The French Prize

by Cathryn Hein

  Ignoring him, she had helped herself to another pain au raisin, and buried her nose in a two-day-old copy of La Provence. Not that any of the newspaper’s stories registered, but the pretence of composure at least made her feel better. Besides, she had no energy for games and her mind felt so sluggish, she wasn’t certain she even cared.

  He didn’t speak until they were in the archive room, standing at the table with La Tasse in front of them.

  ‘Show me the problem, please.’

  She picked up the cup and rotated it in her hand until the worst layer appeared.

  ‘You see here?’ She pointed at the encrustation. ‘This layer is harder than the cup. If I keep scraping, all that’ll happen is the pottery will flake, taking the inscription with it. The calcium deposits have solidified in the etching, leaving the words unreadable.’ She put down the cup. ‘I daren’t make any more attempts to remove it until I know exactly what I’m dealing with. It’s too risky.’

  ‘And this Thorsten Grosshans will know how to remove it?’

  ‘Yes. He’s the expert.’

  He waved a hand at the row of filing cabinets. ‘And there’s nothing in there to tell you how to do it?’

  She let out a loud sigh. ‘It’s not just about knowing what acid solution to use, it’s about the technique. Thorsten will be able to show me what to do.’ She looked at the cup. It had lasted almost seven hundred years buried under a flagstone near the kitchen fireplace of a ruined chateau, yet it seemed so delicate. ‘In fact, I’d like him to complete the restoration.’

  ‘No. On that I will not be swayed.’ He looked her in the eye. ‘Grosshans is found where at the university?’

  ‘Centre Schuman normally.’

  ‘A crowded location.’

  ‘I know. That’s why I said I’d meet him at Musée Granet.’

  The museum wasn’t the ideal venue for a meeting of this delicacy, but the site was central and Thorsten had promised access to a private room, away from prying eyes.

  ‘I do not like this,’ he said.

  ‘Neither do I, but we don’t have any choice.’

  ‘We always have choices, Olivia.’

  Her hands went to her hips. She was becoming sick of this conversation. ‘Says he who still thinks he’s burdened by a thousand-year-old promise. Don’t talk to me about choices, Raimund. If you so chose, you could hand over La Tasse and all of this,’ she swept her arm around the room, ‘to people who care. People who want to preserve and cherish history, not destroy it.’

  ‘People like you?’

  ‘Yes! People like me.’ She faced up to him, anger boiling through her veins. ‘Why do you think I’m still here? Not for your charmless company, that’s for sure. Have you any idea at all how important all this is? Well, have you?’

  He didn’t answer. He stood unflinchingly in front of her, his hands by his side, unresponsive, letting her rant. It only made her more upset. He didn’t care about anything, not the archives nor the cup nor Durendal. And he sure as hell didn’t care about her.

  She made a low hmph of disgust. ‘You don’t, do you? You just take it for granted because it’s always been a part of your life. Well, it’s always been a part of my life, too, but I still care. More than you can imagine.’

  To Olivia’s horror, hot tears stung her eyes. Desperate to hide them, she shied away, leaned her hands on the table and stared fixedly at La Tasse with her teeth clenched, breathing hard through her nose.

  Exhaustion and stress were making her emotional. It had nothing to do with Raimund. Nothing.

  His hand slid over her back and gently gripped her shoulder. He tugged, pulling her towards him and into his arms until her face was pressed against his chest and his cheek rested against her hair. He held her in a sheltering embrace, calming her with his touch.

  ‘Shh, Olivia,’ he whispered, stroking her hair and back in long, soothing sweeps. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He smelled of soap and washing powder, comforting smells that evoked memories of her childhood, of home and warmth. It made her want to howl into his chest like a baby and then fall asleep in his protective arms.

  This wasn’t like her. She was strong, tough. She stood up to people, defended her beliefs, fought her corner. She didn’t run blubbing into a man’s arms at the first sign of conflict. And yet, here she was in Raimund’s embrace, needing his strength, the reassurance of his touch.

