The Secrets of the Bastide Blanche

by M. L. Longworth

  “So you’re saying he intentionally left out the anchor and lines? To trip Agathe?”

  Verlaque got up from the table and began clearing away their teacups. “I know, I know,” he replied. “It’s a long shot.”

  Marine sat back and folded her arms against her chest. “To begin with,” she said,“we’re missing a motive.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  New York City,

  September 22, 2010

  Justin felt relieved that Valère was enjoying the cheeses and thus taking a break from talking. He wasn’t sure where the conversation was going, but he was certain the famous writer was wracked with guilt and had somehow chosen a young editor to pour out his heart to. Perhaps it helped that Justin wasn’t French, or perhaps their age difference made it easier for Valère to be honest—that is, if he was telling the truth.

  Before their meeting, Justin had spent a few hours reading newspaper articles about Agathe Barbier’s accidental death. He was thankful he had picked up enough French at NYU to understand the details of the reports. But he wanted Valère’s version and so far wasn’t getting it. Certainly the episode would be an important part of Barbier’s memoir. And was that why the author was so guilt-stricken?

  “Your wife . . . Agathe . . . She was from Brittany, right?” Justin asked. “I had a French professor at NYU who said that the Bretons are the most distinctive people in France. She’d make us sing Breton songs.”

  Valère wiped his mouth with his napkin. He crossed his arms and smiled. “Agathe was born Agathe Le Flahec, in Crozon, just south of Brest. Beautiful wild clean beaches, with no one on them. She hated Mediterranean beaches, but I can’t stand cold water, and, let’s face it, in the sixties and seventies all the beautiful people were down on the Med, not in bloody freezing Brittany.”

  Justin laughed. “Were her parents artists as well?”

  “Her father was a country doctor, and her mother stayed at home with the kids but was an accomplished watercolorist. Agathe went to the village elementary school, but it was decided that for lycée she would go to Les Loges in Saint-Germain-en-Laye, outside Paris. You’ve probably never heard of Les Loges. The school—and there’s another one just like it in Saint-Denis—was set up for the daughters, granddaughters, and great-granddaughters of decorated soldiers. They were prestigious boarding schools that were free to those girls, and still are. Agathe’s grandfather, Erwan Le Flahec, was a general in the First World War. So off she went to Les Loges in 1961, then the École des Beaux-Arts in 1964, from which she graduated with a master’s in fine art in 1969.”

  “I used to walk by the Beaux-Arts all the time,” Justin said. “The students were snooty and as soon as they heard our American accents would refuse to talk to us.”

  “Well, it seems like you had no problem in chatting up Clothilde,” Valère said, laughing. “But I know what you’re saying about the art students. They acted like that when I was your age. I was intimidated, but my wild friend Hugo, a reporter, wasn’t. He used to claim that the male Beaux-Arts students were all insane, and the women all beautiful, so we’d have a good chance of scoring with the girls.”

  “And so you met Agathe.” Justin pinched himself, realizing how lucky he was to be hearing all this. He wished his own parents were as open.

  Valère smiled. “Agathe used to joke that the high point of her time in Paris was discovering clay at the Beaux-Arts. In second place was meeting me. I had just graduated from the Sorbonne and was working my first job, as an assistant editor at Le Monde. Hugo and I would finish up correcting the sheets and then head out to the cafés and bars to pick up girls. I think that’s one of the many things we have in common, Justin.”

  Before Justin could reply, Valère’s mood changed. His brow furrowed and he said, “Back to the Bastide Blanche.”

  “Right,” Justin agreed, coughing. “Judge Verlaque’s visit must have thrown you for a loop.”

  * * *

  I’ll say. After he left, Sandrine was even more fidgety than she usually was. She kept checking her cell phone and insisted we get outside and take an early evening walk. As we started down the drive, we came across Léa, who was sitting under an oak tree, reading. “You’re not reading in our attic today?” I asked. Léa had been visiting us more frequently as of late, often spending hours at a time in the attic. Sandrine thought it odd, and I thought it completely normal. I did the same at Léa’s age, only not in an attic, as we lived in a Parisian apartment, but in the pantry.

