‘It’s a pity Jenny’s not sharing this. I feel like an interloper,’ she admitted.
Luc slipped an arm around her and pulled her close. ‘Let’s keep walking towards Sacre-Coeur, or we’ll freeze.’
They walked quietly arm in arm until they reached the basilica. He cast a silent prayer for Lisette and Harry before turning to look out across Paris.
‘Vast, isn’t it?’ Jane said.
‘Never feels that big when you’re down there in the streets.’ He looked towards the Eiffel Tower, which was almost lost in the grey mist of the day. ‘Come on,’ he urged, noticing that all the houses were shutting their windows, drawing curtains on the dim late afternoon and lights blinking on behind them. ‘Happy to take the stairs?’ he said, gesturing towards the pretty flights that tripped down the hill and would lead them back into the city. The lamp posts had just become illuminated, softly washing the cobbles either side of the iconic stone steps and their iron balustrades with a pale glow.
After a long, deep kiss of farewell with Jane the next morning, Luc dodged his way back through traffic and hurrying Parisians to his hotel. Jenny had not yet returned. The cold, the exercise and especially the lovemaking with Jane had released his mind from its previous torment as much as its stasis. The question of von Schleigel was clearer, and without a moment’s hesitation he went back down to reception to use the lobby phone and asked the switchboard operator to connect him to the café in Fontaine-de-Vaucluse that von Schleigel owned.
A woman answered.
‘Is Frédéric Segal available, please?’
‘He is busy, monsieur, serving. Can I help you? Did you want a reservation for this evening?’
‘Er, no, madame. I am calling from Paris.’
‘Ah, okay. Who is calling, please?’ she said.
‘My name is Laurent Cousteau,’ he said.
He heard her voice becoming suddenly muffled before she returned. ‘He is very busy, Monsieur Cousteau. May I tell him what you are calling about?’
‘Yes, please let him know that I’d like to interview him for a prestigious national magazine about tourism and hospitality,’ Luc said and held his breath. Don’t say too much. Don’t overexplain. Lisette had taught him that. She had been so young, so inexperienced, and yet London had recklessly thrown a raw recruit into his care in arguably the most dangerous of situations, crossing the Vichy border into occupied Paris. Even in their moment of meeting, he’d known that his attraction to her was dangerously magnetic and he’d found it hard to meet her gaze again. He knew to hold his tongue now, to let von Schleigel be tempted to come to him.
‘Can he call you back, sir?’
Luc couldn’t risk von Schleigel learning anything more. ‘I’m afraid not. I’ve checked out of my hotel in Paris and am leaving the city this evening. Perhaps I could wait on the line for him, please? It’s important.’
Suddenly he heard a rustling and someone a little breathless came on the line. A man spoke, neither exasperated nor excited.
‘Monsieur Cousteau? This is Frédéric Segal.’
The voice. Luc felt as if his heart had paused, losing its rhythm momentarily before scrabbling to find it again and in the wake of that it began to pound twice as hard, twice as loud.
‘Monsieur Cousteau? Are you there?’
‘Yes … yes, I’m here, Monsieur Segal,’ Luc hurried to say.
‘My wife says that you wish to do an interview …?’
Luc rapidly gathered his wits; this was the moment, if he was ever going to pull this mad scheme off. ‘I do, monsieur, thank you for coming to the phone. I’m a freelance journalist and I’ve been contracted to write some travel stories around Europe for the Diners Club magazine.’
‘Oh, I see, how interesting.’
‘Well, we’re doing a special feature on Provence for our summer 1965 edition, which will publish next spring. I’ve been hearing very good things about your ice cream parlour. I thought it would add some colour to our pages on Provence.’
‘I’m delighted to hear that. I think we run a very good café but yes, thank you, our ice cream is the best in the south, if I may be so bold.’
‘Well, news has travelled all the way to Paris. But actually, Monsieur Segal, I have some leeway to do more in-depth pieces about certain people in the south. I’m wondering how you’d feel if I interviewed you along the lines of “A Day in the Life of …” For example, learning about your life and what it is to be serving ice cream to thousands of holiday-makers. I think it would make a cheerful story in many respects.’
