The Lost Carousel of Provence

by Juliet Blackwell

  She snapped some photos, crouching to angle her camera this way and that, trying to capture the odd juxtaposition of the graffiti against the historic buildings. The mist lent an aura of otherworldliness to the scene.

  There didn’t appear to be any new graffiti decorating the outbuildings, so maybe the “bad kid” had found something else to do.

  What was this kid’s story?

  Lucy did her business behind a bush and Cady contemplated whether she was expected to pick it up—but this being France, and the countryside, she let it go. Parisians loved their dogs, but seemed content to leave their droppings where they fell, apparently too chic to scoop up doggy doo-doo.

  Back in the château there was still no sign of Fabrice, so Cady took Lucy off the leash, filled the dog’s water bowl, and headed to her bedroom. As she had with her apartment in the Latin Quarter, she was developing her daily routine, making Château Clement feel more like home.

  Maybe all those years spent bouncing from one situation to the next had been good for something, after all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  1944

  FRANCE

  Fabrice

  His cover story was that he was going to visit his grandparents in the countryside outside of Nantes. He was to take the train to Nantes, where he was to find the boulangerie on the rue Morgan and ask if they might have a particular rye boule “that my grandmother loves.” The contact would then give him a ride to the outskirts of Saint-Nazaire, and give him enough information to blend in with the arrival of the student group on their field trip.

  If Fabrice had tried to pass into Vichy, he would have needed a special permit, almost impossible to get. But German-occupied France allowed some movement, and it was easy enough to get on the train. If it weren’t for the presence of the Nazis, he could almost imagine there was no war going on as he watched the countryside fly by. Though he missed Paulette already, it felt good to get out of the city, leaving behind claustrophobic curfews, hiding in doorways to avoid the police patrols, fearing betrayal at every turn.

  On the train Fabrice could imagine something different for himself: that he was older, dashing, brave. He envisioned joining the Free French Forces, earning a chest of medals like his father had from the First World War. He daydreamed about the moment he would stride back into the doctor’s office—to Paulette—after accomplishing his mission.

  He would no longer be a boy, but a triumphant soldier of the Résistance.

  The shopkeepers in the boulangerie were hushed and wary, and the man who drove Fabrice the rest of the way was a coarse farmer who smelled of sweat and spoke little other than to relay instructions. There was no buoyant sense of camaraderie here, just fear and grim desperation. The farmer’s truck was old and uncomfortable, squeaking and lurching as though about to break down. He dropped Fabrice a mile from the base and told him to hike through the woods to the northeast and then to wait for the school bus to arrive.

  The Nazi guards standing at the base entrance were almost as young as he. Fabrice hesitated when he saw them, but when a teacher yelled at him to get in line, he melted into a school group that had arrived for their visit.

  The farmer had warned him that the head teacher was a Nazi sympathizer, but since there would be several different classes mingling together a new face was unlikely to be noticed. Fabrice prayed none of the students would notice that he was out of place.

  Once they were through the gates, Fabrice relaxed. The Nazis were proud of their base, and of their submarines. They encouraged the students to ask questions, and within the large group it was easy enough to snap photos. He committed to memory the layout so he could draw a map afterward, and when the class was climbing back aboard the bus he slipped into the woods to await the farmer with his truck to take him to Nantes.

  He felt triumphant. The whole endeavor had gone so smoothly Fabrice decided he would volunteer for more such missions, would embrace clandestinité, severing ties with his family and going all in for the remainder of the war.

  Brutal reality came crashing down upon his fantasy when, on the return trip, the train screamed to a stop outside of Le Mans. Soldiers clambered onto the train, their boots treading heavily on the floor in ominous thunder. Along with most of the men on the train, Fabrice was searched. He had sewn the rolls of film into the lining of his hat, which lay safe and uninspected on the seat while they went through his satchel and frisked him, shouting questions at him. He repeated the story of visiting his good Catholic grandparents who lived in a farmhouse outside of Nantes, tearing up in fear when another man in the same train car was struck repeatedly by a soldier, then hauled off the train. The soldiers, disgusted by his tears, derided him and left.

  The rest of the train ride was spent in stunned relief and humiliation, liquid fear still running through his veins.

  But back in Paris, Fabrice realized that surely he was old enough now for Paulette. He felt a hundred years old, in fact.

  When he showed up at the doctor’s office with the film, Paulette jumped up and ran across the reception room to embrace him.

  “I’m so glad! Oh, Fabrice, I was so scared for you!”

  It was all worth it. For this. Holding her in his arms. It was all worth it.

  But they were not alone. The doctor came out and ushered Fabrice into the examination room. “You didn’t tell anyone where you went? Not even my secretary?”

  “No, of course not. But surely she knows?”

  “She knew you were going somewhere, but not the location or reason.”

  “But—”

  “My point is not to trust anyone. Not anyone.”

  Fabrice nodded and pulled the film out of his hatband, handing it to the doctor, who nodded and smiled.

  “Excellent,” he said.

