Marine sat at her dining room table with a stack of papers to grade in front of her, with those essays written by her more promising and dedicated students on top. She had made a pot of green tea, whose health benefits she had read about but whose taste she still hadn’t come to love. Next time, she thought, better to make a pot of Earl Grey, which took her back to her student days in Paris, and she at least liked its taste. Every few months she went off coffee for a few days, swayed by reports of its dangers to one’s health. She put her pen down and thought of her trips to Italy, and how the Italians, or the French for that matter, despite a large daily intake of espresso, didn’t seem unhealthy. On the contrary. Tomorrow morning, she knew, she would go back to her old ways and sit in her armchair, hugging a cup of strong coffee and reading the front page of Le Monde.
She forced herself to grade one paper and then took a stroll around the living room, dusting off Sylvie’s framed photographs with a tissue she had in her pocket. She could no longer afford to buy her friend’s photos; they went off to wealthy collectors in London and Zurich. As she straightened one of the photographs—an eerily gloomy black-and-white of a church in northern Spain—she thought of Antoine. He had called out in his sleep that night, and had very clearly said the words “You’re dead, Monique.” It was not the first time he had done so, but last night’s words were very clear, not the usual nonsensical mumblings made by someone still asleep. His bad dream was as gloomy as Sylvie’s fuzzy church, where dark clouds swept across the sky and the foreground was barren, reminding the viewer that this country church, once the most important building for miles around, was now abandoned, no longer necessary, even unwanted.
“All these things left unsaid,” Marine said aloud. She had grown up with dark clouds, and as a child had been confused those times when her mother wouldn’t come out of her room and her father escaped to the garden, sneaking cigarettes that Marine knew he hid in the toolshed. The reasons why were explained to her on her thirteenth birthday, as if this knowledge was a gift for her newly acquired stature as an adolescent. Ten years before Marine was born she had had a brother, Thomas, who died of crib death when he was four months old. There had never been any sign of him in the house, nor would there ever be. At four months Charlotte had already been a full being, with hints of the same funny personality that she now had at ten. Marine couldn’t imagine her parents’ grief, and because of it she always felt like she was walking on eggshells around them, never knowing when the memories of Thomas would come back, sending her normally stiff mother off moaning to her bedroom. Sylvie had suggested on more than one occasion to Marine that perhaps her parents, and maybe even Marine herself, should seek counseling, but Marine knew that her parents would never agree to such a thing. Her father, a doctor, prided himself on never actually having to go to one; and her mother was keenly aware of and sensitive about the price the French taxpayer paid for a doctor’s visit, let alone what a visit to le psy would cost.
Marine walked back to the table, took a sip of tea, and looked out of the window at Saint-Jean-de-Malte’s steeple. How bad could Antoine’s secret be, she thought. She looked at the church and thought of the centuries of pain and happiness it had seen, thousands of weddings and funerals and baptisms. Surely she could speak to Antoine about his demons, if that was even what the bad dreams were. Once in Cannes, late at night, he had tried to talk to her about his past, and then the phone rang, and the moment was gone. He loved her, he had made his declaration, and she was now determined to ask him about it, what Charlotte called “those sad-bad things.” She looked at her watch. It was 3:30 p.m.; she had lots of time to finish her grading and then as a reward walk over to Sylvie and Charlotte’s for a glass of wine. Sylvie was still angry at Antoine, and although Marine had originally defended her best friend, she understood Antoine’s masculine point of view too, as Sylvie had never given Charlotte’s father a chance to be just that—her father. Gustav was a photographer from Berlin, married, with two children who now must be in their twenties. Sylvie had never returned his letters, and he had no knowledge of Charlotte’s existence. Marine had suggested to Sylvie that this had been perhaps an unfair—even egotistical—move on Sylvie’s part, and Sylvie had responded to Marine’s suggestion that she write to Gustav with a weeklong silence. Since then Marine and Sylvie kept their conversations to nonconfrontational subjects: Charlotte, the changing face of Aix-en-Provence, French politics, art and music, general gossip, and books (Marine was currently reading a French translation of a laugh-out-loud novel by David Lodge, where the petty office politics of a university located in a small English city very much reflected those of her own school; Sylvie was rereading Simone de Beauvoir’s Les Mandarins).
