Verlaque laughed and then sat back and looked around the square. That morning it had been full of flowers and plants for sale; the greenery, steamy in the morning heat, was now replaced with tables laden with beer, pastis, wine, and soft drinks. “It’s funny,” he said, “we have a beautiful apartment with a lovely terrace, but sometimes it’s just nice to—”
“Be in a busy square, surrounded by other people?”
“Exactly. To hear laughter, and chatting—”
“And a drunk street musician playing the guitar,” Marine said, looking over her shoulder. “That guy has been around for years.” She had lived in Aix all her life, save for her university years, which were spent in Paris.
The waiter returned with Verlaque’s pastis, and he lifted his glass to meet Marine’s. “To busy street life everywhere.”
They talked of their day but were frequently interrupted by friends and colleagues who knew Marine, Verlaque, or both. Quick news was exchanged, along with a handshake or bises for good friends, and Verlaque was glad that the neighboring tables were already taken. Aix’s examining magistrate, he’d had a long day and cherished this time alone with his new wife.
“Another one?” Verlaque asked Marine when they were finally alone.
“Why not? Although I’d forgotten that sitting across from the town hall on a warm summer night means we’re going to be interrupted. All that talk of the importance of busy street life!”
“You’re just too popular.”
“Maybe we should go home—”
“Too late,” Verlaque said. “Here comes another couple I think we know. They’re slowing down and smiling at us.” He recognized them, when they got closer, as neighbors who lived on their street. They shook hands and Verlaque sat back, impressed, as Marine recalled their names and the fact that they had just been on holiday in Lisbon.
“We lived like royalty in Portugal,” the husband said. “Everything cost half what it would in Aix.”
Verlaque flinched; he didn’t like the idea of someone from an affluent country taking advantage of another country’s weak economy. But as he listened he warmed to the couple; they had genuine enthusiasm for a city he had yet to visit and was now eager to see. Both he and Marine lit up at the couple’s stories of Lisbon’s fabulous museums, great food and wine, and antiquated trolleys speeding up and down its narrow, hilly streets. But the image of his worn copy of Tobias Smollett’s Travels Through France and Italy popped into his head, and he couldn’t figure out why. Then it clicked. The English author had made the same complaint about expensive Aix three centuries earlier, in 1765.
“Oh, you’re reading the new Petitjean!” the woman said, seeing Marine’s book.
“We loved it,” her husband said. “It’s almost as good as the early Barbier books.”
“We were just saying the same thing,” Verlaque said, realizing he should participate in the conversation, even if he hadn’t yet read the book. But when Marine got out her ever-present notepad and began jotting down the names of Lisbon restaurants that the couple excitedly recommended, Verlaque drifted off, once again thinking of Smollett, who found the Aixois well bred, gay, and sociable. This couple certainly fit that description: the woman, probably in her early sixties, was perfectly coiffed and tanned, slim and immaculately dressed in long linen pants and a silk blouse; her husband, quite possibly a few years younger, was as fit and wore a pink Lacoste polo with perfectly pressed chinos. They were friendly but not nosy, obviously well traveled and intelligent, but also modest and sincere. Bien élévés. They said good-bye and walked off, arm in arm.
“You’re dreaming about Lisbon,” Verlaque said to Marine, who was staring off into the distance. “Accompanied by a rather rough version of ‘Norwegian Wood.’”
“Is that what he’s playing?” Marine asked, turning around to watch the guitarist. “But you’re right. I haven’t been to Portugal in years.” She picked a black olive from a bowl and put it in her mouth.
“Correction,” Verlaque said. “You’re not only dreaming about Lisbon but also of those colorful ceramic tiles the Portuguese put everywhere.”
“Azulejos,” she said. “Given a choice, yes, I would put them everywhere.”
Chapter Four
Aix-en-Provence,
Monday, July 5, 2010
Bruno Paulik loved summer. Provence became even slower than usual; there was still work to be done, but conversations lingered longer as colleagues exchanged vacation plans and news about which beaches had the best sand, parking, or moules-frites. Léa didn’t have school, only choir and music notation lessons at the conservatory, and Hélène’s grapes, fat but still green, hung heavily on the vines. Once a week Hélène’s alarm went off at four, and she got dressed, went out to the barn, and climbed on the tractor. She worked until six or so, spraying the vineyards with sulfur to protect them from powdery mildew. It was a task for the early morning, when there was no wind. Bruno felt guilty that Hélène was up practically in the middle of the night and always waited until after she had left the bedroom to put in his earplugs. The tractor made a heck of a noise.
That morning Bruno had dropped Léa off at the conservatory, parked his car at the Palais de Justice, and began walking toward the cours Mirabeau, to have a coffee at the Mazarin. He knew who would be at the café: his boss, the examining magistrate, Antoine Verlaque; Verlaque’s wife, Marine Bonnet, who had recently given up a university professorship to write full time; Jean-Marc Sauvat, a childhood friend of Marine’s and a lawyer; and various other neighbors, café regulars, and early-rising tourists—usually German or Dutch. Bruno didn’t usually go to the Mazarin—it wasn’t really his crowd. As a farm boy who grew up in the Luberon, he felt cafés were places where one played foosball with buddies, not where one argued politics with friends who’d studied law in France’s best schools. But he enjoyed Antoine’s company—Antoine was a
