Hotel Pastis

by Peter Mayle

  Nicole sat up, laughing as she looked at the wall. “Monsieur Arnaud is an old goat—everyone in the village knows about him. Someone told me the other day that he hasn’t seen his wife undressed since forty years ago, on the honeymoon.”

  Simon remembered the stern face and vise-like lips of Madame Arnaud. “Probably just as well.”

  “Don’t worry. She may complain, but he won’t. It’s more fun for him than spraying his roses.” She smoothed Simon’s wet hair from his forehead, and her hand slid down to the back of his neck. “Now, what is this breakfast of champions?”

  18

  The opening had been fixed for the first Saturday in June. Not surprisingly, since the rooms were being given away, the hotel was going to be full for the weekend.

  Nicole and Simon were having breakfast in the restaurant when Ernest emerged from the kitchen. He came over to the table clicking his tongue with disapproval and looking pointedly at his watch.

  “Here we are, up at dawn and scurrying around like little woolly bears, and what do we find?” He pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows. “The patron and madame, lolling over their breakfast buns, and getting in the way of all these poor boys.” He fluttered a hand at the young waiters, spruce in black trousers and white shirts, who were setting up the tables for lunch. “Now then. I think one final tour of inspection, don’t you?”

  Nicole and Simon gulped their coffee and allowed Ernest to chivvy them up the stairs. Françoise, in a demure cotton dress which was unsuccessful in disguising the effect of an aggressive new bra, was patrolling the reception area, checking her makeup each time she passed the handsome antique mirror that hung opposite the desk. Beneath it, on the dark, polished oak table, a massive vase of thick glass held fresh flowers, and their scent mingled with the faint smell of beeswax.

  “Bonjour, Françoise. Ça va?”

  Before she had a chance to answer, the phone rang. She clicked across to the desk, removed an earring, and inserted the receiver carefully under her coiffure.

  “Hotel Pastis, bonjour.” She frowned, as if the line was bad. “Monsieur Shaw? Oui. Et vous êtes Monsieur …?” She looked across at Simon and put her hand over the receiver. “C’est un Monsieur Ziegler.” She passed the phone to Simon and put her earring back on.

  “Bob? Where are you?”

  “L.A., and it’s the middle of the fucking night.”

  “And you couldn’t sleep, so you called to wish us luck.”

  “Sure. Now listen. Hampton Parker called. His kid is taking a year off from college, and he’s leaving for France tomorrow. Do you know a place called Lacoste?”

  “It’s about twenty minutes from here.”

  “Right. Well, that’s where the kid is going. Some kind of art school. He’ll be there for the summer, and Parker wants you to keep an eye on him.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Shit, for all I know he could have two heads and a crack habit. I’ve never met him. What do you want, a blood test? Jesus. It’s only for the summer.”

  Simon reached for a notepad. “What’s he called?”

  “Boone, after his grandpa. Boone Hampton Parker. Weird goddamn names they have in Texas.”

  “But nice big accounts, Bob.”

  “Bet your ass.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “It’s going. Why? Getting bored?” Ziegler snorted, the closest he ever got to laughing. “Listen, I’m going to get some sleep. Take care of the kid, okay?”

  It had been one of the most congenial conversations Simon could remember having with Ziegler for years. Perhaps the little brute was becoming mellow, now that he had the world to himself.

  Ernest stepped back from adjusting the flowers. “For one ghastly moment, I thought we were going to have a surprise guest.”

  Simon shook his head. “Ziegler would never come down here. He’s allergic to scenery.”

  They spent the next hour going through the bedrooms, checking the bar, the pool area, the tables on the terrace, cool and inviting under the canvas umbrellas. The sun was high and hot, the early morning bustle was over, Madame Pons was having her first glass of the day. The hotel was ready for business.

  Simon slipped his arm round Nicole’s waist, and they strolled over to the pool house bar, where Ernest was issuing instructions to one of the waiters about the aesthetically correct disposition of the bowls of olives and peanuts.

  “What are the chances of a drink, Ern?”

