I awoke sometime in the afternoon, not knowing where I was or what day it was, all that usual jet lag disorientation. Donna had her back to me, sleeping the quiet sleep of the innocent. I was on my stomach, my face pushed into the pillow.
I managed to sit up without disturbing her. Although the room was dark, I could see there was still daylight at the edges of the curtains. I looked down at her, beginning to wonder again what the hell she was doing here.
I mean, I knew why I was there, which consisted of some rather questionable reasoning at best. Donna was another story, but I was annoyed at myself for going there.
“You’re awake?” she muttered.
“No,” I told her, “I’m sleep-sitting. I’m too lazy to sleepwalk.”
She rolled over on her back, drawing the sheet up to her neck. “Hi.” She smiled up at me. “What are you thinking about?”
“You, actually.”
“That’s nice,” she whispered, as if she might fall back to sleep.
I brushed the hair off her forehead. “We should get up, or we’ll never get our internal clocks straightened out.”
“Who cares?”
I thought that over. “Come on. We need to make dinner reservations and I need to call my friend.”
“I think you should call your friend first,” she suggested.
It was after four in the afternoon as I sat at the small writing table and dialed the number.
After we exchanged greetings, M. de la Houssay chuckled gently into the phone. “It is hard to believe you are here.”
“For me too,” I agreed.
“You’re in Nice?”
“Cap d’ Antibes, actually.”
“Ah, bon. Quite beautiful.”
“It is.”
“We should have dinner tonight, yes?”
“That would be wonderful.”
He told me about a restaurant called La Colombe d’Or, in the nearby town of Saint-Paul-de-Vence. He suggested we meet at eight. “At my age,” he explained jovially, “a great meal cannot be taken too late in the evening. Comprendre?”
I said I understood. Then I told him I had a young lady with me.
He surely seemed to enjoy laughing, because he started up again. “I should have known,” he said. “What is the expression? Like father, like son?”
I didn’t know how to respond to that so I didn’t try.
“I could not possibly forfeit the opportunity to dine with a beautiful young woman. And I could not think of letting her spend the evening alone.”
Being a Frenchman, I guess he just assumed she was beautiful. I said, “I would like her to come along, if that would be all right.”
“But we do have certain matters to discuss, oui?”
“We do. I’m sure my friend will allow us some private time.”
“Good. Until eight then.”
“Parfait,” I said, giving the French thing a go.
He chuckled again. “Forgive me, my young friend, but I must ask one question. Has anyone else accompanied the two of you on this trip?”
I told him it was just Donna and me.
“Ah, bon. And how many others have you told of your intention to speak with me.”
I thought about that. “A couple, maybe. My sister….” I said, beginning to name them, but he cut me off.
“Later, when we meet.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
That evening, preparing for our dinner with Gilles, I chose a navy blazer, dark gray slacks and a shirt of French blue, which I figured was appropriate to the circumstance. I also selected one of my two Hermes ties, just to stay with the Gallic theme.
While Donna was fixing her hair in the bathroom, making a lot of noise with some over-powered hair dryer, I tried to reach Benny again, without success. Selma had her answering machine on, so I hung up without leaving a message. I was worried, but there was nothing I could do about it now, and since Monsieur de la Houssay would also be unable to help, I decided not to mention anything about it.
I went to the window, to see if the man in gray was outside but, unless he was standing on the beach, I wasn’t going to spot him from there.
Donna came out, looking sensational in a dark purple dress that made her tan seem positively luminous, the silk clinging to enough of her that I wanted to stay in the room a while longer. But we would have been late for our rendezvous.
I walked up behind her and kissed her on the back of the neck. “You look fabulous,” I said.
She gazed at my reflection in the mirror. “I’m happy to be here,” she said, and I decided, for now, that would have to be answer enough to all the questions I had.
When we got to the lobby I saw no one familiar or suspicious, and I realized I was becoming comfortable with my paranoia, which is not necessarily a good thing. I spoke to the concierge about transportation.
I may not have mentioned that I possess a somewhat underdeveloped sense of direction, but it is true. I can get lost driving around places as familiar as Brooklyn, so any thought of renting a car and attempting to find my own way around the Riviera was consigned to the category of bad ideas. Not wanting to leave our fate to the vagaries of local cabbies for a journey as important as this, I arranged a car and driver for the evening.
We stepped into the balmy Mediterranean night and climbed into the back of a small, four-door Mercedes sedan, only to learn that our chauffeur du soir did not speak a word of English, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge even my “Hello,” as if he had never heard the word before. I looked out the window for help, and the doorman was kind enough to step forward and pitch in. I asked him to explain to our driver that we would be dining at Colombe d’Or, where he should wait for us to finish and then bring us back, making any stops along the way we might desire, assuming we would find a way to communicate those desires to him.
The doorman began that explanation, but the name of the restaurant was apparently all the information the driver wanted and, well before the instructions were finished, he pulled away from the curb with a sudden lurch, heading north out of Antibes to avoid the local traffic. I preferred the route along the Grand Corniche before we turned inland, so Donna could enjoy the view.
