The Lost Carousel of Provence

by Juliet Blackwell

  “Where do you get off, putting ideas in my boy’s head?”

  Cady wasn’t catching every slurred word, but she assumed that was essentially what he was saying. It dawned on her that he must be speaking about her new assistant.

  “You’re Johnny’s father?”

  “Yes, I am. And I would thank you to leave him alone. He’s idiotic enough without your American ideas in his head.”

  “Could I ask what ideas you’re talking about?”

  “He told me you think he ought to go to university.” He said this last with a snide, prissy emphasis.

  “He seems intelligent, and sensitive,” Cady said. “University isn’t for everyone, but if he wants to—”

  “This is none of your business. Who are you, anyway? You think you can come to our town and start meddling in other people’s business?”

  He called her a name: salope. She had learned this one by occasionally filling in at the French-American school during recess. Literally, it meant “slut,” but it was often used to mean “bitch.” Which was probably typical in English as well.

  Cady’s first thought was to return the favor, calling up a couple of choice words in French—a connard or a crétin; also learned on the playground at school, sorry to say—but she thought better of it. Instead she adopted a flat affect and listened to his bluster until he wore himself out. It was like sharing the bus with someone who was off his meds; he wasn’t seeing her, but reacting to something in his own head.

  After a few minutes the man stumbled increasingly over his words, and there was more time between insults, as though he was running out of steam.

  “Andres,” came a new voice. Jean-Paul rushed into the café, planted himself between Cady and her attacker, and went off on the man. Unfortunately, this gave Johnny’s father renewed energy.

  They argued loudly until Jean-Paul finally grabbed the older man by his upper arm and hustled him out the door. Andres cast a few more choice words—and the same bras d’honneur obscene gesture his son had used the other day—in the general direction of the bar, then reeled down the street.

  * * *

  • • •

  “Nice to run into you again,” Cady said after Jean-Paul came back into the café and ordered a beer. “What a coincidence.”

  “Hubert called me.”

  “Why?” She glanced over at the café owner behind the bar, pouring a beer from a tap.

  “Because you were being assaulted. Didn’t you notice?”

  “It was just words.”

  “Bad words.”

  “I’ve heard worse. Besides, in French swearing sounds so elegant. I think I learned a few new words.” She patted her journal. “I should write them down.”

  He shook his head and chuckled.

  Hubert brought Jean-Paul his beer and apologized to Cady, adding, “Andres boit comme un trou.”

  Andres drinks like a trout.

  “Why do you keep serving him?” Jean-Paul demanded of Hubert.

  The bartender lifted his well-padded shoulders and put his hands palms up as if to say What can I do? “C’est le vent qui lui rend fou,” he replied.

  “It’s not the wind that’s driven him mad,” Jean-Paul responded, “but the drink.”

  Hubert shuffled back behind the bar.

  “Putain,” Jean-Paul swore in French, running his hand through his hair. Cady’s eyes lingered for a moment on the path of his fingers, which left little indentations in his thick brown hair. “J’en ai vraiment marre de tout ça.”

  By which he meant, basically, that he was tired of all this.

  “What are you so tired of?” Cady asked.

  “Small-town minds, small-town gossip.”

  “It does seem to be quite the efficient communications system. So, you’re speaking French to me now?”

  He shook his head and smiled. “I felt like swearing, and you said it was more elegant in French. Besides, I don’t know that many good swear words in English.”

  “I could teach you a few choice phrases.”

  “I’m sure you could. I imagine you know quite a number from your days running the streets of Oakland.”

  “I do indeed,” she said with a smile. Their gazes met and held for a few seconds too long.

  “Believe me, it’s not about you—Andres drinks too much, and his wife passed away suddenly last year. I have the feeling he finds teenagers challenging, to put it kindly.”

  “Also, he’s not fond of Americans.”

  “That too, apparently.” His eyes settled on her. “You’re okay?”

  “Of course I’m okay. People don’t like me; I’m used to it.”

  “Why do you keep saying that?”

  “Because it’s true. It’s always been that way. Anyway, I appreciate the whole knight-in-shining-armor thing, but it’s not necessary. I can take care of myself.”

  “I know. So you’ve told me. But I think it’s more than that; I think you don’t like asking for help.”

  “I don’t know about that—I asked Fabrice for help, and now I’m staying at his château.”

  “I think that was more about you offering help than asking for it.”

  “So.” Cady cleared her throat and looked away from those sherry-colored eyes. “What was Hubert saying about the wind making Andres crazy?”

  “Haven’t you noticed how windy it is here? Provence claims thirty-two different winds, coming from all directions. Each of them has a different name and a distinct character. But the mistral is master of them all—in fact, in the Provençal language mistral means ‘masterly.’”

  “I didn’t know there was a Provençal language.”

  He nodded. “It’s mostly died out at this point, but a few of the old people still know it. They say the mistral can blow the tail off a donkey or the horns off a bull.”

  Cady smiled and finished her coffee.

