“Very good, monsieur. I shall see to it immediately.” He bowed and led Carr to the door. “Good morning, monsieur.”
“Good morning.”
As he walked out, he wondered what he should do for the rest of the morning. Pass an hour at a café? Get out on the beach?
At that moment, he saw the advertisement for the Cannes Film Festival.
“He was very nice,” said the girl, shaking her head so her long hair fell across her shoulders.
“I’m sure,” Gorman said. “But what did he say?”
“So strong,” she said, stretching her arms over her head. “So gentle.”
“Did you tell him I wanted to see him?”
“Oh, yes. That was before.” She sighed, and stared wistfully out the window.
Christ, thought Gorman. Never send a girl on a man’s job.
Cannes maintains a quiet, restful, and elegant atmosphere that is virtually indestructible. All the starlets in tight slacks, wiggling down from Saint-Tropez, all the sailors leering and hooting at the bodies on the beach, all the tour buses and all the Americans loudly discussing “Cans” are unable to spoil the relaxed and sophisticated tone of the town. After 130 years as a resort, it remains primarily a place where the very rich come to spend money, and to spend it with taste.
Carr had visited Cannes some years earlier. He bad been prepared to find there all the gaudy, pubescent sensuality of Saint-Tropez, combined with the stifling onus of a dull and determined snobbism. To his surprise, he had found neither. His old sense of delight was renewed as he parked at the far end of the Boulevard de la Croisette and walked along the water toward the port.
He noticed changes since he had been there last, which he attributed to the film festival. Flags lined the street, representing the countries participating in the festival; shops displayed large photographs of film stars and scenes from movies in the competition. Posters for other films were set up between the palm trees which formed the center divider of La Croisette.
A silent crowd waited in front of the Carlton Hotel, watching as cars came up the elevated ramp and the drivers got out and went into the lobby. Several people in the crowd held binoculars, which they used to scan the upper windows of the hotel; others kept cameras poised. Cars stopped, thinking a celebrity was about to emerge, but nothing happened. He went on.
Across the street, on the sidewalk above the beach, people were clustered against the rail. Something seemed to be going on. He pushed his way through the bystanders and eventually managed a view down over the sand.
It was a photographic session for a fashion magazine. The model, a skinny girl with a dark tan and large, brilliant eyes, reclined on a striped beach mattress. She was wearing a kind of lace leotard. Draped over her toe was a string of gold beads, and she held an oversized cigarette holder archly in her skeleton fingers. Her hat was a vast wicker affair, which looked rather like a denuded lampshade.
“Who is it?” a navy sailor asked, as he elbowed his way to Carr’s side.
“Don’t know.”
The sailor peered down. “It’s nobody,” he announced. “Some model. I saw her yesterday, when she was wearing blue satin long johns. Skinniest broad I ever saw—stab you to death.” He wandered off.
Carr grew tired of watching, so he continued down the sidewalk. Coming toward him was a young, pouting girl with a dog on a leash. The girl wore dungarees and a very thin silk blouse. She was quite clearly without a bra. It was all part of the game, he told himself, part of the festival spirit.
Up ahead was another large group looking down at a knot of people clustered around someone lying on the sand. As he approached, he saw that the people were photographers, and they were bending over a girl in a red bikini. They were talking to her, encouraging her. One tickled her feet. It was too far to hear, but he could see the girl shake her head. One by one, the photographers straightened, looking disgusted.
The girl jumped up suddenly and took off the top of her bikini, waving the bra above her head like a banner. She posed briefly, putting one leg in front of the other, knee bent. Then she flashed a smile and scampered down the beach, still topless.
The crowd cheered. The photographers chased after her. She ran along the water’s edge, occasionally pausing to turn around, squirm, and pose. When she stopped, the photographers stopped, dropping to one knee to shoot; when she ran, they ran after her, raising a great cloud of sandy dust. Most of them were so encumbered with their webbing of cameras, lenses, film bags, and filters that they could barely move.
