“No,” I answered slowly. “They were more up here,” I said, pointing to my forehead. “Émile Zola once told his friend Paul Cézanne that he, Cézanne, was more talented because he painted with his heart while Zola wrote with his head.”
Sandrine listened, furrowed her brow, and then smiled, understanding what Zola meant. “And you kept writing romances.”
I wished she would stop calling them romances. In the trade they’re referred to as “contemporary women’s fiction.” “I did. Especially after the success of Another Day. I found writing those books an emotional release. Cheaper than therapy.”
“They made you feel good.”
“Exactly.” I didn’t add, “and rich.”
“That’s why I love cleaning,” she said. I tried not to look surprised. She went on, “I’m helping other people, and it makes me feel good. I can organize their stuff, so they feel better about themselves too.”
I lifted my glass to hers and gently tapped it. “You have already, Sandrine. Thank you.”
“How did Mme Barbier die?” This question, people usually don’t ask. They either know, because it was all over the press, or they don’t want to ask.
“We’re not sure.”
Now it was her turn to look at me, surprised.
I continued, “The case was never solved; in fact, it’s still open. Agathe fell into the sea. At least that’s how I remember that night. We were on my publisher’s sailboat—Alphonse Pelloquin was his name. He died of cancer a few years ago. We had all had a lot to drink, and it was late. The waves were choppy, though they hadn’t been earlier. I was down below, having a nap . . .”
Sandrine stared into her wineglass, silent. A whining noise and the sound of crunching gravel came from off in the distance. Soon a tiny light approached the house, getting closer and closer. It was our pizza.
The little moped, with one of those bright-red wooden boxes attached to its rear, stopped about ten feet from us, at the end of my driveway. The delivery guy got off, and took our pizza from the box. I had the money ready, and we met halfway. He slowly took off his helmet, and I could see he was a kid, maybe twenty. He stared at me, and gulped before speaking. “M Barbier,” he began, “it is . . . an honor.”
“To bring me my pizza?” I asked, trying to laugh. I think the whiskey and wine were getting to me.
The kid laughed and handed me the pizza. “No, it’s an honor to sort of meet you,” he said. He reached out with his skinny hand, and I shook it. I was going to ask him if his name was Dylan, and then chastise him for writing on the living room walls, but he introduced himself as Thomas.
“How do you do, Thomas,” I said. I realized that in all the commotion I had used my real name when ordering the pizza. Usually I’m M Dupin. George Sand was born Aurore Dupin.
“I just want to say,” Thomas said, his voice cracking, “that Red Earth is my favorite book of all time.”
I turned around, hoping that Sandrine wouldn’t burst in and want to talk about Postcard Romance, but she was busy lighting candles on the terrace table.
“I’m thrilled,” I replied earnestly.
“We had to read it in high school,” he said. “But I want you to know that I’ve kept reading it, over and over, since then.” He gestured toward the scooter and said, “I’m doing this for a summer job.”
I nodded. “Good man. Having a summer job is important. What are you doing in the fall?”
“Going into my second year of prépa.”
“Clothilde did prépa!” Justin cut in. “Pure hell, she called it.”
“That’s exactly what it is, a hellish two years of study—préparation, in order to try to pass the entrance exams into une grande école.”
“Yeah, but if you get in, those elite schools are free, aren’t they?” Justin asked.
Valère chuckled. “If you gain entry into one of them, they’re not only free; you’re paid a salary. For being a student! I asked Thomas which school he wanted to go to.”
“Sciences Po,” Thomas answered. “I want to be a journalist.”
Sciences Po is—yes, you’re right, Justin—a political science school, with lots of courses in the humanities. “I wish you all the very best,” I said to Thomas, shaking his hand again. “And please be careful on that contraption.” I pointed to the scooter.
“I will, M Barbier!” he shouted, as he put his helmet back on. I wanted to offer him some kind of job around the house, gardening or something, to get him off that thing. Maybe I would. I was a new man, one who wasn’t getting any sleep, but one who was very different from his former depressive Parisian self.
“Oh là là,” Sandrine called over. “Are we eating a cold pizza or what?”
Chapter Seven
Aix-en-Provence,
Monday, July 5, 2010
Instead of taking the tiny passage Agard, normally the quickest way back to the Palais de Justice, Bruno Paulik walked along the rue Thiers, one of his favorite streets in Aix. He liked the elegant but faded hotels that lined the curved street, and the fact that here there were still mom-and-pop stores that had been around for decades. He walked into one of them now, a shoe store called Cendrillon, which he remembered being dragged to by his mother and older sisters on Saturday shopping trips into Aix. “Bonjour, mesdames,” he said politely to the other shoppers—all female, all looking at him curiously—as he carefully closed the door behind him.
“Ah, bonjour, monsieur le Commissaire,” said a well-preserved woman in her late sixties who was helping another woman choose a pair of dress shoes.
“I’m here for my daughter,” he explained.
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” the saleswoman answered.
“You go ahead,” her client said, “while I try walking around the store in these shoes a
