The Secret of Provence House

by Aubrey Rhodes

  ‘The Lord our God shall not be represented by idols,’ Yeshua responded with irritating certainty. ‘These other gods you speak of are false gods, who crack and tremble from the wrath of the Almighty Father.’

  ‘And what sort of Almighty Father might that be?’ asked Octavius, ‘who feels the need to knock down statues?’

  ‘One who will not tolerate the worship of false idols.’

  ‘You would think he had better things to do,’ Octavius said.

  ‘The Colossus was brought down by an earthquake,’ said Lucca. ‘But countless temples and statues remain throughout the empire, intact, dedicated to all manner of gods and mysteries, and people go to them and worship there. Why does your Almighty God strike down some icons and not all of them? What you are saying makes no sense.’

  ‘I do not question the will of the Almighty Father,’ Yeshua replied. ‘I am but his humble servant.’

  ‘The earth is much more varied a place Yeshua,’ Octavius said, ‘than the version of it taught in your temple. Life is hard enough without having to go about castigating people for their beliefs. A true Almighty Father, like Rome herself, would hold all people and all of their beliefs in his embrace.’

  ‘You do not understand,’ the young man said, his face reddening.

  I stood back and listened to this exchange, content to let the Romans say things to him I myself was thinking. Better to hear it from them than from his Epicurean uncle who only pretended to be a devout Jew for appearances’ sake.

  When our vessel left Rhodes in the early evening, Yeshua was weary from a day filled with so much variety. ‘I am too far from home uncle,’ he said. ‘I was happier there, living in a place bound by the same faith. The world is too wide for me.’

  ‘I can promise you one thing Yeshua,’ I said, ‘that when we return to Jerusalem, all that you will have seen during our travels, all of this that tires you so now, and all that is still to come, will give you deeper wisdom.’

  ‘I do hope this to be true,’ he said, ‘but I do not feel it now.’

  Chapter 14

  This last section, though not a long one, took more time for Laura to translate because the parchment was damaged with moisture stains and her photo was unclear in places. Furthermore, during the final sentences she was distracted by noises coming from the rest of the house, sounds announcing the arrival of James and his family. Just as she was rising from her chair, leaning forward to turn off her computer, the door to the library opened and two identically dressed little girls came in. One of them was slim and blond and looked to be around twelve years old. The other was two or three years younger, smaller, with lustrous dark brown hair pulled back into pigtails. Both wore beige Shetland pullover sweaters, dark brown corduroy jeans and short, lace-up, riding boots. They came just a few steps into the room and stared at Laura without saying anything.

  ‘Hello,’ she said to the both of them.

  ‘Hello,’ answered the older girl.

  ‘Are you the teacher lady?’ asked the younger one with a thick accent.

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘What is your name?’ the little girl asked.

  ‘Laura. And you?’

  ‘I am Anna,’ said the older one whose accent was less pronounced.

  ‘And I am Montse,’ said the littler one.

  At that point a slight but strong looking woman with short hair came in looking for them. She spoke to them in Spanish, albeit with a heavy Brazilian Portuguese accent. It was clear the girls had been told not to enter the library and disturb ‘the professor’. Laura told them that she had finished work for the day and that in any event they could come and visit with her whenever they wished. Noelma, the Brazilian nanny, began to protest, in bad English, saying that Camilla, ‘la señora de la casa,’ had given strict orders. Just as Laura began to answer her, Carmensina came into the room. As soon as they saw each other Laura and Carmensina were beset by feelings of tension neither of them had any control over. Both little girls picked up on it, as did Noelma.

  Laura had hoped to find an ally in Carmensina, someone she could chat with, let off some steam with, and from whom she could perhaps learn some things about Camilla and her family. Even with Fiona’s description of James’s wife still fresh in her mind she had imagined another sort of Spanish woman, more cosmopolitan looking, and with a younger take on fashion that a number of women from Barcelona she had met in London espoused. What she saw standing in front of her was something else: a stylish but more conservative woman from the upper-middle class of Barcelona society. The impressive hair that Fiona had mentioned, no longer dark, was dyed a golden blond, and it had turned slightly brittle. She had suspiciously large breasts, wore too much make-up for someone her age, and used aggressive body language. There was something provincial about her, like the wealthy girls her mother had described growing up with in Granada.

