The Secrets of the Bastide Blanche

by M. L. Longworth

  I didn’t get much done that morning, except for calling Sandrine Matton and leaving a message asking her to come as soon as she could. Hours later I heard a knock at the front door and had to shake myself awake. I had fallen asleep on the black leather Mies van der Rohe daybed. We’d bought it as newlyweds—when we were both making names for ourselves and fancied ourselves young cultured urbanites. I stumbled to the door and quickly looked in the hall’s gilt mirror, patting my thick white hair and briskly rubbing my face. When I was younger, I easily tanned and had a look that Agathe called “rugged.” I no longer tan—doctor’s orders.

  I could hear them chatting on the front steps. “Je suis ici!” I called out, thankful that I had changed into a clean white shirt and linen pants before my unplanned sieste. I unlatched one half of the wooden door and the noise of the cigales filled the hallway. “Please, come in, come in,” I said, motioning with my hand, “and get away from those noisy insects.”

  I saw that Hélène had a box in her hands and remembered her offer. “Thank you for the cake, Hélène,” I said.

  “If this is a bad time . . . ,” her husband said. I saw the look on his face—he didn’t want to be here, and he thought that I had forgotten about the visit.

  “No no,” I said. “It’s perfect. I’ll just take the cake into the kitchen and put it on a plate, and then start the water boiling. Or is it too hot for tea?”

  “Not in here,” Hélène said. “These old houses have their problems, but they stay mercifully cool in summer.”

  “In winter too,” her husband joked.

  “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your—” I began.

  “Bruno. Bruno Paulik,” he answered. He put his arm around his daughter. “And this is Léa.”

  I had forgotten her name as well. I looked at the girl, who was mesmerized by the fresco in the stairway. “Léa, go look at the painting if you like,” I said.

  She nodded and slowly walked up the worn stone steps, holding on to the wrought-iron banister. “We’ll be in the big salon,” I told her. “The room on your left when you come down the stairs.”

  “D’accord,” she called down.

  I liked her. She wasn’t a chatterbox, nor did she speak out of turn or dominate the conversation, as some children do—or are permitted to do. She was clever, I could see it in her eyes and furrowed brow. And she was talented, but I wasn’t yet sure what that talent was. Horse riding perhaps. Or drawing.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, gesturing around the room, “I’m still moving in.” Although furnished, the salon still had boxes stacked against its walls, no curtains, and no light fixtures—they had been stolen long ago, during the years the house lay vacant. “Please, make yourselves comfortable, and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Thank you,” Hélène said. “And be sure to call if you need a hand carrying things out.”

  I gave her my winning smile—my Jean-Paul Belmondo smile, Agathe used to tease—and left. I hurried to the kitchen, hoping that Sandrine Matton had bought some kind of soft drink or juice. I opened the fridge and sighed with relief when I saw orange juice. I wasn’t very familiar with children, but I was quite sure ten-year-olds do not drink tea.

  I could hear Hélène and Bruno walking around the vast living room. The shutters were closed to the heat, and the air was musty, with a touch of lemon wood polish or floor cleaner. They were whispering, no doubt about me. They stopped whispering, and Hélène said in a normal voice, “The fireplace is like ours.”

  Bruno answered, “Orange-and-yellow marble from Sainte-Victoire. No need to go far.”

  “It’s garish,” I said, walking into the room and carrying a tray laden with mugs, a teapot, and Léa’s orange juice. “The other fireplaces are all white marble.” I realized I was sounding snobbish, especially since Bruno had just said they had the same kind of fireplace.

  Bruno shrugged. “I’ve always liked it.”

  “Can I help you, M Barbier?” Hélène asked me.

  “No, but thank you. I’ll just put this down and go get the cake.” As I began to turn around, Léa ran into the room, out of breath. Her face was red and she went straight to Bruno and hugged him. I stared at her, unable to move. The tray began to wobble in my hands.

