Martin Walker - Bruno, chief of police

‘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 won’t find this in Paris.’

‘Delicious,’ she said. ‘And what a magnificent view you have, Monsieur Duchкne.

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 there’s snow on the ground. Now you must try my famous water, my dear. If there were much more of it, I’d call it a source and bottle it and become richer than Monsieur Perrier.’

She took a sip. It was cool, so lightly pйtillant 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, that’s 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 pвtй 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 Bruno’s 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 cave’s black interior and growling softly. Bruno was very conscious of Isabelle’s 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.

‘It’s a mammoth!’ she said, marvelling. ‘I see the tusks, and that’s 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 Pйrigord cave engravings that are known. Look: the eyes, the curve of the jaw and shape of the head, and the gap that seems to be an open mouth.’

‘It’s wonderful, but it looks almost evil.’

‘That’s why Maurice calls it the Sorcerer. See that bag that he seems to clutch in one hand? Maurice says that’s his magic tricks.’ He paused, and she shone her own torch around the cave, up to the jagged, sloping roof and back to the mammoths. ‘There’s one more thing I want to show you, something I find very moving,’ he said, and steered her around a pillar of rock and into a smaller cave, his torch darting back and forth at waist height before he found what he was looking for. Then the beam focused on a tiny hand, the print of a child’s palm and fingers, so clear and precise that it could have been made yesterday.

‘Oh, Bruno,’ she said, clutching at his hand and squeezing it. ‘A child’s hand print. That’s so touching, it’s marvellous.’

‘Can’t you just see the little one at play? While his parents are painting mammoths and sorcerers, the child puts a hand in the paint and then makes a mark that lasts for ever.’

‘Twenty thousand years,’ she whispered, then impulsively reached up and touched his cheek and kissed him. She let her mouth linger on his as the light from their torches darted aimlessly around the cave. Bruno responded, tasting the wine on her lips, until she moved her hand up to stroke his cheek. She drew back, her eyes glinting in the torchlight and smiling questioningly, as if asking herself whether he had brought any other women to this cave, and whether it had worked the same magic on them.

They bade farewell to Maurice and his dog, and the sun was still an hour or more from sinking as they returned to the car, hand in hand.

‘Now what?’ she asked.

‘Now for your picnic,’ he said firmly, and drove on up the narrow, winding road.

They came out on a wide plateau formed by the cliff that harboured the cave. He drove on towards a small hillock topped with a ruined building, but the distance was deceptive. The hillock was far larger than it seemed at first sight, and the ruined building was tall and imposing.

‘It’s a ruined castle,’ exclaimed Isabelle with delight.

‘Welcome to the old castle of Brillamont, seat of the Seigneurs of St Denis, built eight hundred years ago. It was twice taken by the English and twice recaptured and sacked, and ruined over four hundred years ago by fellow Frenchmen in the religious wars. It boasts the best view in France and the best place I know for your picnic. You have a look around with Gigi while I organise our meal. Just don’t climb the walls or the staircase – it’s not safe.’

Bruno watched as Gigi bounded ahead, occasionally glancing back to see what took this human so long, and Isabelle climbed the hill past the crumbled castle walls to a large sloping expanse of turf dominated by a central tower. Three of its walls still stood, but the whole of the interior was open to her view. A stone staircase that looked solid enough climbed up the interior of all three walls.

Bruno glanced up from the fire he was making as she paced the exterior walls and looked out over the plateau, where the view was even grander than it had been from the cave, with the River Vйzиre flowing into the Dordogne as it came from an adjoining valley.

Swifts and swallows were darting above Isabelle as she rejoined Bruno. He had built a small fire inside a nest of stones and laid across it a metal grill he had brought with him. Two freshly gutted fish were steaming gently above the coals. He had spread a large rug and some cushions on the ground, and two champagne glasses stood on a large tray. He’d put a fresh baguette ready, with a hefty wedge of Cantal cheese and a block of pвtй on a wooden board. As she knelt on a cushion, he reached into the cool box and pulled out a half bottle of champagne.

‘Now there’s a responsible policeman. Only drinking a half-bottle because he has to drive,’ she said, sinking to her knees on the rug. ‘This looks even better than I could possibly have dreamed when I asked for a picnic, Bruno. Where did you get the fish?’