Marine had just finished correcting the second essay when the phone rang. She didn’t recognize the caller’s number and hesitated before answering; she sometimes had multiple calls a day telling her she had won a set of porcelain or crystal, all she had to do was to answer some questions…
“Allô?” she said, sounding as angry as she could.
“Marine? It’s Annie Leonetti. I hope I didn’t disturb you.”
“Oh! Annie, hello. I was afraid you were going to be someone trying to sell me something I don’t need or want. Sorry.”
Annie Leonetti laughed and revealed that she too averaged two sales calls a day. “But I am trying to sell you something,” she said, “in a way, at least. I really enjoyed your comments during our lectures. I’m in the middle of a book on Sainte Dévote, as you may know, and need some of your legal history advice. Could I tempt you to dinner some night next week?”
“I’d be delighted,” Marine answered just as a knock was heard at her apartment door. “Next week then! Someone’s at my front door!” she said as she hung up, suddenly wondering if there were other intentions behind Annie Leonetti’s invite. She walked into the front hall and opened her door to see her mother. “Some kid downstairs let me in the building. They ought to be more careful,” Florence Bonnet said, kissing her daughter.
“Come in. You hardly look like a thief, Maman.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Are you being racist?”
Marine was shocked. “No, Maman! What I meant was female senior citizens wearing raincoats from the seventies usually don’t fit the profile.” Marine immediately regretted what she had said about her mother’s lack of fashion sense, but Florence Bonnet was so unaware of fashion that the comment went unnoticed.
“Well, I suppose you’re right. Listen, I don’t have much time as I’m late for a meeting at Saint-Jean-de-Malte—we’re finally buying a new organ and are having a brainstorming session on how to raise money. Someone actually suggested that we sell wine, red and rosé, with a drawing of the church on the bottle! Can you believe it?”
Marine cut in. “It sounds like a great idea. I’d buy the wine, as would all my friends!”
“Well, I’m not here to discuss the church,” her mother said, looking at her daughter, who was in turn thinking, But you’re the one who started the conversation about Saint–Jean-de-Malte. “I still haven’t heard from Judge Verlaque about that dossier I gave you.”
Marine frowned. “I’m so sorry, Maman! I only showed it to Antoine last night.” Marine wished that she could confide in her mother the way Sylvie did with hers. She wanted to tell her that Antoine—yes, he had a Christian name, although her mother never used it—loved her; he had finally declared his love. “I’ll ask Antoine about it this evening, I promise,” Marine said.
“If you would,” her mother said, turning to go. “As I told you the other day, someone has embezzled all the funds. Now I ask you, whom? I don’t trust anyone anymore.”
Marine’s cell phone began to ring and she kissed her mother and tried not to push her out of the door. “When it rains it pours,” Marine muttered and picked up the phone.
“It’s a long weekend and I miss Italy,” Verlaque said as Marine answered. “I owe you a long weekend. There’s work involved, but it is Italy
…”
“Sounds great!” Marine screeched. “My mother was just here, asking about the file. We’ll talk in the car. I’ll go and pack my bag, and yes, I have to bring along grading. Are we going to Umbria by any chance?”
“Affirmative. I’ll pick you up in the car in a half hour? Can you be ready?”
“I’m packing as we speak.”
After six hours of highway driving and dozens of tunnels, they were finally close to their overnight stop. They had left Aix just before 4:00 p.m. and had been driving continuously, stopping only to switch drivers and drink a quick espresso. “Talking to Signora Rocchia on the phone reminded me of this little village at the end of a dead-end road on the sea,” Verlaque said as he directed Marine off of the highway and through a valley that led to Lerici and the coast. “I think her family house may be in the same village.”
“Do you want to see her?” Marine asked.
