AT THE SOUND OF THE postman’s scooter, Henri bounds down the drive, strategically positioning himself to say good morning. As the postman slows to round the corner, Henri leaps into the air in front of him, paws splayed, barking an expansive welcome. Alas, his effusive greeting frightens the life out of Monsieur le facteur, who tumbles from his scooter.
I hear shouting and barking and run from my desk to find out what is going on. When I arrive, I find the poor man on all fours. He is grappling with letters and parcels, which have flown in every direction, while Henri, still close at hand, is yapping and panting. I jump forward to lend a hand.
“Oh Monsieur, I am so sorry!” I cry.
“J’avais presqu’un crise cardiaque! If he comes near me again, I’ll take action!”
I drag away the great hound to more threats from the postman. Henri, wagging his tail, is triumphant.
I TAKE THE COASTAL road, passing by the old town of Antibes, skirting the Baie des Anges to visit the antique market in the old town of Nice. I find it situated in the ancient Italian quarter, where the buildings are painted ocher and a deep Siena yellow. There I discover stalls laden with antique linen and lace pillowcases. They are so big and square and cheap, and like new. Some are embroidered in white cotton, white on white, with initials. I wonder who they were so caringly embroidered for and what became of the original owners. What prevented these luxurious pieces from being put to use? A jilted heart, a death? In anticipation of our generously sized new bed, I want to buy them all. I dream of smothering it in freshly starched, lavender-scented crisp linen. Crisp and white and inviting. Sunburned afternoons lying together. Winter nights huddled close, listening to the crackling of the fire.
The stallkeeper, a tiny woman, is hidden behind banks of sheets and tablecloths, eating lunch with a man and a child. I notice that their spread includes a hot chicken dish in a thick tomato sauce, several bottles of red wine, fruit, two baguettes and an assortment of various cheeses. It seems remarkable for a market situation, but I remind myself that this is France. Food comes first. We make a deal that seems to delight us both, and she shoves linen sheets, pillowcases and a tablecloth into several plastic bags, collects her modest sum of money and returns hungrily to her meal. While at the market, I begin to scout the various stalls for large glass jars, carafes or demijohns which I will use later to store our olive oil. I find none, but there is always next week.
When I return, I pick flowers from the garden—most are growing so wild—marguerite daisies, eucalyptus leaves, palm fronds taken from six tiny potted plants I found at the nursery (twenty francs a pot), and gather them together. I place them, decoratively arranged in confiture jars, next to our mattress on the floor, and in the hearth.
Michel is coming home tonight. I cannot remember when I last felt this excited by life. In preparation, I am stuffing a chicken. Suddenly, I hear Henri barking like a mad fool. I fear another sanglier. I peer out the kitchen window toward the pine forest and, to my amazement, see troupes of people moving in and around the trees, thrashing at the undergrowth. Curious, I hike the hill, thorny brambles ripping at my flesh, and introduce myself. They are mushroom picking, they explain. I, in return, inform them in a friendly manner that they are on private land. They retaliate by advising me that they have gathered mushrooms on this hill all their lives and do not intend to stop now.
Chastised, confused, I descend the hill and leave them to it. Next year, I will know to get up there first and pick the mushrooms myself, but I run the risk of poisoning us because I don’t know one variety from another.
Later, in the afternoon, when I go to the village to buy freshly baked bread, I see that the local drugstore has large display cards in the windows with colored pictures naming the different varieties of mushrooms. I learn that it is a local service here. Anyone can bring their baskets brimming with harvested mushrooms, and the pharmacien will sift the edible from the inedible or poisonous. So I need not fear. We will be safe to harvest our own funghi. I stare at the colored card. Here, among dozens, are drawings of ceps and chanterelles and boleti, which I read later was originally raised by the Italians. Another, birch boletus, grows on the trees and is a fungus as large as a child’s head. I am not convinced by how delicious that sounds!
OVER DINNER, BY THE fire, I feel obliged to confess to Michel the tales of Henri’s triumphs. He is not pleased. But worse is to come, for the postman is true to his word. On Saturday morning, an official notice arrives warning us that if we do not control our dog we will be taken to court and the animal might well be impounded or, worse, destroyed. I stare in dismay while Henri pants gleefully at my side.
