It was almost nine when Bruno Paulik walked quickly across the café’s crowded terrace, among the wicker chairs and round tables protected from the sun by a red awning. He knew his friends would be inside, and he didn’t have time to say hello or give the bise to acquaintances who might recognize him as Aix’s police commissioner. He almost ran into a black-tied waiter coming out of the café, carrying a tray full of coffee and fresh-squeezed orange juice. “Bonjour, Frédéric,” Paulik said, standing aside and holding the door.
“Bonjour, monsieur le Commissaire,” the waiter answered, winking. “You’re lucky—your friend the judge hasn’t yet eaten all the brioches.”
“Save me two, Frédéric.” Bruno walked in, making his way to the far corner, across the black-and-white floor covered with a light layer of sawdust. The café’s golden-lit interior had remained unchanged for decades.
“Salut, Bruno!” Antoine Verlaque bellowed from their usual table. He held up a small basket and shook it. “Sorry, the brioches are all gone.” The Mazarin only served pastries from Michaud’s, across the street and arguably Aix’s best patisserie.
“Liar,” Bruno answered, setting his briefcase down on an empty chair. He gave the bise to Marine and shook hands with Verlaque and Jean-Marc.
“It’s nice to see you here, Bruno,” Marine said. “A new Monday morning ritual?”
“Perhaps.” Bruno sat down, ordered an espresso from another waiter, and put his large hands on the table. “I’ll get straight to the punch,” he said. “You’ll never guess who our new neighbor is.”
“At La Bastide Blanche?” Jean-Marc asked.
“Yes,” Bruno said, looking over his shoulder for the waiter.
Verlaque said, “Ah, so the unnamed buyer has revealed himself?”
“Or herself,” Marine quickly added.
Bruno thanked Frédéric, who had just arrived with two brioches on a white porcelain plate.
“I only had one,” Verlaque said, pointing to the brioches.
“You really are such a bad liar,” Marine said, laughing. “Continue, Bruno.”
“So guess who it is,” Bruno said, pausing to take a bite of brioche.
“Let’s play twenty questions,” Marine suggested. “Obviously, they are famous. A family?”
“No.”
“A man?” Jean-Marc asked.
“Yes.”
“An actor?” Verlaque asked. “Aix is being overrun. I wish they’d all move back to Saint-Tropez or the Luberon. One of the secretaries at the Palais de Justice saw Brad Pitt on the Cours the other day.”
“No.”
“Not an actor, then. A soccer star?” Marine asked.
“No, but good guess.”
“You’re only supposed to say yes or no, Bruno,” Verlaque said. “A politician?”
“No.”
“A writer?” Jean-Marc asked.
“Yes.”
Marine clapped. “This is exciting. Does he write fiction?”
“Yes.”
Marine continued, “Do I like his books?”
Bruno set down his half-eaten brioche and looked up to the ceiling. “Yes. No.”
She looked at him with a furrowed brow. “You don’t know?”
Bruno shrugged.
“He can only answer yes or no,” Verlaque said, laughing.
“Marine may like some of his books but not others?” Jean-Marc suggested.
“Yes!”
“Because after winning all kinds of awards and having his books made into films he switched genres!” Marine said.
Verlaque snorted.
“Yes,” replied Bruno.
“Holy cow,” Jean-Marc said. He was a shy and thoughtful man, and “holy cow” was as profane as he ever got. “It’s Valère Barbier.”
Bruno nodded. He couldn’t speak; he was finishing the brioche.
“That’s quite a scoop,” Marine said. “What is the Great Man like?”
“A little awkward at first,” Bruno replied after swallowing. “We met him down by the mailbox, and he was having a hard time looking us in the eye. But he took a shine to Léa and out of the blue invited us for tea the next day.”
“You got inside the house?” Verlaque asked.
“Did you see Agathe Barbier’s pots?” Marine asked.
“Or Valère Barbier’s awards?” Jean-Marc asked, leaning forward.
“Photos with Mitterrand? Or Jacques Brel?” Verlaque asked. “Barbier apparently had many all-nighters with Brel and Georges Brassens. I think I took up cigars because of Barbier.”
Bruno motioned with his hands. “One question at a time, please.”
“When I was a law student, I used part of my monthly bursary to buy an Agathe Barbier bowl,” Marine said. “A very small one.”
“That I once used for cereal,” Verlaque added.
“Yeah, well, let’s just say you’re lucky I forgave and married you,” Marine said.
“You have an Agathe Barbier piece?” Jean-Marc asked. “You couldn’t buy one now.”
“Do you guys remember where you were when you first read The Receptionist?” Verlaque asked. “Barbier’s books were so important for our generation.”
“In the barn,” Bruno said.
The group laughed, and he continued, “No kidding. I would sneak off from chores and read it. I hid it under a pile of burlap sacks.”
“I don’t remember how old I was when I read the book, but I sure do remember seeing Alain Denis in the film,” Jean-Marc said. “It was love at first sight.”
Marine smiled. “Me too.”
“In answer to your questions,” Bruno continued, “the house is still very much in a move-in state. Boxes everywhere, some vintage designer furniture, but no big terra-cotta pots, no awards, no celebrity photographs. The house is imposing from the outside and has always freaked us out a bit by its sheer size. But the inside is very different—just as big but so worn down and . . . faded . . . that it’s charming. The walls are peeling, revealing layers of paint—blue to green to pink then pale yellow—and many of the old floor tiles are broken. They clank as you walk over them. You can imagine a Vogue photographer shooting there with five or six skinny models wearing flowing white dresses, one of them with a parrot perched on her forearm.”
Verlaque raised an eyebrow.
“Hélène buys Vogue from time to time. Anyway, the house has lots of potential,” Bruno said as he bit into the second brioche.
“What did you talk about?” Marine asked.
“We hardly had time to talk,” Bruno said. “Barbier went out to the kitchen, and by the time he came back we had to leave.”
“Why?” the trio asked in unison.
“Léa had gone up the stairs to look at a fresco, and she came back acting like she had just seen a ghost. She
