Sandrine looked at the men and said, “I’ll leave you two and go clean up our lunch dishes.”
Verlaque nodded, and Valère led him to the edge of the terrace, where a wrought-iron table and four chairs were set out. “Please, take a seat,” Valère said.
“Thank you,” Verlaque said, sitting down and looking out over the view of purple lavender, silver olive trees, deep green vines.
“May I tell you how charming I think your wife is?” Valère asked.
Verlaque nodded. “It’s the best decision I ever made. Thank you.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small leather cigar carrier, big enough for two coronas. He slipped off the lid and held it out to Valère. “Please,” Verlaque said. “Friends of mine buy these in Havana. They’re hand rolled by a guy named Gustavo.”
“Gustavo! In that little room up above Villa Conde’s courtyard!” Valère said. “I haven’t had one of these in a while.” He reached in and gently pulled one out. They cut and lit their cigars. Valère crossed his legs and sat back. “Marine, your wife, reminds me of Agathe.”
“Really?”
“She’s beautiful but she doesn’t know it. Or doesn’t flaunt it. They’re both tall women too—unusual in our country. Is Marine Breton?”
“One grandmother was,” Verlaque answered. “That’s where she gets her height and auburn hair and green eyes.”
“Marine is beautiful, and Agathe was beautiful in a strange way; she was taller than the Parisian girls, and she had a long straight nose and high forehead that made her look quite regal. She didn’t have the pouty lips and upturned nose that so many Parisian girls have.”
Verlaque laughed.
Valère, encourage by his attentive listener, went on. “To her I was a renegade, a kid from the 13th arrondissement whose mother worked as a nurse and whose father died in World War II, the guy always writing bits of verse on the backs of envelopes and little bits of paper he found. That was her nickname for me—Lambeau. Scrappy.”
Verlaque smiled. It was a good nickname. “The beginnings of a writer . . .”
“Agathe worked harder than I did; she had more originality,” Valère quickly said. “I knew early on what the critics would like, what kind of book would make more famous writers pat me on the back and refill my whiskey glass.”
Verlaque couldn’t figure out why Valère’s mood had suddenly soured. “But you won the Prix Goncourt.”
“Popularity contest. I also received the Légion d’honneur and was on the short list for a Nobel in 1987—but lost to Wole Soyinka, for obvious political reasons.”
Verlaque laughed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That must have been tough.”
“My ego was bruised—that’s all. I laughed it off, and Agathe said, ‘A little group of sixteen or eighteen Swedish nationalists might be able to pick the year’s best Swedish author, but how can they ever really know what’s best in the entire world’s literature, with all its styles and different traditions?’”
“Nineteen eighty-seven.” Verlaque knocked some white ash into the ashtray. He looked at Valère and waited.
“Yes. A year later Agathe was dead.”
Sandrine came out, carrying a bottle of cold mineral water and two glasses. “Perfect, thank you,” Valère said. “You’re missing the—”
“Whiskey,” Sandrine said. “I couldn’t carry it. I didn’t forget. I’ll be right back.”
Verlaque said, “I hear that Mme Baudouin is still in a coma.”
“Yes,” Valère replied, nodding. “I called this morning.”
“How well do you know Mlle Matton?” Verlaque asked after Sandrine had gone through the front door.
Valère looked surprised. “She’s the niece of my friend and lawyer, Guillaume Matton. I’ve known him for years.”
“But not her.”
“No, that’s true,” Valère answered. “But Matton would hardly have recommended her if she were . . . troublesome . . . or unreliable.”
“She seems to think that your house is haunted.”
Valère shrugged. “I’m at a loss to explain what’s been going on around here, and Sandrine’s ideas—however New Age they may seem—are worth a try at this point. I can’t handle another sleepless night.”
Verlaque crossed his legs and looked up at the house before asking, “Is it possible that Mlle Matton is trying to frighten you?”
Valère shook his head. “It started before she got here. Almost as soon as I moved in.”
Verlaque noted that Sandrine Matton may have known—thanks to her uncle—the exact day that Valère took possession of the house. “Can you think of anyone else who might want you out of the house?”
Sandrine came back out with a bottle of Laphroaig, curtsied, and left.
“Merci, Sandrine!” Valère called after her. “Few people even know I’ve left Paris,” he continued.
“What exactly has been happening here?” Verlaque asked. “Can you explain it to me?”
Valère sat back and began describing to the judge the odd goings-on at night. He was relieved that Verlaque nodded and listened carefully, not passing judgment.
“You realize there may be logical explanations for these incidents,” Verlaque said once Valère had finished.
“I know, I know. The wiring is older than the hills; it needs to be completely redone. That could explain the lights going on and off. And I know that old houses make noises. But what about the voices? The impression of another body on my bed?”
“Who gains from trying to frighten you? Is there anyone who hates you?”
Valère laughed.
“Someone angry at you?”
“Yes,” Valère slowly answered. “But she’s dead.”
Chapter Fourteen
Aix-en-Provence,
Thursday, July 7, 2010
Marine was a great believer in following a recipe, down to the minute details. Like many daughters of well-educated women who grew up in France in the 1970s, she wasn’t taught how to cook. Her mother, Florence Bonnet, a noted theologian and professor at Aix’s university, believed the right to work and attend university had been earned by French women after the Second World War. Her daughter would be free from the shackles of the country-house kitchen, as she herself had been.
Marine laid a bottle of olive oil on the Elle recipe page, to keep it flat and stop it from turning. She had borrowed the magazine from Sylvie, who was a subscriber