  “Maman said I had to get some fresh air,” Léa replied.

  We chatted for a bit, and Sandrine told Léa that we had taken the photograph, the one with me and Maria Callas, into Aix to get framed. In fact, the framer’s shop was next to the hospital, and we explained that we had been in to see Michèle, whose condition had not changed. I asked Léa if she knew of any good walks in the area, and she jumped up and called to her mother, who was walking between the barn and the house, carrying what looked like beakers full of red wine. Hélène yelled hello and gave Léa permission to accompany us. In fact, it was the other way around. Léa hurried down the road and said to follow her. Instructed us, really. We must have made a curious trio: the old writer, whose apparitions I was now convinced stemmed from guilt; the short-skirted, fast-talking housekeeper, who may or may not have pushed my fellow writer down the stairs; and a little girl leading us along.

  We walked in single formation when we got onto the main road, which isn’t that busy, but, still, when those village boys drive, they drive quickly. A taxi approached, leaving the village toward Aix, and as it drove by we stopped walking and, naturally, watched it go by. An old woman wearing sunglasses and a large straw hat sat in the backseat. “The blind lady,” Sandrine said.

  “It would be terrible to be blind,” Léa said, “but worse to be deaf.”

  “You think so?” I asked.

  “Not to be able to see your parents?” Sandrine added. “Or see flowers or your mother’s vineyards?”

  “But it would be worse,” Léa answered, “if I couldn’t hear their voices.” I now knew the Paulik family better, and was aware of Léa’s musical gifts. Neither Sandrine nor I argued, and we let the conversation slide into other, less melancholic, subjects.

  “Are we almost there?” I joked after about fifteen minutes.

  Léa ignored me and turned up a dirt road that led southeast of the village. We obediently followed. I was going to make another joke, about the blind leading the blind, but it was corny, and, besides, Léa wasn’t blind. She knew exactly where she was going.

  The road twisted and turned around two or three old stone farmhouses and one garish, recently built yellow stucco bungalow. I almost pointed out the ugliness of the bungalow—its obvious cheap materials, its unimaginative blockiness, the windows that were too small (here, in the country, one could have big windows!)—but I decided to stay quiet. Sandrine probably grew up in such a house, on the other side of Aix, where her sister, Josy, might still live.

  Then we saw, at the edge of an olive grove, where Léa was taking us. It was a quintessential snapshot of Provence: a small white chapel, its front door flanked by two light columns and topped by a semicircular window. There were two tiny arched windows on either side and a bell tower at the roof’s peak. A very large, old cypress tree guarded the chapel. The only blemish was a bright yellow watering hose that had been left out on the front lawn, parched from the sun. Someone from the village must water the lawn, or make an attempt to, but judging from the golden grass, watering in this summer heat was a losing battle.

  “Venez!” Léa called to us as she began running, not into the chapel, whose door I could see was open, but around to the back. When we got to the far side of the chapel we could see her sitting on a rocky outcrop in the middle of the lawn, taking off her sandals. She waved and yelled, “Saint Pancrace!” then she stood up and slowly began walking on the smooth rocks.

&
nbsp; “Who in the world is Saint Pancrace?” I asked Sandrine.

  “Don’t ask me,” she answered. “Josy and I would sneak novels into Mass. We never listened.”

  “Probably my books, you little heathens,” I said.

  “Look, you two!” Léa said when we finally reached her. She was putting her little feet into a set of worn-out footprints embedded in the rocks. “These are the footsteps of Saint Pancrace!” she said. There were four, and Léa skipped back and forth between them.

  “Is that so?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Léa answered matter-of-factly. “Saint Pancrace walked here from . . . I can’t remember, but it was far . . . and he sat here and rested his feet in this hollow in the stone, which was full of water, because it had rained. And when he rested his feet, a miracle happened. The stone turned all mushy and soft, and his footprints were left in the rock. Look!”

  What, Justin? You believe in that kind of stuff? I figured you did. Let me continue.

  “You have to do this,” Léa said quite seriously. “It’s good luck to put your feet in his footsteps. We did it in May. A bunch of us kids from the village, after a Mass in the chapel.”