Say no more, Luc urged to himself. He knew his premise was thin but not so far out of reach as to be implausible.
‘I’m not sure my background is important to ice cream, Monsieur Cousteau … or to your readers.’ He added a self-conscious titter.
‘No, Monsieur Segal, I didn’t mean your background so much as daily life. It would be good for readers to meet the man behind the successful café that is helping to put Fontaine-de-Vaucluse on the Diners Card map, so we’d look at your typical day. People love to see the world through other people’s eyes.’ Was it enough?
‘Ah, I see, so today’s Frédéric Segal, you mean?’
‘Yes, exactly. I think we’ve all heard more than enough about life during the war. We want positive, colourful tales about interesting locations and destinations and experiences. That all begins with positive, colourful, interesting people.’
‘Well, I’m extremely flattered. That sounds splendid.’
Luc could breathe again. ‘Terrific, thank you. I am very much looking forward to meeting you, monsieur. The way this would work is that I would do the interview – let’s say in the next week or so – and then we’ll send our photographer closer to the publication date to do all the main photography.’
‘Good, I will ensure the whole family is available.’
‘Perfect,’ Luc lied. ‘So essentially I might need to follow you for a day or so next week. Would that be all right?’
‘At my work, you mean?’
‘Sure. At work, at play,’ he added, mentally crossing his fingers. ‘Do you have any interesting hobbies?’
‘Ah, I see, yes, of course. Well, I collect butterflies.’ How very appropriate, Luc thought. ‘I’m afraid I spend most of my time here in the café, of course,’ von Schleigel continued with a dry chuckle, and at its hideous sound Luc was transported back to 1943. It had been November then too and an old man, a German accused of being a Jew-lover, was broken and bleeding from his interrogation by the Gestapo. He sat shivering in his underwear awaiting inevitable execution. Kriminaldirektor von Schleigel, who had led the interrogation, had chuckled then as he had just now.
And you didn’t know who you were talking to in 1943 either, Luc thought coldly.
‘I understand,’ Luc said. ‘Perhaps you play tennis or boules?’ he tried, encouraging ideas of outdoor activities.
‘I don’t, I’m afraid to say.’
Luc closed his eyes with frustration. Come on, he pleaded silently.
‘I do take exercise, of course, no matter the weather.’
‘That sounds promising,’ Luc said, hiding his relief by sounding intrigued. ‘What is your preference?’
‘I like to walk; I often cycle.’
‘Terrific. Daily?’ Luc said, leading him with great care to where he needed to take his prey.
‘Yes. I like to walk around our pretty town. It’s amazing how different it looks in the early hours when it feels like I have it all to myself. I learn a lot too during that walk.’ Luc let him talk about new cafes opening up, others that may close, teenagers getting up to mischief, older people drowning their sorrows or clandestine meetings of lovers. He waited through it for the right opening, listening to von Schleigel brag about how far he could reach in his cycle in a single hour’s ride. ‘Twenty miles is now easy for me,’ Luc heard him boast but he was not interested. He held his breath. Say it, he urged silently down the phone line. ‘Most weeks, although it’s
irregular in winter, I do take a hike up a fairly decent incline.’
Bingo! ‘Is that so?’ Luc chimed in, showing enthusiasm in his tone. ‘Is it picturesque at the top of the hill?’ he asked, holding the image of that summit clearly in his mind’s eye.
‘Picturesque? Monsieur Cousteau, when you see Fontaine-de-Vaucluse you will likely weep with the joy of its beauty,’ he said somewhat theatrically, but then von Schleigel had always been an actor. ‘It will certainly inspire your photographer.’
‘Well, now, I believe that’s exactly what the story is looking for. A beautiful landscape for us to shoot you against,’ he said, deeply aware of the subtext beneath his words. ‘Perhaps I could accompany you, as well as visit the café?’
‘Indeed. You said next week, didn’t you?’
‘How does next Wednesday sound?’
There was a pause as he heard von Schleigel turning pages, presumably of a diary. ‘Yes, actually, I think that would be fine.’