  He held her as though she were precious, easing her taut muscles with tender caresses, murmuring apologies into her hair until, slowly, her breathing eased.

  ‘I’ll take you to see this Thorsten Grosshans and then when we return, you’ll go to bed and gain the rest you need to continue.’ He cupped her face and lifted it. ‘Okay?’

  She blinked and nodded. A stray tear slid down her cheek, hot against her skin. She closed her eyes, feeling pathetic.

  ‘It’s okay, Olivia. It’s just your body’s way of showing that you are burnt out.’

  His normally precise English sounded huskier, the accent more pronounced. He traced the wet line of her tear with his thumb. It lingered near her mouth, tentatively caressing the corner as though he wanted to run it over her lips but was afraid. Then his hand dropped, and he pressed his mouth against her forehead and held it there for a long moment before letting her go and shifting towards the table, away from her.

  He cleared his throat. ‘I can see why Christiane likes you so much. You have a way of bending me to your will. I’m not normally so easily manipulated.’

  Wiping her face, Olivia let out a small sniff of laughter. ‘Neither am I, but look at me now.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, smiling slightly. ‘Look at you now. Trapped underground with a charmless man.’

  Her hand flew to her mouth. She had forgotten she had called him charmless. She had forgotten everything in those last few minutes. All that had mattered was the feel of his hands and the touch of his body and the emotion shaking his whispers.

  ‘I’m sorry. I was angry. I didn’t mean it, Raimund. Truly.’

  He reached forward and slid La Tasse’s aluminium case across the table, and flicked open the lid. ‘My fault and deserved. I realise I have been disagreeable. I’m used to people who obey me without question. Sometimes I forget you are not one of my men.’

  ‘I would have thought the distinction was obvious.’

  He let out a mild expletive and briefly closed his eyes as though exasperated by his own ineptitude. ‘I think today I’m suffering from what you English speakers call foot-in-mouth disease.’

  She smiled to let him know she was only ribbing him. ‘It’s all right. We both need sleep.’

  ‘Yes, and this afternoon you will have it.’

  Aix-en-Provence was bustling with produce-laden locals. Thursday was one of the main market days and Olivia knew finding a park would be nigh on impossible.

  Raimund crawled around the périphérique, his eyes sweeping the side streets for a parking place. After two unproductive laps, one appeared near the end of Rue d’Italie, a short walk from the museum. Olivia watched in envy as he manoeuvred the car into a park into which she would have had to have been lifted by crane.

  The day before, with the assistance of a retired Legionnaire who owed him several favours, he had returned the Clio to the gîte and retrieved another car from a property near Narbonne. The car, he had explained on the drive into Aix, was registered under the name of yet another indebted ex-soldier, which he hoped would prove difficult to link to him.

  She had pointed out that the make was disguise enough. No sane person would expect a man of his height to drive a tiny Peugeot coupé-convertible. With the roof up, Raimund had to hunch over to drive.

  ‘But it is sexy, non?’ he had said, his French accent deliberately emphasised.

  Olivia had stared at him in shock and then laughed, enjoying the thrill of riding through the countryside with wind billowing her hair and the sun bright and hot on her skin. She had replaced her shorts and shirt with a strappy, thigh-
length summer dress and sandals, and was glad for it. The silky green fabric matched her hazel eyes and made her feel pretty and alive. All she needed was a pair of oversized sunglasses and a Hermès scarf wrapped elegantly around her head and she’d be a movie star.

  It was easy to forget her anxiety when the day was this glorious. Too long spent brooding in the confines of the archives had left her depressed and uncertain, and made her fears seem worse than they were, but the sunshine and warmth fed her confidence. For the first time since finding the cup she felt happy, and told Raimund so.

  In response, he had removed his hand from the wheel and clutched her fingers, then brought them to his mouth, laying a soft kiss on her knuckles. Olivia’s heartbeat had soared.

  ‘I’m glad,’ he had said, laying her hand back in her lap.

  She had spent the remainder of the journey dancing on air like the butterflies fluttering in the grass at the road’s edge.

