“You can probably look up directions on the Internet,” I suggested.
She didn’t get the sarcasm and answered, “You’re right! You’re catching on, M Barbier!”
We heard a vehicle pull up on the pebbled drive and honk its horn. “The electrical guys are back,” I said. They stayed for the rest of the morning, Sandrine following them around the house, asking questions and taking notes. The whole house would have to be rewired. They were surprised I was even living in it, given the state it was in.
Chapter Eleven
Aix-en-Provence,
Wednesday, July 6, 2010
It was a long time—perhaps over two years—since Verlaque had been to his friend Jacob’s house, north of Aix. The last time was also for a cigar event, and it was also a warm summer evening. He remembered that Marine had been with him, and how much she liked Jacob’s old stone house. This time he had Jean-Marc with him. Jean-Marc, as a choice, not from necessity, didn’t own a car.
“The only time I’m tempted to buy a car is when I’m in yours,” Jean-Marc said, running his hand along the 1963 Porsche’s padded dashboard.
“Seriously?” Verlaque asked as he veered the car to the right at a fork in the road. The top was down, and they could hear cigales in the trees. “I thought you hated cars.”
Jean-Marc shook his head. “Actually, I really like cars—well, at least beautifully made ones like this. But I’m a practical man, Antoine, and I live downtown. When I do the math and calculate how much per month a car would cost, with the garage rental, and gas and insurance, I realize I’m far better off renting one on those rare weekends when I need a car.”
“I get it,” Verlaque replied.
“And thank goodness for Monoprix grocery delivery,” Jean-Marc said, laughing. He leaned his head out into the warm evening air and looked at the valley as it rose and fell below the road, bright green vineyards dotted with silvery olive trees. “This is a beautiful part of Provence.”
“That’s exactly what Marine said when we went to Jacob’s a few years ago. And it’s only twenty minutes north of Aix.” Even though Jean-Marc was Marine’s childhood friend, Verlaque felt like he too had known the mellow lawyer for years. Jean-Marc impressed Verlaque with his calmness and his easy acceptance of others’, and his own, situation in life. He had once had a live-in lover, Pierre, but they were no longer together. And yet Jean-Marc never complained, remaining ever the discreet and dependable friend. If Verlaque had become a better person since he met Marine—and he knew he had—it was partly due to Jean-Marc’s kindness and steadfastness.
“Marine sent me a text message this morning about meeting Valère Barbier,” Jean-Marc said. “She seemed rather impressed with him. Is it true he’s coming this evening?”
“Yes, if he can find his way. I gave Marine directions to forward to him since it was her insane idea to invite him.”
“Insane idea? You’re not okay with it?”
Verlaque sighed. “The cigar club is sacred to me,” he began, trying to find the words to explain himself. He glanced over and saw his friend nod in agreement, so he continued, “With you guys, I’m no longer a magistrate—”
“You’re one of the guys. And Virginie?”
Verlaque laughed. “Including our glorious, cigar-loving pharmacist, Virginie. I can let my hair down at the club, as the Americans say. I’m not a Parisian, or a judge, or the son of a wealthy industrialist. I’m just Antoine, another crazy person who closes his eyes when he starts to smoke a Cuban cigar and all his worries seem to disappear.”
“I think we all share that feeling,” Jean-Marc said. “You wanted to keep the club to yourself, so to speak. And Valère Barbier isn’t one of us.”
“He very well could be,” Verlaque said. “But right now he’s living next to my commissioner, and I’ve sort of linked Barbier to work, as silly as that seems.” He slowed the car and turned into a pebbled drive lined with plane and umbrella pine trees. At the end of the drive the large but unpretentious old house appeared, and Verlaque parked the Porsche beside a black Mercedes he didn’t recognize.
“Paris license plate,” Jean-Marc said as he got out of the car and looked at the back of the Mercedes. “It must be the Great Man’s.”
Verlaque laughed. “He’d better get rid of those Parisian plates if he wants his car to stay in one piece around here.” They walked to the back of the house, along a stone path lined in lavender that was blooming and at its peak. Fat, ecstatic bees flew in and out of the flowers. When the men got to the end of the path, they stopped and looked at the stone terrace, where a group was gathered, drinking champagne and smoking cigars.
“Oh, mon dieu,” Jean-Marc whispered, having immediately recognized Barbier. “Fabrice and Julien have Valère Barbier cornered.” Jean-Marc looked at Verlaque with worry. “What do you think they’re saying?”
“When I told you my misgivings about inviting Barbier here this evening,” Verlaque replied, “I wasn’t being entirely honest.”
Jean-Marc grinned. “You were worried about what some of our members might say to Barbier—”
“Yep. Kind of.”
“Well, let’s go get some champagne and find out.”
They walked across the terrace, exchanging bises with fellow club members and choosing cigars from a wooden Partagás box that Virginie held open for them. “One of my clients was just in Cuba,” she said. “The cigars are half the price there.”
“For now,” Verlaque said, “until the embargo is lifted. Then they’ll be expensive even in Cuba. Thank you so much for bringing these.”
“Antoine, come here!” Fabrice hollered.
Verlaque excused himself and walked with Jean-Marc to where Fabrice and Julien—best friends and both in their early sixties—had more or less cornered the writer with their imposing stomachs. Fabrice, the club’s president, took Verlaque by the arm and asked, “Antoine, what’s