‘And should we walk together up to the top of the hill that morning, Monsieur Segal?’ Luc held his breath.
‘Oh? Whatever makes you think I do the hill walk in the morning?’
Luc wanted to bite his tongue out. What a stupid mistake!
‘Forgive me,’ he said, covering his despair by keeping his voice smooth and casual. ‘I presumed as you said you walked the town in the early hours that you’d follow the same pattern.’ He gave a tight chuckle. ‘Any time of the day is fine with me. You just name the time.’
‘No, you’re quite right. I’m far too tired to walk of an evening. But are you up to the challenge, monsieur?’
‘Don’t worry about me. I assure you of my fitness.’
‘Good, because next week I would need to set off before first light, seven a.m. perhaps, and I don’t walk slowly.’
‘Truly, that’s fine.’
‘Call me when you get in. We can make arrangements.’
‘Why don’t we just meet at the café on the morning of your choice?’ Luc ventured.
‘What if my plans change? How can I contact you?’
Old habits died hard. Luc knew exactly what von Schleigel was doing.
‘Of course, that makes sense,’ he said carefully. ‘But I don’t know yet where I’ll be staying. I’ll leave word at the café with your staff.’
‘Very well. So where else in our region will you be visiting and writing about?’
Luc hadn’t been ready for that. ‘Ah, well, I thought I might take a wander around some of the villages near Mont Mouchet,’ he said, the first place that came to mind. He wished he hadn’t but he instantly reassured himself that no connection could be made. ‘Then come into the Luberon before I head down to Marseille, back to Avignon, Lyon … I’ll probably call into various villages as the mood takes me – Lacoste, Bonnieux, Roussillon, Menerbes.’ He listed them simply because they came to mind from his youth. ‘I have a few contacts to meet – from ochre gatherers to fruit preservers to lavender growers.’ He couldn’t help himself.
‘Far too late for any of those experiences.’
‘Just like ice cream, it’s all about the pictures.’
‘Very good. Well, you have a busy time ahead. I shall see you next week, seven a.m. sharp. Oh, by the way …’
‘Yes?’
‘Who told you about our café?’
Luc clenched his fist. Again, von Schleigel had caught him off guard. ‘It was an English couple,’ he lied instantly, his mind racing ahead to fabricate a credible tale. ‘I met them in Hampshire when I covered the Farnborough Air Show. They’d been holidaying in France and had spent most of their time in and around the Luberon last year in Lourmarin.’
‘Ah, another beautiful village.’
‘Yes. They visited your café and spoke rapturously about your ice cream.’ Calm it now, Luc, a small voice warned. ‘They said you were a marvellous host.’ He remembered the grainy photo, picturing it now in his mind. ‘They said the way you presented the ice creams in a floral shape was unique.’
‘I feel honoured,’ von Schleigel said, but Luc heard the closure in the man’s voice. It was as if Luc had passed his test.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Luc’s hand shook as he replaced the receiver, glad he’d taken the precaution of not phoning from his room. He trembled not from fear, not even from anticipation; it was the old rage, racing through his body, matching the speed of his blood being pumped rapidly enough that he was aware of his heart beating. He was so close now. He thought about ringing Max, but then decided not to. Kilian’s son would be full of fresh warnings and Luc needed no doubt in his mind now. He reached for his grandmother’s silk pouch that hung at his chest, which he could feel through his clothes like a touchstone. Its former contents of lavender seeds had kept him safe as she’d promised but would his luck hold now that he’d emptied the seeds into the fertile land of Launceston?
When Jane had asked about the odd talisman around his neck he’d lied. It contained a single item but he couldn’t tell whether it would fulfil its purpose.
He left the lobby’s public telephone and minutes after arriving back at their room, Jenny burst through the door.
‘Dad!’
He kissed the top of her head. ‘Well, you look happy. Did you have fun?’
‘I did. Juliette and I are going to write to each other every month!’ Jenny sighed. ‘But I’d rather live in France.’
He smiled. ‘You’ve only been in Paris for a few days.’
‘I mean, I really like being here in Europe. Tasmania is so sleepy.’
