Hotel Pastis

by Peter Mayle

Françoise made her way up the steps to Nicole’s front door slowly, hampered by the tightness of her skirt and the unaccustomed high heels. She’d bought the shoes in Cavaillon when she’d gone in to have her hair done for the interview. If it went well today, she could leave the café, leave the endless washing-up of glasses and the slaps on the bottom from her father’s old card-playing friends. She’d wear high heels every day and meet people from Paris and London, and maybe a young man with a red Ferrari would come to the hotel and fall in love with her. She looked down at the blouse she had ironed with such care last night and decided to do up another button. Bon. She knocked at the door.

  Nicole let her in and sat her down in an armchair by the fireplace. It was the first time she had ever seen Françoise dressed in anything except jeans or old cotton skirts and espadrilles, and the transformation was almost startling, from a little country girl to a striking young woman. There was too much makeup, Nicole thought, and the skirt was too tight, but those details could be arranged.

  “You’re looking very pretty, Françoise. I like your hair.”

  “Merci, madame.” Françoise thought about crossing her legs in that elegant way Madame Bouvier did, but realised that her skirt was already short enough. She crossed her ankles.

  Nicole lit a cigarette. “Tell me about your parents. If you came to the hotel, would they be happy? What about the work at the café? We don’t want to upset them.”

  There was a shrug from Françoise, and a pout from her full lower lip. “My cousin would come. My parents—well, they know I don’t want to spend my life in the café.” She sat forward in her chair. “I can type, you know. I took a course after I left school. I could do the hotel correspondence, confirmations, bills, anything.”

  Nicole looked at her face, wide-eyed and eager, and smiled. If that was the first face the hotel guests saw, they couldn’t complain. Certainly not the men. She stood up. “Come into the kitchen. I’ll make some coffee while we talk.”

  Françoise followed her, looking at the silk of her shirt, the cut of her trousers, the way they fitted so smoothly at the back, with none of those little wrinkles. Madame Bouvier was the most chic woman she had ever seen. She smoothed her skirt—last year’s skirt, and it must have shrunk—down over her hips and felt awkward. Her mother could never understand why clothes shouldn’t be worn until they fell apart. Madame Bouvier would understand. Françoise decided to ask her advice about clothes. If she got the job.

  “I could start before the hotel opens. You know, helping.”

  Ambrose Crouch sat staring at the screen of his word processor, a bottle of red wine by his side, getting slowly drunk and increasingly courageous.

  The hotel had become something of an obsession. It symbolised all that he publicly sneered at and privately envied—comfort, luxury, money—and it was a daily reminder of his own very different circumstances. His house was small and smelt of damp all through the winter. His retainer from the Globe had not been increased for two years; times were hard in England, so his editor kept telling him. Five publishers had now rejected his proposal for a book, and the American magazines had stopped buying his articles after he had criticised a prominent and well-liked American resident of Lacoste.

  He sucked at his wine and brooded. On top of everything else, to be blackmailed into silence by that millionaire thug, with his bloody cigars and his smart little French mistress—that stuck in his throat. He had done some research on Simon Shaw and had made notes for a long and savage piece about him, which in the more cautious sobriety of the following morning had been put in a drawer. But now he thought he might have found a way to do it.

  An old drinking companion from the Fleet Street days had agreed to print Crouch’s piece in his paper, under his own byline. It would have to be carefully written, now that judges were hammering the press for damages in libel suits, but it was better than nothing, and Crouch would be protected.

  He filled his glass and smiled to himself as he looked at the headline on the screen: THE RAPE OF A VILLAGE. Maybe he’d slip in a quote from himself, as if he’d been interviewed by the writer. Nothing personal, nothing litigious; just a gentle sigh of disapproval at vanishing traditions and the pollution of village life. He started tapping at the keyboard and let himself enjoy the feeling of dispensing malice in safety.

