The brothers flew to Toulouse, an idyllic town in the south of France, the following week. The town itself was situated on the Lot river, spreading itself like a brick red blanket from river bank to river bank. Boasting and bursting with thriving restaurants, bountiful markets and red nosed wine merchants, Toulouse was somewhat a breath of fresh air after stuffy London. The brothers, although they felt a sense of pressure in their quest for answers, decided to take a séjour to enjoy the town before they ventured deeper into the Lot region.
Darius, who was very proud of his A level French, attempted to flex his vocal muscles as much as was reasonably possible with Joe himself adding a smattering here and there. They spent their evening sequestered beneath a full and heavy vine, seated on 70’s velvet chairs on a lively balcony that overlooked the river. Their light conversation was punctuated by the chirping of cicadas and the occasional occitan accent that would rise up from the river.
The meal was of Etruscan origin, seafood followed by even more seafood. A light salad niçoise, tuna and tomatoes, as an aperitif followed by a steam cooked bass . To finish they relished in the cracking of a crème brulee which was the best that they had ever had. “Fuck me” Darius expressed eloquently as he puffed out a plume of golden Virginia. “Should have had a holiday down this way years ago. They've got a mighty rugby team here you know? If they're eating like this regularly I'm not surprised; they're one of the best in the league.”
Joe nodded sagely as he held his own swollen stomach “not too shabby at all”.
As they both indulged in the sweet warm evening air, a band took up in the bar below followed by the dulcet tones of a female vocalist. A few of the punters who were deeper in their cups attempted to follow along with the famous Edith Piath tunes but were quickly shushed by their colleagues. Some things should not be infringed upon.
A night cap in the pair’s hotel and the brothers hit the hay, a long day of travel down the Lot on the morrow.
The road followed the river like a towpath, which it likely was during the haydays of canal and river transport. Unlike British tow paths which Joe had cycled along in many parts of the country, the ones that followed the lot had to navigate overhanging rock and outcroppings. No grassy banks here. Stone and cliffs. Similarly the D road which they followed snaked its way through the valley, sneaking its way beneath solid rock where the path was hewn. Only occasional spaces in the rock would indicate that they were still in the verdant valley and not traipsing in a long forgotten subterranean world like dwarves of lore.
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As Darius drove, Joe took the chance to look up the area. As he stared up at the mighty cliffs above he sighed. “According to this, shells and fossils of sea life can be found in those caves. Apparently this lends credence to the fact that the Lot was a giant river that once spanned many more miles in width than the essential spigot that it is today.” Darius harrumphed in appreciation as he gazed up above the dash to the sheer cliffs above. “Makes me feel small it does”. Joe nodded. “Mmm and apparently the site we’re going to is one of such caves, in fact a grotto. Deep in its bowels Black Rock…” Darius mimed spitting at their mention. “...had a dig which Dad had spent time at. There's no record of it in his diary and the time stamp on the paperwork indicates it was two days postmortem. We’re here to find out whether that was a clerical error or an accidental admission. Unfortunately that means interacting with the local Mayors office or Mairee who kept records on behalf of the local french government.”
“So I'm here as a translator” Darius stated seemingly annoyed with his new status which was belied by his smug expression.
“Yeah aha, might as well make the most of your A* no?”
—-
“Fuck this for a bloody laugh. What sort of medieval torture fuckery have you lot thought up to replace a standard filing cabinet?!”
“Non non monsieur, je suis désolé mais je ne comprends absolument rien de ce que vous dites! Voilà les documents que vous avez demandez non?”
“Pff quels documents? C'est écrit dans des hiéroglyphes ou quoi?”
“ Ah bof monsieur ça c'est un peu loin non? On est pas en Angleterre ici hein?”
And with that the small moustachioed man waddled his way out of the room waving his hands in an exaggerated aggrieved manner. Darius deflated as he looked at Joe in exasperation, and then began to laugh. Joe wiped tears away from his eyes as he attempted to return to the matter at hand. “So, what have we learned, anything useful?”
“Bah, apparently a man of Dad's description may have been seen here on the purview of Black Rock, but it could also mean there was a fishmonger of Dad's description too.” Darius shook his head “either my french has truly deteriorated or their record keeping is as good a dementia patient’s memory”
“Likely the latter then?”
“Mmm, apparently there is a local driver who drove “les anglais” about. We should talk to him. Our intrepid guide told me he usually fréquents a bar down by the train station so we should start there”
“Righto, a beer sounds about right about now anyway” Joe said cheerfully as he mimed wiping away perspiration from his brow.