  They sat in the shade of the tiled roof, a bottle of white wine in the ice bucket, the glasses chilled and opaque. “Here’s to you two,” Simon said. “You’ve done a fantastic job.” They smiled back at him, teeth white against tanned faces.

  “Here’s to the guests,” said Ernest. “God bless them, wherever they may be.” He looked up towards the terrace and took a hurried sip of wine. “Well, my dears, here they come.”

  Françoise was standing on the terrace, a hand shading her eyes as she looked towards the pool house. Next to her were three figures in black, the sun glinting on dark glasses and bouncing off stark white complexions. The girls from the glossies had arrived.

  They came down the steps, cooing over the view, and Françoise led them over to the pool house, where they identified themselves.

  “Interiors. What a brilliant spot. Absolutely brilliant.”

  “Harpers & Queen. Are we the first ones here?”

  “Elle Decoration. You must tell me who did the façade. It’s terribly clever.”

  Simon was confused. The girls, all in their late twenties or early thirties, could have walked out of the same wardrobe, and were wearing almost identical uniforms—loose black tops, black trousers, black glasses with circular black steel frames, long and artfully disarranged hair, office skins, and enormous shoulder bags. They accepted wine and revealed their names, which added to Simon’s confusion. They all seemed to be called Lucinda.

  They sat back and congratulated each other on successfully having reached the end of the world. Interiors was the first to recover from the rigours of travel. “Would it be possible,” she asked, as she nibbled at a colour-co-ordinated black olive, “to have a quick snoop round before the others arrive?”

  Before Simon had a chance to answer, Ernest stood up. “Allow me, my dears. Bring your drinks, and I’ll give you the grand tour.” He shepherded them away, talking animatedly as he led them past the fountain—“discovered in a junkyard not far from here, actually, and luckily his bladder was in working order”—and back into the hotel.

  Simon shook his head and grinned at Nicole. “I think Ern likes all this.”

  “I think so.” She looked at him appraisingly, one eyebrow raised. “Don’t you?”

  “It’s rather like showing clients round the agency. For the past few months, all I’ve thought about is getting the place finished, and now that it is … I don’t know, it’s just a different job.” He reached over and touched Nicole’s cheek. “Stop frowning, or you’ll frighten the customers. Let’s go and see if anyone else has turned up.”

  The small reception area was crowded and noisy, as half a dozen refugees from the advertising film festival, with girlfriends and wives, jostled for position in front of Françoise, talking to her cheerfully in loud English with the occasional French word tossed in. Jeans and running shoes, Panama hats and Ray-Bans, Rolexes on recently sunburned wrists, bags scattered everywhere, cries of “Où est le bar?” mingling with attempts to help Françoise locate their names on the guest list—and then ruddy faces, several with the two-day stubble that marks the free creative spirit, turning to look as Simon and Nicole arrived at the desk. Handshakes and claps on the back from acquaintances, hugs from friends, and, after a few minutes, a semblance of order as two of the waiters started taking the bags and their owners up to their rooms.

  Simon went behind the desk to help a flustered Françoise put names against room numbers, and reassured her that the English en masse were often boisterous, particularly when they were leading li
ghts in the advertising business. He asked her if anyone else had arrived.

  “Eh oui,” she said, pointing to the list, “Monsieur Murat. Il est très charmant.”

  I bet he was, the old stoat, Simon thought as he rang Philippe’s room.

  “Oui?” Nobody else Simon knew could make a single syllable sound like an invitation to a dirty weekend. He probably thought Françoise wanted to come up and help him unpack.

  “Sorry, Philippe, it’s only me. Simon. Welcome to Brassière.”

  “My friend, this is wonderful. I arrive, and already there are three girls here from room service.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. They’re from magazines. Didn’t you bring anyone?”

  “She was very surprised. She’s in the bathroom.”

  “Well, if you can fight your way through the women, come down and have a drink.”

  Simon put the phone down and glanced at the guest list. Ten rooms filled, two to go. He looked at Françoise. “Ça va?”

  “Oui, j’aime bien.” She smiled and half shrugged, a twitch of one shoulder, and Simon wondered how long it would be before she’d start causing havoc among the waiters.

