When Jason returned from lunch, I told him my plans. “The doctor agreed?” he asked. I smiled. “Well, that’s good news. I won’t have to miss my paper,” said my husband. “I’d better call Adrien to let him know.”
“Yes, and you’ll have to buy train tickets and pack our bags. You can bring the luggage, and we’ll leave from here. You’ll need to pick out something for me to wear. I doubt that the clothes I had on when I was brought in are wearable. And cosmetics. I’ll need cosmetics.” I could see that Jason was worrying about packing and paying for cabs.
However, he said, “I’ll have to see about paying the bill. I wonder if they take Blue Cross Blue Shield.”
“Doesn’t France have socialized medicine? Since I was injured by a French criminal, we probably won’t have to pay anything.” That thought cheered my husband considerably, and he went off to get ready for departure. I went back to sleep.
Getting dressed the next morning was much more difficult than I anticipated because I was still dizzy; however, I had the whole train trip to Avignon to rest and drink in the scenery of Provence. The doctor never came to see me again, sulking probably because I hadn’t followed his advice. I was given pills, the name of a doctor in Avignon, an ugly metal cane, and a lecture by the nurse, which, fortunately, Jason didn’t hear because he was reloading our bags into a cab while I was wheeled down to the entrance. Also I had to sign some papers in French, probably absolving them if I came to grief.
Jason helped me from the wheelchair into the car, quite unaware of how much I needed that help, and then we were treated to a wild ride from a friendly cab driver to the Gare Part Deux, which had a delightful clock in front—a large clear plastic circle with red hands and gold balls at each hour position. I took a picture through the window.
Then the difficulties began. Jason could not handle all the luggage by himself, so I had to pull my bag while I clung desperately to his arm and he pulled his bag and hung both carry-ons from his shoulders. One of the carry-ons kept bumping my bruises. Rather than worry him, I clenched my teeth and kept my eyes wide open to prevent any telltale tears and groans, but I was so glad to sit down and mind the luggage while he went off to get a copy of the Herald-Tribune and find out our track number.
Then matters worsened as we resumed the bag dragging, amid crowds of travelers. My head began to ache abominably. Since Jason had to get the bags up into our train car by himself, he sent me ahead to secure seats. Climbing the narrow, high steps with a reeling head was dreadful, but once I got into the car, I could grab the seat handles as I staggered to the nearest open seat, which I fell into ahead of a mother and her child.
“Excusez-moi,” I said politely. I’d learned a few phrases, although not how to pronounce them. She gave me a furious look and dragged her whimpering child in the other direction.
Jason arrived about five minutes later, his forehead bedewed with perspiration. He was carrying the two computer cases, which are easier to steal than the large bags. He dumped those onto the seat beside me, which I had guarded vigilantly from people who wanted to sit there, and went back for his suitcase, which he then hefted onto the overhead rack with a grunt.
“Mine hasn’t disappeared, has it?” I asked anxiously. That would really be the last straw. Three attempts on our lives, a whole department of chemists angry with us, and no clean clothes.
“I seriously doubt it,” said Jason. “I could hardly get it onto the train. What thief would try to get it off? If I hadn’t packed your bag myself, I’d have thought it was full of bricks.”
“Do we have any water?” I asked, looking pathetic. “I need to take a pain pill.”
Somewhat abashed, Jason said he’d see if he could buy a bottle. While he was gone, I worried that the train would leave without him. He had the tickets. However, he returned with water but not my bag. When I asked where it was, he said, not very pleasantly, that it would have to stay between the cars because there was no way he could lift it onto a rack.
I’d have worried about the bag all the way to Avignon if I hadn’t fallen asleep as soon as I took the pain pills. Needless to say, I missed the lovely countryside of Provence. On the upside, my bag was still on the train when we arrived.