“Monsieur,” I said, making a game effort, “la Grande Corniche, s’il vous plait.”
I might as well have been talking to the brake pedal.
I made a second attempt, this time in English, leaning forward so I was speaking directly into his right ear. Funny, how we tend to raise our voices a notch when trying to make ourselves understood in a foreign language. It doesn’t work. Another favorite of mine is when we add a bit of accent to English, as if that might make the other person more likely to discern the message. A couple of years before, I was playing golf in Cancun and told my Mexican caddie, “Hey Pedro, I theenk you need to get behind me when I sweeng el clubbo.” Pedro looked at me like I was bonkers, since I had almost killed him with a vicious three iron shank on the prior shot, and that was all he needed to get the point, language and accent notwithstanding.
The Frenchman at the wheel remained content to ignore me, regardless of my volume or intonation. When I made a last, desperate attempt, all it bought me was a reply in rapid fire French, where he either explained the reason for the route he was taking or told me to go screw myself, I couldn’t be sure which. It all sort of ran together in that nasal way that French does, as if an entire sentence is made up of one incredibly long word with a lot of syllables.
I leaned back in defeat, opting to enjoy whatever view there was, telling Donna not to worry. “We’ll come back through Monte Carlo,” I said. “We’ll stop at the casino.”
Our destination for dinner was the town of Saint-Paul, site of an ancient monastery surrounded by huge stone walls that once served as both boundaries and fortifications. Located beside the town of Vence, north of the coast, it looks
like something out of the middle ages, which I suppose is what it is, large, dark and imposing.
We arrived in plenty of time for our appointment with Monsieur de la Houssay, the driver winding the car around a tight curve and bringing it to an abrupt stop in front of the massive entrance to this old citadel.
When I began to speak, he said something that I made out to mean either he would come back for us later or, “Find your own way back, you ignorant American slob.”
I hoped for the best, smiled at him and said we’d look forward to seeing him in a couple of hours. He grumbled something in response as Donna and I got out the back, then drove off as quickly as I could shut the door. I assumed he took his driver courtesy course in Paris, or perhaps Manhattan.
Donna and I walked through the tall stone gates and entered a bustling little village of shops and storefronts that was straight out of a Victor Hugo novel. Streetlamps of weathered iron and copper lighted the cobbled walkways. There was no room for automobiles on the narrow streets, so pushcarts were in active use. People busied themselves, walking here and there, as we looked for the restaurant.
I decided to forego asking directions, but not just because of the language thing, but because real men do not ask directions. Long before GPS was available on every smartphone, real men would drive around in circles for an hour and a half rather than pull into a gas station to confess their ignorance. If you were absolutely lost, you sent your wife or girlfriend inside for the information, because people tend to be nicer to them.
Since we knew from the hotel concierge that Colombe d’Or was situated within this fortress, I figured we would not go missing, and was pleased to locate the understated façade without making one of my usual wrong turns along the way. A friendly looking little man in a tuxedo greeted us as we walked in, but when he started jabbering away in French, I held up my hand. I’d had enough of that for one night.
I asked him if he spoke English.
“Of course, monsieur,” he told me.
“I’m meeting someone, Monsieur de la Houssay. We may be early.”
When I said the name, the man’s smile widened. “Ah, mais oui, Monsieur de la Houssay. Formidable.” Extending his arm, he said, “S’il vous plait,” gesturing for us to follow him.
The main dining room was large, with tapestries hanging on stone walls, candles lighting the tables, and soft music wafting through the air, just loud enough to be heard without intruding on the murmur of private conversations. Waiters in black ties moved about, not too quickly, but with assurance. As soon as you entered the place you felt more like a guest than a customer.
The maitre d’ led us toward the back where he showed us through a double door at the rear of the dining area that opened into a beautiful open courtyard bordered in flower-covered latticework. There we discovered another group of tables set on a large, open-air stone patio under the star-filled Mediterranean sky.
We continued walking behind him to the far corner, where a distinguished older gentleman sat, a slight smile on his lips as he watched us approach.
When we reached the table, which was set for three, the maitre d’ stopped. “Monsieur de la Houssay,” he said as he extended his arm again, this time with a flourish, “your guests.”
Monsieur de la Houssay pushed back his chair and rose slowly to his feet. He stood about five seven, with a trim physique that seemed well kept for his age. For any age, in fact. His face was tanned, the lines around his mouth and eyes not so much like wrinkles as evidence of his experience. His hair was thin, but neatly parted to the side and combed flat. He was dressed in a dark blue suit, white shirt and burgundy tie with a pattern I couldn’t quite make out in the dim light of the evening. What I could make out were the clear, caramel colored eyes that made him appear younger than his years.
He came around the table, bowed slightly at the waist as he took Donna’s hand and kissed it, then said, “Enchanté.”
Ah, those French.
He turned to me and said, “After all these many years.”
