"I checked the village phone book," she said. "Remarkably, there's no St.

Laurent with such a common given name. If we were in the States, we could consult a local census list. But here in St. Laurent we have none."

"Then there isn't any way?"

Simone seemed troubled.

"What then?" Houston asked.

"One man possibly can help you."

Houston frowned at her reluctance.

"He's old. He isn't well. But he knows everything about this village."

Houston stood. "Let's find him."

Chapter 5.

Houston's nostrils flared from camphor fumes. The drapes were closed. The room was dark except for glowing embers from a smoking log inside the hearth.

The ancient priest sat in a chair before the fireplace. His name was Father Devereaux. He was frail and wrinkled, almost shrunken, his wispy hair reminding Houston of a spiderweb. He coughed from deep inside his chest; he did so often, and each time the effort gave him pain. He raised a crushed but ample handkerchief from underneath the blanket that he clutched around him, wiping at his mouth. He could only muster strength for short, slow phrases, but his voice was soft and thin and almost soundless, so that Houston though he didn't understand the language found that he was leaning close.

"So long ago. So much has happened." Turning from the priest, Simone translated for them.

"Tell him I appreciate his effort. Tell him anything he remembers might be useful," Houston said.

Simone spoke French. The priest responded.

"He recalls the man you're looking for."

Now Houston glanced toward Janice, trying to subdue his quick excitement.

"But he's sorry. He can't help you."

"Why?" Houston said. "If he remembers."

"He apologizes. But the man you seek was young then. He himself was young. Too much has happened."

Houston stiffened. "There's something wrong. You're sure he understands?"

"Oh, perfectly."

"Then why . . . ? Look, ask him this. The man I'm searching for, does he still live here in this village?"

Simone explained. The priest slowly shook his head.

"Now what does that mean?" Houston said. "He either doesn't know, or else he isn't telling."

Father Devereaux coughed. He wiped the bulky handkerchief across his mouth and closed his eyes. Houston shuddered sympathetically. Simone spoke briefly and received what, from the priest, was an elaborate answer.

"Some of that I understood," Jan said. But Houston waited, anxious for Simone's translation.

"He is ignorant, he says. He doesn't know where this man lives or even if he lives. What's more, he doesn't care. He says he knows that in this matter he has not fulfilled his obligations, but he asks the Lord to make allowance. As a pastor, he is duty-bound to watch each member of his flock, but in this case he is indifferent. He must love a G.o.d-created soul but does not have to like the man who harbors it." A spark cracked in the fireplace.

"I don't understand," Houston said.

The priest began to speak again. His voice dimmed. Then he coughed so deeply that the rattle clawed through Houston's stomach.

"He must rest, he says. He can't answer any more questions."

"But "

"There's something else. He says that everything he knows about this man was learned in the confessional. Many years ago; so much has changed. He still recalls when meat on Friday was a mortal sin. And failing to attend a ma.s.s on Sunday. And divorce." She paused. "He still recalls when he could say a ma.s.s in Latin. He is grateful to be dying before further changes weary him. But this much, for himself at least, has not changed. He will not reveal the secrets that he heard as a confessor."

Houston concentrated on the priest by the fireplace. The wizened face stared toward him, ghost eyes glowing. Houston sighed and slowly nodded.

Father Devereaux turned toward Simone and with more energy spoke to her privately. The tone was like a parent's. Although Houston tried to follow what the priest had to say to her, the sick-sweet camphor fumes distracted him. He finally gave up the effort.

Jan gaped, shocked, confused, discouraged, it was difficult to tell.

The priest stopped. Simone leaned down to kiss his hand. He blessed her. She helped him stand. Pete thanked him, though for what he wasn't sure.

"G.o.d help you," Father Devereaux replied in French. He gripped a sofa, then a chair, and shuffled coughing from the room.

Outside the camphor of the rectory, Houston breathed the freshness of a garden in late afternoon. "What now?" he said.

"The village clerk," Simone suggested. They walked toward the iron gate set in the garden's wall.

"That last part. You didn't translate," Houston said.

"No, it was private."

"At the hotel you were hesitant to bring us here."

She nodded. Houston pulled the gate and let her through.

"You heard him speak about divorce," she said.

Now it was Houston's turn to nod.

"Well, when I went to Berkeley, I got married. He was wrong for me. It didn't work."

So it had not been campus riots that had driven her back home to France. It was a ruined marriage and divorce.

"He says that I should take confession, and he says that he will pray for me."

Chapter 6.

The bas.e.m.e.nt of the village courthouse was near the river. Moisture permeated everything. The wooden floor felt soft, the dingy counter sticky. Papers, stored in wooden boxes stacked on rows of shelves throughout the room, gave off a dank and fetid odor.