  There was the sound of a car pulling up outside, and Simon went to the entrance. The tall, slender figure of Johnny Harris in his south-of-France outfit of a pale yellow cotton suit unfolded itself from the little rented Peugeot. They shook hands over the open sunroof and the blond head of the passenger.

  “You’re looking well, for a middle-aged dropout.” Harris pointed into the car. “This is Angela.” He managed not to wink. “My research assistant.” A slim hand poked up through the sunroof and waved its fingers at Simon.

  “Pull in over there, and I’ll give you a hand with the bags.”

  Angela blinked in the sun as she got out, and rescued her dark glasses from their nest in her hair. She was a foot shorter than Harris, covered from throat to just below the pelvis in a suffocatingly tight layer of inevitable black, the only concession to colour on her feet, where scarlet peep-toe shoes revealed a hint of matching toenails. She looked like an eighteen-year-old with twenty years of experience behind her. She smiled sweetly at Simon. “I’m bursting. Where’s the ladies’?”

  The hotel suddenly felt alive. There was the sound of splashing from the pool and laughter from the bar. The advertising ladies were already greased and prone in the sun, spraying their faces from time to time with aerosols of Evian water. The girls from the glossies, careful not to get any sun at all, drifted from one patch of shade to the next, taking reference photographs and whispering confidential notes into their small black tape recorders. Ernest darted solicitously from group to group, smiling and nodding and directing the bar waiter, and Madame Pons, in a vast white apron, was making a final stately tour of the tables to make sure that everything was as it should be for the start of lunch.

  Simon found Nicole sitting on the terrace with Philippe Murat, who was showing her, with what Simon thought to be quite unnecessary intimacy, his miniature video camera, his arm round her shoulder as he helped her aim it towards the pool.

  “You’re breaking union rules,” Simon said. “Don’t fondle the camera operator.”

  Philippe grinned and stood up to embrace Simon. “Félicitations. This is superb. How did you find it? And why have you kept Nicole a secret from me? I never meet lovely women like this.”

  “You’re a disgraceful old lecher, and you’re far too brown for anyone with an honest job. Where have you been?”

  Philippe pulled a face. “We made a commercial in Bora Bora. It was hell.”

  “I can imagine.” Simon looked over to the pool. “Where’s your friend?”

  “Eliane?” Philippe waved a hand towards the hotel. “She’s changing for lunch. After that, she’ll change for the pool, then she’ll change for dinner. She gets bored with her clothes every three hours.”

  “Elle?”

  “Vogue.”

  “Ah.”

  Nicole laughed. “They say women are bitches.” She looked at her watch. “Chéri, we should get them in for lunch. Everybody’s here, no?”

  “I haven’t seen Billy Chandler yet, but we can start without him.”

  The guests, moving with the languor induced by sun and wine, were met on the restaurant terrace by Simon and Ernest and shown to their tables. Simon noticed Françoise peering in fascination from an upstairs window at the assortment of outfits: the advertising ladies, glistening with tanning cream, their swimsuits covered by long shirts or pareos; the girls from the glossies, looking wintry in their black; Angela in a body bandage of cerise Lycra; Eliane (who had evidently been to Bora Bora too) with cropped dark hair and a shift of emerald green silk, slit to the hip. And then there were the men: apart from Philippe, in white trousers and shirt, the fashion of the day was long shorts and well-worn T-shirts. There was a kind of reverse snobbery, Simon thought, about what they wore; they looked like labourers down on their luck until you saw their women and their complicated watches and their cars.

  He waited until they were seated, and tapped the side of a glass with his fork.

  “I’d like to thank you all for dragging yourselves away from London and Paris and Cannes to help us open the hotel. I think you’ve met Nicole and Ernest, who did all the work. But you haven’t met our chef, Madame Pons.” He stretched an arm towards the kitchen. Madame Pons, standing in the doorway, raised her glass. “There is a woman whose cooking can make a man moan with pleasure.

  “We’re having a little party tonight, and you’ll meet some of the natives. Meanwhile, if there’s anything you want, ask one of us. And when you get back home, make sure you tell everybody about the hotel. We need the money.”

