Hotel Pastis

by Peter Mayle

  Simon grinned. “I should have told you, Ern. I’ve got a secret weapon over there. You remember Nicole Bouvier?”

  Ernest raised his head and looked at Simon through speculative, half-closed eyes. “Ah. Our Lady of the Exhaust Pipe.”

  “That’s the one. Well, I went over to see her last weekend, and I think she could be the answer. In fact, it was her idea. She knows everybody down there, and, well … she could be our man on the spot.”

  “So to speak.”

  “So to speak, Ern. Yes.”

  Ernest went into the kitchen and refilled their glasses. He wasn’t surprised. Simon was susceptible. It was one of the reasons Ernest was so fond of him. And he had to admit that she was an attractive woman, a very suitable woman for Simon. A very useful woman, as it happened, and she seemed to like him. Airnest, she called him. In every way, she was a great improvement over Caroline.

  “Do I take it that you and Madame Bouvier are slightly more than acquaintances?”

  “Ern, if you keep waggling your eyebrows like that, they’ll drop off. We’re what they call good friends.”

  “Ah. Quite.” Ernest consulted his notepad again. “Well, I have a little confession to make too, since this seems to be the moment for revelations. I don’t think I’ve ever told you about Mrs. Gibbons.”

  Simon knew very little about Ernest’s private life. He made occasional references to a “companion,” whom Simon always assumed was a man. Mrs. Gibbons had never been mentioned.

  “I’d be heartbroken if she couldn’t come,” Ernest added. “She’d be no trouble, I promise.”

  Simon shrugged. “What’s one more? If you like her, Ern, I’m sure I will.”

  “Past her youth now, poor old thing, but you’ll adore her, I know. One black eye, and a completely hairless pink tummy. Walks like a drunken sailor, and very good with mice.”

  “Oh,” said Simon. “A cat.”

  “Heavens no. She eats cats, if she can catch them. No, she’s a bull terrier. I inherited her from a friend in the merchant marine—he was always away, the rascal—and she took to me just like that. I’ve had her for three years now.”

  “Anyone else up your sleeve, Ern? A marmoset? A tame python?”

  Ernest shuddered and shook his head.

  “Good. Well, now we’ve got the hotel dog, we’d better buy the hotel. I’ll call Nicole, and see if she can get everything organised for next weekend.” He looked at Ernest. “No second thoughts?”

  Ernest shook his head again, and the smile returned to his face. He was already planning his new wardrobe: pastel colours, he thought, with maybe just a dash of turquoise here and there. Something sunny, to go with the weather.

  12

  The three of them stood in the gendarmerie, shivering and damp. It had been raining when Simon and Ernest landed the night before, and it hadn’t stopped—grey sluices of water, blown by the wind, dropping in sheets from the overhang of the tiled roofs to gurgle noisily down the gutters of the narrow streets, a true Provençal shower. Nothing moved in Brassière, no cats, no dogs, no people. The village was enveloped in cloud, shrouded in the depressing gloom that descends on normally sunny places when there is no sun.

  They had spent the morning in the notaire’s office, going through the act of sale line by interminable line, as required by custom. Finally, the pages had been initialled and signed, the bank draft for nearly half a million pounds had been inspected and found acceptable, and the gendarmerie had passed into Simon’s hands. Now they had an appointment with the architect that Nicole had recommended. He was late.

  Simon felt personally responsible for the weather. “I’m sorry about this, Ern,” he said. “Not much of a view today.”

  Ernest peered out at the cloud that hid the Lubéron. “It reminds me of Brighton on August Bank Holiday,” he said. “But it’s a stunning place, I must say. Endless possibilities. I’m going to have a peek downstairs while we’re waiting.” He disappeared, humming happily.

  Nicole smiled at Simon. “Congratulations, monsieur le patron.” She kissed him—cold lips, warm tongue. “No regrets?”

  There was a cough behind them, and they turned to see a tall, dripping figure in the doorway, shaking water from a diminutive telescopic umbrella. “M’sieu dame, bonjour. Quel temps!”