  Carmensina, in no need of any new friends and whose philosophy, on meeting new females not of her circle, was almost entirely coloured by a determination to ward off potential threats to an already semi-comatose marriage, had hoped for and expected someone plain or even ugly, someone whose superior knowledge in academic matters could be easily nullified by what she still considered to be her own Mediterranean sex appeal and charm. But Laura was very pretty and appeared relaxed. She seemed sure of herself, and she was well dressed, evincing a hybrid New York-Parisian sense of style that Carmensina admired in magazines but never thought of attempting herself. Both women picked up on these things immediately. In an instant, Carmensina grasped that the mere presence of Laura was going to ruin her two-day stay at the estate. She was already irritated by the way her two girls were capitulating to ‘the American,’ for that was how she saw her. Before even saying hello she barked out something terse and effective in Catalan to Noelma and the girls who left the library without a whimper. Laura realized that Carmensina was wearing the same outfit as her daughters.

  ‘They weren’t bothering me at all.’

  Carmensina chose to ignore the incident and answered in an English more heavily accented than she could ever admit to.

  ‘But you are not the professor, no?’

  ‘I’m Laura. And you must be Carmensina.’

  Neither of them made a move to shake hands or exchange kisses.

  ‘Laura the professor? No, no, no. This is not possible. You are a top model!’

  ‘I wish,’ smiled Laura even as she knew the other woman’s remark was meant as an accusation rather than the witticism it came awkwardly disguised as. Camilla entered the room.

  ‘Ah, I see you two have already met. I hear the girls have been in here bothering you.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Laura, feeling a sliver of irritation entering her voice.

  ‘Camilla,’ said Carmensina, lighting a cigarette, which only added to Laura’s state of funk, ‘surely the real professor is down in the basement sharpening pencils or some such thing; this woman is a top model!’

  Camilla laughed and answered her daughter-in-law in Catalan, a language she clearly missed and was glad to have the chance to speak again, unaware of or not sufficiently concerned yet about the alienating effect it might have on her translator who was only able to understand the occasional phrase.

  A fire had been lit in the living room and an assortment of drinks set out. The three women walked in, waiting for James to appear.

  ‘I’m sorry I never learned Catalan,’ Laura said, making herself a gin and tonic.

  ‘This is fine with me,’ said Carmensina, running a hand through her hair in what was a well-practiced gesture. ‘It’s good for me to practice my English.’

  Carmensina poured herself a Highland Park on the rocks and Camilla went for a Pimms Cup Number 6. They clinked glasses, Carmensina saying ‘Chin-chin,’ and went to their respective easy chairs.

  ‘Where are the girls?’ asked Laura, in all innocence.

  ‘Having dinner,’ Carmensina replied, as if firing a gun, feigning surprise at the qu
estion.

  ‘That’s too bad,’ Laura said before taking a sip of her drink. ‘I was hoping we were all going to dine together.’

  ‘Carmensina is old fashioned,’ Camilla piped in. ‘And I’m all for it. It’s better for the girls too, I expect.’

  Laura felt another wave of irritation but thought it wise to remain silent.

  ‘My brothers and I never sat to the table with my parents until we were fifteen,’ Carmensina said. ‘It was much happier for us, and much better for our parents as well.’

  ‘That was my experience too, mostly,’ said Camilla.

  ‘I was brought up in the crazy, child-spoiling United States,’ said Laura, trying not to sound defensive, raising her glass and then downing the rest of her drink in two swallows. What most annoyed her was the realization that she in fact had no good memories at all of the meals she had to sit through with her mother and stepfather, and that the most relaxed meals she could recall as a little girl had been in the kitchen with Pat and Clara when her parents were out or away.

