Andre Peron, pushed open the door of the tiny main street cafe and stepped from the warm glare of the morning sun into the subdued cool darkness of the cafe. His nostrils were immediately invaded with a pleasant mixture of appetising aromas of home cooking, baking bread and brewing coffee.

        The cafe was furnished modestly. A dozen or so tables with red and white checked tablecloths and mismatched wooden chairs, each with cushions made from remnants tied to the seats. He walked straight across the room to a narrow archway guarded by a small sign hanging on the wall marked 'Private'. Ignoring the sign, he entered a small anteroom containing three more of the same tables, each with four chairs. Also, an additional small table with one single chair set in the small bay window.

        Moving aside the reserved sign on the table, he took his seat. Almost immediately, the town clock started its hourly chiming, advising the good citizens of Santa Theresa in the lower slopes of the Pyrenees mountains, that the hour of eleven had arrived. At the same time, the half doors screening the kitchen activities at the back of the cafe swung open allowing a middle aged waitress to pass through and make her way towards the table. She carried a tray with a cup of coffee, a glass and a bottle of special brandy from Andre's own vineyards.

        "Buenos dias Andre," the woman offered a friendly greeting as she placed the tray in front of the man.

        Andre looked up and allowed a half smile to flash across the otherwise serious face "Buenos dias Maria".

        The heavy heart he had carried for the past three years had begun to manifest itself in premature lines on the forty year old still handsome - but no longer youthful face.

        Andre looked through the window across the street at the modern building, its architecture incongruous with the neighbouring buildings in the centuries old, remote, Catalonian town. Above the main doors reached by a short flight of white marble steps was the inscription, "The Carla Peron Memorial Clinic". As always, Andre allowed his gaze to settle on the face of the monument outside the main entrance. The sculptor, an old friend of the couple from their childhood days, had perfectly captured the exquisite high cheek bones, the elfin features and petite figure of the woman who had shared his life.

        Looking down again, he slowly poured the honey coloured brandy into the centre of the island of cream which floated on top of the coffee and waited a few moments, watching the liquid merge with the cream, then lifted the cup in salute to the monument.

        Closing his eyes, he held the cup close to his lips for a few moments, deeply inhaling the vapours of the spirit combined with the aroma of the thick cream and coffee. He allowed the familiar unique fragrance, to stimulate all his senses to recall, to focus on her memory, bringing her image sharper clearer, closer, into view.

        His closed eyes saw her smiling face in front of him again as he whispered, "Good morning my darling," and took a small sip from the cup. Savouring the warmth he felt by her presence, he allowed his eyes to remain closed for a few more moments, then opened them, allowing her to return to the recesses of his mind. He took a small sip from the cup and replaced it on the table. His eyes still misted over when he saluted her each morning.

It had been nearly six months since he had forced himself to discontinue his morning conversations with her spirit. On that grey winter morning, he had looked at the monument without speaking for a while, struggling to gather the courage he knew he must find.

        Then, after taking a deep breath, "My darling sweet Carla," he had paused, swallowing, to relieve the pressure already mounting in his throat which threatened to stop him releasing the words. "I'm going to stop speaking to you every morning." His eyes filled with tears as he choked on the words, still struggling to summon the strength to carry through his decision. "We both know it isn't sane for me to speak to you; but Carla, - I love you so and I wouldn't - I couldn't let you go." He burst out the last few words then broke down and wept.

        His well built torso shuddered as he allowed the tears to unashamedly flood down his cheeks. His sobbing continued unabated for a long time, affording a release in his heart that he had thought would never come. Eventually, he struggled to hold back the sobbing for a few moments, long enough for him to murmur through his tears the final words. "We must say good bye now my love. I will always be grateful for the time we shared - but now we must part." Again the tears flooded down his face.

        At last, he had gathered the courage to acknowledge in words spoken only to her, that their relationship had been forced to a premature end. He continued his lonely sobbing for a long, long time, until finally he was able to stem the flow of tears. Taking a deep breath, he rose from the chair and left the silent room, his personal shrine which had afforded him a little measure of comfort, a small solace since her death.