  “How does it bring you good luck?” I asked.

  Léa answered, “Because you’re following in his footsteps, and . . . well . . . it will help you have a good life.”

  I didn’t comment that it surprised me that the Pauliks went to Mass. They seemed too liberal. But that was my Parisian Left Bank intellectualism screaming out. They may have made an exception for that May Mass, like one goes to Mass at Easter or Christmas but never at any other time. Or perhaps they did go every Sunday. I didn’t really know, nor was it my place to judge.

  I asked Léa to show us the church, and she sat down and put her sandals back on, then jumped up and was off like a rocket. Sandrine grinned and we followed Léa back around to the front of the chapel. At the front door Sandrine put her hand on my forearm, signaling me to stop. A siren was singing, an angel. We crept into the chapel and stood with our backs to the wall. It was too small for pews; I wondered what they did for the May celebration. Léa was standing perfectly still, with her back to the stone altar, facing us. I’m not an expert in choral music; in fact, I know nothing about it. Perhaps I could pick out bits of Bach’s St. Matthew Passion. But I love choral music when I hear it, and always regret that I don’t pay better attention to it. I glanced over at Sandrine, who had her eyes closed, her face lifted up to the tiny chapel’s rounded ceiling.

  The song gave me goose bumps. The lyrics were so simple: about a little lamb. Childlike, and yet with the deep, low notes it became profound. It was utterly beautiful and transcendent. It was the last line that floored me. I knew the song. I had heard it sung in London, with Agathe. I think in the early 1980s.

  Léa ended her song, and we held our breath. Outside there was no sound, as if the world had stopped. No ghosts, past or present. Sandrine began clapping, and I followed. Léa stood there, grinning, and curtsied.

  “What was that song?” I asked. My heart was pounding.

  “A piece by John Tavener,” Léa answered. She frowned, frustrated, as the composer’s name was difficult for her to pronounce. That was it. John Tavener’s “The Lamb.” Agathe and I had seen its world premiere. “Our teacher chose it for us. She said that it was difficult to sing, even if the lyrics looked simple.”

  “Do you often sing in the chapel?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “It does feel very nice in here,” Sandrine said.

  “That’s what I mean,” Léa said. “It feels good. Like at my house. Most of the time I don’t have a problem singing at the conservatory, except in one room, on the top floor. My teacher says I don’t have to sing there anymore.”

  Sandrine looked at me and then at the girl. She asked, “What happens in that room?”

  Léa rubbed her neck. “I can’t breathe,” she said. “And I get too hot.”

  “Like what happened at my house,” I suggested, immediately regretting it.

  “Until I started singing the lamb song in your house,” Léa said, unbothered. “Since then, I feel fine, even in the attic.” She then called out, “Papa! Papa!” and ran out of the church.

  Sandrine and I looked at each other, and I shrugged my shoulders. “I’ve heard her singing up there, in the attic,” Sandrine whispered. We followed Léa outside, which was all stillness and quiet. Not even a bee buzzed. But suddenly dust gathered on the dirt road, a low rumbling sounded, and Bruno Paulik’s ancient Range Rover came into sight.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Paris, Friday,

  July 8, 2010

  All is well with the world,” Verlaque said, unfolding his starched linen napkin and putting it on his lap. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

  “The world is going to hell in a handbasket,” Marine answered. “But you are so happy when we’re in Paris, and we’re in one of your favorite restaurants.” She looked around at the ancient tiled floor, carved wooden bar, and gilt mirrors on the walls, so diners who faced the wall could see the rest of the restaurant and, more important, the other diners.

  The TGV had arrived in Paris just before noon, and a taxi had whisked them—along the river—to the restaurant. Marine had a vague idea where they were—not far from the Elysée Palace and the British embassy and Place de la Concorde. It was the kind of restaurant where Antoine felt at home: good old-fashioned food, expertly prepared. And one paid highly for that quality. She knew, from articles in Le Monde and in Sylvie’s Elles, that younger, more international restaurants were the rage in Paris—their staff and clients both young, and usually tattooed, the interiors all blond wood and bare lightbulbs. This was not one of those places, and Marine felt relieved. A middle-aged woman wearing a white blouse as starched as the tablecloths and napkins took their drink orders and moments later came back with their aperitifs and a plate of thinly sliced peppery saucisse. Two men and a woman at the next table—for the tables were very close together, naturally—discussed the minister of education’s current bill in a way that made it clear they not only knew him but worked for him. Marine took a sip of her ten-year-old port and asked, “Who is first on your list of interviews?”

