Since it was late afternoon, the terrace of the café was occupied by just a handful of people—none of whom Burke recognized—sitting and nursing glasses of wine.
Burke wasn’t in his chair for more than a few seconds when Hélène showed up with a pastis and a wide smile.
“Where’s your uncle?” Burke asked, although he was quite happy to have Hélène around.
“He’s off to some meeting about a new development on the other side of Villeneuve,” she said.
“I didn’t know there was a meeting,” Burke said. He wouldn’t have gone even if he had known.
“Uncle Claude wants to tell everyone that enough is enough,” she said with a shrug. “He keeps telling me the town is big enough.”
“I agree with him,” Burke said.
“Well, this new development is going to be really big, and the locals will probably have to pay more taxes for all kinds of services that will be needed as a result,” Hélène said. “At least that’s what Uncle says.”
“Do you think the area needs another resort or big condo development?” Burke asked.
Hélène shrugged once more. “I don’t know. I live in Nice, so it doesn’t affect me. But maybe Uncle is right.”
Then she was off. Burke finished his pastis and then returned to his apartment, which was being baked by the late afternoon sun. He thought about cooking something but felt lazy, and so he pulled out some cheese and sausage from his small fridge, poured a glass of rosé, grabbed a chair and posted himself right by the dining room window. He was soon sweating from the sun, but he didn’t care. He took in the view over the tops of his neighbors’ houses—new Villeneuve-Loubet with the turquoise Mediterranean beyond. It would only get better when the sun starting drifting down.
For the first time all day, he wasn’t thinking about anything.
THE NEXT MORNING, BURKE decided to change his routine. After a quick coffee and a croissant, he went for a ride, opting for the sea route from Villeneuve-Loubet to Antibes and then around the Cap d’Antibes, a scenic stretch with a kilometer-long hill he could test his legs on.
He felt strong as he pedaled along the coastal bike path beside cars, trucks and scooters, which he hated because of their mosquito-like noise. He charged through the Old Town of Antibes, rode by the Picasso museum, which he promised himself he would one day visit for real, dashed down from the Bastion and then rode by the beaches. From there, it was a sharp turn to the left and onto the scenic route around the Cap d’Antibes—home to the super rich and the merely wealthy.
He loved this area for its panoramic views of the Côte d’Azur. It was a quiet route that went by some mansions and a couple of hotels whose clientele sometimes comprised some of Hollywood’s biggest names. Burke was on the hill, and he hammered the pedals. By the time he reached the top, he was breathing heavily, but he was pleased at his performance; it was the strongest he had been on the bike in a couple of years.
He flew down the other side of the hill and into Juan-les-Pins, a bustling resort community with gorgeous sandy beaches that were far superior to those in Nice. He didn’t quite know where Antibes ended and Juan-les-Pins began, but it didn’t matter. They were both beautiful.
As he rode, he wondered how much development could occur in this region. It had to be one of the most densely populated regions in the country.
After he got to the far end of the beaches in Juan-les-Pins, he stopped and took in the view. Cannes was to the west. To the east was the Cap. Behind were the hills that fed into the Maritime Alps. There was an abundance of scenery. It was no wonder this part of the world attracted so many visitors. Even though it was only 9:30, the beaches were starting to fill. By noon, even though it was a weekday, they’d be jammed.
Burke wondered if the day was coming when he wouldn’t be able to afford to live where he was. He wished it wouldn’t be for many years—if ever—but he suspected that day might be just two or three years away, and when it came, he’d have to look elsewhere, unless he could increase his income. His savings were getting a little thin, and his blog efforts weren’t going to make him rich.
He turned his bike around and took the same route back. Still feeling strong, he shot up the hill even faster.
In Antibes, he went to the Old Town, grabbed a couple of newspapers and then went to the daily market, where there was a tiny café that was always busy, and for a good reason. Its food, although simple, was wonderful.
With his bike leaning against the café window, Burke sat and ordered an omelet and a coffee. He studied the vendors and shoppers in the market. Watching the French discuss food at a good market—and Antibes’s was a terrific one—was one of his favorite pastimes. He loved eavesdropping on the conversations, so full of passion and knowledge. There was always an argument going on someplace, but usually, the disputes ended politely with good wishes from both parties.
The aromas trapped under the market’s sprawling awning were enticing: fish and fruit and spices, plus soaps and perfumes. And flowers.
He opened his Nice-Matin.
And saw Claude’s face.
In a large photo at the bottom of page three, his friend was gesticulating angrily at someone. Behind him, several other people were equally animated.
Burke read the accompanying story. It related how the committee responsible for land use in the Villeneuve region had given initial approval for a development permit for the construction of a condo complex. The proposal involved three large, connected buildings, each having one hundred units. If further permissions were given—and there seemed to be a couple more steps to be taken, in the usual French bureaucratic fashion—construction could begin in six months and be completed in eighteen.
The value of the project was estimated at 280 million euros.