  “When the mistral howls,” Jean-Paul continued, “pets misbehave, and people complain that the roar of the wind gives them headaches and robs them of sleep. Also, supposedly it drives people mad: c’est le vent qui rend fou.”

  “I have noticed the wind,” she said. “I just never thought of giving a wind a name, much less a character. So the mistral is the bane of the Provençal existence?”

  “Funny you should ask. There’s a story my grandmother used to tell me about it.”

  “Well, don’t hold back. I’m here to soak up the local culture, after all.”

  “Seems people got so sick of the mistral that they found out where it originated, way up in the mountains, and a group of brave young men made a very strong door of thick wood, reinforced with iron beams. They took this up to the crevice in the rocks where the mistral originates, hammered it into the mountain rock, and managed to shut the wind in.”

  “That sounds like quite the door,” said Cady.

  “Never underestimate a determined Provençal man.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Cady licked some coffee from her lip and noticed Jean-Paul’s eyes following the movement of her tongue. He cleared his throat and continued with his story.

  “At first, everyone rejoiced at the stillness of the air. But after a while the humidity led to marshy conditions, and mildew destroyed all the crops. Insects multiplied, and everyone was miserable. So the young men went back up to the mountain to let the wind back out. There’s something about negotiating with the mistral, making certain demands of it before agreeing to let it out, and the wind reneging on the deal, but I forget the details. The point is that now it blows away the clouds, which is what gives the area so much sunshine, dries out the grape leaves so they don’t mildew, and cleans out the marshes.”

  She gave him a grudging nod. “Okay, that’s a pretty good story.”

  “The old people draw it out with a lot of details a
nd some shouting back and forth between the wind and the men,” he said. “Add a glass or two of wine, it can go on all night.”

  “I’ll bet it can,” Cady said, and they shared a laugh.

  “Anyway, I’m glad to see you.”

  “Me, too. I have two very exciting things to tell you. First, Fabrice gave me permission to develop the film I found in the basement. Any suggestions?”

  “I have a friend who’s an amateur photographer, with his own darkroom.”

  “Would this be a tile man named Guido?”

  “I see you’re really figuring out this town. You don’t need me at all.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. And now, for the big news: Fabrice showed me the carousel!”

  Jean-Paul blinked. “He did?”

  “I thought you’d be excited.”

  “I am. Of course. That’s great news. Is anything still there? Is it intact?”

  “It’s in terrible condition, and it looks like several of the animals are missing. But I spoke with Toinon and Élodie, and they gave me some supplies and advice about restoration.”

  “Toinon and Élodie, too? You really are making yourself at home here in our fair town. So Fabrice is going to let you restore it?”

  “I’m no professional, obviously, but he says he won’t let me call anyone else in. For now I’m it. I can at least clean things up a bit—Johnny showed up to work, and he’s been helping as well. I wanted to ask you something else, too: It turns out Toinon has one of the animals from the carousel. I never thought to ask before, but does anyone else in your family have one, or do you know of anyone who might? Fabrice seems sure that family members looted things from the château.”

  “It’s possible there are one or two floating about. But they might just as easily have been sold off decades ago.”

  Cady nodded. “It seems a shame to have them scattered. I would love to bring all the pieces back together again, to bring the carousel back to its former glory.”

  “Sounds like you’re planning to stay a while longer.”

  “I canceled my return ticket. If Fabrice is okay with me staying, it seems like an opportunity I can’t pass up. How often does a person stumble on an antique carousel in need of restoration?”

  Jean-Paul held her gaze for a long moment. He smiled, but there was sadness in his eyes, like a haze hanging over a summer afternoon.

  “So,” Cady asked. “How about you? How long are you planning to stay in Saint-Véran?”

  “I seesaw back and forth between staying forever, and hightailing it back to Paris. I suppose I would always split my time between Paris and Saint-Véran, if I possibly could. Each appeals to me, in its own way.”

  “I thought you were tired of small-town gossip.”

  “I am. But I love the people here, and the slower pace of life. Not to mention the Provençal climate. And the truth is, in a small town a person can make a difference. Maybe if I stayed and became a part of village life, I could help change the tone of things.” He shrugged and looked away, a muscle working in his jaw.

  Cady wondered whether this was what Jean-Paul had referred to, when he spoke of being at a crossroads in his life. It occurred to her to wonder how long ago his marriage plans had fallen apart, and she was about to ask when he changed the subject.

  “My grandfather Gerald would like to speak with you.”

  “Toinon mentioned him; she said he knew a lot about the history of the château.”

  “He does, yes. As you might recall, his grandfather Thierry believed that Gerald’s father, Pierre, was the rightful heir to Château Clement, rather than Fabrice’s father, Marc-Antoine. Gerald is what you say in English, a ‘piece of work’? And, like Andres, he is wondering why an American is now living at the château with Fabrice.”

  “I’m happy to speak with him, though I don’t know that I can tell him anything he doesn’t already know. But I’d love to ask him a few questions.”

  “Do you have time now?”

  She checked her watch. “Fabrice might be expecting me; I should call him and let him know I’ll be late.”