“He’ll have to go, chérie,” says Michel.
“But since Henri, we have had no wild boar prowling the garden, and he keeps me company! Please let’s keep him.”
Michel frowns. “We need to give the matter serious thought,” he replies.
On Saturday afternoon, an officer from the central Cannes police station telephones our neighbor to say that a large black dog known as Henri—the refuge has identified him by the name on his collar and put them in touch with us—is terrorizing the guests sunbathing on the private beach at the Majestic Hotel. Michel thanks Jean-Claude for taking the trouble to walk over to us. He is then obliged to drive to Cannes, collect the dog and pay a hefty fine. Henri has been charged with disturbance of the peace!
I walk over to Jean-Claude with a bottle of wine and apologize profusely for the intrusion. His booming laugh reassures me that everything is perfectly fine. In fact, he invites us to come for another apéro. Having barely recovered from the previous experience, I fix no date but agree to telephone him, adding that on the next occasion, they should come to us. Over dinner, Michel and I discuss the problem of Henri, and I miserably concede that it would be best for everyone, including the dog, if he were returned.
On Monday morning, the woman at the refuge seethes visibly as we sign yet another set of documents, this time relinquishing all responsibility for the poor beast.
I weep copiously as we kiss him good-bye and he, bemused, is led away again to his horrid cage, but I have to admit that I have been hasty. Next year, Henri, I say to myself, when we are better organized, I promise to return for you.
CHAPTER FOUR
TREASURE ISLANDS
It is a crystal-clear, sunny autumn morning. Yesterday it rained for the first time in over two months. Today the air has a nip to it which foretells the changing seasons and reminds me that these long dry summers are not truly endless. Only a few days more, and we must close up the house. Michel and I are flying to Australia to shoot a film based on a story I have written and in which I am to play the main role. The prospects are exciting. Even so, it’s going to be a wrench to tear myself away from here. Australia, the other side of the world; there will be no popping home for the weekends.
“If my story had been set here…” I mumble, folding away linen which I am storing with lavender bags in a cupboard inside the front hall.
In spite of all that is left to do—I have my work and papers to pack up yet, luggage to prepare and we are still trying to nail down a most elusive notaire to a date for the final exchange—Michel announces: “Leave everything, we’re going hunting.”
“What?” I laugh.
“We’re taking a ferry to the islands. To look for treasure.”
I agree readily, for the prospect of any boat ride always excites child-like joy in me, and the notion of a mystery tour is too irresistible. Besides, I have never visited the Îles de Lérins. “What kind of treasure are we seeking?”
“You’ll see. We will visit the farthest island first, return to the nearer where we can lunch, then cruise home on the late-afternoon boat.”
We purchase our tickets from a booth nestled alongside the harbormaster and customs quay in the old port of Cannes. Awaiting our departure, we stroll the length of a neighboring jetty and, from that prominent aspect, peer back toward the lofty tour du Suquet, the weathered to
wer that crowns the very pinnacle of the rock known as the Suquet, upon which the old town of Cannes stands. Here was the original fishing village initially christened Canois, meaning cane harbor, after the canes that grew profusely so many centuries ago along what was then nothing more than a marshy seafront. Cannes as wild nature barely seems conceivable in this day and age.
Returning our gaze seaward along the quay, we are back in the twentieth century; a breeze whispers, and a curved necklace of pearly white yachts stir noiselessly at the water’s edge.
“Who owns all these?” I ask. A private musing spoken aloud. I cannot envisage how many millions one has to accrue to be able to cough up for one of these swanky numbers. Several of the cruisers are the length of a train carriage and surely would have cost more than the lifetime’s earnings of the average working person.
“There is a lot of foreign money here. And a great deal of corruption. One of the former mayors of Nice, for example, fled to Uruguay.”
“Why?”
“If he had stayed in France, he would have been imprisoned for corruption and tax evasion. Apparently, he embezzled considerable sums from the city of Nice and shifted the money to South America, in readiness for his retirement.”
