Valère had grown tired and asked Justin to tell him about himself—his family, his studies, his year in Paris—before excusing himself to go to the restroom. Justin drank three glasses of water as he waited for Valère to return. He also hurriedly texted his boss, who replied that the famous writer’s interest in an underling was a good sign. Justin sighed at her use of the word “underling.”
“Please, M Barbier,” Justin said when Valère returned. He wanted to hear more of Valère’s story, which was sounding increasingly like a confessional. But of what? “Let’s get back to your story before the dessert arrives.”
“I told the cheese guy to come back here with that trolley,” Valère said. He poured them each a glass of wine.
* * *
Bon. Michèle Baudouin was now out of her coma but still not well enough to return to the house and certainly not well enough, to my dismay, to go back to her own place in Paris. Sandrine seemed to have no interest in returning home, either, and I enjoyed her company so I let her stay. There seemed to be no harm in it, and we had both grown attached to Léa, who would show up at the door to help us with the thousand-piece puzzle of Paris we had started. Just after dinner that night Judge Verlaque called me—it sounded like he was on a train—and asked if he could see me the following day. Had he been up in Paris? Sandrine asked, looking worried but trying to hide it. We were both tired and agreed that it would be lights-out soon, when—it must have been about ten thirty—we heard a car on the drive. We looked at each other, puzzled, put on the porch light, and went outside.
The passenger leaned his head out the window and asked, “Can you loan me seventy euros for the taxi fare?”
“I guess I have no choice,” I replied, opening the car door. I could hear Sandrine mumbling, complaining that there was a shuttle service from both the TGV station and the Marseille airport that cost next to nothing and went to downtown Aix.
“We got lost twice,” my guest complained. He huffed and tilted his head in the direction of the cabbie, who was busy getting the luggage out of the trunk. “The driver doesn’t speak French, so I had to go to the village bar to ask for directions. He’s Eastern European, I think.”
I paid the cabbie and thanked him in Polish. It was a lucky guess—I love Poland and have been there many times—as he beamed and shook my hand, taking my hand in both of his. “Red Earth,” he said in accented English, pumping my arm up and down. “Amazing book!”
“Thank you,” I said again in Polish—my Polish is limited.
“Really amazing!” he said, getting back into the taxi. He drove off, waving out the window until he got past the Pauliks’ farm.
Our guest lazily—because that’s how he does everything—looked at his bag, wondering how it was going to get from the ground into the house. I smiled and said, “You can come in, but we were just going to bed.” I made no move to pick up his bag, nor did Sandrine. “Sandrine,” I said, “I’d like you to meet Agathe’s son, Erwan. Erwan, this is my housekeeper, Sandrine.”
To jump back a little, Agathe graduated in 1969 and was immediately hired as an apprentice to a master potter in the South of France, Georges Bonfand. Those four years, while Agathe worked in Vallauris, almost killed me. I thought there was no way I could leave a paper like Le Monde to work for some crap outfit like Nice-Matin, but looking back on it, I should have followed her down there. What? No, Justin, the TGV didn’t exist yet. It was an overnight train ride from Paris to Nice in those days.
I was insanely jealous and knew that Agathe was hanging around with the crème de la crème, including Picasso. The village of Vallauris was the epicenter of contemporary ceramics, which is why Picasso worked there, painting fawns on plates and chasing young girls, including Agathe. The old fart was in his seventies, but that didn’t stop him. Knowing how many creative people were hanging around the côte d’Azur motivated me—albeit in a jealous, highly self-destructive way—to begin my first novel. It was published in 1971, as you know, when I was twenty-nine years old, but I still kept working on proofs while I was at Le Monde, as I think that book sold about ten copies.
Then disaster struck. Agathe wrote to me in February of ’72 and informed me that she was pregnant—not by me, of course, as I had hardly been down there—and was keeping the baby. Hilarious, Justin. No, Picasso wasn’t the father. Georges Bonfand was. He agreed to help financially but preferred not to be present in the baby’s life, as he was already in his sixties.
