Hotel Pastis

by Peter Mayle

  Ernest was spending his life among brochures and swatches of fabric, samples of stone and wood, encyclopaedias of trees and plants, sketches and plans. He had taken to wearing a black, wide-brimmed Provençal hat; and with his bulging portfolio, covered in Venetian marbled paper and tied at each end with ribbons of moiré silk, he was beginning to resemble an artist looking for somewhere to paint his next fresco.

  Nicole, when she wasn’t inspecting the fingernails and general suitability of potential waiters and chambermaids, worked with Ernest, taking him off for trips to the antique dealers of Isle-sur-Sorgue, the ateliers of metalworkers and carpenters, the garden nurseries where one could find anything from a sprig of thyme to a fifty-foot cypress. They would come back in the evening, flushed with the joys of discovery and acquisition, telling Simon how right his decision had been to avoid getting bogged down with all the details. “Cushions and sanitary fittings, dear,” Ernest had said. “Frightfully dreary.” It was odd, Simon thought, how both they and Madame Pons seemed to enjoy grumbling about what they obviously found fascinating.

  Even the dog had a job. Mrs. Gibbons had appointed herself the assistant to Blanc, the architect, waiting outside the hotel every morning for him to arrive and greeting him with circular motions of her tail. For the rest of the day she would be at his heels, gradually accumulating dust and blotches of plaster as she waddled through the rubble, occasionally dragging a plank or a discarded chunk of roof beam to place at his feet. The masons called her l’architecte and trained her, with the help of scraps left over from their lunch, to fetch twenty-kilo sacks of plaster, making bets on how far she could pull a sack up the flight of stone stairs. (This was done in reverse, to the sound of hideous growls.) Mrs. Gibbons was occupied, and content.

  Simon, on the other hand, found himself becoming restless. It was exciting, despite the torrent of money going out each week, to see the hotel starting to take shape, to wander through the bare but elegant stone rooms and picture them finished. And yet, for the first time in years, he had nothing to do, no meetings to go to, no phone calls to make. The only time he’d called the agency, Jordan had been pleasant but brisk. Everything was going well; the old clients had settled down with the new management, and there were a couple of interesting prospects in the works. “Tickety-boo, old boy,” was how Jordan had described it, and as Simon put down the phone he had felt a twinge. He wasn’t important anymore.

  There were consolations. He and Nicole were happy together. He missed her when she was off with Ernest and had once or twice caught himself feeling jealous of the days she spent with him—unreasonable, since he had chosen to stay away from what he called their shopping expeditions. He’d tried going with them the first time and had become so impatient and bad-tempered that they’d parked him in a bar after two hours.

  But the shopping would soon be over, he told himself. Meanwhile, the days were getting longer; there was a softness in the spring air and a perceptible heat to the midday sun. The almond blossom had come out on the terraces below the hotel, sharp and bright against the drabness of brown earth and grey bark, and the stone bench he sat on was warm. He looked over towards the empty pool, where Mrs. Gibbons was taking a siesta on the flagstones, her back legs twitching as she dreamed of rabbits and postmen. He tilted his face up and half closed his eyes, feeling the sun go through to his bones.

  “Monsieur le patron, bonjour!”

  Simon blinked, and squinted at the figure that was bending towards him, hand held out in greeting, sunglasses and teeth agleam. Jean-Louis, the one-man crime prevention squad, had arrived for his daily ambush.

  He was short, modish in his oversized trousers and suede blouson, well groomed and slightly overscented. His sharp features made Simon think of one of those nimble dogs that are sent down rabbit-holes—a fox terrier, with quick, neat movements and an alert slant to his head. He had a terrier’s tenacity, too.

  “Have you thought about my proposals?” He didn’t give Simon a chance to reply, but took from his handbag a newspaper clipping. “Look at this—the bank in Montfavet was held up last week, Tuesday morning. And then, when the flics were gone, what do you think happened? Eh?”

  “I don’t know, Jean-Louis. Everyone went out to lunch?”