  “Also, I drew a map, and wrote down all the numbers and other pertinent information. Everything I could remember.”

  “You are a hero, Garçon.”

  “I am but a Frenchman,” Fabrice responded, feeling noble and patriotic, wishing Paulette could be there to hear their exchange.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  PRESENT DAY

  PROVENCE

  Cady

  Cady stood in line at the boulangerie behind a white-haired woman who couldn’t decide what she wanted for a large gathering of family visiting from Lyon. Once again, enveloped by the delectable aroma of fresh bread, and enthralled by the variety of tempting goods in the display cases, Cady didn’t mind waiting.

  “What did I tell you?” a man’s voice said from behind her. “There is only one boulangerie in town. It was just a matter of time before our paths crossed again. Bonjour, Cady.”

  “Bonjour, Jean-Paul,” Cady replied. They exchanged kisses on the cheek. “I’ve been meaning to call you.”

  “Do you like the place you’re renting?” Jean-Paul asked.

  “Actually, I’ve had a change of address. I’m staying with your cousin.”

  “At Château Clement.” It wasn’t so much a question as a statement.

  “Yes.”

  “Fabrice asked you to stay with him?”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way, exactly, no. We made an arrangement: I have someplace to stay in exchange for walking his dog and cooking. And now I’m grocery shopping. I’m sort of an all-around Girl Friday.”

  He looked nonplussed.

  “He needs help, Jean-Paul, you know that,” Cady said in a quiet voice. “He’s a cranky old man but he’s on his own and shouldn’t be. He needs someone.”

  “I realize that. It is why I came from Paris in the first place.”

  “But it’s been a couple of days.”

  “One full day.”

  “Still.”

  “I was picking up bread before going over there right now. We take our time; this is how we do it in our family. He has to get used to the ide
a of permitting me to help.”

  “After you left that night I tried to go, too, but my tires were slashed, and it was raining. Fabrice allowed me to spend the night, and—”

  “What do you mean, your tires were slashed?”

  “Just what I said. I don’t know the word slashed in French; do you know it in English? Like . . . cut?”

  “Who would do something like that?”

  “At first I thought I might be caught up in a movie plot. Like a newcomer’s tires are slashed so she has to stay at the creepy old château.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You know, to be murdered . . . Sorry, I was making a joke, but I don’t think my humor translates across languages. My guess is a kid named Johnny, who apparently had a falling-out with Fabrice and has been vandalizing the place.”

  He took a deep breath. “I’ll have a talk with his father.”

  “No! No, please don’t. I have no proof, none, zero. It wouldn’t be fair to get the boy in trouble for something he may not have done. And anyway, he’s going to make it up to me—to Fabrice, I mean.”

  “How’s he going to do that?”

  “I’ll deal with it is my point.”

  The old woman at the head of the line finally shuffled off with a massive bag full of baguettes, boules, and croissants, so Cady stepped up to the register and ordered a pain au chocolat, two baguettes, and a large brioche.

  “My cousin likes pain de mie.”

  Jean-Paul had moved up behind her as though they were together, placing one arm atop the glass case as he ordered the pain de mie. He stood close enough for Cady to inhale his scent: a slightly citrus musk. Talk about ambrosia.

  “Also,” Jean-Paul said to Cady, “you aren’t allowed to leave town without trying the escargot. It is our custom.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not sure I’m up for snails. Where I come from we step on snails; we don’t eat them.”

  He scoffed. “You really must try true escargots before you leave France, but the escargot I am speaking of now is a pastry. You’ll thank me.”

  Jean-Paul spoke rapidly in French and the baker’s wife handed Cady a coiled roll filled with pistachio and chocolate.

  Jean-Paul insisted on paying for everything. “What is happening with your car?”

  “The rental company had it towed to Avignon. I don’t have Internet access at the château, and my phone is having trouble receiving messages, so I was on my way over to the Hound Dog Café to check my e-mail.” She patted the computer bag slung over her shoulder.

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “I hear he’s an Elvis fan.”

  “You could say that.”

  To Cady’s eyes the Hound Dog Café was more tavern than café. A well-stocked bar ran along one side, and a pool table crowded the opposite corner. The walls were studded with posters of Elvis Presley, from the early movies featuring him as a slim, handsome young man, to the jumpsuited version not long before his death.

  Hubert, a paunchy, middle-aged man with long sideburns, looked a little like Elvis Presley in his Vegas years. He stood behind the bar drying glasses with a towel and greeted Jean-Paul by name when he entered. Two old men sat hunched over beers at the bar; a small mixed group of middle-aged men and women had pushed two tables together and were chatting; a young couple giggled and leaned toward each other over their table.

  Cady ordered a coffee, Jean-Paul asked for a Fernet-Branca, and they took a seat by the window.

  She tried the pastry. The layers were rich with butter, tender inside with a satisfying crunch at the edges. The filling of pistachio and chocolate was scrumptious. She glanced up to find Jean-Paul’s eyes on her.

  “Good?” he asked.