“Oh no, she closed up the house for the winter. But there’s this great small hotel, with a fabulous restaurant, that my grandparents loved. They started going in the early sixties, and then in the seventies took me and Sébastien. It was a real family affair, with mama up front in the hotel and papa in the kitchen. The decor was really classy 1960s Capri-style: lots of bright color, handmade ceramics, lots of Murano glass.” It now occurred to Verlaque that perhaps the hotel had been sold, or at least the decor changed, the golds and bright greens, blues and purples thrown out in favor of beige.
When they reached the top of the hill, the town of Lerici spread out before them, with its medieval castle guarding the town at the eastern tip and the sailboats bobbing up and down in the water. “The Bay of Poets,” Verlaque said. “The poet Shelley died here, just shy of his thirtieth birthday. He had gone out for an afternoon sail around the bay. The sea here is incredibly rough for such a peaceful place, Sébastien and I used to get freaked out by the waves.” Verlaque pointed to the sign for the village, another four kilometers along the sea. “Just follow the signs. Actually, pull over and I’ll drive from here…I want you to have the view.”
Marine squealed in delight as they drove along the road, sometimes from awe at the view of the sparkling sea, sometimes from fear of the road’s sheer drop into the sea. At the entrance to the village, Verlaque pulled the car over in front of a small yellow hotel and turned off the ignition. “Here it is,” he said. “Let’s hope the same family still owns it.”
They walked in arm and arm, and a young man in his midthirties with thick black curly hair greeted them. Verlaque asked in English if they had a room, and Marine wandered around, looking at the varied collection of paintings and prints and Italian ceramics that adorned the small lobby. The young man informed Verlaque that they did have a room, with a sea view, that included breakfast at 9:00 a.m. sharp. Verlaque looked at the man, who was dressed in what looked like California surfer attire, and finally said, “Alessandro?”
“Sì.”
“It’s me, Antoine. Emmeline and Charles Verlaque’s grandson. We used to come here, with my brother, in the seventies. You were just a kid, about seven or so.”
The man slapped his forehead and came around the desk, embracing Verlaque and calling to the kitchen. “Mamma! Papà! È Antoine Verlaque! Il nipote d’Emmeline e Charles!”
An elderly couple hurried out of the kitchen, the father, gray haired with a big handlebar mustache, wiping his hands on his white apron. “Salve!”
They embraced Verlaque. “Is this Mme Verlaque?” the signora asked, looking at Marine.
Marine laughed. “I’m his girlfriend,” she answered in Italian. “And sometimes we work together.”
The signora said something else in Italian and Verlaque looked to Marine for a translation. “The signora says that she misses your grandmother,” Marine said.
Verlaque smiled and said, “Grazie.”
“Are you a lawyer, Antoine? You always wanted to be one,” Alessandro asked.
“Yes. A judge, actually.”
Alessandro translated for his parents and his father whistled.
“And this is Dottore Bonnet, my girlfriend,” Verlaque continued. “She’s a law professor, who, as you noticed, speaks very good Italian.”
“Permesso,” the father said as he took Marine by the arm and led her into the kitchen, which, from what Verlaque could see through the open door, hadn’t changed since he was a boy. In the middle of the room stood a surface used for rolling pasta that was simply an old wooden table covered in Carrara white marble, and above it hung copper pots, and all along the sides green-painted wooden cabinets held dozens of mismatched earthenware.
“And Séb?” asked Alessandro, who had one eye on the kitchen and Marine. “What’s he up to? He wanted to be a doctor when we were kids.”
“Ah, he’s a real estate mogul.”
Alessandro winced. “Don’t mention that in front of my parents,” he answered. “They’ve been trying all their lives to protect this little bit of coast.”
“They’re right to do so,” Verlaque said. “By the way, your English is fantastic.”
“Thanks. I’ve learnt it entirely from our Anglo clients. And our elementary school teacher in the village, she was nuts for it.” Alessandro stood back and reached out his arms. “‘Nothing of him that doth fade / But doth suffer a sea-change / Into something rich and strange.’”
“Wonderful!” Verlaque exclaimed. “Shelley?”
“Good guess. It’s Shakespeare, from The Tempest, but it was engraved on Shelley’s grave.”