Somehow our relationship held together, and Agathe and the baby—Erwan, named after her grandfather—moved back to Paris in 1973. She opened a ceramics studio in Batignolles, and we got married that year too.
So that night, when Erwan got his butt out of the car, I was hit with a wall of emotions. Not all of them good. “Bonsoir,” Sandrine said curtly, her hands on her hips. She had, in two minutes, figured him out. Erwan mumbled something and they shook hands. I have no doubt that Sandrine’s handshake was firmer than Erwan’s; in fact, judging from the look on his face, she gave him a death squeeze. It impressed me, especially when Sandrine and I were moving furniture around, how strong she was. “M Barbier, the guest room at the end of the hall upstairs is already made up,” she said.
“That’s great. Thank you, Sandrine,” I replied. “You heard her, Erwan—up you go. We can get caught up tomorrow. And next time, call and let me know you’re coming.”
“My phone doesn’t work anymore,” Erwan answered.
“Haven’t paid the bill in a while?” I asked.
Erwan shrugged and said, “Bit short on cash.”
I followed him into the house; he was tall, like his mother, but oddly not as strong. He slouched, whereas Agathe had always held herself straight, even a bit rigidly. But Erwan had her dark wiry hair and strong features: high cheekbones, a Roman nose, and full lips.
Now, before I look like an uncaring stepfather, let me fill you in on Erwan Le Flahec. Erwan hasn’t had it easy, with his biological father ignoring him, his stepfather too self-obsessed to give him much attention, and his mother dying young. But you can do the math, Justin, and see that Erwan does not act his age, nor has he ever done so. He drifted from job to job until he became unemployable, and now lives in Agathe’s old studio in Batignolles, which she willed to him. I send him money every month, and Agathe, about a year before she died, made provisions for him to be paid a monthly allowance in the event of her death. The old studio is big enough to be split in two, so Erwan could make some money by renting part of it, but that is too much work for him, and he likes his privacy, he says. Can you imagine having a thousand square feet of free lodging in central New York or Paris? And being unemployed to boot? The only times I ever argued with Agathe were over Erwan. I wish I could have let it go, but my working-class upbringing did not allow me to ignore his spoiled behavior. Remembering Agathe, I did pause by Erwan’s bedroom door and wish him a good sleep, before going into my own room.
I read for about an hour, to distract myself, and then turned off the light. It was quiet outside, and I smiled knowing that Hélène Paulik might spray the vines before the sun rose; that would send Erwan straight back to Paris on the next TGV. I giggled thinking that had I known Erwan was coming I could have arranged it with Hélène.
That night I tossed and turned, as is my usual sleep pattern, worrying about important things—Erwan, for example—and silly ones, like the fact that Sandrine and I had forgotten to move the potted succulents into the sun as we said we should. My therapist says that my biggest problem with Erwan is guilt. It’s true that the day Agathe died we had had too much to drink, at lunch on the boat, and argued over Erwan. He had enrolled in some kind of expensive private business school, and Agathe was going to foot the bill. We didn’t argue about the money, because by that time we had lots. It was the principle of the thing: yet another doomed project of Erwan’s. I saw how each time he gave up or failed at something, it would crush Agathe. My publisher an
d his wife seemed to be having their own fight, up on deck, and who knows where Ursule, my secretary, was. She’d worked for me for years. She was discreet and faithful, but after Agathe’s death she withdrew and seemed to blame me. She stayed on for a while after the accident, but by the time she resigned it felt like she hated me. Looking back on it, with the help of therapy, I see I probably took her for granted. I always paid her well, extremely well by French standards, well enough that she could buy an apartment in a nice neighborhood. But there’s always more than just money—isn’t there, Justin? I assumed that because I paid her well, she could, and would, always be available. That’s one reason why I was trying to be considerate to Sandrine. Sandrine didn’t have Ursule Genoux’s refinement, but she was smart. No, quick. That’s a better word. And one day, perhaps, she could stop cleaning my house and be my secretary. That was my plan, anyway.
