by Peter Mayle
“Oh.” Caroline’s mouth tightened. “What a bore. I rather wanted to have a little chat with you.”
Jonathan excused himself diplomatically and went inside to call some other hotels. Simon braced himself. Caroline’s little chats invariably began with sweetness and light and ended with threats, the old mixture of alimony and acrimony. But while she was lighting a cigarette and plotting the most direct route to the wallet, Nicole came across the terrace to join them. She winked at Simon before Caroline turned to look up at her.
“I’m so sorry. There’s a call from America.”
“Oh, God.” Simon jumped to his feet. “I’d better take it. Caroline, this is Nicole Bouvier.”
The two women inspected each other with a polite and evident curiosity. Simon felt like a mouse between two cats. “Well,” he said, “can’t keep America waiting.”
Simon came into the office and closed the door behind him with a sigh of relief. “I don’t know whose idea that was, but the timing was perfect.”
Ernest looked pleased. “It was a team effort. When the young gentleman said that Her Highness wanted a chat with you, I assumed the worst, and Nicole volunteered to go to the rescue. Actually, I think she was dying to have a good look. You know what women are like.”
“Where’s the boyfriend now?”
“He went down to collect her. We found them a room in Gordes, but they have to be there by five.”
Simon grinned. “What a pity.”
“Don’t start celebrating, dear. They’re coming back for dinner.”
Jojo and Claude sat in the cool gloom of the Fin de Siècle café in Cavaillon. The first pastis had cut through the taste of the day’s dust. That was quick and medicinal. The second was the one they both enjoyed.
Jojo lit a cigarette and felt the muscles in his back relax. “You know I went up to the hotel in Brassière this afternoon? To drop off a bill.”
Claude grunted and continued his study of the newspaper that someone had left on the bar.
“Guess who I saw there, having lunch. Mercedes the size of a house waiting for him outside, chauffeur in a uniform. Cong, what a way to live, eh?”
Claude looked up. “Mitterrand? They say he comes down here. Who’s the other one? Jack Lang?”
Jojo shook his head. “Remember a couple of years ago, the business with the ambulances in Marseille? The flics pulled him in, it was all over the papers, but they couldn’t make anything stick. He walked away, clean as a bone, and then sued one paper for saying he was the king of the underworld. What balls, eh?” Jojo shook his head again and took a drink. “Anyway, it was him, all done up in a suit, tie, gold watch, everything, sitting there with the Englishman.”
“So? People have lunch.”
“But a guy like that, a grosse légume from Marseille, what was he doing in a little village? Tell me that.”
Claude rubbed his chin and went through the agonies of thought before giving up with a shrug. “Maybe he likes the cooking. Maybe that’s why he comes.”
“Sure. And maybe I’ll go out tomorrow and hire a chauffeur.” Jojo sighed as he considered the evening ahead of him: a pizza and a lonely early night. “Putain. What I could do with a few million francs!”
Claude grinned at him and thumped him on the back. “You could hire me. I’d be your chauffeur, and we could go to all the bordels. Or are you saving yourself for that chef?”
“Va te faire foutre.”
• • •
There was a lurid, angry tinge to the sunset that evening, and a faraway crump of thunder made the guests on the terrace look up from their food. The air was still, and thick with heat. If anyone had been listening, they would have noticed the dry, ratchety sound of the cigales come to a sudden halt.
Simon and Ernest were on duty by the bar. They had made the obligatory tour of the tables at the start of the meal; and now, with the main course served and the second bottles of wine uncorked, the tempo of dinner had slowed down. The United Nations were here again, with foreigners outnumbering French. That was a great advantage of doing business in the Lubéron, Simon thought: the sun attracted people from the North, whatever nationality they were, and if the Dutch were broke one year, the Swedes would be prosperous. Or the English, including his perennially prosperous ex-wife. Simon had been ambushed briefly by Caroline but had escaped to attend to an imaginary crisis in the kitchen. She would try again.