“That’s right! Jacques Médecin, of course!” I laugh, more out of incredulity than merriment at the breadth and panache of such Riviera skulduggery.
“They got him, though, eventually.”
“Yes, they did.”
I remember that Graham Greene, who lived in Antibes and whom I met on several occasions, published a book in 1982 entitled J’accuse, about corruption in Nice and the close involvement of Monsieur Médecin with the Italian mafia. There was a casino scandal. Greene believed that a worrying percentage of the police force and justice system was engaged in nefarious dealings with the milieu, the criminal underworld. Later, Médecin fled the country to avoid charges of corruption.
“Do you suppose,” I ask Michel, “all Riviera vice and turpitude ended with his flight and subsequent imprisonment?”
“Somehow I doubt it.”
“Might there be zillions of mafia francs, never smuggled out, buried somewhere on these islands?”
“Who knows?”
“So are we going to dig them up and pay off Madame B.?”
“No.” He smiles at my joking. “That’s not the treasure we’re after.”
“What, then?”
“You’ll see.”
I smile, enjoying his game of secrecy. Looking all around us, I notice hosts of bronzed, barefoot young men, clad becomingly in shorts, at work on the string of yachts. Several are shinnying aluminium masts like monkeys climbing for bananas, while others are scrubbing teak decks, washing, hosing or treating the impressive fiberglass hulls. Varnishing the varnished. All busy as ants, lost in dreams of prospective seafaring adventures.
“We better get moving,” says Michel, taking my hand.
The clock tower up in the Suquet strikes ten, and the ferry prepares to depart. Or rather not. A straggle of latecomers is steaming along the jetty, all calling and waving. The captain grins. The boat waits. Everyone shakes his hand amicably and lumbers aboard.
During this short delay, I glance about. I have to admit that there is still great charm in this old port. The Hotel Splendid ahead, for example, with its colorful array of international flags and simple white facade; and then my attention lights on a sign in large black lettering, Jimmy’z Club, above the dull beige of the palais block and the plastic blue lettering that reads Casino. It is hard to find an uglier sight.
The boat is wheeling, and we are exiting the port. I incline against the rail, allowing a rush of excitement. A water baby by nature, I am at my happiest on or by the sea. Gulls circling overhead, the misty ambrosial hills of the Esterel and the foamy bubbling spray, as white as the yachts, rise up to cool us as the ferry plows through an otherwise calm sea. We pass an anchored five-mast luxury liner with Club Med 2 painted on its hull and a glass-bottom pleasure boat packed with retirees.
As I look back toward Cannes, the bay gives off an illusion of gentility, but on closer inspection, this luxury resort puts me in mind of a beautiful woman past her prime. Suddenly, I recall a long-forgotten group of transvestites I spent time with while working in Brazil. Even at forty or forty-five, with some kind lighting and some distance, they managed to pull off looking good. I smile recalling their coked-up energy, some of the wild places they dragged me and the outrageous stories they recounted. Silently, I concede that Cannes probably also has many faces.
The Carlton Hotel, situated smack in the center of the Croisette, dominates the bay. It draws the eye instantly to its crisp white elegance. None of its meretricious marketplace mentality shows from this gathering distance.
Feeling the sun’s mounting heat penetrating my flesh, I shade my eyes to pick out the observatory tower high above the town. I scan the fin de siècle villas, their windows winking in the light like pirates signaling the all-clear to sailors marking time on the open sea. Splashes of autumnal color—red, yellow, gold—patch the palmy hills, while dozens of umber bodies in richly hued itsy-bitsy swimwear rest on the ever-busy golden beaches.
This boat ride is delicious. There are barely a handful of passengers aboard, and those present appear to be locals who have crossed at dawn to the mainland to shop. Mostly, they are weather-worn old ladies clutching woven shopping bags that bulge with brilliantly colored fruits and vegetables. Two toothless old women, arms wrapped tightly around their trophies, huddle close and gossip contentedly. Their flesh may be creased, tamped olive and leathery by the sun, but their eyes glisten wickedly.
“How many people live on these islands?” I inquire of Michel.