  Verlaque replied, “Ursule Genoux. Valère Barbier’s private secretary. She’s retired and lives not far from here. After that, I’m going to the 16th to visit the publisher’s wife, now a widow. Are you off to the Bibliothèque Nationale?” Marine usually did research on Sartre and Beauvoir in France’s national library, located in four gleaming towers in the east of Paris.

  “No, not this time,” Marine answered. “But I will go to Montparnasse and visit their graves; then I’m going to Sèvres.”

  “Sèvres? The leafy suburbs?”

  “To the ceramics museum,” Marine said. “I called ahead, and they’re letting me look at Agathe Barbier’s archives.”

  “Did you tell me that already, and I’ve forgotten?” Verlaque asked. He leaned back so that the waitress could set a breast of duck in front of him.

  “No,” Marine said, laughing. “I forgot to tell you—that’s all.” She pointed to his plate. “You copied me, by the way, by ordering the duck.”

  “I did not! I had decided on it as soon as I walked into the restaurant.”

  “Even though you hadn’t yet read the specials?”

  “A good restaurant like this always serves duck breast,” Verlaque argued. He cut into the meat. “Perfectly rare. Bon appétit.”

  * * *

  No. 7 rue de Surène, Ursule Genoux’s apartment building, was less than a five-minute walk from the restaurant, in this neighborhood that was much like the overpriced one where Verlaque grew up and his father still lived. It lacked in grocery and hardware stores; instead the streets were lined with designer shops, government offices, embassies, and mediocre overpriced sandwich shops that quickly fed those who worked i
n the shops, offices, and embassies. He was glad he had remembered the name and address of the restaurant where they had lunch, even if Marine gasped when she saw the bill.

  Oddly enough, there was a bar-tabac beneath Ursule Genoux’s apartment, one of the few, Verlaque imagined, in this part of the 8th arrondissement. He rang the brass buzzer labeled GENOUX, and a female voice replied, instructing him to go up the stairs to the first floor. He had wondered how a secretary—even one who worked for a famous writer—could afford this neighborhood. A first-floor, street-side apartment partly explained things: noisy and dark. Or she may have bought it decades ago—that is, if she owned the apartment.

  Mme Genoux was standing inside her open door when Antoine got to the top of the stairs, and she held out a long thin arm and shook his hand. “Please come in,” she said, stepping aside. He quickly took in the small entryway that was surprisingly painted a bright, cheery yellow that made him think of van Gogh. Two old-fashioned umbrellas stood in a ceramic stand and a selection of straw hats hung on hooks. She ushered him into the living room, which, despite his prediction, was not dark but bright thanks to three very tall windows.

  “Lovely room,” he said. The walls were covered in small oil paintings and prints of lakes and mountains—that he could have expected of an elderly professional secretary—but the furniture was polished, and the antiques from periods he admired, like the Regency. The walls were painted the same yellow as the entryway.

  “Thank you. Please, sit down,” she said, gesturing to an armchair covered in blue silk.

  “You must have been surprised to have received my phone call,” Antoine began.

  “But you didn’t call,” Mme Genoux answered. “Your secretary did.”

  Verlaque couldn’t tell whether he was being chastised. Perhaps Mme Genoux was insulted that the magistrate hadn’t called himself, or she may have simply been pointing out his good secretary’s work. “Yes, of course,” he answered. “What I meant was, you must have been surprised to receive a call about the death of Agathe Barbier after all these years.” While he waited for an answer, he looked at the former secretary. She was tall, as tall as Marine, but with wider shoulders. The hair that fell to those shoulders was fine and straight, and streaked with gray. Her eyes looked light brown, but he couldn’t quite tell.