Meanwhile, he was fascinated by a most unlikely couple sitting at a nearby table. Uncle William, his linen jacket surprisingly clean and pressed, was talking volubly, with frequent stops for wine, to Boone Parker.
Simon nodded towards them. “What’s going on there, Ern?”
“Dear Willy.” Ernest sighed. “Such a scamp, but I do like him. I happened to mention that young Boone’s father was a person of considerable wealth. That may have encouraged Willy to take the boy under his wing, in an artistic sense.”
“I’ve no doubt. Who’s paying for dinner?”
Ernest gave a small, embarrassed cough. “Well, I did make Willy a modest advance. Against the portrait.”
“You’re a soft touch, Ern.”
Simon left the bar and went over to Uncle William’s table. The old man looked up, his face the colour of a cherry, and beamed.
“My boy! Join us, join us. Cast aside the cares of office and take wine with us.” He held up the bottle and gazed at it in dismay. “Damn bottles get smaller every year. Have you noticed that?”
Simon ordered another bottle, another glass, and pulled up a chair. “How’s it going, Boone?”
“Real good. That Madame Pons is some cook, isn’t she? I had the pieds et paquets—best thing I ever tasted. Swear to God.”
Uncle William used the arrival of the wine to nip this unpromising line of conversation in the bud.
“A toast,” he said. “To art and friendship and hands across the water!”
Before Simon could ask him whose hands he had in mind, Uncle William leaned forward and extracted the leather cigar case from Simon’s shirt pocket, talking excitedly as he did so. “This delightful young man and I have been discussing the possibility of a major work, the definitive artistic study of Parker père, bestriding the state of Texas like a colossus, possibly on horseback, at home on the range.” He paused to light his cigar.
Boone grinned. “Hate to tell you this, Willy, but my daddy lives mostly on planes. Doesn’t care too much for horses, either.”
A dismissive puff of smoke from Uncle William. “Details, my boy, details. The great thing is to capture the spirit of the man, his vision, his very essence.” He took a gulp of wine. “Of course, I’d need to spend some time with him, to absorb his persona, but fortunately I am not discouraged by the thought of travel. Did I understand that your dear father has an aeroplane?”
“A 707 and a few Lears.”
“Well, then!” Uncle William slipped Simon’s cigar case into his pocket and leaned back. “What could be simpler?”
The storm, which had been growling its way in from the west, arrived in a gust of colder air. Lightning stabbed into the hills, and the sky exploded. For a moment, all conversation stopped.
“Magnificent!” said Uncle William. “The brutal majesty of nature. Very inspirational. I think I’ll have a cognac.”
There was a second crack, of such closeness and violence that heads instinctively ducked, and all the lights in the hotel went out. The terrace was left in darkness except for the flickering pinpoints of candles, and an English voice could be heard commenting rather nervously on a jolly near miss. And then the rain came.
It came in sudden solid sheets that slapped on the canvas umbrellas and bounced knee-high off the flagstones, soaking the guests from below as well as above. There was a clumsy stampede into the darkness of the restaurant inside, the crunch of broken glass underfoot, a sodden jostling to get under cover, cries from the women, curses from the men, and a call for lifeboats from Uncle William, who had been the first to scuttle out of the d
ownpour and install himself in a dry corner behind the bar, where he was searching for brandy by the light of a match. Ernest was already organising the waiters, distributing handfuls of candles. As their glow replaced the darkness, the effects of the ten-yard dash from the terrace could be seen. The guests stood in private puddles, their hair flattened, their clothes pasted to their bodies. Simon took a candle upstairs and returned with Nicole and Françoise and armfuls of towels, which were passed among the dripping figures.
The response to adversity varied. Ernest, calm and resolutely cheerful, had joined Uncle William behind the bar and was administering alcohol to anyone who asked for it. Madame Pons, after one brief sortie from the kitchen, had gone back with a fresh bottle of wine and a candle. Caroline, her dress stained and her coiffure seriously rearranged by the rain, was in a bedraggled sulk. Boone, a beer in one hand and his French phrase book in the other, was continuing his language studies with Françoise. The guests, for the most part, were behaving with the good humour that comes from surviving a minor catastrophe and being given free drinks.