        He had walked out of that cafe, still a heart-broken lonely man, but a man who was stronger for having summoned the courage to accept that he had lost the woman he had loved so deeply. Their life together was over. He had acknowledged that all his grief would never, never bring her back to hold in his arms again.

        It had been three months later, when he broke his silence and spoke to her again "My darling, I can't live so close to your memories every day. I have to go away. I don't know where or when but soon, I must find another place on this earth."

        Since that morning, although he had forced himself not to talk to her, he continued his ritual of joining her in her special drink. Their morning drink had been a special time they had shared whenever it was possible. They had shut themselves off from the outside world, the world where other people resided, where cares and problems resided. This time of day was a few minutes they had devoted to each other. Sometimes they chatted, sometimes they were silent, often, they would touch hands and look for a few moments into each others eyes, they would exchange a soft gentle kiss, drinking in each others presence. And today, while he slowly sipped their drink, he gathered his thoughts, knowing that a decision had to be made.

        When Carla had died, he had found it impossible for him to carry on working at the senior position he occupied in the head office of the bank in Barcelona. He could not concentrate on his job and he well knew that it was better for all concerned that he allow his deputy to take over the reins. His company had allowed him to resign from his senior position and take over the comparatively junior position of bank manager in his home town. After taking up the position, he had quickly brought the bank into an efficient office. All the staff were aware of their respective tasks and if necessary he knew that he could take a few weeks off without any crisis which could not be handled by the relevant staff members. He had then concentrated on construction of the Clinic in memory of his wife. That project had been completed for more than a year and was now running smoothly.

        As he sipped the coffee, he considered his position. He had only had one appointment this morning, there would be another late this afternoon and that would be the total work that he would complete all day. The job no longer offered a challenge. His life seemed to be so aimless. He spent much of his time mourning Carla. Wherever he looked, wherever he walked, he saw permanent reminders of her. He had at last decided to take some time off, perhaps next week, he would go to his villa in the seaside town near Perpignan just across the border in France.

        Suddenly, the decision was made. He pushed the empty cup away from him. Yes! That was it, his mind was made up. He would ring his neighbour in Port Vendres today - as soon as he got back to his office. He had a permanent arrangement with her. He allowed her stock to graze on his property and she looked after the house for him. This arrangement ensured fresh bedding and food essentials etc. were provided whenever he visited. He would ask her to stock up the pantry and refrigerator ready for his visit, not next week, but tomorrow. Furthermore, he would ring his old friend and colleague at the head office of his bank in Barcelona and confirm that as he had forewarned over a month ago, he had finally decided to resign.

        He was already looking forward to spending time in the many pleasant places around Port Vendres he had loved to visit. He rose from the table and walked across the room towards the kitchen, reaching through the archway, he removed the 'Private' sign from the entrance to the anteroom and carried it with him into the kitchen. He faced the cafe owner and handed the sign to him.

        He paused for a moment, looking into his old friends eyes. "I will no longer be coming for my morning coffee Pedro." Pedro silently nodded his understanding and put the sign down on a table. He crossed the space between them and put his arms around Andre in a gentle, warm embrace of compassion. Only Pedro and his wife Maria knew of the daily intimate ritual which had been carried out in the sanctuary of their private room. Andre had at last returned. Returned from a journey of excruciating grief which had almost cost him his sanity, his mourning was over.

        Andre turned on his heel, "Adios Maria," he called out to the waitress, with a happier voice than she had heard from him for many a long day.

        Andre retraced his steps towards his office at the bank. His head was held a little higher than recently. His back held straighter, closer to the almost military bearing with which he had carried himself in previous years.

        As he walked, he noticed for the first time for such a long time, the beauty of the trees and the pleasant shade they offered the pavements. The song of the birds, the perfume of the flowering shrubs. As he approached the entrance to his office at the bank, his brow furrowed and his stride slowed. Could he recognise the young man walking towards him? And if so, who was walking with him?

After Stella dropped off the escapee, she drove on as quickly as the winding mountain road would allow for another 10 minutes or so, until she saw a sign indicating a small picnic shelter area some fifty yards in off the road. Stella slowed the car and stopped at the entrance.

