“Bonjour,” Verlaque replied, looking around in awe. “I’ve lived in Aix for years, but never knew—”
“Yes,” the artisan answered. “Many people don’t know. I don’t advertise.” He had a trace of a Spanish accent.
“You’re a blacksmith?”
“Yes. I’ve made these objects, and I take commissions for bigger objects too. Furniture, gates—things like that.”
Verlaque saw candelabras, trivets, fireplace utensils. None of those things interested him, but the idea of a gate for their future country house did. “I’ll come back with my wife,” he said.
“I’d be delighted,” the blacksmith said.
Verlaque turned to go and then saw, in a corner of the covered terrace, a rickety green wooden bookshelf. “Used books?” he asked.
“Yes, I have too many books,” the blacksmith answered. “So every now and then I sell them.”
Verlaque could see that some of the bindings were old, and he bent down, his head tilted to one side, to read their titles. Insolite certainly suited this shop and its owner: “out of the ordinary.” A blacksmith and a bibliophile. Down a narrow hallway in Aix. An unmarked door. And then Verlaque saw it: Red Earth. He had no idea where his own copy was. Not at his apartment. Possibly in a box in Paris. He saw that the clothbound book was old and gently pulled it out, opening it to the copyright page: 1975. It was a first edition, and was signed, in a flourish of black ink, under the publishing house’s name, by Valère Barbier. “How much?” Verlaque asked, holding up the book. He hoped his voice sounded casual.
The blacksmith smiled. “It’s a signed first edition.”
“So it is,” Verlaque said, laughing.
“But I need the money. I’ll sell it to you for fifty euros.”
“Sold,” Verlaque said, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket, thankful that he had gone to a bank machine that morning. It would be a great gift for Marine, and he could show it that evening to M Barbier, who had left a message via Bruno Paulik saying that, yes, many thanks, he would attend the cigar meeting. Verlaque turned to the last page, eager to remind himself of those words he had so adored when he was a teenager, the flâneur wandering around Paris, blissfully unaware of the kind of life that lay ahead for him.
Chapter Ten
New York City,
September 22, 2010
I’d like you to go back a bit,” Justin said, leaning away so the waiter could set the lamb medallions in front of him.
“Where to?” Valère asked, already cutting his lamb.
“The part about Michèle’s taxi driver making the sign of the cross before heading up the drive.” Justin carefully cut a small piece of lamb and dabbed it in the dark-red jus. He couldn’t believe he was here, eating in this restaurant, hearing these stories from Valère Barbier’s own mouth. Except for the comings and goings of the waitstaff and the discreet sommelier, Justin felt like he was alone, in a bubble, with Barbier; he had no idea if the restaurant was full or empty, or even what time it was. He was wearing a watch but didn’t want to look at it and risk appearing rude or bored.
“Are you superstitious too?”
“I’m Chinese American,” Justin said. “Of course I am.”
Valère laughed and picked up his wine, taking what Justin thought was too big a sip. More of a gulp. “Good choice, this Châteauneuf-du-Pape.”
“Thanks.”
Valère wiped his mouth and continued.
Bon. The next morning Sandrine showed up, as I suspected she might. Despite her threats, she’s too hard a worker not to—and, well, I sort of threatened to fire her if she didn’t. Don’t look at me like that, Justin. I had no choice: I needed Sandrine. There was too much to do, and, yes, I didn’t want to stay alone in the house with Michèle. I yawned continuously as Sandrine made coffee, and when she handed me my bowl of café au lait, I said, “Thank you, Sandrine,” looking her in the eye. “Thank you for everything.” That’s exactly what I said.
She smiled, recognizing my apology. “I won’t leave you, M Barbier.” That’s exactly what she said. Did she sense what was going on? Did she know about the nighttime visitations? I could hear Michèle snoring in the big salon, and I thought it might be a good time to fill Sandrine in. She must have wondered why I was always so exhausted in the morning. “Sandrine, this place, at night . . .”
She stopped buttering a baguette, set the knife down, and looked at me. “Oui?” she asked.
I rubbed my face, hoping what I was about to say wouldn’t sound completely insane. I may write fiction, but I do know that ghosts do not exist. “There’s someone else here, in the house,” I began. “They pull at my bedcovers, they walk around at night, and last night the . . . person, or whatever it is, whispered in my ear as I slept.”
Sandrine raised an eyebrow and began to spread apricot jam on the bread. She handed me a piece and said, “I’m not surprised.”
“What? You don’t think I’m crazy?”
She shrugged. “Don’t you remember what happened to me in the cellar, M Barbier? And, well, they talk about this place in the village—”
“They do?”
“Well, sure. Gérald couldn’t believe I took a job here.”
“Who in the world is Gérald?”
“The mechanic who fixed Clochette!”
Justin, Sandrine has this annoying habit of saying something out of the blue and expecting