  They walked the wrong way up Rue d’Italie, dodging shoppers and tourists. With the case gripped firmly in his right hand, Raimund kept his left on Olivia’s back, steering her through the bustling crowd.

  In Place Saint Jean de Malte, near the footsteps of the eponymous thirteenth-century church, Olivia halted and faced him.

  ‘I’ll go on alone from here.’

  He peered over her shoulder towards the museum doors with narrowed eyes, but then relaxed and looked back at her. From behind, Olivia heard laughter. An American-accented male complained he would die of boredom if he was dragged into yet another church, but to no avail. His female companion simply laughed and told him he needed all the culture he could get.

  As the couple passed them on their way to the church, the woman smiled at them, then tilted her head at her recalcitrant partner and rolled her eyes. Olivia gave her a sympathetic smile in return, though her chest squeezed with envy of their carefree lives.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Raimund when they had gone.

  ‘No. You’ll only make Thorsten suspicious. Wait in the church. I’ll come and fetch you when I’ve finished.’

  He clutched her upper arm, as though afraid to let her leave. ‘I do not like this.’

  ‘Neither do I, but it has to be done.’

  On impulse, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him lightly on the mouth, then took the case from his hand and left him standing open-mouthed at the edge of the Place.

  At the steps to the museum, she looked over her shoulder back at him. He stood erect, elegant and dignified, with his handsome face as impassive as ever, but his eyes were burning like embers.

  She found him an hour later, lounging in the corner where the church and museum front walls met, hidden in the shadows. He straightened and took the case from her hand. She half expected him to open it and check La Tasse was still inside, but he didn’t. Instead, he pointed down the narrow road and bade her to walk.

  The street was cool, shadowed on either side by the tall seventeenth-century buildings of Aix’s aristocratic Mazarin Quarter. They walked in silence, passing magnificent carved timber doors decorated with ornate knockers and dodging dog droppings.

  ‘Doesn’t anyone ever pick up after their dogs in this country?’ said Olivia, evading a bright-orange specimen.

  ‘No. It’s a terrible French habit, I agree.’

  ‘In Australia, if you were caught not cleaning up after your dog, you’d be hit with a huge fine.’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s the same here, but it’s like parking tickets. No one pays.’

  ‘You French,’ she said, smiling and shaking her head.

  ‘You Australians,’ replied Raimund, nudging her playfully.

  Olivia’s heart sang with joy.

  He steered her towards the Cours Mirabeau, Aix’s famous tree-lined and fountain-filled main boulevard. ‘You can tell me what Grosshans said over lunch. It will not be up to Christiane’s standard, but the view will be enjoyable.’

  He chose a brasserie at the eastern end between the Fontaine du Roi René and the Fontaine Moussue. Their table was furthermost from the footpath, with no one between them and the building behind. Raimund rearranged the chairs until they were both facing the street.

  The atmosphere was lazy and relaxed but tinged with French glamour. At the table to their right, two effortlessly elegant women took sips from tiny espresso cups without leaving lipstick marks. The man at the table to their left sipped at a tall glass of watered-down pastis, frowning at his copy of Le Monde. Around them, people chatted in a variety of languages and accents, sheltered from the summer heat by the Cours’ enormous plane trees.

  Olivia shaded her eyes and people-watched, half jealous of the tourists sauntering past on the lookout for somewhere to indulge in a long, boozy lunch. A slim, perfectly made-up and coiffured brunette strutted by on impossibly high heels, leaving a row of turned heads in her wake. Olivia looked at Raimund, but his attention was elsewhere, his eyes flicking as they scanned the crowds. The case lay resting on the side edge of his chair, his hand curled around the handle.

  They ordered simple salads and a demi-pichet of rosé, and when the waiter had gone, Olivia began to tell Raimund about her meeting.

  ‘Thorsten assures me I shouldn’t have any trouble with a weak solution of hydrochloric acid. The calcium layer should dissolve, leaving the inscription intact. Apparently, I was fretting over nothing.’

