by Peter Mayle
He’d driven on ahead to start the barbecue, and stood over it, watching the shimmer of heat rise into the air as the coals turned from black to grey. He poured a pastis and took pleasure, as he always did, at the sight of the liquid turning cloudy when he added ice and water. He raised his glass in a silent toast to the patron saint of bank robbers. There must be one, he thought; there was a saint for everything and everyone in France. Give us luck, whoever you are, and this time next week we’ll be counting the loot.
He heard the sound of grunts and laughter from the road, and then they came down the track, wheeling their bikes to save the tyres from the stones, grinning and rubbing their backsides.
“Bravo, mes enfants! Who’s for water and who’s for pastis?”
They crowded round the trestle table, mopping the sweat from their faces with their cotton caps and jostling for glasses and ice.
“Today,” said the General, “we eat, we get drunk, and we sleep in the shade. But first, ten minutes of business.”
He waited until they all had drinks and were sitting round the table. Seven dark faces turned towards him.
“Bon.” The General laid out on the table seven pairs of thin latex gloves and two keys. “We all had our prints taken when we were in the pissoir, so on the night you wear gloves. Don’t even take them off to scratch your ass. Now here—” he placed a packet of cigarettes on the table—“is the back door, the way you get out.” He put his glass next to the cigarettes. “Here, immediately on the left outside the door, I’ll park the van—I’ll have all day to get the spot, so you know it’s going to be there. The bikes will be inside. During the night, I’ll get them out and chain them to the railing right behind the van. One long chain, one padlock. Keep the gloves on for the chain, okay?” Seven heads nodded. The General picked up the keys. “These open the padlock. If you lose one, there’s a duplicate. If you lose both of them, you’re foutu. Jojo, Bachir, you take one each—tie it round your neck, stick it up your nose, do what you like with it, but don’t lose it.”
The General picked up his glass, took a drink, wiped his moustache. “I’ve got trousers and sweatshirts for you to wear over your cycling kit. They’re old and untraceable. Just dump them. You’re going to get wet breaking in, but you’ll have all night to dry off.” He looked around and grinned. “Voilà, c’est tout. All we have to do then is count the money. Any questions?”
There was silence as the men stared at the pile of latex gloves and the padlock keys. All these months, and now it was nearly time to do it. The General knew what they were thinking: what if it didn’t work? Another session in the dock, another salaud of a judge looking down his long nose, another stretch in that shithole.
“My friends,” he said, “nothing’s going to go wrong. Trust me.” He slapped the nearest shoulder. “What’s the matter with you? Nobody’s asked me what’s for lunch.”
Uncle William, manoeuvring with the charm and cunning of the practised freeloader, had solved his accommodation problem and was packing his suitcases for the move to Ernest’s little rented house in the village, where he was going to occupy the spare bedroom as artist in residence. It was essential, so he had explained, to absorb Ernest’s persona, the very essence of the man, before attempting to capture him on canvas. He could probably string that out for several pleasant weeks before getting down to work, and after that there was the statuesque Madame Pons. She had been by no means unreceptive to the idea of a portrait after Uncle William had softened her up with several flattering comparisons to the Odalisque. Why should the Louvre have all the treasures? he had said, and he had detected a definite twinkle in her eye as she looked at him over her glass of white wine. Yes, Provence was very much to Uncle William’s liking, and he was in no hurry to go back to the draughty cottage and irate widow waiting for him in Norfolk. There was a slight problem of liquidity, of course, but Simon might be persuaded to offer him the facility of an advance against the mysteriously delayed remittance. Meanwhile, the living was free. Uncle William closed his suitcase, adjusted the ancient silk handkerchief that concealed two stolen cigars in his top pocket, and went downstairs to look for someone to buy him a drink.
Simon and his guest sat down at the quiet table in the corner. Enrico from Marseille removed his sunglasses and nodded with appreciation as he looked out towards the terrace.
“It pleases me to see how well your hotel goes,” he said. “You must be a very busy man. I’m grateful that you could spare the time for our little lunch.”