  ‘It is hard to have an adult conversation when the little ones are there,’ Carmensina continued. ‘Even when they are behaving at their best one has to keep them too much in mind.’

  Desperate to change the subject, Laura let it go. ‘Whereabouts do you live in Barcelona?’

  ‘We live in a house just off the Avinguda del Tibidabo.’

  ‘It’s beautiful there.’

  ‘You know it?’

  Laura could tell this too bothered the woman for some reason.

  ‘I stayed at a hotel in that part of town last year, the ABaC hotel.’

  It had been with Nathan, who always prided himself on finding the new, cool place, no matter how expensive. Then Carmensina said something to Camilla in Catalan that made them both laugh; a detail that annoyed Laura further.

  Laura could see that Carmensina was feeling quite in command, pleased with the power she was wielding as a Spanish woman of her ilk, and as the future Lady of the estate at which the way-too-pretty Laura was just a transitory guest. They heard the rear kitchen door open and close heralding the arrival of James. Carmensina stood up, suddenly displaying an actress-like smile of anticipation, and left the room. Camilla and Laura stared at each other.

  ‘Wow,’ Laura finally said.

  ‘I do apologize. I suppose she finds you threatening.’

  ‘But that’s preposterous.’

  They could hear the two girls reacting as their father entered the kitchen to pay them a brief visit.

  ‘She grew up the only girl with four brothers, the princess and apple of her father’s eye.’

  ‘So in theory,’ Laura said, ‘she should be brimming with confidence – which she certainly seems to be, by the way.’

  ‘But she had, has, an atrocious relationship with her mother.’

  Laura sensed the theme was a complex one for Camilla and that it was none of her business. ‘The girls are adorable,’ was all she said.

  The married couple entered the living room, Carmensina with her arm locked around one of James’s, like a teenager in love. James Figueras Trevelyan was as handsome as Fiona had described, with a full head of black hair greying here and there. He looked to be trim, in a relaxed way, not overly muscular. He had on a pair of grey flannel trousers with old loafers, a blue oxford dress shirt open at the collar and a navy cashmere sweater. Over that he wore what could have been an antique tweed sport coat that was charming for being somewhat tattered. It was probably a garment he loved, thought Laura, one that spent most of its time hanging in a closet at the cottage. She stood up to shake his hand as he gave his mother a kiss on one cheek.

  ‘Oh, please don’t get up,’ he said, turning to Laura, looking very briefly into her eyes and taking her outstretched hand with surprisingly little force. Carmensina watched all of this transpire, her arm no longer entwined with his, standing just behind him.

  ‘Do you see what I mean James?’ she said. ‘She’s an impostor pretending to be a serious professor.’ And then she said something to him quickly in Catalan that only she found amusing. James looked uncomfortable.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he said to no one in particular.

  He had an odd accent somewhat akin to Camilla’s. He went to the drinks table and poured himself a single malt whiskey, addressing Laura but not looking at anyone.

  ‘I understand you’re being an enormous help to my mother.’

  ‘I’m trying.’

  Then he did turn to face the three women, raising his tumbler in their general direction but finding it wisest to settle his eyes upon his mother. ‘Cheers.’

  At dinner, Carmensina’s desire to demonstrate her intimate connection with Camilla by speaking to her in Catalan overruled her common sense. It only served to nettle Camilla and it drove James into conversation with Laura. When he realized his mother was not going to intervene – Camilla had opted for the kind of passive paralysis often observed in people watching an accident occur – he was then forced, twice, to intervene himself. On the second occasion he simply said, ‘Carmen … please.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said, reddening slightly, as evidence of her error suddenly tripped off a micro spurt of adrenaline, ‘I’m sorry. I get so carried away and your poor mother has been deprived for months of her second tongue.’

  ‘If you don’t want to speak in English, we can speak in Spanish or French or in Italian,’ Laura said pretending to be helpful.

