placid and careful character and taken risks and sought adventure. He turned
that word around in his mouth for a long moment: adventure the word still
inspired him. It still triggered boyhood dreams of travel to mysterious places
and daring challenges, dreams of drama and passion of an intensity that a quiet
country policeman seldom knew. But then he had become a country policeman
because that kind of intensity had battered him so badly when he had tasted it
in Bosnia. His hand strayed to the old scar just above his hip, and he felt
again the sudden confusion of memories, of noise and flames, the world spinning
as he fell, the glare of headlamps and blood on the snow. It was a sequence he
could never get straight in his mind, the events and images all jumbled. Only
the soundtrack remained clear a symphony of helicopter blades in low rhythm
against the counterpoint chatter of a machine gun, the slam of grenades, the
squealing clatter of tank tracks. Bruno felt a kind of self-pity begin to steal
over him and mentally shook himself for being so foolish, and so self-absorbed
that he was almost forgetting the drama on his own doorstep. A country policeman
seldom had to deal with murder, drugs and bizarre sex games all in a single
week.
Having stacked the dishes carefully in their rack to drain and set out his cup,
plate and knife for breakfast, he kneeled to caress Gigi, who was snuffling
amiably at his feet, hoping that perhaps not all the scraps from dinner had
gone. He cradled the dogs head in his hands, scratching those soft spots behind
its ears, then bent his own head so that their foreheads met and he made an
affectionate noise deep in his throat, hearing its echo as his dog responded.
There ought to be a word for that deep and loving sound a dog could make had
Gigi been a cat, Bruno would have said it purred for this was not a growl, a
word that carried a hint of menace. Gigi twisted his head to lick Brunos face,
clambering up so that his front paws rested on his masters shoulders, the
better to lick his ears and nuzzle into his neck. Bruno relished the contact and
the affection, and hugged his dog before patting its shoulders and getting to
his feet. Time for bed, he told Gigi, for both of us.
What I am trying to do now is distract myself from the subject that really
occupies my mind, Bruno admitted to himself as he led Gigi out to the kennel. He
took a last attentive look at the fence around his hen house, and heard an owl
hooting far off in the woods. He checked that nothing was left on the table and
splashed water on the ashes in the barbecue. He knew he was trying to avoid the
moment of introspection and self-doubt that was upon him. The fact was that he
now deeply regretted his tame acceptance of Isabelles departure.
Was that it, he asked himself, looking up to the great blaze of stars and the
distant moving lights of airliners. Had he merely acquiesced in Isabelles
decision to return to her hotel, or had he, by his own timidity, given the
impression that her company was not desired? A bolder Bruno would have taken her
decisively in his arms under the night sky, and embarked on the great adventure
of a new affair with a lithe and distinctly modern young woman of intelligence
and ambition.
Come on, Bruno, he told himself as he brushed his teeth. Dont demean yourself
or understate your value. You built your house with your own hands. Youve
taught yourself to be a gardener who can feed himself and his friends, and
youve become a countryman who understands the feel of the soil and the rhythms
of the seasons, and the old sweet ways of rural France. Youre a man of duty and
responsibility to yourself and your community. Youve seen foreign lands, youve
known love and war and wounds and battle, and that was more than enough
adventure for anyone. Adventure meant risk and danger, and hed seen his share
of both. He would not willingly seek them out again. The sudden image of the
bomb-shattered French light tank at Sarajevo airport flooded into his mind, the
torn bodies of men he had trained with, eaten with, fought beside. That had been
adventure, and praise be to le bon Dieu that it was over.
He picked up the photograph of himself with Katarina, taken in that glorious
Bosnian summer not long after they had become lovers, and before the winter came
with the snow that gave cover to the Serb raiding party and the sniper who had
shot him. He had been a man of great vigour and passion then, and able to carry
out the violent acts that were part of his duty. He put down the photograph and
pulled out the thin volume of Baudelaire she had given him, opening it to read
her inscription to him and to stare at her flowing signature. He could also hear
her voice again, reading the poems aloud to him in that curiously liquid French
that she had taught her schoolchildren before the war came. He was almost wholly
glad those days were long gone but then, as he slipped between the cool sheets
and turned out the light, he thought, youre also a man whose bed has been empty
too long and who seems to have got out of the way of enticing attractive women
into it.
Then a more cheerful idea emerged, as it usually did when he had been unduly
hard on himself. He had recently met three attractive and unattached women.
First, Isabelle, who in the absence of an obvious suspect would be here in St
Denis for some time. Then there was Pamela the mad Englishwoman, who lived here
and whom he found interesting. And there was her friend Christine, here only
briefly but she seemed a forthright and enterprising woman, and was in some ways
the prettiest of the three. And he would be playing tennis with them both
tomorrow, with only his friend the Baron as rival for their company.
It promised to be entertaining. The Baron was an inveterate competitor. He hated
to lose, hated even more to lose to a woman, and above all could not abide
losing to the English. And from what Bruno had seen of their play, Christine and
Pamela were likely to trounce them on an unpredictable grass court. The silent
struggle between the Barons fury at defeat and his innate and chivalrous
courtesy would be an entertainment in itself. With a smile of affection for his
friend, and a glow of satisfaction at having steered his own thoughts from
gloomy introspection into more agreeable paths, Bruno drifted into an untroubled
sleep.
It was a lovely May morning as they drove in the Barons big old Citroën up the
track beside Yannicks house, past the turnoff to Hamids lonely cottage, and
over the rise to the beguiling setting of Pamelas farmhouse. The Baron slowed
his car to a halt, and gazed at the scene in solemn approval, then climbed out
to stand and take a longer look. Bruno opened his door and joined him, enjoying
the Barons reaction to the surroundings and pleased that it matched his own.
They looked in silence, until a drumming noise came from behind them and they
turned to see two horsewomen, their hair flowing free, cantering along the ridge
towards them and spurring into a near gallop as they saw the car and the two
men.
Unlike for Pamelas usual trips into town, there was no riding cap or neat black
riding coat for this mornings ride. She was wearing a white shirt open at the
neck, with a green silk scarf that flowed into her auburn hair, and some old
trousers stuffed into her riding boots. The Baron let out a low whistle of