  He cast her a brief smile before returning to his surveillance of the street. ‘I told you as much.’

  ‘I know, but I had to be sure.’

  The waiter returned with a stone jug of rosé, a carafe of water and some glasses. Raimund poured water and then wine, then held up his glass and waited till she touched hers against it.

  ‘To you, Olivia. Thank you.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything yet.’

  ‘But you have.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Without you, La Tasse would still be hidden.’

  She took a sip of wine. It wasn’t as good as Edouard’s but she didn’t mind. It still tasted of Provence.

  ‘We have a long way to go yet.’

  ‘I have no doubt you will get there.’

  She fingered the stem of her wine glass. ‘You put too much faith in me.’

  He stared out into the street, his eyes for once unfocused, visualising something she could not. ‘You are wrong. I think perhaps I do not put enough.’

  Olivia wanted to press him, to find out what he meant, but the waiter interrupted with their meals and by the time the table was organised, the moment had passed.

  The food and wine worked their magic, and slowly, Raimund relaxed his guard. As Olivia regaled him with tales of growing up in Australia, his eyes began to linger more on her than the street. Soon, they never left her face.

  ‘You should visit,’ she said, reaching for her water glass.

  The movement caused the strap of her dress to slip off her shoulder. He reached across and slid it back up, but instead of letting go, his fingers stalled against her skin.

  ‘Perhaps I will one day.’

  He stared at her shoulder as though mesmerised, caressing it with feathery touches that sent delicious jolts up her spine. A hot flush rose up her neck, leaving her lightheaded and almost quivering with anticipation.

  ‘You have very soft skin,’ he murmured.

  Olivia could barely breathe.

  Someone laughed. The restaurant came alive with noise again. Raimund blinked and removed his hand, turning away from her and frowning at the street as though he couldn’t quite remember why he was there.

  She placed her cutlery together on her plate, her appetite gone. All she wanted was for him to touch her again, to run his hands over her bare skin and draw her to him, but she knew it wouldn’t happen. His face had developed that shuttered look, the one she now knew he used as a mask when he had exposed too much of himself.

  He looked at her plate. ‘You did not enjoy your meal?’

  ‘Not up to Christiane’s standard.’

  That made him smile. �
��Nothing is up to Christiane’s standard, as she will tell you.’

  He called over a waiter. To Olivia’s shock, he arrived immediately. ‘Deux cafés et l’addition, s’il vous plaît.’

  The waiter nodded, cleared their plates and walked briskly through the maze of customers and into the restaurant.

  ‘How did you do that?’ she asked in amazement. ‘I could sit here for a week and never get that sort of service.’

  He shrugged, puffing his cheeks and raising his palms in a Gallic gesture that made her smile.

  The elderly couple at the table in front of them rose and left, their place immediately taken by a jewellery-draped middle-aged blonde who spent a full minute stripping designer-label shopping bags from her arms and arranging them on the spare seat.

  Raimund stared at them, then, without warning, he stood, extracted a fifty-euro note from his wallet, placed it on the table and weighed it down with the salt shaker. He bent and retrieved the case from under the table, where he had placed it while they ate.

  ‘Please, wait here. I’ll return in a few minutes.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I will not be long, I promise.’ And without another word, he walked briskly away up the Cours Mirabeau and was soon lost in the crowd.

  Olivia shook her head. She would never understand him, but perhaps that was part of his appeal. Mystery was always seductive. In Raimund’s case, mystery combined with extreme attractiveness and a tormented soul made him almost irresistible.

  Almost.

  She could do it. For her own wellbeing she had to.

  ‘Il fait beau, eh?’

  Olivia turned and smiled at the man taking a seat at the table next to her.

  ‘Oui. Il fait très beau.’

  His eyebrows shot up. ‘Oh, you are an American?’ he said in English.

  She laughed. ‘Is my accent that bad?’

  ‘No. In fact it’s very good. My compliments to your professeur.’ He settled himself at the table and spread out his legs under it. ‘You are on holidays from America, then?’