‘Are you all right?’ asked Martin.
‘Oh.’ She felt her cheeks going red. ‘Fine, yes. Just a little twinge in the hip.’
‘Ah. Well, now that we know each other’s intimate secrets, I’ll move on. So let’s imagine,’ he said as he led Claire away, ‘you come across a box in the middle of the road. Tell me what’s in it.’
As she turned to her new companion, an audible sigh escaped her, causing Lyle to raise his eyebrows. ‘That bad?’
‘Oh, no, just... All these games. A little wearying, I find. A big step up from Magnetic Fish with my daughter and that’s wearying enough.’
‘I guess they figured we’re here to lay bare our souls. You gotta dig deep to make good art, right?’
‘It feels more like group therapy than art. I suppose we’ll see by the end of the week where it gets us.’
‘Nowhere is my guess. In my case, anyway. But I’m good with that. I don’t aspire to anything, let alone art.’
‘No ambition at all? So why are you here?’
‘A vacation, mainly. Do a bit on my PhD. If I can summon the energy. Which might be difficult in this heat.’
‘What’s it on? If you’re not too fed up talking about it.’
‘Others fed up listening, more to the point. And the topic isn’t fixed yet. Something to do with characterisation, but other than that... It keeps changing.’
‘So maybe Claire’s right. The odd man out. I hope that’s not how you feel.’
‘As the only black man? Everyone’s managed to be civil so far.’
‘Not what I meant.’ She found his reaction unwarranted, almost hurtful, but then she couldn’t know how it felt or what his experience had been. ‘But the writing course is for fiction. A PhD’s different.’
‘I might glean something. I try my hand at fiction now and then. Not in the hope of producing anything good but to understand how the process works.’ He pulled a face – the task too daunting to contemplate – and with a twitch of his hand changed the topic. ‘Odd man out... That was back home. You outgrow the neighbourhood, the kids you grew up with, but don’t fit in elsewhere. So I moved to Europe.’
‘And your home was?’
‘Tulsa. I live in Chicago now. Or lived. The last six years have been France and...’ He gestured to the surroundings, face turned towards the rosy light of the sun on the Sainte Victoire. ‘It’s a hell of a nice place to be.’
‘Mmm. I forget sometimes. Take it too much for granted.’
For a moment they contemplated the scene in silence. Then Sophie said with a chuckle, ‘From what I’ve seen so far, we’re a well-matched group. Unless we’re all being modest – which I’m certainly not – none of us can paint or write. Except Penelope. And we’re looking to Gareth and Adeline to save us.’
‘No pressure, then,’ said Lyle.
Adeline, in fact, had emphasised that the workshops were ‘collaborative’, and rather than teach she ‘facilitated’. There’d be breaks for yoga in the Zenhouse to help them ‘get in touch with their creativity’. Sophie was dubious, it felt like a clever ploy – shift the onus onto them. But perhaps it was the only way to do it, get people to tap into something inside that they hadn’t been aware of. A little mojo lurking in the shadows of her soul. Tatty Fur, at any rate, would love it – she never tired of getting in touch with the inexhaustible well of surprises that her inner self produced.
Enthusiasm for Punchy Portrait was by now visibly waning, but the sangria had taken over as the main source of merriment, thanks to which the last slivers of ice, well and truly broken, were fast melting in the warm glow of alcohol. Sophie had dutifully stuck to fruit juice herself, but Isadora’s wink had said it all: easy to put away, lethal in its effects. Predictably, it culminated in a wrestling match between Martin and Gareth, who to the sound of voluminous cheers ended up fully dressed in the pool. At which point Isadora clapped her hands and declared that dinner was ready.
While Gareth went to get changed, Adeline bobbed and danced in jerky movements, her sentences seldom finished before another thought interrupted them. ‘Now, what was I... Ah, yes, the glasses... Can you just – Bumble, where did you put the – ah, there it is! Now, if you all just – oh, the veggie option for Claire – we need some more ice – what did I – let me think... Oh, the seating arrangement, I don’t – the Ferruccis still haven’t arrived!’
‘Typical!’ Isadora gestured expansively. ‘Live the closest, last to arrive, haw, haw!’
Finally all was settled, food and drink appeared, and Sophie, placed between Gareth and Lyle, had a perfect view, as the meal progressed, of the sunset bathing the Aleppo pine in a glorious orange glow. At some point, without her noticing, her glass was filled with wine, and the atmosphere was so congenial that she drank it; later, more guiltily, a second, feeling it seep through her body on its way to turning Dorian into a wino.