        She got out of the car and looked back at the road. From this vantage point, she could trace the road far up the valley into the distance. There was not a vehicle in sight coming in the same direction as her, the only vehicles she could see were those which had passed her, travelling up the valley towards Andorra. She breathed a deep sigh of relief. Not only was there no one chasing her, but they must have closed all the barriers as soon as she had passed through, holding up the other traffic.

        She needed time to think. Returning to the car she quickly drove along the gravel road leading to the picnic shelter and found a place to park the car under the cover of a thick clump of trees. She was already thinking of the possible consequences of what had just transpired. If a helicopter was being used to track her, the distinctive red Citroen would be conspicuous, unless it was well hidden under the trees. She switched off the motor and was grateful for the sudden peace and the silence, broken only by the rustling of leaves in the trees overhead and the calming sound of distant birdsong.

        She took a deep breath and closing her eyes, rested her head against the headrest. Oh God, Stella what have you got yourself into now? How on earth could things have gone so wrong?

        She thought again about what happened at the border crossing. What had been the reason for the shooting to start? The truck driver had given an insulting gesture to the Mercedes driver who had over-reacted. On the face of it, that shouldn't have led to anything serious. The response of a loud blast on the horn of the Mercedes had provoked the truck driver, who also had over-reacted. That also shouldn't have led to a serious problem.

        The loud blast on the horn had at the same time attracted the attention of the police and the guards. As soon as they started to approach the Mercedes, the occupants opened fire on them. Why would they have done that? One possible reason for them to open fire on the police was that they could have been criminals, who would have been recognized by the guards or police, so they opened fire first.

        Alternatively, they could have been smuggling something and felt that without close scrutiny by the police, they could be successful, but they would not survive close examination by the armed guards or their sniffer-dogs. She couldn't think of any other reason for the shooting.

        The guard had shouted at her to keep down, to warn her that there was a gunman in the car. The poor guard was hit by the bullets which went through her windscreen, only just missing her. She happened to be in the direct line of fire so the bullets passed her only a fraction of an inch away. It couldn't have been closer if they were aiming at her instead of the guard. She had only just missed being caught in the gunfire.

        Only now, when she had time to reflect on what had happened did she realise how fortunate she had been to escape with her life.

        She had come to France mainly for a holiday and narrowly missed being an innocent bystander who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. She sat quietly for a few minutes while she regained her composure and reflected on everything that had happened.

        Her employers, Gwen and Frank Lawson had no children of their own and treated her like a daughter. They had insisted that she take a break. She had been working more than twelve hours a day for the last few years in their winery near Port Macquarie and they had been very worried about the state of her health.

        "You never go anywhere and never meet anybody, just work, work, work, all the time. It's not good for you." Gwen had said. Stella knew very well that what she was really saying was. You're thirty seven years old and your biological clock is ticking away and you'll never meet any nice young men if you lock yourself away in the laboratory for the rest of your life. Gwen would never be able to understand that at this point in her life, Stella did not want to meet any man of any kind. After the disastrous, albeit short marriage, she had sworn off men for a long time yet. Perhaps some time in the distant future - but not now.

        Uppermost in her mind was the need to prove her theories as soon as possible. To achieve that proof, there was no alternative to long hours in the laboratory working on her experiments to determine the optimum close combinations of all the various plant specimens. This involved continually analysing and measuring sugar contents and acid contents etc. at various stages of growth, not only of those specimens already growing out in the vineyards, but also, the experiments in the laboratory.

        She was convinced that with just a little more time, her experiments would prove that vineyards could operate successfully relying solely on organic fertilisers and organic pest control by proximity planting of pest repellent plants. To help her to prove her theory, she had returned to Europe after several years absence, to collect more information, on successful working examples of centuries old pest free vineyards which she had inspected during previous visits.

        This information together with her already impressive results, was vital to complete a paper she intended to present at the Inaugural World Vintners Convention only a few months away. Her work was being followed with serious interest in the industry and she had been invited to present a paper outlining her recent successes. She needed to present this paper to the leaders in the field to permanently silence some of the multinational chemical manufacturers, who saw her work as a threat to their industry and who had been responsible for an enormous advertising campaign, denigrating attempts at organic viticulture, subtly claiming to disprove her theories and generally disseminating misinformation.