  Simon looked at the week’s bills, from carpenters and plumbers and plasterers and electricians, and shook his head. It was like signing cheques for the Italian football team—Roggiero, Biagini, Ziarelli, Coppa—and probably just as expensive. It was good work they did, though; beautiful work. He signed off the final string of zeros and went out to the terrace at the back of the house, where Nicole had already started to do some early sunbathing during the middle of the day. It was evening now, and the sky above the mountains was fading from blue to a blush of the palest, lavender-tinted pink, the colour that Ernest described as implausible.

  Before long, the lines in the vineyards would become blurred with green, the cherry blossoms would be out, and the Easter tourists would be arriving. Our future clients, Simon thought. Let’s hope the plumbing works. He took a last look at the sky and went indoors to get a drink.

  17

  “Is that Simon Shaw, the environmental rapist?”

  Simon smiled as he recognised the voice on the phone. It was Johnny Harris, once a copywriter with the agency and now one of London’s most diligent gossip columnists. Unlike some of his colleagues in the rumour business, he could be trusted not to stab his targets in the back—at least, not without giving them a chance to defend themselves first. He and Simon had kept in touch over the years and through the marriages; and apart from his habit of describing Simon as “the susceptible agency chief” in his column, he had always treated Simon gently.

  “Hello, Johnny. What have I done now?”

  “Well, apparently you’re in the process of ruining the fabric of daily life in one of Provence’s most unspoiled villages. It’s in the paper, so it must be true, you bloody scoundrel.” Harris laughed. “It’s one of those pieces where everything is implied without confusing the reader with too much in the way of facts. Quite cleverly done, actually. I would have suspected your delightful neighbour, the poison dwarf.”

  “So it wasn’t Crouch?” It didn’t matter now, anyway. It was too late to do much damage.

  “Not his paper, and it’s not his byline. He’s quoted—his usual routine about another nail in the coffin of the Lubéron, the uncaring march of what we mistakenly call progress, all the same old shit—but of course he could have stuck that in himself. It’s an old trick; I’ve done it plenty of times. Anyway, it’s been carefully written. Nothing to take to court.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “Unpleasant—you know, the long-drawn-out sneer—but not terminal. It’ll all be forgotten when the next politician gets caught with his trousers down, which seems to happen every week. I’ll fax it to you. But you’d better expect some calls, and maybe the odd journalist.” Harris paused, and Simon heard the sound of his lighter and the ringing of phones in the background. “I’ll tell you something, though. A bit of good press wouldn’t hurt, and you know me. I’m always ready for a freebie. What about it?”

  Simon laughed. “The subtlety of your approach is quite irresistible.” He thought for a moment. “Why don’t you come down for the opening? It should be early June, and we might be able to round up a few characters for you to write about.”

  “I can bring my own, if you like. Do you want some Eurotrash? A couple of Italian princes? Starlets and harlots? Let’s see. I could do you a lovely lesbian actress, or a racing driver with a drink problem. Or there’s the keyboard player from Stark Naked and the Car Thieves.…”

  “Johnny, I’m hoping this is going to be a nice quiet little hotel. Just bring one of your girls, and leave that lot in the Groucho Club, all right?”

  Harris sighed noisily. “You’re turning into an old fart, but I’ll humour you. Let me know the date, and I’ll
be down to uphold the traditions of the British press.”

  “I was afraid of that,” Simon said. “Don’t forget to fax the piece.”

  “It’s on the way. Hold your nose—it’s a stinker. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  Simon was still smiling as he put down the phone. Johnny Harris, shameless and cheerfully cynical, always put him in a good mood. It even survived the arrival of the fax, which lived down to its description. Simon read it through a second time and tore it up. What a way to earn a living.

  The hotel, according to Monsieur Blanc, was within days of being finished, a week at most. The masons had gone, the carreleurs had finished laying the stone floors, the kitchen was a gleaming vista of stainless steel and copper, the pool was filled, the olive tree—Ernest had nearly wept when they pruned it—had been planted. Albert Waldie and his team of painters disputed wall space with the electricians, who were having second thoughts about the wiring, and a symphony of flushing lavatories and running taps testified to the plumber’s diligence as he conducted his final checks on optimum water flow and prompt evacuation, darting from bidet to bath and nodding to himself. The carpenters were fitting doors and closets, shaving and sanding, filling the rooms with a fine haze of sawdust, which drifted down to settle on Waldie’s fresh paint work and provoke another crisis in Anglo-French relations.

