page14 (1/2)

She looked away as she parsed what I’d said, looking for any trace of insincerity or condescension, I i none — for there was none to be found — she snancy in her shty close

The candles were burning down and the night was getting cool by the time we left La Mirande I wished I had a jacket to wrap around her shoulders; I considered wrapping an ar…sacred, somehow, in the air around us, and I didn’t want to risk disturbing it

Thank you, I said silently to the universe, or to God, or to the river of life Thank you

The next h on irritation — was still struggling to install and debug the h the offer was neither sincere nor particularly useful, given my ineptness with electronics Blessedly, Stefan declined and actually shooed us ahich ed froiddy with freedo hooky “What shall we do, Miss Miranda?”

“Let’s pretend we’re tourists,” she said We dashed to Luuidebook; we departed with not only a guidebook but also a car: In a gesture of reenerosity, Jean and Elisabeth loaned us their car, so — ensconced in an aging Peugeot and aruide to Provence — we set out Gingerly, for it had been years since I’d driven a car with a clutch, I eased us into the street and along the base of the ancient wall, which bristled atch-towers every fifty yards I checked thefollowed Unless an eleven-year-old girl on a bicycle had been trained as an assassin, ere in the clear

We started with a detour through the town across the river, Villeneuve-les-Avignon Villeneuve meant “Nen,” Miranda translated; it was a name that had been accurate once upon a ti the thirteen hundreds, Villeneuve, which was not so tightly cranon, became a wealthy suburb of the papal city, and fifteen cardinals built palaces there, though none, as far as we could see, had survived What had survived were two monumental structures: a 130-foot tower that once controlled the western end of Saint Bénézet’s Bridge, back when the bridge spanned the entire river; and a massive fortress that encircled the town’s hilltop Both the tower and the fortress had been built to send a clear ht hold the keys to heaven, but the king’s earthly arates on an hour’s notice, if papal push ever can shove

Fro with the guidebook and a large-scale Michelinon the asphalt, hter and freer than I had since non, Miranda pointed to a ruined fortress on a hilltop “Châteauneuf-du-Pape,” she announced “It translates as ‘New Castle of the Pope’”

“All these ancient places with uess five hundred years fro about New York, huh?” I threaded e and parked beside the ruins The structure had been built in the early thirteen hundreds, according to the guidebook, and had survived the ravages of time and the elements for six centuries Unfortunately, it had not survived the ravages of Hitler’s soldiers During World War Two, German troops filled the castle with dyna all but an L-shaped section of wall and tower

Claood view of the broad plain belohich was filled as far as the eye could see with vineyards, the neat rows of vines lined with river rocks “The rocks capture the heat of the sun,” Miranda read, “to keep the vines waracy of Pope John XXII, the second of the Avignon popes “He ell known for his love of wine,” she went on, “and also for his sour disposition” She laughed “After he drank it, I guess it turned to vinegar in his soul”

As we made our way back to the car, I noticed a stone staircase burrowing into the hillside, ending at a door set deep in the foundations of the fortress I nudged Miranda and nodded doard the doorway “Pope John’s wine cellar?”

“Looks ht The steps were narrow, steep, and cru; the arch of the dooras low; the door itself was recessed a couple of feet into the thick stonework “Holy heretics, Batet out of here”

As the Peugeot clattered and corkscrewed back down through the town, Miranda announced, “I’ How about lunch?”

“Sure Can you non?”

“I can o Look, there’s a parking place On the right Here, here, here” I whipped the car into the spot, forgetting to push in the clutch, and we lurched to a stop as the engine stalled “Smooth, Dr B”

“Thanks Anybody ever tell you you’re bossy?”

“Nobody who valued life and lihed

The café, La Maisouneta—“Provençal dialect for ‘The Little House,’ I think,” Miranda said — was as huant and expensive The handful of other custo couple with a toddler crawling beneath the tables; a stocky older woed man in paint-spattered coveralls The menu was scrawled on a blackboard behind the counter, but most of the dishes on it were unavailable, the hostess infor, and the kitchen had run out of everything except salad and so of melted white cheese with a potato on the side “White on white,” I muttered “Sounds terrific”

It was terrific, in fact The dish had been baked until the top of the cheese was golden brown and crispy, and it was garnished with crunchy bits of salty haht’s feast of Corsican lamb stew

Then again, maybe it wasn’t the food that was special;across this hole-in-the-wall café on a steep cobblestone street in an ancient town, sitting across a stained checkerboard tablecloth fro, but I had no idea what she was saying; instead, as I watched herwhat a lovely wo I were twenty years younger Suddenly she stopped talking, stared at s

“Sorry, what?”