I practically had to pull myself up the stairs by the banister. I scowled at the lady in the pink dress, who seemed to be having such a good time watching me and the cast of characters who came and went in and out of my house. I brushed my teeth and got dressed for bed, too tired even to read. But for the first time in a few days, I wasn’t frightened to go to sleep. Sandrine’s hysterics in the cellar and now Michèle’s marathon up the lane made me see how ridiculous we were all being. It was an old house in the country, just like the Pauliks’ house, and I would bet my fortune that all three of them were already sound asleep, with no imaginary goings-on. I turned off the light and could vaguely hear Michèle downstairs, chatting to herself and moving about. I fell asleep to voices and conversations in my head—most writers will tell you this. It’s often dialogue you’re working on—your characters never give you a break—but since I wasn’t working on a book, the voices that accompanied me as I tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable, were the Pauliks’, the children’s, Marine Bonnet’s, and mine and Michèle’s. And, of course, Sandrine’s “I don’t trust her.” Again, just like the taxi driver’s, a Provençal hunch; a superstition.
I don’t remember falling asleep—who does?—but I do remember waking up. I always will. I woke up with the very vivid impression that wet lips had been whispering in my right ear. They had spoken quickly, and with much forced importance, for some time. I couldn’t even tell what the language was. French? English? I couldn’t move. The voice stopped, as did the humid sensation in my ear. “Michèle?” I whispered. I held the sheet up around my chin, and my heart pounded against my pajama top. I closed my eyes and must have fallen back asleep, as I later awoke with the distinct impression that someone had laid a hand on my right shoulder. This time, I shot out of bed and ran out of the room.
I stood at the top of the stairs, panting. Turning on the lights, I ran down the hall to Michèle’s room and swung open the door. Her bed was empty and still made up. “Michèle!” I called out. “I know that was you!” I flew down the stairs, turning right at the bottom, to go into the big salon. Michèle was sprawled across the sofa with a half-empty bottle of sixteen-year-old Lagavulin sitting on the floor beside her. Was she faking it, Justin? If so, she was pretty good at fake snoring. The noise she was making would have woken up any ghost wandering around the house! I pulled a small mohair blanket over her and poured myself a glass of whiskey and took it to my office, where I spent the rest of the night reading, on the Mies daybed, rubbing my right ear, trying to rid it of that most unpleasant feeling.
Chapter Nine
Aix-en-Provence,
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
I can’t believe you invited Valère Barbier to my cigar club!” Verlaque hollered to Marine from the bedroom. He fluffed up two pillows, wanting to read a little poetry before turning off the light. He had a headache. Fabrice and Julien had argued all night about the potential clubhouse, each detesting the other’s choices and prerequisites. And yet they were best friends. Four of them—Fabrice, Julien, Jean-Marc, and Verlaque—had visited three apartments with a young, very patient realtor who had carefully chosen what he thought would suit the club’s demands: a large kitchen and dining space for at least sixteen members, a fitted bathroom, a terrace, and a salon. Fabrice insisted the salon be big enough for each member, or almost each one, to have his or her own leather club chair. Julien and Verlaque thought that impossible, and ridiculous. Jean-Marc, ever the diplomat, tried to argue both sides.
“I know!” Marine called from the bathroom. “Wasn’t that a good idea?!”
“No!” Verlaque called back. “It’s tomorrow night, as you know, and I have to check with the club about whether I can bring a guest. It has to be approved.”
“Who wouldn’t approve Valère Barbier?” Marine finished brushing her teeth and made a gurgling sound, then spit into the sink.
“That’s not the point,” Verlaque yelled. “It could be Queen Elizabeth—or, let’s say, Winston Churchill back from the dead—and I still couldn’t invite them without approval.”
Marine laughed through the bathroom door. “That’s ridiculous,” she said. “You’d think you guys were some kind of elite top secret club, like the CIA or MI6 or something.”
“I couldn’t hear you,” Verlaque called. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.” Marine began to change for bed.
“You don’t need to wear a nightgown,” Verlaque called. “It’s hotter than Hades in here. A fourth-floor downtown apartment in July . . .” If the poetry didn’t cure his headache, perhaps a little . . .
Marine appeared, wearing a long cotton nightgown with big blue letters across the chest: BONNE NUIT.
“Good night?” Verlaque asked. “Not my favorite nightgown. I guess you’re too tired to make love?”
“I don’t feel that great,” Marine said.
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Verlaque said as Marine got into bed. He kissed her forehead and held her hand. “I hope you had fun this evening?”
“Yes, it turned out to be full of surprises, with all of us, including Rosalie di Santi, eating at the Pauliks’.”
Verlaque sat up. “Rosalie di Santi? For real?”
Marine laughed. “In all her glory.”
“What’s she like?”
“Very droll,” Marine answered. “We had a very interesting discussion about form versus story when writing—”
“That sounds more interesting than Julien and Fabrice arguing about whether our clubhouse needs two ovens or one, or a gas or induction burner—”
“You guys are so spoiled. So many people in the world don’t even have clean water.”
“That’s beside the point.”
“I know,” Marine said. “I like your cigar club, which is why I thought Valère would like