‘That’s what your mother and I liked most about it.’
‘Yes, but you’re old, Dad. And you’d had your fun in London and Paris.’
He stopped emptying his pockets onto the desk and frowned, only now realising that Jenny was leading up to something. He watched her take a deep breath.
‘I’ll just come right out and say it. I want to ask if you’ll consider letting me attend boarding school here … Um, in France.’
‘What?’ He didn’t mean to sound as loudly incredulous but she’d ambushed him cleverly while his defences were down. Lisette had often hinted at her concern whether their decision to move to the wilderness on the other side of the world was the right impulse for their children.
He’d snorted at her gentle fears then. ‘I grew up in a place like this,’ he’d said, waving an arm around the fields of lavender.
‘In France, though, Luc. With the rest of Continental Europe on your doorstep and a family that took you to Paris regularly.’
‘And why I lost a lot of people in the war. Europe did us no favours.’
‘We love Bonet’s Farm but that’s our life, our choice. We must never stop their curiosity about the world.’
Her counsel haunted him now. He didn’t want to lose Jenny. ‘I knew you’d take it badly,’ Jenny accused. ‘I haven’t said anything,’ he countered. ‘Your face says enough, Dad.’
‘Has your new friend been putting ideas in your mind?’ She shrugged. ‘We’ve only got a few more weeks.’ Her tone said it all. ‘Then back to school for me in bor—’
‘Don’t say it,’ Luc warned. ‘You start in February.’
‘Dad, I want to go to school in Europe, not Tasmania!’ She said it softly and accusingly as though he had somehow injured her.
‘What do you know about London or Paris other than the insides of very good hotels, the menus of some fine restaurants, and how to shop in Knightsbridge or at Chanel?’ he blustered.
‘That’s the point!’ she retaliated, keeping her voice even. ‘I want to know a lot more and I can’t do that from the other side of the planet. Dad, I love fashion, I love art, I love design, I love shops and creating things. I love the music, the food. I don’t know yet what it is I want to do but I don’t think I can do it nearly as well from over there.’ She pulled at her favourite skirt. ‘Seriously, Dad, how many seasons do you think it will be before this comes into fashion in Launny? Ten?’
He looked at her, aghast. ‘Jenny, you’ve got years before you have to think about your future career.’
She slumped on her bed. ‘I want to use my French. I want to be able to be on this side of the world. It’s exciting.’
Luc bit back on the despair that was about to spill from his mouth and decided that he needed to think this through and give Jenny time. She was dealing with plenty, as Jane had counselled, and he had exposed his daughter to a lot in a short period. She’d left a tiny, quiet hamlet to be plonked into two of the world’s biggest, most exciting capitals. He should only blame himself for this fascination.
He sat beside her and put an arm around his daughter. ‘Let’s not talk about this now, Jen. You’ve said what’s on your mind. Shall we allow it to sit in front of us for a while?’
‘You sound like Mum now,’ she groaned.
‘Your mother was the most pragmatic woman I’ve ever known. You should be grateful I’m sounding like her. Listen, how do you fancy a trip to a place called Mont Mouchet?’
‘Why?’
‘There’s someone who may still be there that I’d like to see again.’
‘Someone being ..?’
‘A friend. He also helped save my life once.’
‘What happened?’
‘I’ll tell you all about it, I promise, on the journey down.’
She nodded before sighing. ‘Oh, goodie. Me and two middle-aged men talking about old times.’
Luc had to laugh. ‘He was only five years old when he helped to nurse me back to health.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Five? So he’s twenty-four now?’
Luc was impressed at the lightning-fast calculation. ‘Yes, Robert would be a young man now.’
‘Around the same age as Max. Where is Max? He’s meant to be taking me and Jane out today.’
He’d forgotten she didn’t know about Max’s change of plans and quickly explained, vaguely irritated that she looked quietly devastated as he finished with a sigh. ‘I’m sure we’ll see him another time,’ he said, knowing it was a flippant remark. He had no plans to meet Max again, although he would write to him about their unfinished business.
The French Promise Page 33
