croissants coming from the kitchen, and thought perhaps there were some advantages to having Nicole around, after all.

But he was stopped in his tracks by the sight of a large young man, busy, beyond the breakfast bar, taking pastries from the oven. He was tall and built like a rugby player, with dark hair tumbling in curls over his forehead. He turned and smiled at Enzo.

‘Bonjour,’ he said.

It took Enzo a moment to realise that it was Fabien, the young Gaillac winemaker whose dislike of Enzo had once led the two men to a confrontation in his vineyard that nearly ended in fisticuffs. In the final event, however, he had saved Enzo’s life, and so a truce had been declared, and each had a grudging respect for the other.

But seeing him standing there in the kitchen of his apartment, preparing breakfast, left Enzo at something of a loss. ‘What are you doing here?’

Fabien smiled. ‘Nice to see you, too, Monsieur Macleod.’ He dished up warmed croissants and pains au chocolat into a basket and started pouring two large cups of black coffee. ‘Nicole asked me to come and help with the party.’

Enzo had forgotten completely that Fabien and Nicole had formed the most unlikely of liaisons during his investigations in Gaillac, and it occurred to him that he had never asked Nicole if they were still together. But here, he thought, was his answer to the unasked question.

‘Oh,’ Enzo said.

Fabien pushed the basket of pastries towards him. ‘Always happy to be on the receiving end of a warm welcome.’

‘Sorry,’ Enzo said, still recovering himself. ‘Just surprised, that’s all.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Fabien said, and he took a slug of his coffee. ‘Speaking of which, Nicole has one for you. Something she’s been saving to tell you on your birthday.’

And Enzo remembered that he had forgotten, once again, that today was his birthday. ‘What?’

But Fabien just shrugged. ‘Oh, it’s not for me to say, Monsieur Macleod. Nicole would murder me if I spoke out of turn.’

Enzo could imagine only too well that she would. But he had no time to consider it further before Nicole herself bustled into the kitchen.

‘Oh, you’re up at last,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what time of day you think this is to be getting out your bed.’

Fabien flashed Enzo a sympathetic smile.

‘I’ve had a heavy few days, Nicole,’ Enzo said.

‘Yes, well, so have I. The traiteurs will be here any moment, and I don’t want you two under my feet when they arrive.’

Enzo said, ‘And what about this birthday surprise that Fabien says you have for me?’

Nicole swung a dark look in Fabien’s direction, but the young man just shrugged and smiled. She turned back to Enzo. ‘He wasn’t supposed to say anything until later. But, since the cat’s out the bag...’ She drew in a deep breath. ‘Fabien has proposed to me. And I’ve accepted.’

Sleep and hunger were immediately banished and Enzo opened his eyes wide. ‘Really?’ It didn’t seem possible to him that Nicole was even old enough to get married. Yet one more symptom of his relentless ageing. Because, as he reflected, she was probably twenty-two or twenty-three by now.

‘Well, that’s not quite the reaction I was hoping for,’ she said, folding her arms in a huff.

Enzo said quickly, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, Nicole. I should have said... Congratulations!’ And he gave her a hug and a kiss on each cheek. Then turned to Fabien. ‘To both of you.’ And he shook Fabien’s hand.

Slightly mollified, she said, ‘I’m going to move in with Fabien’s family and help in the vineyard. And my dad’s going to sell the farm and join us.’ She looked apprehensively at Enzo, who didn’t seem to know what to say, and quickly added, ‘Which means I’ll not be finishing my course at the university.’ She saw him about to open his mouth to speak, but cut him off before he could. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll ask you two to drink and eat up and find yourselves something useful to do somewhere else. I have a ton of work waiting to be done here.’ And, as an afterthought, ‘Oh, and happy birthday, Monsieur Macleod.’

The indoor market was open, but it was still early, and the good citizens of Cahors had not quite shaken off the night before to embrace the new day. There were some cars already parked in the square, and shops were opening up along either side. At the top end of the Place Jean-Jacques Chapou, beyond the plane trees dropping their leaves on the cars below, Enzo saw the faithful leaving the cathedral after morning mass.

Where the Rue Saint-James ran off from the square, the Café Le Forum had its tables and chairs out on the pavement for the smokers to huddle in the early-morning chill over their grandes crèmes and noisettes. Hats and scarves and gloved hands holding today’s La Dépêche open at the sports pages.

Enzo pushed the door open into its interior warmth and Fabien followed him inside. In silent accord the two men slipped on to bar stools at the counter, and Enzo nodded acknowledgement to Bruno, the proprietor, who was noisily nursing his espresso machine to produce a grande crème and a chocolat chaud for waiting customers in the back. They watched him for a long time in silence.

Then Enzo turned a grim face towards his companion. ‘I suppose I should be ordering champagne, to drink a toast and congratulate you on your forthcoming nuptials.’

‘Well, that would be very civilised of you,’ Fabien said. ‘But perhaps I should pay for it, since it’s your birthday.’

Enzo flicked him a quick look, suspecting sarcasm, but saw none in the young man’s face.

Fabien turned to Bruno. ‘A bottle of your finest champagne, please, and two glasses.’

Bruno looked at him in surprise. ‘You do know what time it is?’

‘It’s my birthday, Bruno,’ Enzo said.

‘Then you should be old enough to know better. It’s a bit early to be drinking champagne, don’t you think, Monsieur Macleod?’

But Fabien just shook his head. ‘It’s never too early to drink champagne.’

Bruno shrugged. ‘Your funeral.’ And he turned away to retrieve a bottle from the cold cabinet and find a couple of champagne glasses.

Fabien turned his head towards Enzo. ‘Why do I get the feeling you disapprove?’

Enzo raised an eyebrow. ‘Of you getting married?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t.’ He shrugged. ‘Well, I mean, that’s up to you. Nothing to do with me.’

‘Nicole thinks the world of you, you know. The way you’ve looked after her. Got her that scholarship to stay on at university when her father couldn’t afford to keep her there.’

Enzo stared at his hands in front of him on the bar, mildly embarrassed. ‘She’s the brightest student I’ve had in more than twenty years, Fabien.’ He turned to look at the young man. ‘It’s not that I disapprove of her getting married. It’s just... one more year and she’d have completed her course. A brilliant career in forensic science ahead of her.’

‘I’ve tried to persuade her to stay on. But she won’t have it. Her father’s not fit to run the farm on his own anymore. And that’s why she wants him to come and live with us. So she can look after him.’

The conversation was interrupted by the popping of their champagne cork, and crystal-white Mumm’s frothed and bubbled in the glasses Bruno had placed in front of them. Solemnly, the two men lifted them to chink together in a toast. ‘Long life and happiness to you both,’ Enzo said.

‘And many happy returns to you.’

They both sipped the chill white wine, its bubbles bursting in effervescence all around their lips. Enzo said, ‘You’d just better take bloody good care of her, that’s all.’ He paused. ‘Or you’ll answer to me.’

A wry smile spread across Fabien’s lips. ‘I’m shaking in my shoes, Monsieur Macleod.’

And Enzo grinned.