  “Bof! You joke, but this is a serious matter.” He removed his sunglasses for emphasis and brandished them at Simon. “In the afternoon, the robbers returned! Beh oui. Twice in one day! That is the Vaucluse for you. Nothing is safe, my friend, nothing. These guys, they come up from Marseille with their pistolets and fast cars—”

  “How do you know they come from Marseille?”

  “Ah.” Jean-Louis replaced his sunglasses and looked around to make sure they couldn’t be overheard. “I have connections.” He nodded at Simon. “Connections in the milieu, from the old days.”

  Simon raised his eyebrows. The old days of Jean-Louis hadn’t been mentioned in previous conversations. “Were you …?”

  Jean-Louis put a finger to his lips. Simon felt sure there was a wink going on behind the sunglasses. “Corsica. Undercover work. You’ve heard of the Union Corse?”

  “Whose side were you on?”

  “The police.” Jean-Louis shrugged and smiled. “Most of the time.”

  “Tell me something. Why would you want to come and look after a little hotel like this? It’s not very exciting, making sure nobody steals the ashtrays.”

  “Contacts, my friend. The guests—Parisians, English, Germans—they come down, they buy a résidence secondaire, they need security. The alarm business is getting tough, you know? Too many electricians setting themselves up as security experts at low prices. Well, they can have the cheap clients, the villa people. I want the cream—nice German millionaires with art collections and wives who go shopping in Bulgari for a few holiday jewels to wear in Gordes. Where am I going to meet them? Not in some bordel of a bar in Cavaillon.” He waved his arm at the building behind them. “Here I can meet them. En plus, you will have top protection, guaranteed. Voilà—something for both of us.” He cocked his head at Simon and fiddled with the gold medallion round his neck. “Think about it, my friend. I’ll make you a special deal.”

  Jean-Louis pumped Simon’s hand and rushed off to pursue his war against crime elsewhere, leaving a faint souvenir of his after-shave in the air. Not the kind of man you’d buy a secondhand car from, Simon thought, or even a brand-new safe. But he might come in useful, and Nicole seemed to like him.

  Ten kilometres away, Nicole and Ernest were admiring an olive tree which, so they were assured, was no less than 250 years old, with a good 750 years of life ahead of it. These impressive statistics were sworn on the head of the proprietor’s grandmother. The proprietor himself, a deeply wrinkled man who looked almost as old as the olive tree, had set up in business forty years ago with a field of lavender and a hard-working wife, and now owned several acres of plants and shrubs and trees, two houses, a small Mercedes, and four television sets.

  “Comme il est beau,” he said, and patted the gnarls and contortions of the twisted trunk. A light breeze sent a ripple through the leaves, changing their colour from green to silver-grey. The tree had been correctly pruned over the centuries, the central branches cut away to allow the sun in and to encourage a wide, graceful spread of foliage. It should be possible, so the old man said, for a small bird to fly through the top branches without catching its wings.

  “Magnificent, isn’t it?” said Ernest. “Can you really move them when they’re this old?”

  Nicole put the question to the old man, who smiled and bent down to scrape away the sandy soil round the base of the trunk until he exposed the wooden rim of a giant tub. The tree, he said, had been brought over from Beaumes-de-Venise two years before, then potted and planted. It could, of course, make another short voyage. In fact, he would personally guarantee its continued health, providing—he wagged a crooked brown finger at them—it was properly oriented. He pointed to a daub of green paint on the bark. That must face south,
as the tree had been facing since it was no higher than a thistle. If that was done, it would settle in to a new home at once. If not, there would be two or three years of very little growth while the tree became accustomed to its changed position. The old man nodded. One should know these things before making an investment in such a tree.

  How much of an investment? Nicole wondered.

  “Three thousand francs, madame.”

  “And for cash?”

  The old man smiled. “Three thousand francs.”

  But it was a bargain, they told themselves as they drove back to Brassière—one of nature’s antiques, handsome and leafy throughout the year, with that wonderful spread of branches which was wide enough to provide shade for a table and a group of chairs, a true symbol of Provence.