        In addition to her concern about the negative publicity from the chemicals manufacturers, she had been living with a continuing fear that her ex husband would increase his offer to buy up the Lawson's winery while her back was turned. She was sure that eventually, he would make them an offer they simply couldn't refuse and she would understand. She would be devastated at losing all the results of her work, but would not blame them for accepting.

        He had said many times that he would get her back under his control, whatever it took and if he owned the winery, he could control her experiments and would probably destroy all the work she had done for the last few years, purely out of malice.

        Regardless of what occupied her mind before, she now found herself in real trouble. She quickly listed the possible charges. Harbouring a criminal. Assisting him to escape. Illegal entry to the country without a visa. No Bail Bond. She distinctly remembered the ominous warning in the Michelin Green Guide.

"Motoring organisations advise tourists to increase insurance cover in view of the very high cost of litigation and to take out the 'Bail Bond' for One thousand dollars to prevent on the spot arrest in the event of a traffic infringement."

        Not only did she not have a Bail Bond, she was driving a car in a country where it had not been cleared for access and had not been cleared for insurance cover. She did not have the recommended Green Card and indemnifying papers etc etc.

        This time yesterday, she didn't have a clear idea of where Andorra was, much less consider visiting the place. Yesterday morning, she had left her hotel in Biarritz, intending to travel as far as Lourdes, then spend the day visiting the town and stay overnight in Lourdes. She had an early start that day and had arrived there before ten am. She had spent some time marvelling at the magnificent Basilica and from there had taken the short walk down to the Grotto.

        She very quickly became distressed watching the long lines of pilgrims bringing their sick and handicapped relatives. It had been particularly heart breaking to see all the helpless children, some being pushed in wheelchairs, others being carried. The parents, pathetically, faithfully, praying that their children would be the ones chosen by The Blessed Virgin to receive the miracle cure from the waters of the Grotto. She had soon decided she could not stay in Lourdes overnight.

        She had quickly purchased a few souvenirs and with compassionate tears streaming down her face, she drove away from the pilgrimage town and its throngs of believers and their prayers. Her quiet sobbing continued for several miles, passing scenery which was unnoticed, but which at another time would have her marvelling at its beauty, stopping to take photographs and make notes of the various species and sub species of the wide variety of wild flowers and herbs.

        She decided to continue on her scheduled route to Perpignan on the south coast of France. A couple of hours later, she was sipping coffee outside a cafe in the small crossroads town of Foix, when she noticed the signpost. Perpignan, 136 Km and in another direction Andorra 103 Km. She made some quick mental calculations. Good!, I'll be on the coast in less than two hours. But then, the name Andorra, triggered the recall of memories which had been almost forgotten.

        Andorra? She thought about it for a moment. That was the place Terry Sinclair had told her about. She had only rarely thought about the place since that time. She had said that she would like to visit there one day if she had the opportunity.

        He had described it as a tiny country, separate from Spain and France. It was for centuries an isolated country, the surfaced road making access possible, was only built some fifty years ago. It had remained independent and resisted being taken over by either country.

        Andorrans had different laws and customs to other Europeans. Among the most important was that they paid no personal taxes and no duties on imported goods. Because of these facts, the country had become an attractive tax shelter.

        She had formed a vision of a small country town which the world had passed by, where nothing much happens, where residents still lived the simple peasant life style of their ancestors. It was that vision which had stimulated an impulsive decision to visit the place. Since she had found herself so close, it would be a shame to miss it now.

        She thought again about her recent visit there and what a thriving bustling international financial marketplace the town is. Now that she had seen the place, she made a mental resolve, next time she saw Terry, she would be sure to tell him how wrong her vision had been.

        Thinking about the first time she had met Terry, opened the flood gates of memories she had tried to lock away in the back of her mind for the last few years.

        She had received an urgent call from his secretary two days before she was to be married, asking her to call in to see him.

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Copyright Ó Norman Oliver1998

Updated September 5th 1998