On an evening in late May, Martin Bigras and his new friend Carl Barnet arrived at a train station in Munich, disembarked and went straight to the nearest beer hall. After a few lagers each, they started talking with a group of fox hunters who would break conversation every fifteen minutes to snort lines of fine powdered tobacco from the backs of their hands, poured from a discreet red container labelled FC Bayern München.
“We have a custom,” one of them said, “where we smear the b—how do you say it?”
“Das blut,” another said. “The blood.”
“Right, the blood of the fox. We smear the blood on the face of the newest hunter. We have not done that for a long time, not since we were very young.”
Something about that made them all laugh together.
“Tomorrow morning,” the third one said. “You’ll come with us. We’ll shoot you a beautiful new scarf.”