Avignon
“The most magical of all the provinces of France is Provence. Here the Latin civilization which is today the basis of the national culture took root earliest . . . You cannot live there long without becoming conscious of the vigorous pulse of the south. In comparison, Paris seems jaded.”
Waverly Root, The Food of France
29
Surprise at the Hotel de l’Horlage
Jason
Carolyn slept so soundly that I began to worry, although it occurred to me that her pain medication might be the cause. Still, I decided to suggest that she spend the afternoon resting at the hotel so she’d be able to attend the reception at the Palace of the Popes.
Getting off the train at the gare in Avignon was almost as difficult as getting on at Lyon. I had to handle all the bags and carry the computer cases while Carolyn clung to the seat handles in the aisle and edged down to the platform, hanging on to the stair rails for dear life. Obviously she should have stayed in the hospital, which made me wonder if the doctor had actually released her. Whistles were blowing, conductors were calling out in French, and my wife was in a panic when I transferred the last bag to the platform.
In the terminal, she asked that I buy her a tourist picture book of Avignon. I doubt she really needed it so soon because she fell onto a bench, looking pale. She called after me to get water as well, which meant she wanted to wash down more pain pills. Obviously, I couldn’t suggest taking public transportation to the hotel. In the taxi I eyed the meter while Carolyn exclaimed over one sight after another on the Rue de la Republique, ending with, “Look at that carousel!” It was a colorful and pretty attraction at the end of the Place de l’Horlage, which was lined with plane trees and sidewalk cafés shaded by colorful umbrellas that flapped in a stiff breeze.
Our hotel, down a side street, was a white building with red awnings and a very pleasant lady at the registration desk. I put my wife in a chair, took her passport, and signed us in.
“Professor, finally you are here!” I turned to find my graduate student, Mercedes Lizarreta, rushing toward me with arms outstretched. “Bonjour, mon professeur,” she cried and kissed me on both cheeks. “Isn’t France wonderful? I was so sorry to hear you were delayed in Lyon by an injury to your wife. Is she still in the hospital?”
I managed to extract myself from Mercedes’s embrace—what was the girl thinking?—but not before Carolyn arrived and said, “Actually, I’m here, too. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Ah, señora, I am Mercedes, your husband’s graduate student.”
“Really? And I am Carolyn, your professor’s wife. I didn’t realize you were attending the conference.” She shot me the look.
“Nor I you,” said Mercedes. “What a pleasure to meet.”
Carolyn did not look pleased. I should have mentioned that the girl was coming—at her own expense, of course. “Well, I’d better register for the conference.” Under the circumstances, suggesting that my wife stay here would be a bad idea. “Carolyn, do you want to come with me? There’s a reception tonight in an interesting venue, and then we’ll find a good restaurant for dinner. Of course, if you want to rest this afternoon—”
Carolyn looked mutinous, but then sensibly decided that she’d unpack, rest, and choose a restaurant.
As my wife was waving a bellhop over, Mercedes said, “I’ll walk over with you, Professor. Registration’s in the Salle des Gardes.”
“I can, no doubt, find it without help.”
“Not easily. Finding rooms at the conference requires a map, even though it’s within easy walking distance of our hotel. I don’t mind going with you.”
Because the bellhop was disappearing with the luggage, Carolyn had to follow, but she took the time to send me another look.
Carolyn
He never even mentioned that she’d be here. And at our hotel, lying in wait. Now she was going off somewhere with him, and I didn’t even feel up to unpacking. I just wanted to fall into bed and wait for the pills to take effect, which I did as soon as I’d tipped the bellman with some amount of euros that I didn’t even count. He looked pleased, which meant Jason wouldn’t be, had he known. Too bad!
And she was gorgeous. Short—Jason would like that, being short himself. Large breasted—all men liked that! Slim otherwise, and here I was, worried about my weight, with all the temptations of Provençal cuisine ahead. And she had a pretty face and shiny black hair that she had evidently curled into ringlets. It bounced everywhere, and looked quite silly. How much time did she have to spend on that hairstyle? Too much for a graduate student, who should have been devoting every moment to study and research.
