I thanked her and hung up, noticing that it was finally quiet. The cigales had stopped. I relit my Cuban cigar and sat in the dark. I could see the Pauliks’ old stone house lit up and tried to imagine what they were doing. Did Hélène do paperwork in the evenings while her vines slept? Did Bruno help her? I realized I had no idea what M Paulik did for a living.
It was quiet without the buzzing cigales, so the unexpected sound of branches snapping and crunching coming from the olive grove caused me to drop my cigar. After I picked it up and set it in the ashtray, I straightened my back and leaned forward to listen. A few more crackles, and quite possibly a grunt or two, convinced me to go back inside before the wild boar, or whatever it was, decided to get closer. Anyway, I was feeling tired—but calm and a little bit buzzed and happy from the whiskey and cigar.
I cursed EDF for not coming that week to rewire the electricity, but I had a basket of candles in the entryway. I shoved one in an empty wine bottle and lit it, then walked around and opened up the downstairs windows and shutters. Thieves have easy access to any house in Provence in the summer. Perhaps that’s why so many people put those huge, obnoxious gates at the foot of their drives. I preferred no gate, and noticed that the Pauliks did as well.
Halfway up the staircase, I paused. The woman in pink was smiling at me, and I could swear that her painted face was flushed by the light of my candle. I wished her a bonne nuit, purposely speaking aloud, trying to make my voice as light and happy as possible. I walked around, opening the shutters to get a breeze circulating. But even at ten o’clock it was still hot, especially upstairs. The rooms felt thick with stale heat and smelled of dust. I’d have Sandrine mop every room.
I saved my room for last, as I usually did, and as I slowly opened the door I could feel the lady in pink watching me from the stairway, smirking. I thought of little Léa and what might have happened earlier that day. Do you remember me mentioning the wrought-iron B on the first floor’s balcony? It’s a coincidence—strange, I know—that my name begins with the same letter. I bought the place on a whim and assumed that the B stood for Bastide Blanche. But after I signed the check for a ridiculous amount of money and the house was legally mine, Matton began looking into its past. He seemed obsessed and delighted in informing me that the original owners were the famille de Besse. Hence the B. It seems generations of fat, lazy, inbred de Besses inhabited the bastide until, early in the twentieth century, a notary bought it from the last of the lustrous nobles, who had drained the family fortune. Matton began calling me at all hours, each time he found a new tidbit, but the crème was what he discovered about Hugues de Besse, son of the first owner. Hugues was born in 1688 and unfortunately lived until 1760, which gave him decades to torment the bastide’s other occupants. I’ll tell you more about that swine later.
I held up the candle and swung it around the room. I didn’t think I’d actually see anything, but I had to reassure myself that I was alone. I shone the candle at the far end of the room and then on the bed. You’ll remember, Justin, that the bed had been carefully made—by me. Hospital corners are my specialty. It used to drive Agathe mad. She was tall and complained that when I made the bed her feet felt like they were bound. Anyway, that night I saw that my side of the bed was perfect, with the coverlet pulled up tightly over the pillow. But someone had been lying on top of the coverlet beside it—as they had been every night since I moved in. A head had sunk into the pillow, and the coverlet was indented where the shoulders and hips had been. This visitor was tall, like Agathe. I set the candle on the bedside table and shook my head. Agathe used to tease me when I’d fret about not deserving my awards: “Valère, you do have a brilliant imagination,” she would say. But was it my imagination, Justin, when that same night I was awoken by someone tugging on the bedsheets beside me?
Chapter Three
Aix-en-Provence,
Sunday, July 4, 2010
I’m sorry I’m late,” Antoine Verlaque said, kissing Marine Bonnet. He pulled out a café chair and sat down across from her. It was just after 7:00 p.m. and the square, surrounded by honey-colored stone buildings, including Aix’s massive town hall, was full of people. Tables and chairs spread in a circle around the central fountain, and the cigales made their sawing noises in the ancient plane trees.
“No worries,” Marine said. “I have a good book.”
Verlaque reached over and looked at the title. “The new Claude Petitjean! May I read it next?”
“It’s Sylvie’s. But I’ll ask her.”
“What’s it about? In a nutshell.”
“In a nutshell, it’s the story of two friends, a boy and a girl, growing up in Paris in the fifties—neighbors, from the 13th arrondissement. They move away for university, and both go on to have distinguished careers, then meet up again in their seventies.”
The waiter came, and Verlaque pointed to Marine’s pastis. “Le même,” he said.
“I love women who drink pastis,” the waiter said. “They are a rare breed.”
“I agree,” Verlaque answered, smiling. The waiter left, and Verlaque turned back to Marine. “Le Monde said it was as good as Valère Barbier’s early books.”
Marine nodded. “I agree. It has the same humor mixed with wisdom
