Julien said, “I think—”
“Shut up, Julien,” Fabrice said.
“Pleased to meet you,” Verlaque said, reaching a hand toward Barbier. “I’m Antoine Verlaque, Marine’s husband.”
“Delighted to meet you too,” Valère said, shaking the judge’s hand.
“Antoine?” Fabrice asked. “Which one?”
“Well, that all depends,” Verlaque said. “I always think one’s favorite book or film coincides with how old one was when one read or watched it, especially the first time. A few years down the road, you can change your mind, and another book might become your favorite.”
Fabrice waved his hands. “Please give a yes or no answer and none of this diplomatic wishy-washy stuff.”
“We have money riding on this,” Julien added.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Verlaque said. He looked at Jean-Marc, who was smiling. “Red Earth,” he said.
Fabrice raised his hands in the air and yelled.
“Thanks,” Julien said. “I just lost fifty euros.” The two friends—who were both financially well off, Fabrice thanks to dozens of plumbing stores across the South of France, and Julien courtesy of a string of luxury used-car lots—seemed to always be betting. Verlaque had the feeling they never actually paid each other, or if they did, that it all came out in the wash. Each seemed to win as often as he’d lose.
Verlaque continued, “But The Receptionist is a very close second, and one of my favorite films.”
Fabrice leaned toward Valère, drawing him in close to him with his arm. Verlaque cringed. Fabrice went on, “As you well know, Alain Denis was in that film. Antoine here, our examining magistrate, was on the Île Sordou a few summers ago, trying to have a nice quiet holiday, when Denis—”
“That’s enough, Fabrice,” Verlaque said, smiling, trying to be light. He thought of his conversation with Jean-Marc in the car. As he’d feared, he was no longer simply Antoine: Fabrice was casting him as the examining magistrate.
Jean-Marc joined in. “As a lawyer, Fabrice, I advise you to stop talking.”
“Judge? Lawyer?” Valère said. “Is everyone in this club involved in the law?”
Verlaque looked at the famous writer, detecting the tiniest bit of . . . apprehension? Nervousness? Even a slight distaste? But it wasn’t the first time this had happened during a social occasion. He was used to it.
Verlaque walked away to drop some of his cigar ash into an ashtray. Jean-Marc joined him and whispered, “We needn’t have worried. Both Fabrice and Julien seem to have read Barbier’s better books.”
Verlaque smiled. “Never judge a book by its cover.”
“That’s another thing I love about this club,” Jean-Marc said. “We come from all walks of life; some of us have multiple diplomas, some of us none, but it doesn’t matter when we are together.”
The wind picked up, and the group was forced to move inside for dinner. Jacob had ordered lamb couscous from a small Moroccan restaurant in Aix, and, as usual, each member of the club had a role to play in helping to prepare for dinner, whether it was cutting the bread, setting the table, opening wine bottles, or—Julien’s specialty—folding the linen napkins into funny shapes.
The conversation moved from food and wine to local politics, with Valère Barbier sometimes taking part in the conversation but more often just sitting back and listening intently. Verlaque thought this polite behavior for a first-time guest and was impressed. Barbier’s star quality diminished after a few glasses of wine, and by the end of the meal and their second, much larger cigar Barbier was not a famous writer but just another cigar lover and epicurean.
“When did you start smoking cigars?” Virginie asked Valère after dinner, in Jacob’s living room. Verlaque remembered this room from his previous visit: long, with thick stone walls, honey-colored oak beams, and original highly polished terra-cotta floors.
Valère took a long, slow puff of the Hoyo de Monterrey double corona and leaned his head back. “I was in Cuba, in 1982. I had just won a prize, in France—”
“Mr. Modest,” Jacob said, smiling. “It was the Prix Goncourt.”
“Yes, it was,” Valère replied, nodding. “And I was invited to Havana because my Spanish translations were selling well there. My publicist and publisher were thrilled to come along—they were cigar smokers. Well, we spent a lot of time waiting for Fidel—we were supposed to meet him—and it became a joke. Instead of waiting for Godot, we were waiting for Fidel.”
“Huh?” Fabrice asked Julien, louder than he meant to.
“I think it’s a book,” Julien whispered back, shrugging.
“It’s a play, you dolts,” said Gaspard, a law student and the club’s youngest member.
Verlaque looked over at Jean-Marc, who was looking at his knees, his shoulders heaving and his face red from suppressed laughter.
Valère crossed a leg and continued: “To pass the time, the other guys smoked, and I loved the smell. After the second day, I looked around me, and said to myself, Valère, either you can try one or you can be an idiot and just sit here twiddling your thumbs and miss out on experiencing all this fabulous island has to offer. To break me in, they wisely chose a smooth Romeo y Julieta double corona—it’s still one of my favorite cigars. Whenever I smoke one, it takes me back to those humid afternoons, sitting on the rocking chairs that lined the hotel’s roof terrace, with that big, crazy, pastel, multicolored city laid out before us. One of my regrets in life is not having bought a house in Havana.”
“That’s difficult, isn’t it?” José, a writer for La Provence, asked. “You have to be married to a Cuban.”
“Alas, yes,” Valère replied.
“And so, what happened?” Virginie asked.
“Oh, I got hooked,” Valère replied. “I started reading about the history of cigars, and we visited some of the factories, and I’ve smoked Cubans ever since.”
Virginie laughed. “No, I meant with meeting Fidel.”
“Ah. He was a no-show,” Valère said. “After five days it became clear to us that he wasn’t coming, and we were only going to be there for a week. So we explored the city as much as we could. On