Simon and Nicole were poring over a pile of bills at the end of the bar when Caroline appeared, in clinging wet silk, her face pinched with irritation.
“Simon, I’ve got to have a word with you.”
“Go ahead.”
“Jonathan’s car is completely soaked. He left the top down.”
Simon sighed and rubbed his eyes. It had been a long and difficult day, and it would be hours before he got to bed. “I’ll get someone to call you a taxi.”
Caroline was in no mood for taxis. “I was hoping you’d offer to drive us back to Gordes, but I suppose that’s too much to expect.” She pushed a strand of hair off her forehead, and her dress pulled taut over one damp and perfectly outlined breast.
“Magnificent!” Uncle William lurched along the bar, his eyes trying desperately to focus. “If only I were twenty years younger!” He stopped in front of Caroline and leaned towards her, beaming. “I speak to you, dear lady, as an artist, a student of beauty, and I can tell you that I have rarely seen a bosom to compare with your exquisitely arranged top deck. Are you available for a sitting, by any chance?”
Caroline went rigid with disdain.
“Nude for preference, of course,” Uncle William went on. “I see you in a dappled bower, the play of light and shadow on every curve and cranny. How are your crannies, my dear? Have a drink.” He swayed slightly as he held out a large wineglass filled with cognac.
There was an involuntary snort of laughter from Simon. Caroline glared at him. “You seem to think this disgusting old man is funny.” She turned and stalked away, calling angrily for Jonathan.
“Buttocks to match, I see,” Uncle William observed in a loud, admiring voice. “What splendid little beauties they are, too! See how they—”
“Willy!” Simon took the glass from Uncle William’s hand. “I think it’s time you went to bed.”
“Couldn’t agree more, my boy. Which room is she in?”
Simon shook his head and turned to Nicole. “Try to make sure he doesn’t start biting people. I’d better go and sort something out for the happy couple.”
He picked up a flashlight and an umbrella from the reception office. Caroline was waiting by the entrance, peering out into the torrential blackness of the night. Simon shone the flashlight towards the parking area and saw Jonathan wrestling with the half-raised top of a Porsche.
“The bloody thing’s stuck,” Caroline said. “Can’t you do something?”
Ten minutes later, the top still obstinately jammed, the two drowned men gave up. Simon called a taxi. Caroline demanded towels to sit on and asked Jonathan how he could have been stupid enough to have left the top down. The peevish monologue would continue all the way back to Gordes, Simon was sure. He remembered Caroline’s stamina when it came to complaining, and watched the car’s lights disappear down the hill with a profound sense of relief. Now all I need, he said to himself, is electricity, a hot shower, and twelve hours’ sleep, and then I’ll be able to face the joys of hotel management for another day. He stood, alone and dripping, in the reception area and thought wistfully of Knightsbridge and Madison Avenue.
21
Jojo inspected the collection of items laid out on his narrow bed for the last time, checking them off against his list. He was naked, his legs and arms and face dark against the white skin of his torso. The plastic radio on his bedside table pumped out les super-hits, with short, ecstatic interruptions from the disc jockey, who was pretending to have the time of his life in the Radio Vaucluse studio. It was, after all, July fourteenth, Le Quatorze, when every man, woman, and child in France should be enjoying a soirée de fête.
Jojo lit a cigarette, and began to get dressed according to the list. He slipped the necklace of string over his head and felt the chill of the padlock key against his chest. He pulled on the black shorts and the yellow, red, and blue jersey, putting sunglasses, latex gloves, and his folded cotton cap into the big pockets. An old pair of trousers and a worn sweatshirt, dark and loose, covered him from throat to ankle. The cycling shoes, thin-soled and black, looked out of place, but who noticed shoes on a soirée de fête?
Once more he went through the list. It wouldn’t do to overlook anything, not when the General had put him in charge of the operation. Bon. He sat on his bed and smoked, waiting until it was time to meet the others just up the road in the Cavaillon station car park, and thought how it would be in Martinique as a gentleman of independent means. Rum on the beach and big native girls. Cong, that was the life.