Houston watched the clerk, who stared back with narrowed eyes and shook his head emphatically, reminding Houston of the sergeant and the priest, repeating, 'Won, monsieur." The man was in his fifties, overweight and apprehensive. For his lunch he'd eaten sausage. Houston smelled the garlic wafting from him, mixed with pipe smoke and stale wine.

Houston understood his apprehension. They had been here for an hour now. They'd asked the clerk to check the village tax roll for Pierre de St. Laurent, but no such name had been discovered. Then they'd asked him to check the list of people who owned neighboring land. Again the name had not been present.

"Est-il mort?" the clerk had wondered, then had instantly regretted what he'd said. He seemed to want to bite his tongue, for his suggestion would mean further work, a search through all the death files, going backward through the years. He sighed and started bringing boxes to the counter. Although Houston understood that only clerks could touch the boxes, this man gratefully accepted help.

In fact, the clerk let Houston, Janice, and Simone do all the work. He snapped his suspenders, hands pressed to his striped shirt, rocking back and forth on his heels. He glanced repeatedly past Houston toward a dusty clock on the wall.

Pete could read the language, even if he couldn't speak it, but he had trouble with the papers. The doc.u.ments were often stuck together, and a careless flick of hand could tear them easily. The ink was fainter as he worked back through the years, and different hands had their secret scrawls. Both he and Janice often asked Simone for her interpretation. Nineteen eighties, then the seventies, the sixties. Each box had been arranged alphabetically, but all the St. Laurents were bunched together randomly, their first names in no special order. In this moldy bas.e.m.e.nt without win- dows and with a few pale dangling light bulbs, Houston's headache started throbbing once again. He found that he was squinting.

"I could use a drink," Jan said.

"A lot of them," Pete answered. "We're half done at least. Lord, more than half." He was mistaken. There were only three boxes they had not investigated.

He had 1953. Simone had 1952, and Jan had 1951.

"Where's nineteen fifty?" Houston asked.

The clerk was puzzled. "Qu'est-ce que c'est?"

Simone translated. The clerk began a lengthy explanation.

"That's the last of them," Simone told Houston.

"What?"

"The records stop in nineteen fifty-one. He's right. I totally forgot."

"But why?"

"There was a fire. I remember now. In nineteen fifty. I was just a child, but I remember that my mother brought me down to watch. The blaze made night seem day."

"The courthouse?"

"It was old but elegant, a proper courthouse. Not like this converted warehouse.

Who knows how it happened? Someone left a cigarette? Perhaps a faulty fuse box?

Who can say? The damage, though, was total. Mother let me watch until I got so sleepy she had to take me home. But in the morning I came back with her, and there was nothing left except the sh.e.l.l. For months I tasted smoke when I walked past."

"But surely something could be saved."

She merely looked at him.

Chapter 7.

They walked along the cobbled street. The sky was orange, but here the buildings blocked the sunset, casting early dusk. Houston squinted through the shadows toward the river's mist that hung above the trees beyond the far end of the street.

"At least we tried," Jan said.

Hand in hand with her, he nodded listlessly, preoccupied by Pierre St. Laurent.

"It's like the man just disappeared."

"In America, you'd say you tried a long shot," Simone said, "but too many factors were against you."

"Someone must remember him," he said, his voice taut with frustration.

"No, not necessarily," Simone replied.

Houston glanced at her.

"When the war was over, many villages had been so shattered that the memory of what had happened was unbearable," she told him. "People who had lost their homes, who grieved for parents, spouses, children, they decided to make a fresh start somewhere else. As an American, you don't understand these things. You've been fortunate to have few wars on your land. But here in France it's rare when we have peace. Entire centuries have been occupied by war." She paused, her eyes sad. "Dislocation. It's hard to explain. Imagine your Civil War. Georgia after Sherman had razed it. Not a farmhouse left standing. Not a blade of gra.s.s left growing. Absolute ruin. Now imagine that you visit Georgia thirty-seven years later. You're looking for a man whose name is common, who lived in a certain village during Sherman's march. Would you expect to find that man? Would it seem strange to you that no one now remembered him?"

"There has to be a way."

"Your sense of obligation is that great? Your need to thank him?"

Houston almost told her his real motive. But abruptly something closed within him. His reluctance disturbed him. He explained it to himself by guessing that he didn't have the strength to voice his memories. His deep emotions, held in check for so long, were potentially too painful. "It's a point of honor, I suppose."

Simone frowned, puzzled. "We can go to the police tomorrow."

Jan was startled. "Why?"

"Since you're determined."

Houston felt exhausted. He was grateful when they left the narrow cobbled street and came out on the level sidewalk that was opposite the park. The shadows had disappeared. He stood in brilliant sunset. Past the calmness of the park the river's mist was pastel orange.

"It's like a Cezanne," Jan said.