Simon had been trying to duck it for days, but there had been increasingly ominous hints from Jean-Louis that it would be a mistake to disappoint Enrico, who had taken a personal interest in the hotel’s success. “I’ve been looking forward to it,” Simon said. “What would you like to drink? A glass of champagne?”
Enrico folded his hands on the table, stubby fingers with nails that gleamed from a recent manicure. His thin gold watch, buried in the black hairs on his wrist, was half covered by the cuff of his cream silk shirt. The suit, also of silk, was dark, businessman blue. “Oh, I’m just a boy from Marseille,” he said. “I’ll have a pastaga. Ricard.”
Simon ordered two pastis and wondered what kind of small talk would be suitable for the occasion of lunch with a gangster. New extortion techniques? The outrageous rise in the price of cocaine? The effects of inflation on the bribery market? “Well,” he said, “it’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”
Enrico’s mouth smiled. His eyes were busy, flickering from Simon to the tables on the terrace, which were filling up with casually dressed guests taking a break from the pool. “Very profitable weather,” he said. “The sun opens wallets.”
The drinks arrived, and Enrico toasted the future prosperity of the hotel. The scar on his neck rippled as he took his first swallow, and Simon had to make an effort not to stare at it, so close to the vein.
Enrico lit a cigarette, letting the smoke drift up from his mouth to disappear into his nostrils, and leaned forward. “Monsieur Shaw, I come to you as a friend, as someone who wants to see your hard work rewarded, to see your investment grow.” He nodded and took another slow sip of his drink. “A large investment, I’m sure.”
Simon did his best to look relaxed, and shrugged. “Nothing good is cheap these days.”
“Exactly. And as a businessman, you understand that investments have to be protected.”
Here we go, thought Simon, and looked away from the smiling mouth and the hard, unblinking eyes with relief as a waiter came with the menus. “I can recommend the ravioli stuffed with cheese and spinach. Madame Pons makes her own pasta.”
Enrico studied the menu line by line, as though he were going over a contract. “Yes,” he said, “the ravioli, and then the rabbit with olives. And you permit me to buy the wine, I hope? I have a weakness for Côte Rôtie.”
At 540 francs a bottle, Simon thought, I’m not going to argue.
In fact, the thought of arguing with Enrico about anything was not pleasant. There was an air of brutality about the man, for all his manicured hands and quiet voice; and Simon wondered what form the proposition would take when it finally came. Bloody hell. You come looking for a peaceful life in the country and end up having ravioli with a hit man in a suit.
Enrico ate fastidiously, taking his time, dabbing his lips frequently with his napkin. While they were waiting for the main course, he returned to his thoughts on investment protection. Had Simon, by chance, heard about the affair not long ago at the Deux Garçons in Aix? Enough dynamite to blow the café and half the Cours Mirabeau to fragments had been discovered in the toilettes. It was complications such as this that made running a business in Provence so unpredictable. Imagine—all that work, all those millions of francs invested, and then … Enrico shook his head sadly at the depths to which human behaviour could sink, but brightened up to greet the arrival of his rabbit, bowing his head to inhale the steam rising from the plate. Ah yes, he said, a correct sauce, a sauce thickened with blood.
Simon found his appetite diminishing as Enrico continued to speak calmly of robbings and maimings and unsolved disappearances, interspersed with compliments about the cuisine and the wine, his voice not changing its emphasis from one subject to the other. Murder and the pleasures of the table were discussed in the same genial, confidential tone.
Eventually, Simon tried to steer the gruesome conversation round to the point where Enrico could be more explicit about the true purpose of lunch. It was no different from advertising, he thought. Nobody gets down to the real business before coffee.
“Enrico, these things you tell me—they happen in cities, not in villages like this, surely.”
“Times are changing, my friend. It’s a very competitive market now, and too many amateurs are coming into it.” He shook his head. “Amateurs are impatient and greedy. They don’t understand the most important principle of organised business.” The smoke curled up from his cigarette, and he sat very still.
