The senator must have been in a real hurry because he took his leave of the young woman and McCarthy quickly, without caring about the notary, still laughing as he descended the steps of the grand marble staircase.
Arlette watched him walk away with a pang in her heart. She might never see him again if she decided to stay in her Maine forests. The notary showed her into his office. Surprised by the senator's reaction to the young migrant, he resumed his austere air.
"You put him in a good mood. You'd be made President of the Senate if you could put them all in that state when they come into session.
"That shouldn't be too difficult, I'm sure they all like truffles.
The Master didn't answer, too embarrassed by his French accent which seemed to bother him. Arlette no longer paid any attention to it. Her meeting with Fowler reminded her that she had spoken English many times before without slurring the words to the point of disrespecting native speakers.
Regaining confidence in her language skills, she decided not to be intimidated by the old man's flow of words.
He closed the door and invited her to sit down.
For an hour, he read her the will in a monotonous voice, then her rights as a landowner in the United States as a migrant, pending her naturalization.
All these complex processes left Arlette unmoved. Did she need to become an American for this heritage? What was she going to be able to do on this continent? Just at the start of their meeting, the notary had taken a letter from a safe and left it on the table.
The young woman had in her hands a handwritten letter from her uncle, which had been bequeathed in his will. From then on, she had had only one desire: to settle down somewhere to read what this man she knew nothing about had written to her. Those were the only things she would read from him…
All she learned with this notary was that there was already a building built on the land, uninhabitable according to him, and which was at the crossroads between the road and the river which bordered the Canadian border, in the region of Maine called "the northern woods", Northwood. The house must have been dusty, ruined by the dampness of the river, snow, and pests.
When they had finished filling out all the paperwork, she was finally able to leave the office. In his usual politeness, he accompanied her to the door and closed it directly behind her. The driver was still waiting for him in the driveway, like a good guard dog. Seeing her come out, he grabs her suitcase and her bags.
-We can go?
Arlette wanted to answer but she felt overwhelmed with dizziness. She realized that she fast had lasted too long. The skinny cold hotdogs were already gone.
She nodded feverishly and tried to follow his athletic gait, secretly hoping that despite his professional airs, he was as hungry as she was. We couldn't decently start a long journey on an empty stomach…
The black pickup truck raced down the road, nearly bounding over hills, lurching around corners, and rattling its cargo, which clanked and rattled like cookware.
The birch and hazel trees on the sides were passing faster and faster. The driver, a young man in his twenties, chewed his little cigar with increasing enthusiasm. He tucked the beige felt hat back on his forehead, still glancing in the rearview mirror.
- We approach the post, but they are still not there Henry, what do we do?
The passenger next to him seemed older, his features already more marked and his three-day beard gave him a more mature air. Nonchalantly, he took off his hat and ran a thick hand over the top of his head. He had a scar in the shaved area above his right ear where his dark hair no longer grew.
He fixed his little brother with a somber gaze and without opening his mouth, let out a "hum", a syllable that could have had a lot of meaning for him. In this case, he hadn't finished working out their escape route and needed more time to think.
- What are we doing? They must have blocked the bridge, continued the driver, more and more anxious.
'We're going to pass through the town instead of avoiding it. Take the next left, Henry finally answered in a deep voice.
The youngest complied and they joined a wider road. They soon saw the ocean of flat forests disappear to make way for pastures and potato fields.
The late afternoon light was warm and people were stepping out onto their doorsteps to enjoy the last rays of sunshine in May. Some greeted the two brothers with big smiles when they saw them speed past in front of their driveways, others glared at them. Something caught Henry's eye as they passed an old gray wooden farmhouse.
"The Beauforts still haven't fixed the barn roof, Danny. You will go help them tomorrow.
- What? But why me? I have a family now, I have to take care of Charles, he's still sick.
"You have Martha to do these things, you're part of the family business, Danny, and I give the orders. And then you have the town doctor for your father-in-law, so don't give me such excuses.
Danny scowled. He let out a curse and swerved to avoid a kid playing on the side of the road with a stick.
- Well, we have nothing better to do than repair the roof of others. We're Richters, we don't do charity.
— The Beauforts are good customers, if you don't have a good relationship with them you won't have many friends in town…
His brother was silent for a moment, slowly slowing his pace to prepare to enter Richmond. The farms had given way to wooden and red brick buildings, lined up along the great central aisle. The traffic was getting heavier. Carts drawn by mules or horses, small cars, and pedestrians shared the road.
They were seen passing, an old man with a long beard stopped his wheelbarrow to greet them and Henry replied with a forced smile. Fortunately, their cargo was hidden under a tarpaulin.