  François Blanc had discovered the Lubéron a few crucial years before other Parisian architects had realised that sunshine and picturesque ruins and rich clients offered a profitable and pleasant alternative to working on office blocks and apartments in Neuilly. He had moved down, endured some lean times when Mitterrand first got into power and nobody was spending any money, and was now in considerable demand—some said rather too considerable—because of his good taste and the charm that got him out of trouble when the bills exceeded the estimates. His excuse was that he was never late finishing a job, and it was for this reason that Nicole had chosen him.

  His long, bony face under a shock of brown hair was animated as they exchanged handshakes. An immediately likeable man, Simon thought, the kind of man who would be good with clients in an agency. As they walked through the building, he kept up a stream of comments about the space, the views, the possibilities. A professional enthusiast. Simon recognised the type and warmed to the man. A salesman himself, he responded to salesmanship in others.

  They went downstairs and found Ernest pacing out measurements and tracing lines with his foot on the gravelled floor. He paused as he saw Simon. “Have you seen those vaulted ceilings? What a dining room this could be! I can see it now. Such charm, and with the view …”

  “Ern, this is the architect, Monsieur Blanc.”

  The two men shook hands, nodding at each other like two angular storks.

  “Enchanté. C’est monsieur …?”

  “Airnest,” said Ernest.

  Simon smiled. Airnest. He’d be flitting around in a beret before long. It was good to see him so excited.

  They spent the rest of the afternoon going slowly through the rooms, Blanc making notes, Nicole translating, Ernest cooing at each suggestion, Simon happy that they appeared to be getting on so well. Long may it last, he thought, and allowed himself to be optimistic. Why shouldn’t it? They were all going to benefit, one way or another, without having to compete. As long as Ernest and Nicole could work together—that was vital. He looked at the two of them, both blond, both elegant, laughing as Ernest tried to describe something complicated to the architect in pidgin French and sign language. So far, so good.

  The meeting finished with a flurry of smiles and reassurances and handshakes. Monsieur Blanc was, he said, ravished to have the opportunity to work on such a fascinating project, and with such delightful clients. He would return to the gendarmerie tomorrow, even though it was Sunday, to take detailed measurements. Not a second should be wasted. One must advance with all possible speed. He erected his miniature umbrella with a flourish and disappeared into the mist.

  They followed him out and ducked into the empty café, sitting at a table with the cloud three feet away on the other side of the window. The young girl pushed through the curtain of dead caterpillars behind the bar and speculated about the cost of Nicole’s clothes as they ordered coffee.

  Ernest patted his face with a handkerchief and ran a finger along each eyebrow to collect any stray drips. “I must say that despite the weather, I see a vision of enchantment. I am not downhearted. Pas du tout.”

  “Wait till you see the view, Ern.” Simon turned to Nicole and pushed a damp strand of hair from her forehead. “Well, madame? Do you think our architect’s going to be able to get it done by next summer?”

  “Blanc is well known for finishing on time,” she said. “And he is famous for being expensive. But when you have ten, twenty men working on a chantier, often at weekends too, it costs.”

  The girl brought their coffee, smiled at Simon, and swayed back to the bar. He made a mental note to invite her father for a drink on his next visit. It would be important to have him on thei
r side, to make sure he didn’t feel left out. The mayor of a tiny village was not a man to upset.

  Ernest dipped a sugar lump in his coffee and nibbled at it thoughtfully. “Now, I know these are early days, but it’s something we shouldn’t leave till the last minute.” He looked up at Simon and Nicole. “What are we going to call this little haven of luxe and volupté? Mon Repos? The Brassière Hilton? We need a name.”

  He was right, Simon thought. If they wanted to get some publicity for the hotel in the early summer, the magazines would need details—or a name, at least—months in advance. He tried to remember the names of local hotels that he’d seen in the guides. There were one or two Domaines, several Mas, a Bastide. Better to avoid adding to an already long list.

  “La Gendarmerie?” said Nicole.

  “Mmmm,” said Ernest. “We could put all the young waiters in policemen’s uniforms. Very severe, with a red stripe down the trousers.”

