I must have finally stopped thinking about all these people and drifted off, because the next thing I remember was being woken up by a breeze that blew over my right ear. I swatted at it, thinking it was a mosquito or a fly. I rolled over and tried to get back to sleep. The breeze now blew over my left ear. I was about to roll over again when I heard whispering. I lay there as still as I could and heard the whisper again. Was it my name? I opened my eyes but couldn’t see anything; there was only a sliver of a moon and the room was quite dark. “Valère,” the voice sounded again, and the breeze was closer to my face now. I closed my eyes, hoping it was a dream, too afraid to move. “Valère,” it said, and I felt warmth on my neck, warm and moist air, from someone breathing.
“Bugger this!” I yelled and reached up into the night air with my right hand, ready to grab at whatever beast was breathing on me. A hand suddenly grabbed my own, with a grip stronger than mine could ever be. “Let go!” I yelled, struggling to sit up. “Get the hell out of my house!”
“Valère!” the voice called out. A woman’s voice.
“Agathe!” I answered. Was I dreaming? Why was Agathe at my bedside? “Let go of me!” But the hand held mine even tighter.
“Stop it, Valère!”
“I’m sorry, Agathe!” I called out. I may have been weeping by this point.
The hand suddenly let go, and my head fell back on the pillow. I was drenched in sweat. A light came on, the bedside light. I kept my eyes closed.
“M Barbier.”
I opened my eyes and turned my head. It was Sandrine. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I called you by your Christian name. But you were screaming in your sleep.”
“Thank Christ,” I said, closing my eyes again. “I thought you were . . . I’m not sure . . .”
Sandrine stayed respectfully quiet. Who knows what she thought.
“The breeze . . .” I muttered.
“I couldn’t find the light switch,” Sandrine said. She was now laughing. “That damn lamp! The switch is a mile down on the cord!”
I started laughing too, my eyes still closed. “You need to fix it for me, Sandrine. Do you do minor electrical repairs?”
She laughed. “That is beyond my capacity, M Barbier.”
I rubbed my eyes and tried to sit up, but was too exhausted. “Stay still,” she ordered. “I’ll get you a glass of water.”
“Erwan,” I said. “I must have woken him up too.”
“I’ll go and check,” Sandrine said. She got up from beside the bed—she had been kneeling on the cold tile floor—and left the room. I heard her knock on Erwan’s door then call his name. In a few seconds, she was back. “We have a problem, M Barbier,” she said from the doorway. “Your stepson is gone.”
I lifted my head and looked at Sandrine, shocked by her announcement. I sunk my head back into the pillow, knowing that I wouldn’t sleep anymore that night. But there was something about Sandrine’s appearance that bothered me.
Chapter Eighteen
Aix-en-Provence,
Saturday, July 9, 2010
Marine loved taking her mother out for lunch. Her parents rarely dined in restaurants, and in fact Marine knew that Florence Bonnet really didn’t care about food. She was now retired, but when Marine was growing up her mother had poured all her energy into her teaching and research at Aix’s university. Marine was proud of her working mother, and used to show off Florence’s articles to her friends. It didn’t matter that the articles were published in little-read, albeit important, theological journals across the world. She loved seeing her mother’s name, Dr. Florence Bonnet, in print, and knew that she herself had a doctorate in part thanks to her upbringing, in which books and ideas and learning were the most important things in life.
When Marine started teaching and became independent, she found that there were other things that made life worth living too. Good food, and sharing it with friends, was one of them. Her mother didn’t have the reflex to dine out, so in return for indulging her caprice Marine would subtly pay the bill once they had finished eating. Sometimes their lunches didn’t happen every week; Florence was still busy editing articles for a theological journal and singing in the renowned choir at Saint-Jean-de-Malte.
That day Marine chose a traditional brasserie close to the Rotonde. The classics—duck confit, steak tartare—were done well enough, without surprises, and the waiters were professional and discreet. She ordered two glasses of champagne, her mother fussing and protesting until she had her first sip. Marine smiled, watching Florence slowly relax and relish the sparkling wine. “Maman,” Marine began, “I met Valère Barbier the other day.”
Florence Bonnet looked up from her glass. “You don’t say?”
Marine nodded. “He lives in an old house next to the Pauliks, in Puyloubier.”
“La Bastide Blanche,” Florence stated.
“Yes, how did you know?”
“Philomène.”
Marine laughed. Philomène Joubert lived across the courtyard from Marine’s old apartment, and was a fixture in downtown Aix, riding her aged bicycle with goggles and a knit hat no matter what the weather. She was also, along with Père Jean-Luc, the church’s choir director.
“So what’s he like, the Great Man?” Florence asked.
“Very affable,” Marine replied. “Friendly, interesting, and smart. Just as I hoped he would be. Antoine has already taken him to his cigar club.”
“How’s Barbier sleeping?” Florence asked, draining her champagne and setting it down on the table with a thump.
Marine gave her mother a surprised look. “What do you mean, Maman?”
“The bastide is haunted—everyone knows it. Philomène was going on and on about the house the other night before practice. Some of the younger choir members were quite frightened!”
Marine tried not to burst out laughing. She could easily imagine Philomène Joubert holding forth in the ancient church. Perhaps only candles had been lit that night, the perfect setting for