Simon wondered what that might be in Enrico’s line of work. Go easy on the dynamite and don’t kill too many customers, probably. “You mean …?”
“Everybody must profit.”
“Yes, of course. But I’m not sure where the hotel comes into this.”
“Ah.” Enrico stubbed out his cigarette, and his immaculate hands resumed the folded position. “It arranges itself very simply. You use a laundry. You need supplies for your bar. Your rooms, from time to time, will need repainting. You buy meat and fish. Your splendid swimming pool must be maintained. You understand?”
Simon understood.
“I have colleagues,” Enrico continued, “in all of these businesses, people of the highest quality. They will be delighted to assist you. I can promise it.” He smiled across the table, a man confident of his ability to get other men to do exactly what he told them. “I personally guarantee that you will be satisfied. I use these people myself, at my home in Marseille. They are trained.”
And as a bonus, Simon thought, this month’s special offer, I won’t get blown up, kidnapped, kneecapped, or robbed. Sounds like the opportunity of a lifetime. Simon felt as though he were being interviewed by a bank manager from hell.
“I think I’m going to have a digestif, Enrico. How about you?”
“A vieux marc. The Réserve des Legats, if you have it, from Châteauneuf. You see? I am a local businessman. I support local business.” The smile on Enrico’s face widened by two or three millimetres. “And I will pay for lunch. I insist.”
“Everybody must profit, is that it?”
“Exactly, my friend. Everybody must profit.”
Jojo backed the van into the parking area opposite the hotel, next to a large black Mercedes. The chauffeur, also large and black, watched as Jojo opened the van door, careful not to touch the spotless bodywork of the Mercedes. It had been polished that morning, as it was polished every morning. The two men exchanged nods, and Jojo crossed the street, holding the envelope delicately between thumb and index finger so that it wouldn’t get dirty. He stamped his boots on the pavement to shake off the dust, and went inside.
For personal reasons that he kept to himself, Jojo was always happy to come to the hotel, and so he’d volunteered when Fonzi wanted a bill delivered to Simon. He tapped the envelope against his palm as he looked round the deserted reception area. He could hear Françoise talking on the phone in the office, and walked out to the terrace in the hope of seeing Madame Pons, whose magnificent bulk occupied so many of his dreams.
He looked down at the tables. Perhaps she was taking a digestif with one of the clients, cooling off after the heat of the kitchen. He had visions of warm pillows of flesh, lightly coated with perspiration, and he shielded his eyes against the sun as he studied the figures sitting below him. There was the patron, the Englishman, with his jacket slung over the back of his chair, talking to … Jojo took a second, longer look at the face of the man in the suit, a face he’d seen in the newspapers.
“Monsieur?”
Jojo turned to see Françoise smiling at him. A pretty girl, he thought. Another twenty kilos on her—that’s what she needed to turn her into a real woman.
He gave her the envelope and went out to his van. Now he knew who the Mercedes belonged to, he was extremely careful opening his door, and thoughtful as he drove back to the chantier. What was the Englishman doing with a man like that?
Nicole listened to Simon’s account of the lunch with increasing disbelief. It was blackmail, it was intolerable, the police must be informed, this gangster must be locked up. She would immediately call the gendarmerie.
Simon took her hand as she was reaching for the phone. “Don’t get all French and hysterical. What are the police going to do—arrest him for buying me lunch? He didn’t threaten me—well, not directly, anyway. He just told me some horror stories.”
Nicole paced up and down, smoking in short, agitated puffs. “It’s impossible. We must do something.”
“What? Set Mrs. Gibbons on him? Tell him we’re quite satisfied with the laundry service? Jesus, I don’t know if he’s dangerous or bluffing. He might be trying out a new sales pitch. Nicole?” She stopped pacing. “Calm down. Your bosom is heaving.”
“I’m very mad.”
“Look, let’s find out more about him, and then we can decide what to do.”
“Suppose he is what you think he is?”