  “Steady on, Ern. Don’t get carried away.” Simon shook his head. “No, it should be something that says Provence, not just France. Something distinctive, easy to remember …”

  “Easy for foreigners to pronounce,” said Nicole.

  “Exactly. Short, if possible, and something you could make into a good strong logo.”

  Nicole didn’t understand. Simon squeezed her hand. “Sorry,” he said. “That’s advertising language. All it means is a sort of trademark, and some names adapt better than others. It’s only a detail, but we’ll be spending a lot of money on it—writing paper, napkins, towels, brochures, ashtrays, matchbooks, postcards, on the building itself. Most hotels go for a fancy script, because they think it’s elegant. I think we should try for something more original.”

  Ernest mused aloud. “Let’s see: lavender, thyme, rosemary, the light, the sun—not the best day to bring that up, I know, but hope springs eternal—Cézanne, Mistral, Van Gogh …”

  Nicole shrugged. “Pastis?”

  Ernest leant towards her. “What?”

  “Pastis. It comes from Provence, nowhere else.”

  “Pastis,” Simon said, and repeated it with emphasis, hitting the final s. “Pastis.”

  The girl called over from the bar. “Trois pastis?”

  “Do you know,” said Ernest, “I’ve never tried it.”

  “Today’s the day, Ern.” Simon nodded at the girl. “Oui, merci.” He looked at the bottles lined up behind the bar. As in most cafés in southern France, pastis was well represented. He counted five: Ricard, Pernod, and Casanis he knew; the other two, Granier and Henri Bardouin, presumably local, he’d never seen before. “It’s not exactly ideal weather for pastis,” he said. “It should be hot. That’s how I always think of it, a sunshine drink.”

  The girl placed three tumblers on the table, a saucer of olives, and a flat-sided glass carafe. Simon added water and watched the liquid turn cloudy. The carafe was old and scratched, decorated with the Ricard name in bright yellow letters against a background of vivid blue. “Look at those colours,” he said. “Sun and sky. That says Provence, doesn’t it?” He slid the carafe across the table towards Nicole. “There. That’s what I meant by a logo.”

  She studied it for a moment, her head to one side. “So there’s your name. Hotel Pastis. With the yellow and the blue.”

  Simon sat back. It wasn’t such a bad idea: short, simple, easy to remember, and any good art director could do something very striking with the graphics. And it had direct associations with Provence. Not bad at all. “What do you think, Ern?”

  Ernest removed an olive pit from his mouth and placed it next to the row of others in front of him. “Mmmm. Well, even a determined nonlinguist like our friend Jordan could say that without tripping over his teeth. And I adore yellow and blue. Yes, I think it will do very nicely. Bravo, madame. Have an olive.”

  Simon smiled at them. A decision like that in the advertising business would have taken several weeks, a dozen meetings, and a research document. He raised his glass to Nicole. “Hotel Pastis it is,” he said. “Here’s to it.”

  That evening, when they had eaten and dropped Ernest off at his hotel, Nicole and Simon sat at the kitchen table over a last glass of wine and the sheaf of notes that he’d made during the day. The list was long, expensive, and suddenly very daunting, and Simon’s initial excitement was tempered by a more realistic mood. There was a lot that could go wrong. The restoration was going to take all the money he had, and he’d have to borrow against his shares. Ernest was sacrificing his job. Getting out of the agency would be complicated, and if the hotel didn’t work, getting back in would be impossible. Ziegler, no doubt supported by Jordan, would make sure of that.

  Nicole had been watching him as he frowned over his notes, his wine untouched, his cigar dead in the ashtray.

  “You look like an advertising man again,” she said. “Tired and worried.”

  Simon pushed his notes aside and relit his cigar. “It’s a mild attack of common sense,” he said. “It’ll pass. But there’s a hell of a lot to be done. And it’s a new job, a new country, a new life.” He watched a plume of smoke as it turned to a wreath around the light hanging over the table. “I’m entitled to be nervous.” He reached out and stroked the side of her neck and smiled. “It’s my midlife crisis. All the best middle-aged executives have one.”