The approval was given at a public meeting, and several people had spoken against the development. Claude was quoted as saying, “We are losing our community to industrialized tourism.” Burke frowned at that. He’d have to ask what “industrialized tourism” meant. But, then again, maybe he wouldn’t.
The developer was FP Developments, a big company out of Paris with interests in Germany, Austria, Switzerland and Italy. It had French resorts in Biarritz on the Bay of Biscay, and in Menton and Saint-Raphaël on the Riviera.
He read another quote from Claude, who was concerned about “the value of land becoming so expensive that French locals will have to move.”
Again, Burke wondered if he’d be gone in the next two or three years.
Shit!
His cheese omelet came. He took a bite. If it was any lighter, it would have floated off the plate. The cheese was delicate yet sharp, and the eggs had been done to perfection. If he had to move, he’d miss such meals.
He sipped his coffee.
“Hello, Paul.”
Burke looked up. It was François Lemaire, his boss, standing over him with his crooked smile in place and clutching a bag weighed down with all kinds of vegetables from the market.
Burke stood up, and they shook hands.
“Please, join me,” Burke said.
He liked Lemaire, who was a few years younger but came across older, thanks to a world-weary style that he probably got from the movies—maybe from Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca or Jean-Paul Belmondo in a score of films. Lemaire was smart, funny and, as far as Burke could see, unusually patient, which was probably a little weird for a newsman.
“Thank you, Paul,” he said, pulling out a chair and squeezing in. It was now official—there wasn’t a vacant chair in the café.
Lemaire ordered only coffee, explaining he had to be in the office within the hour.
They exchanged niceties about the market. If they’d been in Canada, they would have started by discussing the weather, but in summer, the weather on the Riviera was totally consistent—hot and hot—which didn’t provide enough variety for discussion. That left the market and food. The French were always ready to discuss food. That stereotype was totally accurate.
/> Soon, they got to some business. Burke mentioned he’d have a blog prepared that afternoon. Lemaire nodded and smiled as if he didn’t care if he got the blog or not. As Burke knew, Lemaire’s focus was split between news stories for both the print and internet version of the paper.
“This is good timing. I was going to call you this afternoon,” Lemaire said. “How are you with video?”
“As in, do I like to watch videos?” Burke asked.
Lemaire laughed and shook his head. “You’re such a Luddite, Paul,” he said. “No, I mean shooting video with a camera or smartphone and posting it to a website or YouTube.”
“Me?”
“We need more video online, and one way to achieve that is to have the bloggers do a video blog as well as a written one.”
Burke instantly started to weigh the grief of learning how to do a video blog against maybe getting a bigger check.
“I can see you’re considering how much extra you might make,” Lemaire said, his smile still in place. “I can also see the idea scares you.”
Burke shrugged and took a bite of his omelet. When he began handling his own contracts years earlier, he’d learned that the first person to talk in contract negotiations ends up being the loser.
Lemaire said he’d have the paper’s tech expert show him how to use a video camera and offered to add some pointers of his own if needed.
Burke kept quiet. He took another bite.
“Ah, I see you are in negotiating mode,” Lemaire said.
Burke relented, and soon they were discussing payment. In the end, they agreed that Burke would get the same price for doing a video version of his blog. Burke wasn’t sure if that was a good deal, but he wasn’t going to turn down the money.
“You see, we’re entering a relationship with a communications company,” Lemaire explained. “This company works with TV and the internet. Lots of different delivery mechanisms. And the people who are in charge want changes very quickly.”
“So, is this good for you?” Burke asked.
“It’s good for everyone, Paul, and you can’t say that too often these days,” Lemaire replied. “It’s all about going bigger. Bigger audiences, bigger partnerships, bigger everything. I mean, look at our little slice of France—we’re growing and growing, even though it doesn’t seem possible.”
“What do you mean, it doesn’t seem possible?”
Lemaire pointed to the lead story Burke had just read.
“Look at the size of that proposed development,” he said. “Hundreds of millions of euros. They say 280 million, but that’s in today’s euros. The cost will be much bigger when they get down to building it.”
“I suppose so,” Burke said.
“I’m hoping we can get an interview with the chairman of FP Developments while he’s here,” Lemaire continued. “That would be a coup. I don’t think it’ll happen because we’re small, but if you don’t ask, you don’t get.”
Burke glanced down at the paper. He couldn’t remember the chairman’s name. Yves Something. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t involved. And he didn’t really care.
They worked out a basic schedule for Burke to learn how to video blog. Then Lemaire stood, saying he had to get his veggies home before he went to the office.
“I forgot, did you hear the latest about Den Weent and McManus?” Lemaire asked.
“No,” Burke said, alert.
“I was talking to one of my reporters—the police are now saying McManus’s death wasn’t accidental. And they’re not ruling out a connection between his death and Den Weent’s.”
“What? Are you sure? The flics are saying he was killed?”
“Yes, and they said they have ‘someone of interest’ in the case,” Lemaire said. “But don’t worry, you’re not doing anything on this. Not a blogger’s territory.”
Burke’s mind was popping with questions, but he couldn’t ask more because Lemaire was gone, swallowed by the crush of shoppers.