  “Chérie? Ça va?” Hélène asked.

  Léa took a few deep breaths and turned her head to look at her mother, her hands still wrapped around Bruno’s torso. Hélène walked over and felt her daughter’s forehead. “You’re burning up,” she said.

  “I’m okay,” Léa replied, catching her breath.

  Hélène looked over at me, and I could feel the blood drain from my face.

  “You look like you saw a ghost,” Bruno said to Léa, with a laugh.

  I looked at the girl’s expression and thought she was trying to decide how to answer her father. She said slowly, “I didn’t exactly see one. . . ”

  “I think you should lie down,” Hélène said. “You feel feverish to me.”

  “Mais ça va, Maman!”

  Hélène went on, “It’s this heat.”

  “We can delay our tea for another time,” I suggested. I set the tray down on a very old and ornate wooden table, one of many that had been trucked down from Paris. Not the little girl too, I thought. I suddenly felt very tired.

  “I’m afraid we may have to reschedule, M Barbier,” Bruno said. “We should get this girl home.”

  * * *

  “What happened to Léa?” Justin asked. He set down his wineglass, realizing he was gripping it with both hands. He suddenly became aware of noises in the restaurant—cutlery, hushed voices. He had forgotten where he was.

  “I was panic-stricken when she came into the room,” Valère replied. “How irresponsible of me to have allowed her to wander around on her own.”

  “But what did she see?”

  Valère shrugged. “What did she see? I don’t know. Whatever she saw—or felt—it was clear she was keeping it to herself.”

  “It didn’t frighten her?”

  “Correct,” Valère said. “But it scared the hell out of me.”

  “Please go on,” Justin said. “I interrupted you.”

  * * *

  That evening for dinner I ate about a third of Hélène’s cake, washed down with whiskey. It’s surprising how well a good single malt goes with a sugary cake. I wandered around the grounds; it was still warm and light out, and I didn’t feel like being in the house. I was stalling. I sat down on one of the fancy chaises longues and lit a Cuban cigar and thought about Agathe.

  Maybe it was the move, and unpacking, but I found myself thinking of our early years together, in the seventies in Paris. We were poor, but when Agathe got a contract with Le Bon Marché to produce a line of dinnerware, it allowed me to quit Le Monde and write full-time. Now you can find some of Agathe’s Bon Marché dishes on eBay for sale at astronomical prices. My books began getting good reviews, and sales crept up, and after a particularly glowing review in Le Figaro I found myself being wined and dined by publishers, journalists, and famous writers. Agathe sometimes came to these parties, sometimes not. She found them silly and pretentious. Red Earth, which was published in 1975, was made into an artsy short film, but when my next novel, The Receptionist, was made into a feature film and won the Palme d’Or, I became more famous than Agathe. Have you seen The Receptionist, Justin? You should. It starred Alain Denis, who was killed a few years ago on the Île Sordou, off the coast of Marseille. I wrote more books, won lots of awards, each time feeling more and more unworthy. A fraud.

  My trip down memory lane in the bastide’s garden ended with my cell phone ringing. I had been keeping it charged with a gadget hooked up to the cigarette lighter in my Mercedes. The caller was Sandrine Matton, saying she would come the next day. I liked her voice—she had a thick Provençal accent. She would bring some paing, instead of pain, in the morning, an
d did I need anything else? Coffee? Milk? Words just flew out of her mouth. I was relieved to have someone coming to help.

  I thanked her and hung up, noticing that it was finally quiet. The cigales had stopped. I relit my Cuban cigar and sat in the dark. I could see the Pauliks’ old stone house lit up and tried to imagine what they were doing. Did Hélène do paperwork in the evenings while her vines slept? Did Bruno help her? I realized I had no idea what M Paulik did for a living.

