By Robert Beck
THE SATURATED GROUND WOULDN’T take it anymore. Streams were raging over banks
and many roads were flooded. Surprises and deep water lie at every turn. A big
concern was other cars; the occasional teenage girl driving wide-eyed with her chin
against the wheel, laughing with her friends, or the counterpart boy slumped cool in the
seat sure that what can’t be seen isn’t a problem. I allowed plenty of time for detours
and arrived safely at one of my favorite restaurants, the Hotel du Village, to meet Ms.
T for dinner. The sky was growing angrier. Lead-gray clouds skimming the treetops
spoke of more nasty weather on the way. The innkeeper, Barbara, met me at the door
just as Ms. T pulled into the lot. The three of us watched the threatening sky for a
minute and then Barbara took us in to a table by the fire and drinks, which seemed the
civilized way to welcome another storm.
It was a light crowd, even for a Wednesday evening. The couple that sat next to us
arrived straight out of a 1940s movie. The man was double-breasted and mustached;
the woman was trenchcoated and tailored. She never looked at him. He never looked
at anything else but her. They ate in silence. I was halfway through my Avocat Marie
Louise when the sky turned dark green and the winds hit with fury. A black shape flew
past the window across the room. Something heavy slammed in the distant reaches
of the building. Forks held position as heads turned an ear towards the sound, then an
eye to the other tables. Conversations changed tone. A torrent washed the roof,
lightning crashed again and again, and finally the lights went out. We all sat silently
as our senses recalibrated — listening, evaluating. The fireplace became the center of
our shared, primal shelter, casting long shadows up the wall as thunder rolled and
winds howled.
Barbara came into the room an announced that dinner would proceed as usual. The
kitchen stove is gas and there are plenty of candles. If anyone would like another
drink, it’s on the house — that’s the restaurant at the Hotel du Village. The mood
lightened immediately but eyes and minds stayed focused. Murder mysteries lurked in
the recesses of memory: A knock at the castle door. Captain Ruger saying the bridge
is out, and all the guests must stay the night….
My Cotelettes d’Agneau Persilles arrived and proved excellent along with the company,
while unpredictability spiced the evening. The service was buoyant and precise. Jewelry
glinted in the firelight. Then Barbara came in and announced that the police had called
saying there was a tree down at the end of the drive and no one could leave. Ms. T
said she needed a cigarette. Barbara suggested we go into the small private bar at the
end of the hall. So we stood, put our napkins on the table and walked down the unlit
corridor guided by flashes from distant windows. There was no light in the small room.
I sensed movement in the shadows behind the bar, then a voice: “What can I get you
to drink?” It was Barbara. Ms. T exhaled the first drag of her cigarette and waved the
match out as she looked around in the darkness for an ashtray. I ordered two glasses
of wine for us and leaned, elbows-back on the bar.
Barbara lit two candles, giving volume and movement to the room. Couple Noir came in
and went over to one of the small tables. The woman took a seat while he stood close
beside. She slid a pack of cigarettes from her purse and with difficulty pulled one out
with her fingernails. It shook between her fingers as she brought it to her lips, where it
was met by the flare of his lighter. She blew the smoke out quickly, closed her purse,
and flicked an ash that wasn’t there yet. Coat over her shoulders, Ms. Noir sat staring
past the ember while he stood quietly watching. Barbara handed me the glasses and
the three of us chatted a bit. Then my companion and I went back to our table for
dessert. I was just finishing my blackberries with brandy when Barbara came into the
room to tell us the police were going to open the road to cars — for just five minutes.
Anyone who wished to stay was welcome to a room in the hotel, and those who
wanted to leave should line up in the driveway. Ms. T and I decided to go, paid our bill,
and scurried out to our cars. The rain eased as we queued up in the driveway waiting
for a signal. Lightning still flashed overhead revealing quick glimpses of the tempest
to either side. The lawn was strewn with thick dismembered branches. A car in the lot
had a tree lying stem to stern, crushing the hood and roof.
Flashlights danced up front and the cars began to move. We picked our way single-file
over crushed twigs, through a kaleidoscope of road flares and flashing red lights
reflecting in the trees and soaked road. Figures appeared in the headlights using ropes
to pull tree limbs back and lifting slack power lines up with poles. Then, that was behind
and we were alone with the cadence of the wipers and glow of the dashboard, free to
go as the roads home permitted, each of us ending the night in our own way.