We shook hands and then he held me by the shoulders. For a second I thought he was going to hug me and kiss me on both cheeks and do that whole continental routine, but all he did was stare at me with a thoughtful, intelligent gaze.
“It is as if I am looking into your father’s eyes,” he told me in his thickly accented English.
I smiled, since I couldn’t think of anything else to do, while the maitre d’ helped Donna into her seat. “An aperitif, madame?” the little man in the tuxedo asked her.
“Some champagne, perhaps,” Monsieur de la Houssay suggested.
“That would be wonderful,” Donna said.
“Excellent,” I agreed.
“Bon,” the man said, and went off to bring us champagne. I noticed that he did not need to ask which type of champagne our host preferred.
I waited for Monsieur de la Houssay to sit, then I did too.
“It is a great pleasure to meet you at last,” Gilles said. Despite the heavy accent, his English was impeccable. “But I must confess, this is a bit strange for me, eh? As if there is someone else at the table with us.” His smile turned a little wistful.
I nodded.
He said to Donna, “I hope you will enjoy this restaurant, my dear. You are comfortable?”
The table was made of heavy, old wrought iron with a round, glass top. The chairs were also wrought iron, with curved metal arms and seat cushions that made the otherwise stiff design rather cozy.
Donna nodded politely. “Very comfortable. It’s a beautiful setting.”
“It is,” he agreed. “I hope you will not be bored as your young man and I share stories from the past.”
“Not at all,” she allowed with her luminous smile.
“His father and I met many years ago.”
I waited for more, then said, “You and my father were close back then.”
“Ah oui. It was a time when friends and enemies were more clearly defined than today. The world was more black and white than it is now.” He turned to Donna. “You understand my terrible English?”
“You speak beautifully,” she assured him, which inspired Gilles to reach across the table and give her a paternal pat on the hand.
“You are too kind,” he said.
“No, she’s not,” I said. “You should hear my French.”
He laughed. “I hope to have the pleasure to help you with it.” He sighed. “Yes, it is a different world now. French, English and Americans drive cars made in Japan and Germany. Our countries buy oil from Arabians, then go to war against them. The Russians were our allies, then our enemies, and will certainly become our allies again. I wonder how long one must live to see the wheel spin completely around, eh?”
“That was one of my father’s favorite expressions.”
“Of course,” he said with another smile. “He would say, ‘The wheel turns.’ He could never speak French, but he was very clever with English.”
I was about to tell him that “the wheel turns” was not all that clever, but let it go. Instead I said, “I never heard him try to speak French.”
“It was for the best,” Monsieur de la Houssay told us with another chuckle.
A waiter arrived with a bottle of Pol Roger in a bucket filled with ice, and three champagne flutes. He placed our glasses on the table and then displayed the label to Monsieur de la Houssay. When Gilles nodded, we all watched as the waiter expertly uncorked the wine and gave Monsieur de la Houssay a taste. Another nod was followed by a polite, “Merci,” and the waiter poured us each a glass.
“My dear,” Monsieur de la Houssay said to Donna, “if you will indulge me, I must first make a private toast.” He looked at me, held up his glass, and said, “To the memory of your father.”
We touched glasses, making a sweet, clinking sound, and then drank.
He was starin
g intently at me again as he said, “It is as if I have been waiting for you to come to see me for a very long time. You understand?”
“Not exactly, no. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I only learned about you very recently.”
“I know.”
“Benny?”
He nodded. “There is much for me to explain.”
I was glad to hear it. “Why didn’t you ever try to contact me? I mean, you knew about Blackie dying, right?” As soon as I said it, I regretted how critical it sounded. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Please,” he interrupted my apology. Then he took another sip of champagne. “You are just like your father. You Americans are always, how you say, right to the point.”
“But I didn’t mean to sound rude.”
“Rude? No, no, no. How can you be rude? After all this time, you must have so many questions. I understand.”
I wanted those answers, but for now he turned to Donna and said, “One more toast, for the three of us. To love, eh?”
Who could argue with that? We all touched glasses and I had another taste of the dry, sparkling wine.
Returning his attention to me, he said, “Your father did not tell you of our days together.”
“He told me nothing.”
“Ah, Blackie. That was his way. Close to the vest, as he would say. And in this case he had reason to be careful. So careful. We all did.” He nodded slowly, gazing absently into the clear night sky. “What great fun we had though.”
“My father could be fun,” I admitted. Turning to Donna I said, “He had his moments.”
Gilles shook his head. “May I say, it is far different, far more difficult to be a son than a friend, especially when we speak of, how you say, a bon vivant. Comprendre?”
“Yes, I do,” I said. “And I believe you’re right.”
“When you have feelings for a person, this also carries a certain burden, a responsibility which is different for each of us. Between friends, these emotions can be, eh, more casual, yes? With parents or brothers or sisters, it is much different.” He stuck out his lower lip, looking very French as he did so. “Love is not only a gift, it is an obligation. It carries with it the duty of allowing the other person to have faults, to be less than perfect, to be, uh, to be human, if you see what I am trying to say.”
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