I glanced at the room, which was rather austere—two beds were pushed together and covered in white with an iron bedstead behind and a peculiar brown wicker love seat and chair to one side. Doors led to a cement-wall-enclosed area open to the sky. It contained two canvas lawn chairs, a small table, and no view. I closed my eyes, without further scrutiny, and went to sleep.
Jason
The papal palace was indeed difficult to navigate, a warren of stone, rib-vaulted rooms, the reception area, or Salle des Gardes, cathedral-like but with modern furniture and five entrances into a wing for “Grand Dignitaries.” Carolyn would have loved it, as well as deploring the removal of whatever had been in there before the furniture. We chemists were doubtless not the guests envisioned by whatever French pope built the place.
I registered Carolyn and myself with only a short wait while Mercedes pointed out chemists to whom she had evidently introduced herself. No shrinking violet, my student. I rather wished she’d go away, but she chattered about Avignon, thanking me repeatedly for the opportunity to take her first trip to France, telling me that she had studied French language tapes on the flight from El Paso, even greeting French professors on the organizing committee in French.
“Bonsoir, Professor de Firenze,” she cried. “My research director is here at last.”
Catherine looked surprised to see me. “You have found your wife?” she asked. “I have been told of the robbery, but not—”
“Yes, yes,” I agreed, dreading this conversation. “Your neighbor found her at the bottom of the stairs and called an ambulance. Carolyn was released from the hospital this morning.”
“I hope she did not suffer serious injury. I did advise her to take care in my neighborhood, which has a mixed population due to city financing.”
“Carolyn is terribly upset to hear that family heirlooms were taken when the thief stole your key from her purse.”
“Well, my things were unique. The thief will find them hard to dispose of,” she replied grimly. “At least, your wife survived the incident.”
“Yes, she was lucky.”
“Perhaps I, too, will be lucky. Ah, I see Adrien. I must have a word with him.”
Catherine left me feeling responsible for her belongings. Surely, she wouldn’t expect us to—
“Goodness,” cried Mercedes, “I didn’t realize that your wife was at fault for the stealing from Professor de Firenze’s family treasures, which are so precioso. Perhaps American ladies do not realize—”
“My wife was a victim, too.”
“Yes, of course. Would you like to see the Grand Audience Hall? It’s immense. I think the first session will be there.”
“It’s very good of you, Mercedes, but I need to speak to Professor Laurent. You should make an effort to meet fellow graduate students. They will be your colleagues when you are finished with your education.”
“Ah, but I like the professors. They know so much more.”
“Even so,” I replied and headed rapidly across the room toward Laurent. This was going to be a touchy situation. A headachy, possibly jealous wife, a student who might be harboring improper ideas about me, through no fault of mine, and a group of French men and women who were angry with Carolyn. I sighed and approached Laurent.
“We have been contacted by the police,” he said. “They seem to think that someone in our department is intent on causing you harm. Perhaps you should remember that we are the ones who lost a colleague. Poor Robert. He is dead, and his lecture spot must be filled.”
Now there was a questionable expression of grief, I thought, and changed the subject to my own assignment.
30
Albertine and Dog to the Rescue
Carolyn
I woke up without the headache. Maybe I was improving—physically. The surprise appearance of Mercedes had been a blow. Why hadn’t Jason told me she’d be coming? It was bad enough having someone trying to kill you; having someone else trying to steal your husband was really too much. Well, Jason and I would enjoy a romantic dinner for two after the reception. Without Mercedes. I called the desk for advice on a restaurant, and Bridget said one of her favorites was L’Epicerie, on the square of the Saint Pierre church. “Is it very expensive?” I asked, keeping in mind that Jason would not be happy with a huge bill, no matter how romantic the evening.