  It was quiet without the buzzing cigales, so the unexpected sound of branches snapping and crunching coming from the olive grove caused me to drop my cigar. After I picked it up and set it in the ashtray, I straightened my back and leaned forward to listen. A few more crackles, and quite possibly a grunt or two, convinced me to go back inside before the wild boar, or whatever it was, decided to get closer. Anyway, I was feeling tired—but calm and a little bit buzzed and happy from the whiskey and cigar.

  I cursed EDF for not coming that week to rewire the electricity, but I had a basket of candles in the entryway. I shoved one in an empty wine bottle and lit it, then walked around and opened up the downstairs windows and shutters. Thieves have easy access to any house in Provence in the summer. Perhaps that’s why so many people put those huge, obnoxious gates at the foot of their drives. I preferred no gate, and noticed that the Pauliks did as well.

  Halfway up the staircase, I paused. The woman in pink was smiling at me, and I could swear that her painted face was flushed by the light of my candle. I wished her a bonne nuit, purposely speaking aloud, trying to make my voice as light and happy as possible. I walked around, opening the shutters to get a breeze circulating. But even at ten o’clock it was still hot, especially upstairs. The rooms felt thick with stale heat and smelled of dust. I’d have Sandrine mop every room.

  I saved my room for last, as I usually did, and as I slowly opened the door I could feel the lady in pink watching me from the stairway, smirking. I thought of little Léa and what might have happened earlier that day. Do you remember me mentioning the wrought-iron B on the first floor’s balcony? It’s a coincidence—strange, I know—that my name begins with the same letter. I bought the place on a whim and assumed that the B stood for Bastide Blanche. But after I signed the check for a ridiculous amount of money and the house was legally mine, Matton began looking into its past. He seemed obsessed and delighted in informing me that the original owners were the famille de Besse. Hence the B. It seems generations of fat, lazy, inbred de Besses inhabited the bastide until, early in the twentieth century, a notary bought it from the last of the lustrous nobles, who had drained the family fortune. Matton began calling me at all hours, each time he found a new tidbit, but the crème was what he discovered about Hugues de Besse, son of the first owner. Hugues was born in 1688 and unfortunately lived until 1760, which gave him decades to torment the bastide’s other occupants. I’ll tell you more about that swine later.

  I held up the candle and swung it around the room. I didn’t think I’d actually see anything, but I had to reassure myself that I was alone. I shone the candle at the far end of the room and then on the bed. You’ll remember, Justin, that the bed had been carefully made—by me. Hospital corners are my specialty. It used to drive Agathe mad. She was tall and complained that when I made the bed her feet felt like they were bound. Anyway, that night I saw that my side of the bed was perfect, with the coverlet pulled up tightly over the pillow. But someone had been lying on top of the coverlet beside it—as they had been every night since I moved in. A head had sunk into the pillow, and the coverlet was indented where the shoulders and hips had been. This visitor was tall, like Agathe. I set the candle on the bedside table and shook my head. Agathe used to tease me when I’d fret about not deserving my awards: “Valère, you do have a brilliant imagination,” she would say. But was it my imagination, Justin, when that same night I was awoken by someone tugging on the bedsheets beside me?

  Chapter Three

  Aix-en-Provence,

  Sunday, July 4, 2010

  I’m sorry I’m late,” Antoine Verlaque said, kissing Marine Bonnet. He pulled out a café chair and sat down across from her. It was just after 7:00 p.m. and the square, surrounded by honey-colored stone buildings, including Aix’s massive town hall, was full of people. Tables and chairs spread in a circle around the central fountain, and the cigales made their sawing noises in the ancient plane trees.

  “No worries,” Marine said. “I have a good book.”

  Verlaque reached over and looked at the title. “The new Claude Petitjean! May I read it next?”

  “It’s Sylvie’s. But I’ll ask her.”

  “What’s it about? In a nutshell.”

  “In a nutshell, it’s the story of two friends, a boy and a girl, growing up in Paris in the fifties—neighbors, from the 13th arrondissement. They move away for university, and both go on to have distinguished careers, then meet up again in their seventies.”