I must have finally stopped thinking about all these people and drifted off, because the next thing I remember was being woken up by a breeze that blew over my right ear. I swatted at it, thinking it was a mosquito or a fly. I rolled over and tried to get back to sleep. The breeze now blew over my left ear. I was about to roll over again when I heard whispering. I lay there as still as I could and heard the whisper again. Was it my name? I opened my eyes but couldn’t see anything; there was only a sliver of a moon and the room was quite dark. “Valère,” the voice sounded again, and the breeze was closer to my face now. I closed my eyes, hoping it was a dream, too afraid to move. “Valère,” it said, and I felt warmth on my neck, warm and moist air, from someone breathing.
“Bugger this!” I yelled and reached up into the night air with my right hand, ready to grab at whatever beast was breathing on me. A hand suddenly grabbed my own, with a grip stronger than mine could ever be. “Let go!” I yelled, struggling to sit up. “Get the hell out of my house!”
“Valère!” the voice called out. A woman’s voice.
“Agathe!” I answered. Was I dreaming? Why was Agathe at my bedside? “Let go of me!” But the hand held mine even tighter.
“Stop it, Valère!”
“I’m sorry, Agathe!” I called out. I may have been weeping by this point.
The hand suddenly let go, and my head fell back on the pillow. I was drenched in sweat. A light came on, the bedside light. I kept my eyes closed.
“M Barbier.”
I opened my eyes and turned my head. It was Sandrine. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I called you by your Christian name. But you were screaming in your sleep.”
“Thank Christ,” I said, closing my eyes again. “I thought you were . . . I’m not sure . . .”
Sandrine stayed respectfully quiet. Who knows what she thought.
“The breeze . . .” I muttered.
“I couldn’t find the light switch,” Sandrine said. She was now laughing. “That damn lamp! The switch is a mile down on the cord!”
I started laughing too, my eyes still closed. “You need to fix it for me, Sandrine. Do you do minor electrical repairs?”
She laughed. “That is beyond my capacity, M Barbier.”
I rubbed my eyes and tried to sit up, but was too exhausted. “Stay still,” she ordered. “I’ll get you a glass of water.”
“Erwan,” I said. “I must have woken him up too.”
“I’ll go and check,” Sandrine said. She got up from beside the bed—she had been kneeling on the cold tile floor—and left the room. I heard her knock on Erwan’s door then call his name. In a few seconds, she was back. “We have a problem, M Barbier,” she said from the doorway. “Your stepson is gone.”
I lifted my head and looked at Sandrine, shocked by her announcement. I sunk my head back into the pillow, knowing that I wouldn’t sleep anymore that night. But there was something about Sandrine’s appearance that bothered me.
Chapter Eighteen
Aix-en-Provence,
Saturday, July 9, 2010
Marine loved taking her mother out for lunch. Her parents rarely dined in restaurants, and in fact Marine knew that Florence Bonnet really didn’t care about food. She was now retired, but when Marine was growing up her mother had poured all her energy into her teaching and research at Aix’s university. Marine was proud of her working mother, and used to show off Florence’s articles to her friends. It didn’t matter that the articles were published in little-read, albeit important, theological journals across the world. She loved seeing her mother’s name, Dr. Florence Bonnet, in print, and knew that she herself had a doctorate in part thanks to her upbringing, in which books and ideas and learning were the most important things in life.
When Marine started teaching and became independent, she found that there were other things that made life worth living too. Good food, and sharing it with friends, was one of them. Her mother didn’t have the reflex to dine out, so in return for indulging her caprice Marine would subtly pay the bill once they had finished eating. Sometimes their lunches didn’t happen every week; Florence was still busy editing articles for a theological journal and singing in the renowned choir at Saint-Jean-de-Malte.
That day Marine chose a traditional brasserie close to the Rotonde. The classics—duck confit, steak tartare—were done well enough, without surprises, and the waiters were professional and discreet. She ordered two glasses of champagne, her mother fussing and protesting until she had her first sip. Marine smiled, watching Florence slowly relax and relish the sparkling wine. “Maman,” Marine began, “I met Valère Barbier the other day.”