“It’s quite reasonable,” Bridget replied, “and be sure to order the hors d’oeuvres platter. It’s more than enough for two and wonderful.”
I thanked her and picked up my book on Avignon, which was full of fascinating historical facts and marvelous pictures, even a picture of Saint Pierre—the church, not the saint. Then my telephone rang, Bridget announcing that Albertine was downstairs and wanted to come up. I agreed, since she might be the only female I knew who wasn’t angry with me, now that her mother’s illness had been identified as chicken pox, not syphilis.
Since I hadn’t taken off the clothes I’d traveled in, I only had to comb my hair and refresh my lipstick. Of course, she’d probably be wearing something black and chic. Ah, well, I consoled myself, we can’t all be French women, and a good thing, too.
Prepared to be hospitable, I drew back in dismay. She’d brought Charles de Gaulle. “You need not be afraid, Carolyn. Charles has received canine etiquette lessons and is a much more gentlemanly dog. Charles, say hello to Carolyn.” The dog cocked his head to one side and held up his paw. “He wants to shake your hand,” she explained.
Actually, he looked sort of cute, so I gave his paw a brief shake. When he neither launched himself at me, leaving bruises, nor licked my hand, I invited them in.
Albertine looked the room over and said, “An interesting décor.”
“Rather monastic, don’t you think?” I agreed.
“Except for the love seat. One would not find a wicker love seat in a monastery, although the upholstery on the cushions has a Franciscan look.”
“We call that burlap,” I replied. “Won’t you sit down?” Wicker was the option, unless we went outside to the canvas sling chairs. Charles de Gaulle sniffed around the room, as if looking for a bomb, and then came over to sit in front of us. Perhaps he was waiting for another handshake, but I felt that one was enough.
“I have been thinking over the dangerous happenings since you arrived in France, and although I am quite sure that no one on our faculty is responsible, I do agree that you are being stacked.”
“Stalked?” It was the first mistake I’d heard her make in English, and what a relief to find someone who really believed we were in danger. I wasn’t sure that Inspector Roux and my own husband were convinced.
“Therefore, I take it upon myself, with the help of Charles, and because of the feminine bond we formed as we delivered Bianca’s baby in Sorrento, to insure your safety. I shall stay with you except when you are in your room with your husband.
“No one will hurt you when you are accompanied by a friend and a large dog. Charles de Gaulle can be quite protective of those he loves, and he is fond of you. This will be a good strategy; you were alone when attacked in Lyon, but you will not be here.”
“We can’t keep Jason with us all the time,” I pointed out. I was quite touched by Albertine’s willingness to endanger herself to keep me company, although I felt that I had played the more difficult role in the delivery of a baby, something I hoped never to do again.
“Well, your husband will be either here with you or with hundreds of chemists at the Palais des Papes. No one would kill him there.”
“The Palais des Papes?” I asked, confused.
“Yes, where the convention is being held.”
“Jason didn’t mention that. Does that mean I won’t be able to see it?” I probably wouldn’t have come if that were the case.
“Of course, you will see it. The congresses are held only in two wings, and we are sponsoring a tour for participants and their wives, to be led by an excellent historian from the university here in Avignon. It will be both delightful and informative.
“Now, Carolyn, we must push our heads together for reasoning and think who could have followed you and Jason to France with violent intent.”
I didn’t correct push our heads together or even giggle. “I can’t imagine why anyone would want to hurt us. For the most part, we lead very sedate lives.”
“You are not thinking, Carolyn. There is a man in Italy who would wish to do you harm if he were not in prison.”
“But he is in prison.”
“I was just providing an example. Have you not done anything that would make some other violent person angry enough to attack you?”
I started to say no, but then hesitated. The cruise. The hijackers. At least one had been a terrorist, and terrorists have terrorist friends who are always eager to avenge them. Could Jason and I be under a death sentence by vengeful terrorists just because I had thwarted a plot to—
French Fried Page 13