  Monsieur Blanc moved purposefully through the bedlam, Mrs. Gibbons rolling along behind him with a length of grey PVC piping clamped between her teeth. They joined Nicole and Simon and Ernest in the kitchen, where a tapenade soufflé that Madame Pons had suggested should be one of the regular dishes on the menu was being put through its paces.

  Blanc allowed his nostrils to flutter with appreciation before he spoke. There was, he said, a little problem, nothing grave. The next-door neighbours, an elderly couple, were concerned about the swimming pool—not the swimming pool itself, of course, which was a marvel of good taste and completely beyond reproach, but what might happen around the swimming pool. The neighbours had read in the newspaper of the unnatural practices occasionally committed in Saint-Tropez, where people had been known to sunbathe tout nu. To see such behaviour in Brassière, a village with two churches, would be intensely disturbing to madame, with her heart as delicate as it was. Monsieur had apparently not expressed any fears. Nevertheless, some form of reassurance would be greatly appreciated.

  Simon wiped up the last of his soufflé with a piece of bread. “That’s ridiculous. There’s a wall three metres high between their garden and the pool. They’d have to be on stilts to see anything.”

  “Beh oui.” Blanc smiled apologetically. “But madame is the aunt of someone in the administration in Avignon. Un gros bonnet.”

  Nicole put her hand on Simon’s arm. “Go on, chéri. Be a diplomat for five minutes.”

  Simon stood up and inclined his head towards Madame Pons. “That was delicious.” He practised a diplomatic smile on the others. “Will that do?”

  “A little tapenade on one of your teeth, dear,” said Ernest. “But otherwise, very nice. Auntie won’t be able to resist.”

  Simon walked fifty yards down the street and knocked twice at the heavy oak door. He heard footsteps, and the small grille fitted into the door slid to one side. Suspicious, bespectacled eyes peered up at him. He had to stoop so that they could see his face.

  “Oui?”

  “Bonjour, madame. I am your neighbour, from the hotel.”

  “Oui.”

  “The proprietor of the hotel.”

  “Ah bon.”

  “Yes.” Simon was starting to feel like a door-to-door salesmen with halitosis. “Madame, would it be possible for us to talk? Just for a few minutes?”

  The spectacles studied him, and then the grille slid shut. There was the sound of bolts being drawn. A lock was turned. The door finally opened, and madame nodded Simon inside.

  The house was dark, all the shutters closed against the sun. Simon followed madame’s short, erect figure into the kitchen and sat opposite her at a long table with a television set at one end. A central light hung from the ceiling. It could have been midnight. Madame folded her hands tightly and did the same with her lips.

  Simon cleared his throat. “I’m told that you and your husband are worried about, ah, the swimming pool.”

  Madame nodded. “Certain activities.”

  “Oh, those.” Simon tried a reassuring smile. The lips opposite remained pursed. “Well, I can promise you that we will demand our guests to be discreet.”

  “Not like Saint-Tropez.”

  Simon threw up his hands in horror. “Certainly not like Saint-Tropez! More like …” Oh God, what was the French equivalent of Bognor Regis? “Well, more like a quiet family hotel. You know—respectable.” He leaned forward. “And, of course, there is the wall.”

  Madame sniffed at the wall. “My husband has a ladder.”

  And probably a telescope for the girls as well, Simon thought. “I think I can guarantee that the guests will be completely proper.” He had a mental picture of one of Philippe Murat’s popsies parading around in a string, tanned buttocks exposed to the breeze. “In fact, I will personally pay close attention to this matter.”

  The lips unpursed fractionally. “Bon.”

  The audience was over. Simon was shown out of the gloom and into the sunlight, and madame stood and watched as he walked back to the hotel. His parting wave was acknowledged by a slight movement of the head, which was, he supposed, a minor triumph for diplomacy.