  “Mmmmmm,” was all she could manage. She brushed a few flakes off her lips. And then: “You’re right, I thank you.”

  He smiled.

  “I wanted to ask you something,” Cady said. “You mentioned your mother has copies of the old photos taken by Yves Clement. Do you think she would share them with me?”

  “I’ll ask her, if you would like. Why don’t I bring them to the château—it would be interesting to see what Fabrice would make of them.”

  “He’s a fascinating man.”

  One corner of his mouth kicked up. “I suppose that’s one way to put it.”

  “I was thinking, he must have been writing in Paris during the bohemian heyday, right after World War II. Imagine the people he might have known.”

  “According to what I’ve heard, he thinks that was the last time Paris was interesting. Fabrice doesn’t have much time for Paris, much less my ‘fancy education.’”

  “Well, I envy you. I never went to college.”

  “No?”

  She shook her head. “I barely made it out of high school, really. I wasn’t what you’d call a natural student.”

  “You seem to have done well for yourself.”

  “I read,” Cady said, then stopped herself. She had almost confessed to him. “Slowly, but I read a lot.”

  He nodded. “Didn’t the writer Ray Bradbury say something about that? That he was ‘library-educated’?”

  “I hadn’t heard that, but I like it.” She sipped her coffee and for a moment let silence fall over them. Finally, Cady added: “As I mentioned in Paris, I’m reading your cousin’s Le Château right now.”

  “Yes, I’m impressed. That’s not an easy read.”

  “Well, I’m making my way through the English translation. And I confess, I have no idea what’s going on. But he describes bits and pieces of the château, so it’s fun to track those down and see what he’s talking about. The man at the bookstore told me it was a roman à clef. Did you know that?”

  Jean-Paul nodded.

  “It would be much more intriguing if I had any idea what was going on. Do you know whether the carousel was completely destroyed in the fire?”

  “Some say there were parts that remained, relatively unscathed. But it’s all conjecture; I think Fabrice is the only one who knows for sure.”

  “Well, I’m working on him. In the novel, he refers to an ‘apprentice’ staying at the château, and working there for a period of time, but he’s referred to only as ‘Anon’ or ‘Anonymous.’ I wish I had the key that went along with the novel.”

  Jean-Paul’s sherry-colored eyes lingered on her for a long moment, and she thought she saw sadness in them. He had a quick wit and an easy smile, but she wondered: Had his fiancée really run off with his business partner?

  “How long are you planning to stay?” Jean-Paul asked.

  “I don’t have a plan, exactly,” Cady said, her stomach fluttering as the words came out. “I’m sort of playing it by ear.”

  “No one’s waiting for you back in the States?”

  “No,” she replied. “How about you? You don’t need to get back to Paris?”

  He gave a ghost of a smile, and a barely-there shake of his head. “You heard what Fabrice said. My wedding was canceled at the last minute.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you. But it was for the best. And Fabrice got one thing wrong: I left her, not the other way around.”

  “Why?”

  He gazed into his glass. “She deserves someone better.”

  “Someone like your business partner?”

  He gave a humorless chuckle. “Ex-business partner. But yes. He is probably a better man than I.”

  Cady had no idea how to respond. Their gazes met again, and held.

  “So, Cady, what I still can’t figure out is what you’re doing here.”

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  He chuckled. “Perhaps. But Saint-Véran is my native village, and I am spending time with relatives, trying to look after my cousin and the château I will one day inherit. Whereas you . . .” />
  “I’m butting in? Are you telling me to leave?”

  “Not at all. I’m just trying to . . . what is the phrase? ‘Figure you out.’”

  She let out a quick laugh. “Well, let me know what you come up with. I could use a clue myself. As you know, I was trying to track down the provenance of my carousel figure, which led me here. But now that I’m at the château, I have come to realize that at this point . . .” She took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “The idea of spending a few nights at a mysterious château—one featured in a novel, no less—is pretty exciting. I guess I’m just . . . playing it by ear.”

  “As you said. So . . . no plans.”

  “No plans. And you? What do you intend to do with the château once you inherit it? Move in, have those kids you were talking about, become a country gentleman?”

  “Not exactly, no. I would like to bring in a structural engineer to assess how much work—and money—it will take to renovate the château, bring it up to modern standards. And then”—he shrugged—“there are a couple of chains that run châteaux as small hotels, wedding venues, that sort of thing.”

  “It seems a shame to let the château leave the family.”

  “You Americans are very romantic about history, are you not? Perhaps that is the result of having less of it than we. Remember, I did not grow up at the château, and have no sentimental attachment to it. When Fabrice’s father, Marc-Antoine, didn’t return after the First World War, it was not properly maintained and became a ruin, really.”

  “Why didn’t Fabrice’s father return?”

  “He married a Parisian, and you know how they are.”

  “I don’t, actually, but I know what Fabrice would say about that.”

  “Ironically, of all the extended Clement family, Fabrice is by far the most Parisian. He was born and raised there, after all.”