the young revolutionaries of 1968, the
soixante-huitards
, had built in the nearly four decades since their arrival. Even if he had not known the steady output of healthy and well-mannered youngsters they had sent through the schools and sports clubs of Saint-Denis and seen Alphonse elected as the first Green member of the town council, he would have been impressed. In pride of place stood a traditional stone farmhouse, with ivy covering most of the side wall. It was topped with the usual red tile roof shaped like a witch’s hat native to this part of Périgord. Beside it stood a tall and spindly windmill that seemed to provide enough power for the needs of the dozen or so people who usually lived here. Closer to Bruno and the lane stood a large log cabin with a shaded porch, on which a middle-aged woman with long straight hair sat cross-legged, her eyes closed and her back straight. The gaps between the logs were stuffed with clay, and the roof was composed of two layers of planks separated by thick sheets of polystyrene foam, all covered by solar panels to heat water.
Then came a wide and deceptively large building that Bruno knew from previous visits to be constructed of homemade bricks of mud and straw; it was covered with earth and dug into the side of the hill so that the doors and windows appeared to peek out from the living turf. A goat grazed on the roof, and two children were seated on benches in front of the building, where they appeared to be playing chess. To the right was the barn, a simple but sturdy A-frame made of abandoned planks of wood and some salvaged iron piping welded into bracing triangles for strength. Bruno’s favorite building was the dome, perched on the grass like half of a gigantic multicolored golf ball, composed of triangles, some of glass, some of wood painted in various hues, some of plastic and some of shards of mirror.
To one side of the dome was a wooden framework overwhich grape vines had been trained for years to make a shaded terrace. Its floor was stone, and it housed a long wooden table with a variety of chairs and benches, and a remarkably wide and ornate hammock that was festooned with sashes and ribbons. Goats lounged around the hammock like courtiers waiting on the empty throne of their monarch. Standing in the doorway of the dome was a naked toddler, the little boy’s arms resting on the neck of a kid goat about his own size. The kid bleated and the toddler waved. Bruno waved back.
Alphonse emerged from the barn, wiping his hands on a long apron. His face was looking older these days, but he was still slim and spry with his long gray hair braided into a ponytail. He wore jeans, rubber thong sandals and the top half of a pair of embroidered pajamas from India, and he topped off this unique confection with a colorful silk bandanna that glinted with gold threads.
“Bruno, welcome,” Alphonse said. “Some tea? A homemade beer? How about some of our new cheese?”
“Nothing, thanks. I’m here on business, and I hope it won’t be too sad. Do you recall a woman named Mireille Augereau? She claims this as her address.”
“Mireille, yes; she lived here nearly twenty years ago for over a year, and then moved on. She first came even before that for a summer as a student with one of the original members, who had become her professor. But I haven’t heard from her for years.”
“And Maximilien Augereau? Would that be the Max I know?”
“Sure; that’s her son. Only he calls himself Vannes after me, I suppose because I brought him up and he never heard much from his mother after she left. Mireille was a pretty thing when she first came here. What’s happened?”
“Well, we received word that she died yesterday in a carcrash just outside Paris. Her license and identity card listed Max as next of kin. It seems that some money may be involved. She was working in a municipal nursery school, so she had life insurance, and Max was the beneficiary.”
“It’s bound to be
soixante-huitards
, had built in the nearly four decades since their arrival. Even if he had not known the steady output of healthy and well-mannered youngsters they had sent through the schools and sports clubs of Saint-Denis and seen Alphonse elected as the first Green member of the town council, he would have been impressed. In pride of place stood a traditional stone farmhouse, with ivy covering most of the side wall. It was topped with the usual red tile roof shaped like a witch’s hat native to this part of Périgord. Beside it stood a tall and spindly windmill that seemed to provide enough power for the needs of the dozen or so people who usually lived here. Closer to Bruno and the lane stood a large log cabin with a shaded porch, on which a middle-aged woman with long straight hair sat cross-legged, her eyes closed and her back straight. The gaps between the logs were stuffed with clay, and the roof was composed of two layers of planks separated by thick sheets of polystyrene foam, all covered by solar panels to heat water.
Then came a wide and deceptively large building that Bruno knew from previous visits to be constructed of homemade bricks of mud and straw; it was covered with earth and dug into the side of the hill so that the doors and windows appeared to peek out from the living turf. A goat grazed on the roof, and two children were seated on benches in front of the building, where they appeared to be playing chess. To the right was the barn, a simple but sturdy A-frame made of abandoned planks of wood and some salvaged iron piping welded into bracing triangles for strength. Bruno’s favorite building was the dome, perched on the grass like half of a gigantic multicolored golf ball, composed of triangles, some of glass, some of wood painted in various hues, some of plastic and some of shards of mirror.
To one side of the dome was a wooden framework overwhich grape vines had been trained for years to make a shaded terrace. Its floor was stone, and it housed a long wooden table with a variety of chairs and benches, and a remarkably wide and ornate hammock that was festooned with sashes and ribbons. Goats lounged around the hammock like courtiers waiting on the empty throne of their monarch. Standing in the doorway of the dome was a naked toddler, the little boy’s arms resting on the neck of a kid goat about his own size. The kid bleated and the toddler waved. Bruno waved back.
Alphonse emerged from the barn, wiping his hands on a long apron. His face was looking older these days, but he was still slim and spry with his long gray hair braided into a ponytail. He wore jeans, rubber thong sandals and the top half of a pair of embroidered pajamas from India, and he topped off this unique confection with a colorful silk bandanna that glinted with gold threads.
“Bruno, welcome,” Alphonse said. “Some tea? A homemade beer? How about some of our new cheese?”
“Nothing, thanks. I’m here on business, and I hope it won’t be too sad. Do you recall a woman named Mireille Augereau? She claims this as her address.”
“Mireille, yes; she lived here nearly twenty years ago for over a year, and then moved on. She first came even before that for a summer as a student with one of the original members, who had become her professor. But I haven’t heard from her for years.”
“And Maximilien Augereau? Would that be the Max I know?”
“Sure; that’s her son. Only he calls himself Vannes after me, I suppose because I brought him up and he never heard much from his mother after she left. Mireille was a pretty thing when she first came here. What’s happened?”
“Well, we received word that she died yesterday in a carcrash just outside Paris. Her license and identity card listed Max as next of kin. It seems that some money may be involved. She was working in a municipal nursery school, so she had life insurance, and Max was the beneficiary.”
“It’s bound to be
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