The girl stopped, throwing herself down on the sand. She lay on her stomach, and the panting photographers were outraged. They argued with her, pleaded with her, tried to tickle her. Carr, sensing that this was where he had come in, walked on.
He absorbed it all—the gray ships of the Sixth Fleet, anchored in the harbor; the private beaches, swept smooth until they resembled well-tended lawns; the groups of Germans, wearing shorts and sandals, burned a painful red and grunting with each step. And he looked at the girls.
He saw one who was really remarkable. She was wearing almost nothing, just a few strips of blue-checked material, and her body was breathtaking—long, firm, deeply tanned. He could not see her face; it was covered by a broad straw hat, and only a few strands of blond hair were visible at the edge. Alongside her was a half-finished drink, a pack of cigarettes, her sunglasses, a paperback book. And her purse, a large alligator handbag, with gold initials that gleamed in the sun: AC.
He decided to say hello.
Chapter XI
HE PAID THE MUSCLEBOUND beach boy two francs, and dropped down on the striped mattress beside her. He felt faintly ridiculous, lying on the beach in a suit. She did not move, but a voice came out from beneath the hat.
“Vous obscurcissez le soleil.”
“Try English,” he said.
“You’re blocking my sun, stupid.”
Charming girl, he thought, reaching over and taking one of her cigarettes. Meanness tax. “I’m not. Besides, it isn’t your sun.”
“My apologies, Romeo. Now, clear off.” Carr struck a match, then said, “There are occasions when all apology is rudeness.”
The hat came off, and the girl looked at him. She had a roundish English-looking face, with a clear, direct gaze. “Oh,” she said. “It’s you. You should know better—it’s ‘occasions on which,’ not ‘occasions when.’”
“Hard to remember exactly.”
“How did you know who I was?”
Carr looked at the firm body stretched out on the sand. “You underestimate yourself.”
“Not a chance.” She propped herself up on one elbow and put her hat back on. “How do you know Johnson?”
“Friend of the family.”
“No, seriously.”
“Well, when I was at Groton, I had a choice between doing a paper on Johnson or Franklin. Franklin was a pompous bore, and Johnson was pompous and interesting. Besides, Boswell was dirty. I liked that.”
He turned on his best boyish grin. She smiled back, with no trace of her earlier irritability. It’s probably just a necessary defense mechanism for a girl around here, he thought. Just as natural and essential as swatting flies.
“You know,” said the girl, still smiling, “you look like an eleven-month baby.”
“Thank you very much,” Carr said, puffing on her cigarette. She didn’t look like any sort of baby: green eyes, beneath long lashes, gazing steadily back at him. Her hair, which barely reached her shoulders, was shorter than he had remembered. It was dark blond, and lacked the dry frizzy quality of dyed hair. Her lips were large and well-shaped; she wore no makeup.
She was well-built, with broad shoulders and an easy grace to her smoothly muscled limbs. Her breasts swelled over the top of her bikini. She had a habit of pointing her toes forward, making a clean line from shin to toe. She did it so naturally, he guessed she must be a dancer.
“Are you a very amusing man?” she asked.
“Very.”
“You look as if you are.” She glanced at his clothes. “Are you rich, or a ne’er-do-well? I think it’s a fair question, since you’ve pinched one of my bloody cigarettes.”
“I’m a rich ne’er-do-well.”
He tried to place her soft accent, which seemed American, though her vocabulary was more English. She guessed what he was thinking.
“Australian,” she said. “I’m a dancer. An honest job, and a very dull one.”
Carr introduced himself, and told her he was a lawyer who had come to buy a villa.
“Anne Crittenden,” the girl said. “Have you found one?”
“Not yet.”
“That must be why you’re wearing a suit. You look terribly businesslike.”
“I’ve noticed it’s not exactly the fashion down here.”
“I take it you saw the exhibition a few minutes ago.”
Carr nodded. “You don’t approve?”