  “You weren’t so middle-aged last night.” Nicole took his hand and bit the pad of flesh at the base of his thumb.

  “You’re a shameless and insatiable woman.”

  Nicole stuck out her tongue. “Yes, please.”

  Ernest and Simon made their way past the two stewardesses and the deeply bronzed purser (“Far too much makeup,” Ernest whispered disapprovingly) and settled into their seats in front of the limp curtain that is the only visible benefit of flying club class between London and Marseille. It had been a better day, a beautiful day, in fact, and Ernest had been able to see the views from the gendarmerie for the first time. He had been speechless with delight for three minutes and hadn’t stopped talking since, planning the landscaping over lunch and becoming slightly tipsy with pink wine and excitement. His enthusiasm was contagious, and Simon was feeling more optimistic. It had been harder this time to say goodbye to Nicole. At her suggestion, he had left some clothes at her house. He already missed her.

  Simon listened as Ernest delivered his thoughts on garden statuary: one good piece, maybe something quite saucy, among the cypress trees, with discreet floodlighting to pick up the contrast between weathered stone and vegetation. And what about a fountain?

  “Fountains are nice, Ern,” said Simon. “Very nice. But we’ve got quite a way to go before we get to the fountains.” He shook his head at the stewardess who was offering plastic-shrouded dinners to those in the terminal stages of hunger. “Fountains and trees and statues are easy. It’s finding the people.”

  “Ah,” said Ernest. “I’ve been thinking about them.” He bent forward and fished in the bag under his seat for his Filofax. Everyone in the Shaw Group above the rank of messenger had a Filofax, but only Ernest had the ostrich-skin model, the gift of a grateful supplier of plants and flowers to the agency. “Let’s see.” Ernest unfolded his year-at-a-glance planners, one for the current year, one for the next. “Here we are in early November. Two months intensive at Berlitz brings us to mid-January, and what a frightful time in London that is, as we know. It would be no hardship to leave. Mrs. Gibbons, I can tell you, would be thrilled. She loathes the winter. Arthritis.”

  “Well, we don’t want Mrs. Gibbons to suffer. So what you’re saying is that you’ll move over in January.”

  “I shall closet myself with Nicole and that charming Mr. Blanc and make sure everything gets done.” He pursed his lips and peered at Simon over the top of the half-glasses he wore for reading. “Properly done. You know me. I can be a martinet when I have to be.”

  Simon smiled, remembering the last time Ernest had displayed his talents for organisation, during the move of three hundred staff into new off
ices. He had been merciless with everyone from the architect downwards. The office manager had resigned because of what he called inhuman hours, and it was the only time Simon had ever seen a building contractor in genuine hysterics. And the move had been accomplished on schedule. If Ernest was on the spot, the hotel would open in the summer.

  “That takes care of one of us,” said Simon. “Getting me out is going to be a bit more difficult.”

  Ernest patted him on the knee. “Don’t worry, dear. You’ll think of something. You always have before.”

  “I’ve never left before.”

  “Something tells me it will be easier than you think. You know what most of them are like, particularly our friend in the self-supporting suits.” Simon nodded. Jordan would be delighted. “They’ll all move up one. Isn’t that what they want? There may be a few crocodile tears, and then they’ll start arguing about who gets your cars. You mark my words.”

  Ernest sniffed and returned to his Filofax, and Simon spent the rest of the flight considering the strategy for his departure from the agency. He was under no illusions; once he’d gone, every penny due to him would be resented and disputed. He’d be a nonproductive drain on resources, and he’d heard a dozen stories about the legal acrobatics performed by agencies in order to minimise payments to departed directors. Also, he was committing the cardinal sin in advertising of willingly leaving the business, which was something you were supposed to talk about rather than do.

  For all Ernest’s optimism, it wasn’t going to be that easy. And for the sake of the business, it couldn’t be done with any public disagreement that might make clients nervous. The whole thing would somehow have to be presented as a positive step in the planned development of one of Europe’s largest advertising networks. Good. He was already thinking like a press release. Simon made a list of the people he’d have to take to lunch. It was time to start up the bullshit machine.

  13