  The waiter came, and Verlaque pointed to Marine’s pastis. “Le même,” he said.

  “I love women who drink pastis,” the waiter said. “They are a rare breed.”

  “I agree,” Verlaque answered, smiling. The waiter left, and Verlaque turned back to Marine. “Le Monde said it was as good as Valère Barbier’s early books.”

  Marine nodded. “I agree. It has the same humor mixed with wisdom and a dash of Barbier-like melancholy and sarcasm.”

  Verlaque laughed and then sat back and looked around the square. That morning it had been full of flowers and plants for sale; the greenery, steamy in the morning heat, was now replaced with tables laden with beer, pastis, wine, and soft drinks. “It’s funny,” he said, “we have a beautiful apartment with a lovely terrace, but sometimes it’s just nice to—”

  “Be in a busy square, surrounded by other people?”

  “Exactly. To hear laughter, and chatting—”

  “And a drunk street musician playing the guitar,” Marine said, looking over her shoulder. “That guy has been around for years.” She had lived in Aix all her life, save for her university years, which were spent in Paris.

  The waiter returned with Verlaque’s pastis, and he lifted his glass to meet Marine’s. “To busy street life everywhere.”

  They talked of their day but were frequently interrupted by friends and colleagues who knew Marine, Verlaque, or both. Quick news was exchanged, along with a handshake or bises for good friends, and Verlaque was glad that the neighboring tables were already taken. Aix’s examining magistrate, he’d had a long day and cherished this time alone with his new wife.

  “Another one?” Verlaque asked Marine when they were finally alone.

  “Why not? Although I’d forgotten that sitting across from the town hall on a warm summer night means we’re going to be interrupted. All that talk of the importance of busy street life!”

  “You’re just too popular.”

  “Maybe we should go home—”

  “Too late,” Verlaque said. “Here comes another couple I think we know. They’re slowing down and smiling at us.” He recognized them, when they got closer, as neighbors who lived on their street. They shook hands and Verlaque sat back, impressed, as Marine recalled their names and the fact that they had just been on holiday in Lisbon.

  “We lived like royalty in Portugal,” the husband said. “Everything cost half what it would in Aix.”

  Verlaque flinched; he didn’t like the idea of someone from an affluent country taking advantage of another country’s weak economy. But as he listened he warmed to the couple; they had genuine enthusiasm for a city he had yet to visit and was now eager to see. Both he and Marine lit up at the couple’s stories of Lisbon’s fabulous museums, great food and wine, and antiquated trolleys speeding up and down its narrow, hilly streets. But the image of his worn copy of Tobias Smollett’s Travels Through France and Italy popped into his head, and he couldn’t figure out why. Then it clicked. T
he English author had made the same complaint about expensive Aix three centuries earlier, in 1765.

  “Oh, you’re reading the new Petitjean!” the woman said, seeing Marine’s book.

  “We loved it,” her husband said. “It’s almost as good as the early Barbier books.”

  “We were just saying the same thing,” Verlaque said, realizing he should participate in the conversation, even if he hadn’t yet read the book. But when Marine got out her ever-present notepad and began jotting down the names of Lisbon restaurants that the couple excitedly recommended, Verlaque drifted off, once again thinking of Smollett, who found the Aixois well bred, gay, and sociable. This couple certainly fit that description: the woman, probably in her early sixties, was perfectly coiffed and tanned, slim and immaculately dressed in long linen pants and a silk blouse; her husband, quite possibly a few years younger, was as fit and wore a pink Lacoste polo with perfectly pressed chinos. They were friendly but not nosy, obviously well traveled and intelligent, but also modest and sincere. Bien élévés. They said good-bye and walked off, arm in arm.

  “You’re dreaming about Lisbon,” Verlaque said to Marine, who was staring off into the distance. “Accompanied by a rather rough version of ‘Norwegian Wood.’”