  They arrived back at the hotel to find a dishevelled Simon sucking at skinned and bleeding knuckles. His clothes were dusty and moss-stained, and there was a gash on his cheek. He held up a hand as he saw the expression on Nicole’s face.

  “It’s okay. I won.”

  “What happened?”

  “Ern’s surprise arrived. I was helping them take it down to the terrace, and I slipped on the stairs, squashed my hand against the wall, and got poked in the cheek. You’re right. We should get the little brute circumcised. He’s dangerous.”

  Nicole started to laugh. “You mean … I don’t believe it. I’m sorry to laugh.”

  Simon grinned and put his hand up to the gash. “Wounded in action by a tumescent cherub. Do I get a medal?”

  Ernest had been listening in puzzled silence. “Disinfectant first, dear, and then we’ll see about medals. I won’t be a minute.”

  While they were waiting, Nicole dusted Simon down and winced over his raw hand. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “It’s not funny.”

  “Nursing,” he said, “that’s what I need. You’ll have to put me to bed and take my temperature. Come here. I’ll show you how to do it without a thermometer.”

  “Mmmm,” said Nicole a few moments later. “I think you’re going to live.”

  They pulled apart as Ernest appeared with cotton wool and a bottle of Synthol, and Nicole started to dab the disinfectant on.

  Simon flinched. “I hope you’re ready for this, Ern. Nicole found it for you. Once you get it house-trained you’ll love it.”

  They went downstairs and through the restaurant. On the terrace outside, the cherub, temporarily detached from his pedestal and his water supply, was standing next to the stone basin, staring across the valley towards the mountains. Mrs. Gibbons was testing the edibility of his copper pipe.

  “Oh, my dears,” said Ernest, “what a splendid little man! Gibbons! Leave him alone.” He walked around the cherub, his face alight with pleasure.

  “You said you wanted a fountain.”

  “He’s divine. Does he actually work?”

  “Like someone who’s just had eighteen pints of lager, Ern. You don’t think he’s too rude?”

  “Certainly not. He’s a study in careless rapture. I can’t tell you how thrilled I am.” He came over to hug Nicole. “It’s very sweet of you. I can see him over there, tinkling away. I know exactly where to put him—under the tree.” He stopped, and clapped a hand to his mouth as he looked at Simon. “Why don’t I get you a glass of wine, and we’ll tell you about the tree.”

  • • •

  Madame Pons spat delicately into the tin bucket and made a note in the exercise book that contained her thoughts on the hotel wine list. She was sitting in a small, mud-floored cave outside Gigondas, unlabelled bottles ranged along the table in front of her, the cold coming up through the thin soles of her shoes, the feeble light of a forty-watt bulb casting deep shadows on the attentive face of the man opposite her.

  “Eh, alors?” Monsieur Constant was one of the dozens of vignerons in the area who had taken the risk of making and bottling their own wines instead of selling grapes to the co-operative. If the wine is good, the profit is higher. And if a hotel de luxe, such as madame described, were to take a few dozen cases, the reputation of the wine would spread, the price could be raised accordingly, and Monsieur Constant would be able to buy the two hectares next door that his imbecile of a neighbour was exploiting so badly. It was important to impress this large woman.

  “Un petit vin. Pas mal.” Madame Pons looked at him, polite but impassive. “Ensuite?”

  “Un trésor, madame. Un vrai trésor.” Constant smiled. It was a pity that she’d refused to eat the cheese that he’d offered her, a cheese strong enough to make vinegar taste good, but then she was a professional. He poured the rich, dark wine into two glasses, swirled it around. “Quelle robe, eh?” He picked up his glass, closed his eyes, inhaled, and shook his head in admiration of his own efforts. He took a sip, chewed and swallowed, shook his head again. “Cong! Il a du slip, ce vin. Cong!”

  Madame Pons, who had seen similar performances in at least a dozen caves, smiled and picked up her own glass and went through her own unhurried, thorough ritual. There was silence except for a muted gurgle as the wine made its progress from Madame Pons’s lips to her back teeth, drawn through by a steady intake of breath. She swallowed. “Oui.” She nodded twice, very deliberately. “Il est bon, très bon.” As she reached for a piece of cheese, Constant filled her glass and wondered if he could get away with another franc on the price.