Simon shrugged. “I’ll have him killed, or I’ll change laundries.”
“You’re not being serious about this.”
“I’ve given up being serious. I’ve got a lunatic uncle asking me for pocket money, there’s a hysterical woman next door whose husband lives on top of a ladder, and now my new friend Enrico wants to turn the hotel into a Mafia franchise. For all I know, Madame Pons is pregnant, and the German couple in room 8 are cleaning their shoes on the curtains. How can I be serious?”
Nicole walked over to him and clasped her hands round his neck. “You’re not very happy, are you?”
He smiled and shook his head. “Do you realise we’re hardly alone anymore? You work late every night while I’m being the perfect host, we fall into bed, and we’re back here every morning by eight to start all over again.”
“Chéri, that’s what a hotel is. It’s full-time.”
They looked at each other in silence. Through the open door of the office, they heard Ernest’s voice, polite but cool, and then murmurs and footsteps fading away in the direction of the terrace. Ernest came into the office, closing the door behind him, and raised his eyes dramatically to the ceiling. “Well, my dears, we’re blessed with a visitation.”
“Who is it, Ern?”
“You will not be pleased, I’m afraid. The ex-Mrs. Shaw has dragged herself away from Harrods to come and see us, and she’s with her new friend.” Ernest sniffed. “A rather ornamental young man. I sent them off to play in the garden.”
“This is turning into a perfect day.” Simon stood up and sighed. “Does he look like a lawyer?”
“Dear me, no. Far too well dressed for a lawyer.”
Simon walked out to the terrace, squinting against the sun as he looked instinctively over to the wall. The bugger didn’t even bother to duck anymore, and Simon was tempted to invite him to climb over for a drink and a closer look at the bodies sprawled around the pool.
He saw Caroline’s elaborate hair and the familiar profile, smiling as she turned towards the man at her side. She looked, as usual, expensive. When she noticed Simon coming across the terrace, she waved, the sun catching the heavy silver bangle on her wrist. He remembered buying it for her, and he remembered that she’d once thrown it at him.
“Simon, how are you?” She offered the small patch of cheek that wasn’t covered by sunglasses to be kissed. “You’re so brown.”
“Hello, Caroline. You’re looking well.”
“Simon, this is Jonathan. Jonathan Edwards.”
The two men shook hands. Jonathan was younger than Simon by several years, dark-haired and slim. In his dou
ble-breasted blazer and dove-grey flannels he looked impeccable and too hot. Be nice to him, Simon thought. This might be husband material.
“Why don’t we go and sit in the shade?”
Simon noticed the care with which Jonathan pulled back Caroline’s chair before sitting down himself, and the instant appearance of his lighter when she took out a cigarette. Promising behaviour, Simon thought, and composed his face into an expression of interest as Caroline prattled on about their drive down through France. They had stayed at the most divine hotel outside Paris the previous night, and now they were on their way to spend a few days on a friend’s yacht near Antibes. It would do Jonathan so much good to take a break from the City, wouldn’t it, darling? She called him “darling” every dozen words, it seemed to Simon, and touched his hand in a casual, possessive way to punctuate her sentences.
Jonathan himself said nothing, but had allowed himself to relax to the extent of undoing the crested brass buttons of his blazer so that the thick barathea lapels fell open. There was a small monogram on his blue striped shirt. He looked prosperous, and Simon wondered if he was capable of assuming the burden of Caroline’s American Express bills.
“What do you do in the City, Jonathan?” Simon felt like a prospective father-in-law.
“Commercial property. I’m with Levenson’s—we specialise in vertically integrated developments. Work with a lot of the big fund managers.”
“Sounds fascinating,” Simon said. “And where are you staying tonight?”
Caroline resumed her grip on Jonathan’s hand. “We thought here, didn’t we, darling? It’s too late to go on to the coast now.”
“I wish we could put you up.” Simon did his best to look disappointed, shaking his head as if he’d just heard bad news. “But we’re full. You could always try Gordes.”
