“D’accord,” she called down.
I liked her. She wasn’t a chatterbox, nor did she speak out of turn or dominate the conversation, as some children do—or are permitted to do. She was clever, I could see it in her eyes and furrowed brow. And she was talented, but I wasn’t yet sure what that talent was. Horse riding perhaps. Or drawing.
“I’m sorry,” I said, gesturing around the room, “I’m still moving in.” Although furnished, the salon still had boxes stacked against its walls, no curtains, and no light fixtures—they had been stolen long ago, during the years the house lay vacant. “Please, make yourselves comfortable, and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Thank you,” Hélène said. “And be sure to call if you need a hand carrying things out.”
I gave her my winning smile—my Jean-Paul Belmondo smile, Agathe used to tease—and left. I hurried to the kitchen, hoping that Sandrine Matton had bought some kind of soft drink or juice. I opened the fridge and sighed with relief when I saw orange juice. I wasn’t very familiar with children, but I was quite sure ten-year-olds do not drink tea.
I could hear Hélène and Bruno walking around the vast living room. The shutters were closed to the heat, and the air was musty, with a touch of lemon wood polish or floor cleaner. They were whispering, no doubt about me. They stopped whispering, and Hélène said in a normal voice, “The fireplace is like ours.”
Bruno answered, “Orange-and-yellow marble from Sainte-Victoire. No need to go far.”
“It’s garish,” I said, walking into the room and carrying a tray laden with mugs, a teapot, and Léa’s orange juice. “The other fireplaces are all white marble.” I realized I was sounding snobbish, especially since Bruno had just said they had the same kind of fireplace.
Bruno shrugged. “I’ve always liked it.”
“Can I help you, M Barbier?” Hélène asked me.
“No, but thank you. I’ll just put this down and go get the cake.” As I began to turn around, Léa ran into the room, out of breath. Her face was red and she went straight to Bruno and hugged him. I stared at her, unable to move. The tray began to wobble in my hands.
“Chérie? Ça va?” Hélène asked.
Léa took a few deep breaths and turned her head to look at her mother, her hands still wrapped around Bruno’s torso. Hélène walked over and felt her daughter’s forehead. “You’re burning up,” she said.
“I’m okay,” Léa replied, catching her breath.
Hélène looked over at me, and I could feel the blood drain from my face.
“You look like you saw a ghost,” Bruno said to Léa, with a laugh.
I looked at the girl’s expression and thought she was trying to decide how to answer her father. She said slowly, “I didn’t exactly see one. . . ”
“I think you should lie down,” Hélène said. “You feel feverish to me.”
“Mais ça va, Maman!”
Hélène went on, “It’s this heat.”
“We can delay our tea for another time,” I suggested. I set the tray down on a very old and ornate wooden table, one of many that had been trucked down from Paris. Not the little girl too, I thought. I suddenly felt very tired.
“I’m afraid we may have to reschedule, M Barbier,” Bruno said. “We should get this girl home.”
“What happened to Léa?” Justin asked. He set down his wineglass, realizing he was gripping it with both hands. He suddenly became aware of noises in the restaurant—cutlery, hushed voices. He had forgotten where he was.
“I was panic-stricken when she came into the room,” Valère replied. “How irresponsible of me to have allowed her to wander around on her own.”
“But what did she see?”
Valère shrugged. “What did she see? I don’t know. Whatever she saw—or felt—it was clear she was keeping it to herself.”
“It didn’t frighten her?”
“Correct,” Valère said. “But it scared the hell out of me.”
“Please go on,” Justin said. “I interrupted you.”
That evening for dinner I ate about a third of Hélène’s cake, washed down with whiskey. It’s surprising how well a good single malt goes with a sugary cake. I wandered around the grounds; it was still warm and light out, and I didn’t feel like being in the house. I was stalling. I sat down on one of the fancy chaises longues and lit a Cuban cigar and thought about Agathe.
Maybe it was the move, and unpacking, but I found myself thinking of our early years together, in the seventies in Paris. We were poor, but when Agathe got a contract with Le Bon Marché to produce a line of dinnerware, it allowed me to quit Le Monde and write full-time. Now you can find some of Agathe’s Bon Marché dishes on eBay for sale at astronomical prices. My books began getting good reviews, and sales crept up, and after a particularly glowing review in Le Figaro I found myself being wined and dined by publishers, journalists, and famous writers. Agathe sometimes came to these parties, sometimes not. She found them silly and pretentious. Red Earth, which was published in 1975, was made into an artsy short film, but when my next novel, The Receptionist, was made into a feature film and won the Palme d’Or, I became more famous than Agathe. Have you seen The Receptionist, Justin? You should. It starred Alain Denis, who was killed a few years ago on the Île Sordou, off the coast of Marseille. I wrote more books, won lots of awards, each time feeling more and more unworthy. A fraud.
My trip down memory lane in the bastide’s garden ended with my cell phone ringing. I had been keeping it charged with a gadget hooked up to the cigarette lighter in my Mercedes. The caller was Sandrine Matton, saying she would come the next day. I liked her voice—she had a thick Provençal accent. She would bring some paing, instead of pain, in the morning, and did I need anything else? Coffee? Milk? Words just flew out of