“Île Ste. Marguerite is inhabited. I don’t know by how many. Twenty households, maybe. St. Honorat is unoccupied. Well, no it isn’t. There is a community of Cistercian monks living there. And one very overpriced restaurant at the water’s edge, looking out over the canal that separates the two islands.”
“Who frequents it?”
“The restaurant? The yachting fraternity. It’s a fashionable weekend haunt. During the season, boats rendezvous here from as far as Monte Carlo or St. Tropez. They drop anchor in between the two islands and motor, by dinghy, from one yacht to another, rounding up their parties, and then disembark for a grilled lobster lunch.”
“That doesn’t sound too terrible.”
Michel laughs. “The canal gets so crowded you can barely move.”
We are approaching Ste. Marguerite.
“Pour St. Honorat, la deuxieme île, vous restez abord,” hails a voice from a loudspeaker. My eye is drawn to a bastillion atop a cliff at what appears to be the eastern tip of the island. “Is that a fortress?”
Michel grins mischievously. “The Fort Royal. I knew it would fire your imagination. Built by Richelieu to protect the island from the Spanish who invaded anyway, but I’ll tell you all about it later.”
“There lies our trove? Or there, in that building on the beach? What is that, a deserted hotel?”
“All are for later. After lunch.”
Every passenger, apart from ourselves and the crew, prepares to disembark onto the planked-wood jetty which rises out of the shallow crystalline water where shoals of tiny silver fish are darting to and fro. Handfuls of tourists, with their laden bags at their feet, clot the jetty, impatient to come aboard. They must be bound for Cannes. So we have the boat to ourselves. It reverses, heels about and scoots out to sea, negotiating the rocky bed beneath us. Dinghies bask like seals in the sun, and a series of small yellow buoys bob like discarded mustard pots. Parasol pine trees and a few lookout bunkers, abandoned since the Second World War, border the island’s western beaches.
The air is clear and fragrant.
In between the two islands, a scattering of yachts is moored in the narrow strait. Slender, shark-toothed yachts with equally slender women aboard, lying topless and oiled, soaking up the sun. Paunchy men regard our passing fer
ry, brandishing goblets of whiskey and ice. I glance at my watch. It is half past ten! We pass the “posh” restaurant. It appears deserted. Perhaps it has already closed for the season or is immersed in preparations for another lunchtime.
The passage to this second island has taken no time at all. We negotiate a serious of large, rather dangerously jagged rocks, then land safely at the harbor. Michel takes my hand and leads me ashore. The instant I step foot on the bank I am greeted by—no, swathed in—a pine-scented silence, soft as a human pulse. I breathe deeply and turn about. There is nothing in sight, in any direction, save pine forest, littoral and clear Mediterranean, a patchwork of blue, milky turquoise. Salt water laps the sandy beach, licks the bleached skeletons of driftwood.
Save for the departing ferry, we could be marooned on a desert island. Hard to believe that we are so close to home and that this paradise of eucalyptus and Aleppo pines is visible from our terrace. I spy a statue of the Virgin Mary. Built high among the treetops, she holds her arms outstretched, looking out over and blessing the canal.
“Come on, we’ll visit the monastery, the Abbaye des Lérins, buy lavender oil at the abbey shop, skirt the island and take the boat back to Ste. Marguerite for lunch.”
We turn inland, flanked by vineyards, and walk toward the abbey, the epicenter of the island—five minutes away!—where we will find a church and an arched stone walkway which leads to the shop and gardens. Stone benches have been placed at strategic points along the route to allow for reflection, pause and prayer. I want to dally a second, commune with the natural beauty, imbibe the scents of the pines and eucalyptus, but Michel hurries me along.
As we approach, he delivers me a swift, potted history. The two islands were once the most powerful religious centers in the south of France. This one was first occupied in the fifth century by the hermit Ste. Honorat—hence its name—when the bishop of Fréjus encouraged him here, to create a site for holy retreat. A monastery was built, and under the auspices of St. Honorat, it became a training center for novice priests as well as a school for the study of Christian philosophy. St. Honorat, later bishop of Arles, died in 429A.D., but the traditions of the monastery have been continued even to this day, except for a short period during the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century when the island was snatched by the State, put up for auction and bought by an actress from the Comédie Française.
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