So that morning as I made my way down the wide stone staircase, still in my pajamas, to the kitchen, I said aloud, to no one, “What a ridiculous house.” The mid-eighteenth-century fresco in the stairwell needed repair. Two white-wigged ladies and three gents peered out at me, pretending to push aside a heavy red velvet curtain, as if they were on stage. Behind them was a Provençal landscape, much like the one I had just seen through the bedroom window. The painter had been an amateur: in the foreground, the slender cypress trees were as tall as the noble men and women, and the buildings in the distance looked more Venetian than French. But the figures were charming, especially the tall woman dressed in pale pink chiffon, in the middle of the group, who appeared to be about to leap over a stone balcony and onto my staircase.
Matton, my lawyer, almost fainted when he first saw the out-of-focus photographs of the bastide, minutes before the auction began. He said, “If you don’t buy it, Barbier, I will.” Matton has been my lawyer for decades, and we’ve always, like schoolboys, called each other by our surnames. I’ve only just realized that now.
The auction photographs hadn’t lied—the house came complete with wall and ceiling paintings, centuries-old tiles on the floors, multipaned windows, and marble mantelpieces in most of the rooms. But the photographs also revealed broken windowpanes, a family of doves that had proudly taken over the salon, and the beer bottles and fire pit that had been left in the middle of the dining room by village teenagers. One of them had even tagged the faux-marbled walls: “Dylan et Maéva toujours!” “What ridiculous names,” I complained to Matton.
When the auction was over—we somehow outbid a fashion designer and a Chinese billionaire—Matton congratulated me, and leaned over and whispered, “Don’t worry. I have a niece who lives near Puyloubier who can have the house cleaned for your arrival. My gift.” Gift? Maître Matton was handsomely paid to accompany me to the auction, his presence required by French law. Still, this was something. In all the years I’d known him, he’d never been a generous man, which, come to think of it, was why I wanted him as my lawyer.
I had to admit that Matton’s niece had done a good job with the cleaning. I began making coffee on the stove top. She had left a short note on the kitchen counter, signed Sandrine Matton, that said I should call her if I needed more help. There is still much to be done, she added, after her telephone number. There was a spelling mistake, but Sandrine was obviously organized, and I knew that I should call her. I had lived among cardboard boxes for too long, and the EDF was giving me trouble about the ancient wiring, so I still didn’t have electricity. Sandrine had even gone to IKEA to buy all the necessary things she correctly thought I might not bring from Paris: brooms and dustpans, kitchen utensils, a set of perfectly adequate white plates and bowls, bath towels and tea towels, and white linen sheets. Uncle Guillaume must have paid you well and given you some money up front, I thought. Linen sheets were expensive, even at IKEA. I looked over at the dish set’s box, which now sat empty on the floor. The label read, in that black blocklike font that IKEA always uses, “Starter Kit.” I smiled. Yes, at sixty-eight years of age, it was a little bit like starting over. Or just starting.
I didn’t get much done that morning, except for calling Sandrine Matton and leaving a message asking her to come as soon as she could. Hours later I heard a knock at the front door and had to shake myself awake. I had fallen asleep on the black leather Mies van der Rohe daybed. We’d bought it as newlyweds—when we were both making names for ourselves and fancied ourselves young cultured urbanites. I stumbled to the door and quickly looked in the hall’s gilt mirror, patting my thick white hair and briskly rubbing my face. When I was younger, I easily tanned and had a look that Agathe called “rugged.” I no longer tan—doctor’s orders.
I could hear them chatting on the front steps. “Je suis ici!” I called out, thankful that I had changed into a clean white shirt and linen pants before my unplanned sieste. I unlatched one half of the wooden door and the noise of the cigales filled the hallway. “Please, come in, come in,” I said, motioning with my hand, “and get away from those noisy insects.”
I saw that Hélène had a box in her hands and remembered her offer. “Thank you for the cake, Hélène,” I said.
“If this is a bad time . . . ,” her husband said. I saw the look on his face—he didn’t want to be here, and he thought that I had forgotten about the visit.
“No no,” I said. “It’s perfect. I’ll just take the cake into the kitchen and put it on a plate, and then start the water boiling. Or is it too hot for tea?”
“Not in here,” Hélène said. “These old houses have their problems, but they stay mercifully cool in summer.”
“In winter too,” her husband joked.
“I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your—” I began.
“Bruno. Bruno Paulik,” he answered. He put his arm around his daughter. “And this is Léa.”
I had forgotten her name as well. I looked at the girl, who was mesmerized by the fresco in the stairway. “Léa, go look at the painting if you like,” I said.
She nodded and slowly walked up the worn stone steps, holding on to the wrought-iron banister. “We’ll be in the big salon,” I told her. “The room on your left when