  “He won’t answer. He usually pretends he doesn’t have a phone.”

  “Yes, I’m familiar with that gambit.”

  She dialed his number anyway, but as Jean-Paul had predicted, the phone rang and rang. Cady imagined the jangly sound echoing down the halls of the château, while a lonely old man sat by the fire and stroked his dog, ignoring the outside world, pretending he was safe, alone in his imagined cocoon.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  PRESENT DAY

  CHTEAU CLEMENT

  Cady

  As they walked toward Jean-Paul’s childhood home, right outside of town, a huge dragonfly zoomed by, its iridescent skin flashing blue and green.

  “It seems early for dragonflies,” Cady said. “What are they called in French?”

  “Libellules,” Jean-Paul replied. “The cicada is the symbol of Provence, but a lot of people in this area are partial to the dragonfly. Did you know it begins life as a water nymph, before developing wings and flying?”

  “That sounds like a metaphor,” she said, watching the insect hover and dart this way and that.

  “Doesn’t it?” They passed through a little gate and walked down a brick path toward a huge stone farmhouse adjacent to a farmer’s field. “In the summer this field is full of sunflowers.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “It is,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact.

  “Do you see it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When you grow up surrounded by all of this beauty, do you relish it, or do you just take it for granted?”

  Jean-Paul paused and looked back out over the little valley. “I loved running around the village as a kid, that much is true. But the house has always been a mixed bag for me. My father passed away a few years ago, but before that he was . . . troubled. And my grandfather lives here now with my mother, which can also be challenging.”

  Inside, the home looked lived-in and rustic but well appointed; there were lace curtains in the windows, a huge fireplace in the living room, and a table set up for apéro.

  “Cady, this is my mother, Louise Mirassou,” Jean-Paul said as he introduced an older, birdlike woman whose salt-and-pepper hair was styled in a practical bob. A scar under her right eye looked white against her subtly rouged cheek.

  “It is such a pleasure!” Louise smiled broadly and left Cady in a faint cloud of perfume as they traded kisses. “I have heard so much about you, from my son and now everyone in the village, it seems.”

  “And this is my grandfather, Gerald Clement.”

  Gerald was not the imposing figure Cady had expected; he seemed shrunken, small. He shared a family resemblance with Louise and Jean-Paul, but unlike them he had an imperious expression, and when he spoke, his voice had a commanding edge.

  They traded pleasantries. Gerald and Cady were directed to sit at the table while Louise and Jean-Paul poured glasses of wine and brought out a few small plates.

  Cady tried to ignore the fact that Gerald was staring at her, without speaking, across the table.

  At long last Jean-Paul and Louise joined them and they toasted to each other’s health.

  “I don’t understand why Fabrice allows you to stay at the château when he won’t allow anyone else, including Jean-Paul,” Gerald said, shoving a cracker into his mouth. “What are you doing out there? What are you after?”

  “I help him with the dog, and the groceries, and I cook.” Cady wasn’t about to volunteer information about the carousel, much less the film cartridges she had found.

  Gerald harrumphed and sat back in his seat.

  “It’s hardly Cady’s fault if Fabrice likes her, Grandfather,” said Jean-Paul. “At least he’s letting someone help him.”

  �
��He should have been carted off to a nursing home a long time ago,” said Gerald.

  “He wishes to stay in his home for the last days of his life,” Louise said. “We can hardly blame him for that.”

  “We can blame him for keeping a château that is not rightfully his,” Gerald replied.

  Louise patted his arm and made a soothing murmur. She was like her son, Cady thought: a peacemaker.

  Gerald turned back to Cady. “You’ve been asking questions about the carousel.”

  “Yes. What can you tell me about it?”

  “If he’s planning on using that infernal carousel to save his château—”

  “I don’t believe he’s planning on doing any such thing,” interrupted Cady. “But then again, I’m certainly not his spokesperson. If you’d like to know his plans, might I suggest you speak to him directly?”

  “It’s not that easy, as I believe you know.”

  “I was wondering, would you happen to know the whereabouts of any of the missing pieces of the carousel?” Cady asked. “I know Toinon has one, and thought perhaps others in the family might possess some of the other figures.”

  He fixed her with an intimidating look. Sitting here now, Cady thought, he seemed ridiculous, a pigeon with his feathers ruffled. But she wondered what Gerald had been like as a father to young Louise, ranting about the château he—and then she—should have inherited, or simply fixing her with that glare if she dared forget to make up her bed or talked back. This was the part about having family that Cady did not miss.

  “Now you listen to me, young lady,” Gerald said. “That carousel is none of your concern, and neither is Fabrice, or any of the Clement family, for that matter. I think it’s high past time that you left our little town.”

  “Grandfather—,” Jean-Paul began, but Cady waved him off, holding the old man’s gaze.

  “I’ll leave when it suits me. By the way, can you tell me anything about an apprentice carousel carver who might have stayed at the château?”

  “You mean Fabrice’s grandfather?”

  She stared at him but did not respond.