Florence Bonnet looked up from her glass. “You don’t say?”
Marine nodded. “He lives in an old house next to the Pauliks, in Puyloubier.”
“La Bastide Blanche,” Florence stated.
“Yes, how did you know?”
“Philomène.”
Marine laughed. Philomène Joubert lived across the courtyard from Marine’s old apartment, and was a fixture in downtown Aix, riding her aged bicycle with goggles and a knit hat no matter what the weather. She was also, along with Père Jean-Luc, the church’s choir director.
“So what’s he like, the Great Man?” Florence asked.
“Very affable,” Marine replied. “Friendly, interesting, and smart. Just as I hoped he would be. Antoine has already taken him to his cigar club.”
“How’s Barbier sleeping?” Florence asked, draining her champagne and setting it down on the table with a thump.
Marine gave her mother a surprised look. “What do you mean, Maman?”
“The bastide is haunted—everyone knows it. Philomène was going on and on about the house the other night before practice. Some of the younger choir members were quite frightened!”
Marine tried not to burst out laughing. She could easily imagine Philomène Joubert holding forth in the ancient church. Perhaps only candles had been lit that night, the perfect setting for ghost stories. “So what’s Philomène’s story?” Marine asked.
“I can see from your expression that you think it’s a lot of hocus-pocus,” Florence said. “But there may be some truth in the ghost stories. There usually is.”
“But, Maman, that’s pure superstition, the kind of thing you normally fight against.”
Florence shrugged. “It’s an old house, and old houses have souls and histories.” Marine looked at her mother aghast. Florence continued, “That’s one of the reasons your father and I bought a new house in 1964. Other than the fact that we wanted central heating.”
“And it was close to the university,” Marine added.
“Exactly.”
“So, not really because of the house having an old soul you’d have to deal with,” Marine pointed out.
“Well, I suppose not,” Florence said. She paused, looking up at the restaurant’s art deco ceiling, then went on. “But, in the case of La Bastide Blanche, there are just too many unexplainable circumstances.”
Marine smiled, happy to see her mother so relaxed. “Go on.”
Florence leaned forward. “What are you doing after lunch?”
“I was going to write.”
“Let’s take a quick detour to the university library.”
“Maman!”
“It won’t take long,” Florence said. “We could verify Philomène’s story, right?”
Marine nodded. “Okay, then perhaps we should just order a main dish to make it quicker.”
Florence looked surprised, then disappointed. “Quoi? Pas une entrée, ni dessert?”
Marine smiled; perhaps she was slowly turning her mother into an epicurean.
* * *
Bruno Paulik knocked on Verlaque’s office door. “Come in,” Verlaque said, moving a pile of papers aside with the back of his hand. “Coffee?”
“Can’t,” Paulik answered. “I have to go to the Bastide Blanche.”
“Now what’s happened?”
“Valère Barbier’s stepson is missing.”
“I didn’t know his stepson was visiting,” Verlaque said.
“He arrived late last night,” Paulik said. “Hélène and I saw the taxi drive up around ten thirty, as we were going to bed. He came in on the seven o’clock TGV from Paris.”
“Odd, Marine and I were on the same train,” Verlaque said, standing up. “I’ll come too, and on the way there I’ll fill you in on what I learned in Paris. Why is Barbier worried? Maybe his stepson went on a hike or back to Paris?”
Paulik said, “Barbier and his housekeeper found a ransom note in the living room this morning.”
* * *
They were able to get to Puyloubier in twenty minutes. Officer Goulin drove the commissioner, thrilled to be out of the office for the morning. The judge followed the police car in his vintage Porsche.
Valère and Sandrine were standing on the bastide’s front steps when they arrived. “Thank you for getting here so quickly,” Valère said as Verlaque, Paulik, and Sophie Goulin approached.
The Secrets of the Bastide Blanche Page 16