  ‘No, no, no. I’d much rather speak in English,’ said Carmensina, lighting up another cigarette, something which visibly irritated Camilla.

  ‘Carmensina has issues with Castilian Spanish,’ James said before he could stop himself.

  ‘No,’ Laura said, looking at Carmensina just across the table who held her Marlboro Light in a vice-like grip between two nail-bitten fingers bejewelled with gold rings, ‘That can’t be true.’

  Carmensina gave James a glance of accusation. Then she took a drag on the cigarette, stubbed it out on her butter plate and finished her drink. ‘James exaggerates. My family, some of them, have roots in ancient Cataluña and so there was always a feeling in our household that Spanish was a conqueror’s tongue. There was great resentment during my parents’ generation when Franco had the language banned.’

  At the end of this soliloquy Carmensina affected a faraway look of historical victimization, solemn and almost teary-eyed, that so annoyed her husband he had to fight the temptation to say something, to try to lighten things up. But he knew it would anger her in a way he had no appetite for.

  The anger came anyway as they were driving back to the cottage after dinner. Noelma and the girls were half asleep in the back seat. Carmensina was well oiled with Scotch and wine.

  ‘Why were you so mean to me?’

  ‘I wasn’t mean to you.’

  ‘You were horribly mean. You couldn’t take your eyes off the American woman, speaking with her the whole time.’

  ‘Someone had to speak with her. You were being rude talking with Mamá the whole time in Catalan.’

  ‘What did she want with you after dinner?’

  ‘She said she’d like to speak with me in private tomorrow, for five minutes.’

  ‘What for? It’s your mother who’s paying her. What is that all about? I don’t trust her.’

  ‘You don’t like her. That was pretty obvious for all to see.’

  ‘What – and you do?’

  ‘I’ve very little idea of what she’s like. She seems perfectly nice.’

  ‘So, you are standing up for her.’

  ‘Carmensina, what is wrong with you?’

  ‘Nothing is wrong with me. We’ve come here to have a nice visit with Camilla and all because of this American girl everything has gone wrong.’

  ‘Gone wrong because of you.’

  ‘So, it’s my fault.’

  ‘Yes. Frankly.’

  ‘Stop the car.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd.’

  ‘Stop the car!’r />
  He stopped the car. Noelma and both of the girls were wide-awake at this point. Montse began to whimper. Carmensina swerved around in her seat and yelled at her to be quiet. And as she yelled James hit the button by his left hand that locked all the doors. Carmensina then tried to open hers.

  ‘James, let me out.’

  ‘Will you please calm down? We’ll be there in two minutes.’

  ‘I want to walk. I don’t want to be in the same car with you if you think so little of me.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Open the door.’

  Then she leaned over him and released the door locks herself. For the second she was suspended over his lap, and through the smell of smoke and liquor wafting from her, he also breathed in her own particular scent that had drawn him to her since they first met. It caught him by surprise and filled him with an odd mixture of sadness and arousal. She straightened up, opened her door and got out, slamming it shut again behind her.

  ‘Mother-of-God,’ Noelma murmured to herself in Portuguese.

  James turned around and looked at his daughters. ‘I apologize girls. I’m sorry Mummy is so upset. She’s just having a bad night. I don’t want you to worry. All right?’

  They both studied his face for a few seconds before assenting.

  ‘Where is she going?’ Montse asked.

  ‘She’s angry with me and wants to walk. I’m going to get out too and see if I can change her mind. OK? I won’t be but a minute.’

  He had to jog to catch up with her as she strode along the side of the road entranced by the sensation of having the world against her.

  ‘Carmensina,’ he said, coming alongside her, making a point of not touching her. ‘Please. The girls are upset.’

  She stopped, turned and looked at him with tears in her eyes, ‘I’m upset. You’ve upset me.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I truly am.’

  ‘Go fuck her if you want to.’

  ‘What are you talking about? You’ve had too much to drink.’

  ‘Thanks to you. I need to feel you are there for me. That you are on my side. That I never have to worry about that.’