  The gang celebrated the official arrival of spring by discarding their tights. The General inspected them in their new shorts, black and snug-fitting. He’d paid extra for the Tour de France model with the double seat and the autograph of a past champion scrawled on the front. Even the boys’ legs were beginning to look professional, with a good meaty bulge to the thighs and definition in the calves. Still white, of course, but a few weeks would take care of that. Also, he noticed with satisfaction, they had remembered to shave. Hairy legs were hell if you took a tumble and got badly grazed.

  All of them, rather to the General’s surprise, had taken well to the discipline and pain of getting fit, and took a collective pride in now being able to climb hills that would have been impossible a few weeks ago. A sense of achievement works wonders, he thought, particularly when it is linked to the promise of money. That’s what he found so satisfying about crime.

  “Bon.” He unfolded a map and spread it out on the bonnet of his car. “Seventy-five kilometres this morning, and we’ll finish by coming back through Isle-sur-Sorgue, the way we’ll come on the day. Don’t look too hard at the bank when you go past.”

  While they studied the route he had marked on the map, the General took a bag from the car and unpacked the contents: seven pairs of sunglasses and seven brightly coloured cotton caps with small peaks.

  “Voilà. The final touch.” He handed them out. “This is camouflage. Put these on, and you’ll look exactly like the other five thousand cyclists on the road today. Nobody will be able to describe the colour of your hair or the colour of your eyes. You’ll vanish.”

  “C’est pas con, eh?” Jojo put on his glasses and pulled his cap down low on his forehead. “What do you think?”

  Jean looked him up and down. “Ravissant. Specially the legs.”

  “Allez!” said the General. “This isn’t a fashion show. You know the road to take out of town? I’ll be stuck in the traffic.” Seven little cotton caps nodded, and the General nodded back. It worked, the simple disguise. He would hardly recognise them himself if they passed him at speed.

  Simon and Ernest stood outside the hotel, looking up through the scaffolding at the façade. Next to them, Bert the painter, who had driven down specially from London for the job, was rolling a cigarette. “Take a couple of weeks to settle in,” he said. “Still a touch bright, but what with the sun and the wind you’ll get more of that old look. You know—the desired effect, as we call it.”

  Bert was an artist in prematurely aged painting—dragging, rag-rolling, sponging, distressing. Anything from artificially crazed lacquer to a fake nicotine-stained ceiling cou
ld be conjured up with the help of the contents of his van. It stood in the car park behind them, an old master on wheels. Painted on each side panel was a detail from the Sistine Chapel which showed the finger of God pointing to a legend that appeared to have been cut in stone: ALBERT WALDIE. THE DESIRED EFFECT. It attracted a lot of attention.

  Bert’s latest triumph was the hotel sign. The letters, two feet high with a dropped shadow, were in faded yellow against a background of faded blue, framed by a thin red line. It looked as though, after fifty years of resisting the elements, it was about to peel, an impression that was helped by the chips and cracks Bert had applied so painstakingly over the last two days.

  “It’s wonderful, Bert. Just what we were after, Ern, isn’t it?”

  Ernest nodded enthusiastically. “Quite superb, Bert dear. Do you know, I’m toying with the idea of something on the back wall of the restaurant.”

  “A fresco sort of thing?”

  “That sort of thing, yes. When do the others get down?” Bert’s three assistants were coming to join him for the interior work, now that the masons were getting close to finishing.

  Bert pulled thoughtfully on his cigarette. “It’s your walls, of course. All very well for those jokers to say they’ve finished, but your walls have to dry out. Painting on damp walls—oh, dear me no. Not if you want to get the desired effect.”

  “Why don’t we go and have a look?” Simon said. “We’ve had all the windows open and the heating up to maximum, so downstairs should be dry.”

  They went inside, and Bert paused in front of one of the windows. “Pity about those mountains, really.”

  “Why’s that, Bert?”

  “Get in the way of the view, don’t they?”