  With the departure of the painters the following week, it was possible to plan an opening date. Staff had been hired, the cave was stocked, the repertoire of Madame Pons decided. Trucks arrived daily with beds and crockery, matelas for the pool, hundreds of glasses and towels and sheets, telephones, ashtrays and toothpicks, brochures and postcards—enough, it sometimes seemed, to equip the Ritz.

  The three of them worked a fourteen-hour day before falling into the kitchen for a late supper, tired, grubby, but satisfied. The hotel was taking shape—a surprisingly warm, comfortable shape, considering the amount of stone and the absence of soft surfaces. All the angularities had been smoothed and rounded away, and there were no hard edges to jar the eye. Going from room to room was like walking through sculpture, a blend of honey-coloured floors and pale walls and flowing corners. Blanc had done well, and when the paintings were hung and the rugs from Cotignac laid, they would achieve what Mr. Waldie would have described as the desired effect. Now it was time to think about adding guests.

  “Well-connected chatterboxes,” said Ernest. “That’s what we need for the opening. People who like to be everywhere first, and tell their friends. Word of mouth is going to launch us, so we need some big mouths.” He looked at Simon and raised his eyebrows. “And we certainly know a few of those, I’m sure.”

  “I think Johnny Harris will come down, and Philippe from Paris.” Simon took a pear to eat with his cheese. “We can always get the girls from the glossies. And I was wondering about fitting it in with the Cannes festival. It’s only a three-hour drive.”

  Nicole looked at him in disbelief. “You think movie stars will come? Non. Be reasonable, chéri.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of the real festival. There’s another one, in June. Everybody in advertising with a good enough excuse and a pair of sunglasses comes down—directors, producers, agency people—and the last thing they want to do is sit in the dark and watch the commercials.”

  “So what is it they do?”

  “Oh, pretty much what they do in London or Paris. They have lunch with each other. The difference is they’re on the Croisette or on the beach instead of somewhere in Soho, and they go back home with a tan.”

  “And they do talk,” Ernest said. “Proper little gossips, all of them. I think that’s a good idea.”

  “I’ll find out the dates and get Liz to send me a list of the delegates. We’ll pick a few. I’m sure they’ll come, just out of curiosity.”

  They took their coffee o
utside and sat on the terrace. A half moon hung over the Lubéron, and the bark of a distant dog carried up from the valley. By the side of the olive tree, the cherub urinated endlessly, and the soothing splash of the fountain mingled with the croak of frogs. The air was completely still, almost warm, hinting at summer. Simon glanced at Ernest and thought he’d never seen such obvious contentment on a face.

  “Still missing Wimbledon, Ern?”

  Ernest smiled and stretched his legs and contemplated his gingham check espadrilles. “Desperately.”

  Now that the water in the pool had been heated up to a bearable twenty-four degrees Celsius, Nicole and Simon had started coming down to the hotel every morning before breakfast for a swim. Before long, as she said, this would be guest territory, so they should take advantage of the chance to have it to themselves.

  It was a novelty for Simon, starting the day with a swim, and he quickly became addicted to the first slight shock of water on his skin, his body coming awake, the stiffness of sleep wearing off and the cobwebs disappearing from his head and his lungs. Five laboured lengths gradually turned into ten, and then twenty. He realised that he was slowly and pleasantly getting fit.

  He finished his lengths and hoisted himself out of the pool. Nicole was lying on the flagstones, her one-piece swimsuit rolled down to her waist, droplets of water drying on breasts that were already lightly tanned. “Breakfast of champions,” he said as he bent over them, and then stopped. Something had caught the corner of his eye. He looked up just in time to see a bald head duck down behind the wall. “Oh, shit.”

  Nicole lifted a hand to shade her face against the glare of the sun. “You know something, my darling? You get more romantic every day.”

  “I’m not the only one.” He nodded towards the wall. “You have a secret admirer. I just saw his head. I think we’ve got Peeping Tom for a neighbour.”

  “Who?”

  “A voyeur—he must be the husband of the Brassière Watch Committee.”