AFTER A QUICK RIDE back home, Burke checked his computer for news reports involving McManus and Den Weent. The information wasn’t much fresher than what Lemaire had told him, but a new development caught his attention. Apparently, Global Projects had withdrawn from the TDF. The police in Avignon, supported by the Nice constabulary and other French law officials, had determined team members would be involved in a series of follow-up interviews. Under those circumstances, Global couldn’t compete.
This was turning out to be the strangest Tour de France he had ever heard about—and there had been some wild ones.
He flicked on the TV. Maybe there would be something on the news.
The lead item on the newscast wasn’t about the TDF, but about the development permit hearing the day before. The story included an interview with FP Developments chairman, Yves Vachon, who seemed comfortable in a media scrum, answering questions with the aplomb of someone who had done it a hundred times before.
“We recognize people’s concerns,” said Vachon, who looked like a film star with graying hair, an aquiline nose and strong jaw. “I can guarantee we are being vigilant about following not just the legal procedures and requirements facing the project, but in ensuring we do the right thing in terms of incorporating the development into this lovely area.”
A lot of words just to say FP Developments was trying to avoid trouble.
“We believe this part of the Riviera is indeed special, and we want to ensure it retains those unique qualities,” Vachon continued.
Burke admitted Vachon was smooth and eloquent. The TV cameras certainly loved him. When someone in the scrum asked if FP Developments was going to use local contractors if it got final approval for the complex, Vachon’s face lit up.
“FP Developments has always believed in local investment in its projects, so I can guarantee we will be contracting local companies to help us with this development,” Vachon said.
The story went to a clip of some protestors outside, and then, to Burke’s surprise, there was Claude’s face on the TV screen.
“Our elected officials must take a stand. Enough is enough,” said Claude, his face red with anger. “If this development goes ahead, we will lose even more of what makes this region special. The Riviera has changed too much and not for the better. The little person can hardly find a way to stay here. It’s terrible!”
Burke had never seen Claude so angry. The man on the news was a volcano, not the jovial, peaceful owner of a village café.
The story concluded by mentioning the general timeline for future approvals facing FP Developments. It seemed the company could get through all the steps within another six weeks. Burke sensed from the TV report, and from what he had read earlier, that FP Developments was going to get all its approvals without too many obstacles, Claude and a few protestors included.
Intrigued by the newscast, Burke decided to stroll down to the café and see if Claude was there. If he was, Burke hoped they could manage a few minutes to chat.
He was about to turn the last corner to Claude’s terrace when he saw Madame Marois coming down a set of stairs nearby. She was moving slowly and maintained her balance by trailing a hand against a stone wall. Beside her was Plato, who was watching his mistress, clearly puzzled about which direction to go.
Burke waved and said, “Hello,” but Madame just looked through him, as if he wasn’t there. It was sad. She was nearing a time when she wouldn’t be able to navigate the stone stairs of the village, which would mean she’d have to move, and that would be tough. He had the feeling she loved old Villeneuve-Loubet.
Burke went on. Claude was watering one of the flower boxes at the side of his terrace. He touched the petals of a couple of roses, and then, not knowing Burke was watching him, he bent and smelled the flowers. He stood, his eyes closed, as if trying to memorize the gentle aroma of the roses.
No one else was on the terrace. Too early.
“You look very relaxed, my friend,” Burke said.
Claude’s head snapped around. When
he saw Burke, he smiled and waved him toward his usual table.
“Will you allow me to join you?” Claude asked, brushing his hands down his white apron.
“I was hoping you would,” Burke said.
Claude turned toward the indoor part of the café, but Burke called out, “Claude, no pastis for me. A Perrier with ice, if you would, please.”
Claude stopped. “No pastis? Are you not feeling well?”
“I’m on a fitness program, and I’m reducing my intake of pastis.”
Claude nodded and went inside. He came back with two glasses, a Perrier and a bottle of pastis. He put them down and then joined Burke at the table.
Hélène came out from inside, saw Burke and winked. Then she checked that each table had everything laid out just right.
Burke told Claude about the newscast. The café owner chuckled.
“I was in form,” he said. “But I said what I wanted to say, and that was good.”
“I didn’t know you’re an activist,” Burke said, sipping his Perrier and wishing it was a pastis.
“Normally, I am someone who stays on the sidelines,” Claude replied, then sipped his own pastis. “It’s too difficult to run a café and be out protesting. But this development is bad for this region.”
Burke just nodded.
“And you know that bastard Vachon? He’s got some chateau in the hills just beyond Nice,” Claude said with a resigned shake of the head. “He should know better.”
“He lives here?” Burke said.
“No, he just comes down for a few days’ holiday now and then,” Claude said. “He normally lives in Paris. Bastard!”
Claude looked away. Burke followed his gaze. It was Madame Marois. She was standing at the edge of the stairs that lead into the tiny square and Claude’s terrace. She looked at her wristwatch, back to the square and then once more at the watch.
“That’s odd,” Burke said.
The Bastard is Dead Page 7