  Simon sat down, the waiters moved in, and the drinking and gossipping continued. He looked around at the faces, glowing under the flattering light which filtered through the umbrellas, and smiled at Nicole. There was nothing quite like lunch outdoors in the early summer, overlooking a spectacular view. And they all seemed to love the hotel. He was at peace with the world as he took the first tiny mussel from its shell, dipped it in homemade mayonnaise, and lifted it to his mouth.

  “Monsieur Simon, excusez-moi.” Françoise was standing at his shoulder, biting her lower lip. Simon put his fork down. “Un monsieur vous demande. Il est très agité.”

  Simon followed her upstairs to the phone on the reception desk. “Hello?”

  “Simon? It’s Billy. Listen, I’ve got a bit of a problem.”

  Simon could hear him smoking. “Where are you?”

  “In Cavaillon. In the bloody nick.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, I parked the car and went to get some cigarettes, and when I got back there was a bloke getting into it.”

  “Did he get away?”

  “No—he was only about four foot six, so I pulled him out and thumped him.”

  “And they arrested you for stopping him stealing the car?”

  “Not exactly. Wasn’t my bloody car, was it? Mine was the next one down. They all look the same here, small and white. Anyway, he screamed like a stuck pig, and the law arrived. Rough buggers they are, too.”

  “Jesus. I’ll be right down. Don’t say anything. Just stay there.”

  “I think that’s the general idea.”

  The car was like an oven, and Simon’s stomach was still getting over the disappointment of losing lunch. Another epic triumph for Billy Chandler, the most pugnacious photographer in London. Leave him alone for five minutes in a pub, and there’d be a brawl by the time you got back. The trouble was, the rest of him didn’t match up to the size of his mouth, and Simon had lost count of the bunches of grapes he’d sent to various hospitals—broken jaw, broken nose, cracked ribs. He’d even been knocked out once by a model, one of those big girls he couldn’t resist trying to jump on. Simon couldn’t help liking him, but he was a definite social liability.

  The gendarmerie at Cavaillon, up at the top end of town opposite a row of cafés, smelt
of nervous people and black tobacco. Simon prepared himself for some apologetic grovelling and went up to the desk. The gendarme stared at him, stone-faced, silent, intimidating.

  “Bonjour. You have my friend here, an Englishman. There was a misunderstanding.” The gendarme said nothing. Simon took a breath and went on. “He thought his car was being stolen. It was a mistake. He regrets it very much.”

  The gendarme turned to call through the open door behind him, and finally spoke to Simon. “The captain is dealing with it.”

  The captain, whose moustache outranked the gendarme’s by several centimetres, came out, smoking and looking grim. Simon repeated what he’d said.

  The captain’s expression became grimmer. “It is a grave matter,” he said through a mouthful of smoke. “The victim has been taken to the Clinique Saint-Roch for X-rays. Bones may have been broken.”

  Christ, Simon thought, the only decent punch he’s landed in twenty years, and he has to do it here. “Captain, I will of course undertake to pay any medical expenses.”

  The captain took Simon through to his office. Forms were produced, a deposition was taken regarding the character of the attacker, the details of Simon’s circumstances in France were noted, his passport demanded. Possible reparations to the injured party were discussed. The office grew thick with smoke. Simon’s head ached. His stomach rumbled.

  Finally, after two and a half hours, the captain judged that sufficient paperwork had been accumulated, and the prisoner was led out. He was wearing baggy black trousers and a white shirt buttoned at the neck. His thin, lined face under a bush of greying hair wore an expression of tentative relief.

  “Hello, mate. Sorry about this. What a turnup.”

  The two of them nodded and bowed their way out of the gendarmerie and walked very fast down the street for a hundred yards before stopping. Billy let out his breath as though he’d been holding it all afternoon. “I could murder a bloody drink.”

  “Billy.” Simon put his hands on his friend’s bony shoulders. “If you think I’m taking you into one of those bars to go fifteen rounds against an Arab with a knife, and then spend what’s left of the weekend in the police station, you’re wrong. Okay?”