She gave him a slow, appraising look. “If you know anything about art,” she said, “you know that the best galleries arrange private showings, by invitation.”
Carr suddenly became aware of the heat on the beach, and said, “I’ve always been a compulsive buyer, myself.”
“I can imagine. Aren’t you hot in that suit?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“Then why don’t you ask me to lunch?”
“Why, thank you. I’d be delighted to accept.” A strange girl, he thought. He wondered if she was always this forward, or whether it was just her way of putting people off balance. He watched her stand, graceful and slim. She noticed his eyes.
“Hungry?” She was smiling, and yet not laughing at him.
“Getting there.”
“You have a very evil look on your face.”
“Congenital deformity. It runs in the family.”
She laughed and shook her head; her hair swirled around her face. “I’ll be right back.” She disappeared into a cabana, and he picked up her book—La Chartreuse de Parme. Stendhal seemed an unusual choice for a lazy day on the beach. He glanced quickly through it, noticing that she had underlined phrases and marked page numbers on the inside cover.
Anne emerged, wearing a simple but expensive-looking dress of pale green linen. The color matched her eyes. As he stood, he realized that in sandals she was nearly as tall as he; she was a big girl, but not in the least masculine. Not with those breasts jutting forward under the dress. Not with that smile.
“You’re very quick.”
“It’s one thing you learn, as a dancer,” she said, slipping a white chiffon scarf over her head. “Quick changes. Where shall we go?”
“You’ve been here longer than I have. Why don’t you pick the place?”
“All right. Are you interested in art?”
Carr looked at her quickly, searching for a double meaning. “Yes,” he said hesitantly.
“Good. There’s a marvelous place not far away, in Saint Paul. Shall we go?”
“Fine.”
“You have a car?”
He nodded, and she took his arm as they walked back down the street, following the beach. “Eventually, this place gets to you,” Anne said. “It’s all right for a while, but sooner or later, you come to feel that the Riviera combines all the worst features of Miami Beach and Las Vegas.”
“You’ve been to the United States?”
“Yes.” They passed a line of deck chairs set out on the sidewalk. Old ladies were feeding pigeons; there were several young mothers, beautiful girls, sitting next to their baby carriages, faces turned up to the sun, eyes closed. “Just look at the people: the retired old ladies, and the retired young ones.” She shook her head. Carr detected a note of bitterness in the voice, but said nothing. He noticed again how expensive her clothes were—too expensive, he thought, for a dancer’s salary.
As they crossed La Croisette in front of the Miramar, Carr saw a young girl coming the other way. She was sexy, in a sort of hot-bitch way, with long auburn hair, tight slacks, and a very tight sleeveless pullover, but her walk was what caught his eye. She moved forward with her back arched, leading with her hips. He watched, slightly astonished.
“Sometimes I think I’ll go nuts if I see another one,” Anne said. “The pelvic trot. Jesus.”
Carr laughed.
A car roared by down the street, silver and swift. It was a fastback coupé, with the clean, powerful lines of an Italian coachmaker. Anne waved as the car went by, and Carr had a glimpse of a neat face wearing aviator sunglasses.
“A friend?”
“Sort of.”
“Nice car.”
“Yes, it’s a Ferrari. He’s very proud of it.”
They came to Carr’s Alfa, and for once he was embarrassed to see it. It looked so small and puny after the Ferrari. But Anne didn’t seem bothered; she nodded her approval and he helped her in, watching the way she swung her long brown legs under the dash.
He slipped behind the wheel, started the engine, and pulled into traffic. They left the town, following the road through Juan-les-Pins toward Cap d’Antibes. Traffic was light; it was noon, and everyone was off the road for lunch.
“Are you going to the race next weekend?” Anne asked.
“I hope so.” The Grand Prix de Monaco would be held in five days, on Sunday. He had planned to see it. “It’s just that I hate to go alone.”
“You’re faster than a speeding bullet,” Anne said. “Won’t you even wait until after lunch?”
“More powerful than a locomotive,” he growled.
