Isabelle, he judged, was a woman who would decide for herself whether and when
and where to take a lover, and yet it would feel odd to him and probably to
her if he did not make an advance on his own turf. Neutral ground was called
for, and the lady wanted a picnic, so a picnic it would be.
He drove up the long hill past the water tower and out onto the plateau that
gave the best views along the bank of the river, and Isabelle made suitably
appreciative noises. At a road so small it looked like a track, he turned off.
They climbed another low hill, and came to the foot of a high and almost
vertical cliff where he parked on a small patch of ancient gravel, opened her
door for her and then released Gigi. He took a small picnic bag from the cool
box and she heard the tinkling of glasses.
I want you to meet a friend of mine, he said. He led her up a track, round a
corner and there, nestling into the base of the cliff, was a small house. It had
a door, two windows, and its roof was the great rock itself. A small stream
flowed from the base of the house through a gutter to tumble down the hill with
a soft sound. In front of the house was a narrow terrace, with an old metal
table and three chairs, and beyond it was a small vegetable garden. A black and
white mongrel dog was tied to a hook screwed into the doorpost, and growled when
it first saw Gigi. But Brunos dog knew his manners and approached slowly and
humbly, his tail wagging as if asking permission, and the two dogs sniffed each
other courteously.
Theyre old friends, Bruno explained. We go hunting together.
The door opened and a small elderly man poked his head into the open. Ah
Bruno, he said, as if they had last met a few minutes ago. Welcome, welcome,
and who is your friend?
Isabelle Perrault, this is Maurice Duchęne, owner and keeper of the sorcerers
cave, who was born in this cliff house and has lived here all his life. Maurice
Duchęne, meet Inspector Isabelle of the Police Nationale, a colleague but also a
good friend.
My home is honoured to receive you, my dear Mademoiselle. The old man,
terribly bent with age, came forward to shake her hand. He had to cock his head
sideways to peer up at her, but Bruno noticed his glance was keen and almost
roguish.
A beauty, my dear Bruno, you have brought a real beauty to my home, and my
magnificent Gigi, prince among hunting dogs. This is a pleasure, such a
pleasure.
Come, sit and have a drink with us, Maurice, and then with your permission Id
like to show Isabelle the cave. And could you bring us some of your water?
Isabelle is from Paris and she will never have tasted anything like it so we
must take care of her education.
Gladly, gladly, my dears. Sit down and I shall be with you immediately. He
turned and hobbled back into the house. Isabelle sat, and Bruno took a dark wine
bottle with no label from his bag and three small wine glasses, and poured.
Isabelle sat back and turned to look at the view, a vast sweep of the valley
with trees marking the rivers meandering course and more cliffs on its far
side.
Here we are, here we are, the finest water of mother nature and father
Périgord, said the old man, coming out with a tray and a jug of water and three
tumblers that were opaque with age. Straight from the rock, straight into my
kitchen and bathroom, always running water. It never runs dry. And Bruno has
brought my favourite aperitif. He makes it himself, you know, every year on St
Catherines day. This must be last years vintage.
No, Maurice, in your honour, and for Isabelle, I have brought the 99 that you
like. Here, let us drink a toast to friendship, but first, Isabelle, I should
tell you that this is vin de noix, made from our local green walnuts and
Bergerac wine and eau de vie from my own peaches. You wont find this in Paris.
Delicious, she said. And what a magnificent view you have, Monsieur Duchęne.
But is it not cold up here in winter?
Cold? Never. The water never freezes and the rocks keep me dry. I have plenty
of wood and my stove is all I need, even on the coldest nights when theres snow
on the ground. Now you must try my famous water, my dear. If there were much
more of it, Id call it a source and bottle it and become richer than Monsieur
Perrier.
She took a sip. It was cool, so lightly pétillant that she could barely taste
the bubbles, and without any of the chalky taste of some mountain waters. She
liked it and took some more, swirling it around her mouth.
It tastes like freshness itself, she said, and the old man rocked back and
forth with glee.
Freshness itself. Yes, thats a good one, he said. Yes, we shall remember
that. You think they would like that in Paris, Mademoiselle?
Paris, New York, London they would love it everywhere, she said. Bruno was
touched by her enthusiasm.
May I show her the cave, Maurice? he asked. I have brought two torches. And
the vin de noix is for you, old friend, along with some pâté I made this
Spring. He took a large glass jar with a rubber seal from his bag and placed it
on the table, and the old man handed Bruno an ancient key and poured himself
another glass of Brunos drink.
They walked on past the vegetable garden, along an increasingly narrow winding
track, where only a flimsy rope fence protected them from the drop, and then
around a steep buttress in the cliff. They came to a patch of brilliant green
turf that led to an ancient iron-bound door in the rock. Bruno opened it with
the key, gave Isabelle a torch, and told her to watch her footing. He took her
arm to guide her in, and they stood for a moment to let their eyes get
accustomed to the darkness. Gigi stayed at the entrance, backing away from the
caves black interior and growling softly. Bruno was very conscious of
Isabelles closeness as he steered her forward, his feet carefully feeling their
way over the rough rock.
They call this the Cave of the Sorcerer, but hardly anyone knows about it and
even fewer come to see it, he said. Maurice prefers it that way, so he puts up
no signs and will not let the tourist board advertise it. But it has something
very rare among the cave paintings of this district.
He stopped, turned her slightly towards him and saw her give a small start, and
then lean slightly towards him as if she expected to be kissed, but he shone his
torch high and told her to look carefully. As she followed the movement of the
torch beam she suddenly saw that he was illuminating the outlines of a creature,
crouching and heavy and somehow touched with power and menace.
Is it a bear? she asked, but the torch was moving on. And there, next to it,
was another image, but now Bruno was playing the torch beam up and down along a
strange curve that seemed at first sight to be part of the rock. Bruno let her
take in the dark painted shape.
Its a mammoth! she said, marvelling. I see the tusks, and thats a trunk,
and those massive legs.
Twenty thousand years old, said Bruno softly, and shone the beam further along
to a small creature on all fours, its face turned towards them.
Its face is so human, Isabelle said. Is it a monkey, an ape?
No tail, said Bruno, moving the torch to the rump. This is just about unique,
the only identified humanoid face in all the Périgord cave engravings that are
known. Look: the eyes, the curve of the jaw and shape of the head, and the gap