Page 55 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

Michel and Jean laughed.

‘That is your expert opinion, Giordano?’

‘Indeed, it is. When I see more clues, I will tell you exactly where we are.’

The trio entered the small village. The houses, packed close together, ran up a cobbled street. Some shops were boarded up; the streets were eerily quiet with no children playing, no one coming home from work.

With nobody to water them, the flowers in the window boxes were brown and wilted; a lone dog trotted towards them, skinny and with wary eyes. It peed against a lamppost before hurrying on.

‘Where’s this café you say sells cheese?’ Jean asked, his voice forcibly jolly.

They came to the market square, where only one café remained open.

‘There, that one,’ Giordano said, and hurried towards it.

‘Hardly a detective, is he?’ Michel said.

They sat down at a small wobbly table, and the local woman who ran the café bustled over, clearly thrilled to see customers.

‘Where are we, Mademoiselle?’ Giordano asked her.

‘You don’t know where you are?’ She raised her eyebrows suspiciously.

‘We have been travelling far, please forgive us.’

Jean smirked at Michel and hid his smile behind a menu.

‘You’re not far from the city of Clermont-Ferrand – it’s a few miles away.’

‘Ah, see! A volcanic town, is it not?’

‘It is.’

‘My geography is intact. Jean, you owe me a drink.’

‘Did I agree to that?’ Jean asked.

‘Mademoiselle, my friend here will be buying the drinks.’

‘You flatter me,’ the woman said, patting her grey hairs into her bun. ‘I am a Madame.’

‘Oh! I did not realise. I do apologise.’

‘No apology necessary.’ She smiled at him.

They clubbed together what little money they had and ordered a bottle of wine. The food was brought without them asking – a thick cassoulet of beans and sausages that burst from their skins in the rich tomato rich sauce, fresh bread, a brie, and a whole camembert so ripe it was one day away from being inedible – the perfect age.

‘No goose tonight,’ the Madame said by way of apology, as she placed the bubbling cassoulet in its terracotta pot in front of them. ‘Soon, no cheese, and then, no wine!’ She fanned herself and looked as though she were going to cry. ‘They are coming, you know – everyone has left. We get no newspapers now; the telephones don’t work. My sister lives in the village a few miles north of here; she says they came and took the church and the mayor’s office for their own. My sister can’t go out at night now – no one can. They must stay at home all day – all night. No cheese, no wine either, she says. They have to live on tinned vegetables.’

‘God forbid!’ Giordano stood and wrapped his small arms around her ample waist, his hands not quite meeting. ‘No, no, Madame. It will not come to this! Do not fear.’

The Madame was cheered by this and gave the trio another bottle of red on the house.

‘I used to think that wine grew on vines,’ Jean-Jacques said. ‘Literally. Bottles hung on vines. That’s what I thought when I was young.’ He shoved a piece of bread in his mouth, then with the silver cheese knife cut a wedge of melting camembert and filled what space was left.

Michel smiled. ‘When I was young, I used to think that there was only one country – France. Then, Monsieur Bertrand showed me a map and it was magic – utter magic – all those other countries.’

‘I used to think that I was the most handsome man in all of Italy!’ Giordano said, his lips stained purple from the wine. ‘I still do, too!’