“Is that a proposition?”
“Yes.”
“I’m insulted.”
“Charming.”
They came to the turnoff for Vence and took it, following the road as it snaked up in high, winding bends. The view was magnificent, looking out over the villas and flower-growing farms of the Alps foothills. Anne talked, not expecting him to answer, and Carr was pleased. She was the first girl he had ever met who instinctively realized that he did not like to talk when he drove.
He found out that her father had been a diplomat, that she was an only child, and that she had traveled extensively with her father. He also discovered that she knew a good deal, in a sort of offhand way, about astronomy, automobiles, art, and French, German, and English literature. He liked to listen to her talk, and enjoyed the way she put things.
He was happy: it was turning out to be one of those rare meetings which just seemed to go well from the start, for no reason at all. Carr liked her, and felt she liked him.
Off to the left, sitting on a nearby hill, was a walled town, bright in the sunlight. Carr pulled off the road, and they got out to look. The town of Saint Paul was yellow-brown, quite large; the buildings, jumbled inside the wall, were dominated by a cathedral and belltower. The ramparts seemed to be entirely intact, and the green valley dropped off steeply on both sides.
“I wouldn’t like to scale that,” Carr said. “It looks almost impregnable.”
Anne smiled slowly. “Don’t you know? There are no impregnable fortresses, only those badly attacked.”
Carr gave her a quick glance, which she returned with startling directness.
“I thought you were insulted.”
“I am, but I can’t help it. Do you know you look like a satyr?”
“Tell me more.”
“Not all at once,” she said. They got back in the car and continued down the road.
“In the Michelin guide, Saint Paul gets two stars,” Anne said. “That means it’s worth a detour. Three stars means it’s worth a journey. They think Cannes is worth a journey.” She laughed.
“You really don’t like Cannes, do you?”
“No,” she said. “I really don’t.”
“Why not leave?”
She bit her lip. “I can’t.”
“You Cannes, but you can’t,” he said.
“Stop it,” Anne said, laughing. “That was terrible.”
“A specialty, I’m afraid.”
They continued along the road, which curved slowly toward the town, and parked just outside the ramparts. They looked much grayer close up. The restaurant was actually a country inn—the Colombe d’Or, the Golden Dove. It was a large yellow-stucco building built outside the walls, on the lip of the hill. A blue sign hanging over the entrance showed a golden dove flying over the walled city. They passed under an old arch and came onto a sunny terrace. The white tables, set out with a view over the verdant valley, were decorated with bright flowers.
Anne took him inside the inn to a small, rather dark room, with crude wooden chairs and heavy, rough-hewn tables. “The owner of this restaurant used to give struggling young artists free meals in exchange for paintings. Look what he was left with.”
Carr walked around the room, examining the pictures on the walls. He read off the names: “Modigliani, Matisse, Picasso, Leger …” He looked back at Anne, who was smiling happily.
“Bright man, wasn’t he?” she said.
“I’ll say.”
“They’re all early, and some aren’t so good. My favorite is the Matisse in the corner.” Carr looked at it, a face drawn with the unmistakable lyrical line of Matisse. “Have you seen the chapel at Vence? Well, we’ll have to go sometime.” She caught herself. He was grinning at her.
“You haven’t succeeded yet, you know,” she said. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. I just like you.” He took her hand, and they went out onto the terrace to eat.
They chose a side table, with a good view over the valley. It was a green, damp valley, with neat terraced fields surrounding red-roofed farmhouses. Just below their table was a dovecote, from which the restaurant derived its name.
While they were waiting for hors d’oeuvres, Carr said, “This place is worth more than a detour, and so are you.”
“Is that a line?”
“Of course.”
She smiled. “Am I worth a journey?” Her green eyes flashed in the sun.
“Oh well,” Carr said, “that’s hard to say. How can I compare you to Chartres, or Notre-Dame?”
“Well,” Anne said, “it would be interesting to compare you to Mont Saint Michel.”
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