“Well done!” Verlaque said. Taking Alessandro aside, he whispered, so that the diners couldn’t hear, “Does Giuseppe Rocchia, the television theology guru, have a summer house here?”
Alessandro nodded. “His wife does, it’s been in her family for years. It’s at the bottom of the via D. H. Lawrence.”
Verlaque laughed. “I had forgotten that the streets are named for the English writers who loved it here. Do you know Signora Rocchia well?”
“Sure I do. She eats here almost once a week when she’s at the house, and she and Mamma share gardening tips. They’re great friends.”
“Is she a woman of her word?” Verlaque asked. “I mean, do you trust her?”
“On my life,” Alessandro answered without hesitating.
“Thank you. I’ll put our bags in our room, if I may, and have a quick shower before dinner. You can send Marine up when your parents are through with their tour.”
“Sure thing. Papà adores French women, and one who speaks Italian, well…”
Verlaque took the bags and the room key, started up the stairs, and turned back when he was halfway up. He surveyed the entry, thankful that not a thing had been touched. There was color and warmth everywhere. “Hey Alessandro. Does your father still make those deep-fried cod fritters as a starter?”
“Yep. They’re on tonight’s menu.”
“Heaven help me.”
Chapter Thirty-three
Flying Bits of Color
“The bed and breakfast where I stayed with Sylvie and Charlotte was around here, I recognize this road,” Marine said as she flattened the map on her knees and looked out the window at the green rolling hills just south of Assisi. “It was owned by this guy, Piero, whom Sylvie was convinced was Saint Francis of Assisi reincarnated.”
Verlaque puffed on an 898, which he usually smoked when he was alone because although he loved its flavor he didn’t like the look of a man of his thick build holding a long, thin, delicate-looking cigar. He stole a glance at Marine and smiled. “Why? Piero liked animals?”
“Oh yes, he loved animals, but it wasn’t only that. Piero had given up his fast-paced life in Rome to move to the country, just as Saint Francis had given up his soldiering and lofty inheritance. Both their mothers were French, from Provence…”
“Really?”
“Yes, weird coincidence, eh? And there were animals, dozens of them. Piero had this huge walk-in birdcage that Charlotte loved, but it freaked Sylvie and me out. He
called the birds ‘flying bits of color.’ He had this otherworldliness to him.” She looked at the landscape that was still very green but had suddenly turned flat. “According to the map we should be in Foligno any minute.”
Once in Foligno they parked their car in the small downtown, beside a short, squat, red-stoned Romanesque church. “Just a quick peek!” Marine said as she hopped out of the car and ran into the church. Verlaque went up to the parking meter and by the time he had figured out how to use it and fumbled in his pockets, and then in the car, for change, Marine was back.
“Did you find an Annunciation?” he asked.
“Yes! And Mary was beaming! Really, really happy!” Marine put her arm through Verlaque’s and they walked toward the imposing duomo, built from a pale pink stone.
“If we find this art museum on the main square we can ask to speak to a curator or the director about a glassworks around here,” Verlaque said.
“You’ll have to buy me lunch first. Mamma’s fresh-squeezed orange juice and chocolate-filled croissant was a long time ago.”
“I don’t know how you could have eaten that croissant,” Verlaque said, squeezing Marine’s arm and bringing her close to him so that a cyclist could pass. “Leave it to the Italians to take something that’s perfectly fine and then stuff it full of gooey chocolate.”
“And then sprinkle sugar on top! You missed out, darling.”
Verlaque laughed and looked at his watch. “It’s 1:15, so everyone at the museum will be at lunch. Best we do the same, but let’s just order one dish, not the full menu.”
They walked onto the main square and looked up at the cathedral in wonder. To the left was a museum, the building marked as the Palazzo Trinci. It was indeed closed for lunch and would reopen at 3:00 p.m. “Okay, let’s do a tour of the restaurants,” Verlaque said.
Murder in the Rue Dumas: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provencal Mystery (Verlaque and Bonnet Provencal Mysteries) Page 20