Around Cavaillon, in hot, cramped apartments and in the concrete boxes that made up the town’s suburbs, the others were looking at the crawl of time on their watches, checking their own lists, trying not to reach for the bottle to settle their nerves. Once it started, and the adrenaline kicked in, they’d be too busy to think about prison. But the waiting was bad. It always was.
Just before ten-thirty, the Borels’ van pulled in to the station car park. Jojo came out of the shadows.
“Ça va?”
Borel the elder, stolid and calm, nodded. Jojo climbed into the back of the van. It had been emptied of gardener’s clutter, the mowers and rotovators and brush cutters, but it still smelt of two-stroke fuel and fertiliser. Jojo sat on one of the sacks of potting earth that the Borels had put along each side to provide cushions against the ridged steel floor. Looked at his watch. Lit another cigarette.
One by one the others arrived—Bachir, Jean, Claude, and finally, carrying a shopping bag in each hand, Fernand the plastiqueur. He passed the bags into the van and laughed at the caution with which they were handled. “Don’t have a heart attack. It won’t blow up until I tell it to.”
Borel started the engine, hoped to God there weren’t any gendarmes out doing spot checks on the roads, and turned right under the railway bridge. Nobody talked.
Chez Mathilde was having a good night, plenty of tourists, and several local families celebrating the fourteenth. Normally, Mathilde would have been content watching the bills stack up on the spike next to the till, thinking that maybe this year they could take a proper holiday, somewhere abroad. Instead, she kept thinking about what her husband had told her that afternoon.
Madness. She’d said that to him. When everything was ticking over so well, a nice little business. They could sell it one day and retire, get away from cooking smells and dirty dishes. She’d been too shocked and furious to cry, and when he’d said that nothing could go wrong, she’d reminded him about the last time nothing could go wrong. Three years on her own, taking him pizza on visiting days. He’d promised never to get involved with that worthless bunch again. He’d promised. And now this.
The General went through the motions with the customers, pasting on the smile and opening the wine in between checking his watch and glancing surreptitiously at his wife, She hadn’t taken it too well, poor old Mathilde, and she had that set look about her face now, an angry sadness not far from despa
ir. He remembered that look from the last time. He’d tried to explain how he needed something like this, how he didn’t want to be a glorified waiter until he was sixty, although he’d left out the other reason, the thrill of doing it. She wouldn’t have understood that. With a sense of guilty excitement, he looked at his watch again. They should be there by now.
Isle-sur-Sorgue was always a nightmare for parking at weekends, and this was the worst night of the year. Borel had to go all the way through town before he found a space opposite the antique dealers’ warehouse. The van would be safe there until they came back for it on Monday.
The men got out and stretched, yawning with nerves.
“Well,” Jojo said, “here we go. Nice weather for a dip in the river, eh?” He touched the key hanging round his neck. “We’ll make sure the General got his spot. Fernand, let me take one of those bags.”
Fernand gave him the heavier of the two bags, the one with the torches and short crowbars and the sawn-off sledgehammer. He never let anybody else carry what he called his exploding tool kit.
They moved off, walking slowly, trying to look like any other group of friends in search of a good time on a hot, sticky night. As they came closer to the centre of town, a rhythmic thudding came from the centre of the human traffic jam that had taken over the small place just before the bank. Over the heads of the crowd, they could see lights—purple, green, red, orange, the official colours of every mobile discothèque in France—blinking on and off in time to the beat being thrashed out by a sweating drummer. Two girl singers, shimmering in skintight black sequins, strutted energetically on the tiny platform, scarlet lips wailing into their microphones, while the guitarists and keyboard player behind them went into spasms at their own musical virtuosity, heads and pelvises jerking as if they’d been electrocuted.
“Putain!” Bachir said. “What a racket!”
“What do you want? Half an hour’s silence so we can work in peace?” Fernand nudged Jojo and almost had to shout to be heard over the electronic scream that was coming from a tortured guitar. “Where have they set up the fireworks?”