She belonged to that type of gloomy cargo whose name rustled on the edge of everyone's lips, like the moths which sought to escape from cupboards, which by its mere passage cast shadows all over the road, raising dust in its wake. And desire.
Everyone knew what they were carrying, everyone bought it and no one was to talk about it. It had been that way since time immemorial during Prohibition in Maine.
Once past the main thoroughfare, they took a smaller route through the farms. Danny relaxed and an idea crossed his mind. He continued with a smile:
- If it's a question of relationships, you have to marry the daughter of the county attorney, then you're sure we will have more to worry about with the police.
— Hum…
The van sped up again as it reached the first thickets of young birch and spruce. The lights of the sky were fading visibly. The road continued for a few miles through the forest, before they reached private land, closed off by a wooden gate that Henry opened and closed once the vehicle had passed through it.
The dirt road became muddy and steep a few yards after entering, and they rode at a slow pace for nearly twenty minutes, following paths so untrammeled that they had to ford streams several times.
When they approached their destination, they were advancing in total darkness. A little further on we could already see the reflections of the moon in the water of the lake.
They walked a few hundred yards along its shores with only the lights of the headlights and veered left towards the deeper forest, where the fires would not be seen from the lake. As they were about to emerge into the clearing where their shed was installed, a moose crossed the road and stopped just in front of the headlights of the car.
The animal was huge. His large droopy nose lifted as he sniffed the air. He dug his hooves into the earth, ready to charge. He was a big male with enormous antlers, who must have weighed around four hundred kilos. A load of that beast would smash the engine of the old pickup truck to pieces.
The two brothers remained silent, waiting for the animal's reaction. The beast whose eyes reflected the strange flashes in the night light stood perfectly still, staring at the growling steel monster in front of him.
"Shit Henry, if he charges…
"Shut up Danny.
Honking or firing wouldn't necessarily cause them to back off, and it would alert the entire neighborhood to their position. Henry readied his revolver, just in case, and clapped his brother on the shoulder.
- Go slowly.
The younger one revved the engine and started to move forward. The moose remained motionless for three seconds, then seized with a strange start, he resumed his way through the woods. Danny sighed.
"At least that means there aren't any bears around," he reassured himself.
"Come on, we've wasted enough time, we have to hurry to unload," Henry lectured him.
They went down and the eldest entered the hut to light two oil lamps. Everything in this old forest shack creaked. Each plank, each nail lamented as if it were about to live out its last winter.
Pulling a lamp near the van, Danny pulled back the tarp and looked at their cargo. In wooden crates were distributed hundreds of glass jars, containing a translucent liquid. They were all labeled "mountain spring water" in French.
The young man grabbed one and examined it with what little light he had. Nothing had been damaged. He smiled, revealing a row of yellow teeth, and took off his hat to stroke his combed-back black hair. He opened the jar and took a sip of its liquid. Feeling the water burn his throat, he squinted and hissed as he inhaled to make the bite of alcohol feel even cooler on his palate.
"These Canadians, they don't mess around with their 'big gin.'
"Stop always drinking while you work, Danny. That's not how you'll become a team leader.
Henry grabbed three crates, stacked them, and brought them into the cabin. His brother put his pot aside and hastened to imitate him. They unloaded their goods in the light of the moon and the two small oil lamps, which were quickly lined with mosquitoes, completing their dark task in the abundance of nightlife in the forests of Maine.
The dream of a hot coffee vanished in Arlette's mind when the driver stopped at the side of the road, at the exit of the city. He went to get her a snack near the port, where the smell of mud and fish mingled with that of boat glue. He got out of the car, walking briskly through the mud, paying no attention to his polished black shoes.
He disappeared behind a shack painted white, and when he reappeared he held two steaming aluminum bowls in his hands. He handed her through the back door window where she was seated, so she wouldn't have to set foot in the mud.
"It's typical of Boston. But it's better in Maine and Rhode Island. It will be up to you to judge.
Arlette leaned over one of the bowls. Half a lobster floated in a milky shellfish soup. It was what the workers ate before going to work here.
After a first mouthful, she was surprised not to find any "luxury taste" in the lobster, as she had always expected when seeing these shellfish in great Parisian restaurants. Here, it was an ingredient like any other, drowned in the soup. She smiles. The first real meal she took since her arrival in the United States was a provocation towards French Haute Cuisine. And it was deliciously simple.
She sat down next to McCarthy to continue on the road. The windows of her Austin were so well insulated and the body so shiny that she had the impression of being transported to a boudoir.1