Darkness descended; Gareth switched on the lights. Glittering banquet, chatter and merriment, fellowship and harmony: the group dynamic blossomed. As if on a given signal, the cicadas stopped their concert all at once. Smiling across at Adeline, Sophie saw her beam with satisfaction.
But even in magic gardens, reality bites. ‘Damn! They’re coming after me.’ Claire slapped her legs and went inside to put on a pair of trousers.
‘Surprising,’ said Lyle. ‘I’d have thought it’s too dry.’
‘They water a lot next door,’ Gareth told him. ‘Not to mention the fish pond.’
Martin leaned across, pointing at Penelope, who’d put on a light cardigan to cover her arms. ‘There’s my repellent. The sweetest woman on earth. To mosquitoes, anyway.’
Martin, it seemed, was the drunkest of the lot. Penelope’s response was a pinched, stricken smile; she tucked in her chin and applied herself to her plate. She hadn’t drunk much herself, barely more than Sophie; nor did she speak a lot, but nodded, acquiesced, with a faraway look in her eyes and a polite smile pasted on so firmly that you couldn’t help wondering what would be there if it accidentally came off.
Isadora lit a couple of coils and placed citronella candles on the table, and after a while the attackers called a retreat. Adeline worried again about the Ferruccis. ‘I do hope nothing’s happened to them.’ But no reply was called for, and the conversation moved on, Lyle launching into a disquisition on William Faulkner’s Mosquitoes, to which, a few seconds later, no one was paying attention. He continued all the same, though his voice sank to a mumble in Sophie’s ear, and eventually, stifling a yawn, she turned and said, ‘Sounds fascinating. I must read it some time.’
Lyle looked disconcerted for a moment, then addressed her a tipsy, asinine grin and let his voice trail away. Sophie softly touched his hand. ‘Sorry. Getting close to my bedtime.’
It was only as the raspberry fool was being finished that the lights of a car swung into view. Adeline trotted to the carpark, and a moment later returned, beaming. ‘Eddy and Maya,’ she announced as she ushered them onto the terrace. ‘So glad you made it. We were getting a little worried.’
‘My fault, had a bit of work to see to.’ Eddy stood surveying the scene, hands thrust into his pockets. ‘Party’s almost over, I see. Don’t worry, we’ve already eaten.’ He took in the table and guests, and sensing the festive mood, nodded approvingly. ‘So. Here we are, then. The artists’ paradise. I forgot all about it. Maya’s idea, you understand.’
Next to him, Maya Ferrucci giggled, stroking his arm as if she was soothing a dog. ‘Pay no attention to him. He’s a dreadful philistine, you know.’
Eddy flipped her hand away, took off his jacket and draped it on the back of a vacant chair. Sitting down heavily, he felt in his pocket and withdrew a packet of cigars. ‘Still,’ he growled, ‘now that we’re here, might as well make the most of it. Who’s in charge?’
After a moment’s hesitation, Gareth said, ‘I am.’
‘Ah. The famous writer. Good. Well, the car’s open, the luggage is in the boot. And while you’re at it, I’ll
have a brandy.’
Chapter 4 On a Roll
It is 7.20 a.m., Monday 4th August, France is on holiday, and Captain Cyril Eveno, newly promoted, stands at the kitchen sink drinking a cup of coffee. Everything shuts down in August, except beaches, campsites, jazz festivals and swimming pools. And Cyril. No holiday for him, nor for the tens of thousands of other gendarmes who ensure the safety of the nation. Today, at the request of General Pico, Cyril will investigate an international scam. Perpetrated by international scum. He puts his cup in the sink and whistles joyfully as he returns to the bedroom to dress.
His wife is still in bed, half asleep. He looks at her tenderly, savouring the moment. Gabrielle. Never did he think he would find a woman to love him as she does. Life has rewarded him after all this time – does he truly deserve it? Yes. He has been an agent for all that is good and proper; he is conscientious, rigorous, and diligent; his prospects are promising. He has achieved much, and will achieve much more.
The path for Cyril has been long and arduous, but he has kept at it, tenacious and steadfast, and now he deserves everything he’s got, including a wife like this.
‘Are you off?’ Gabrielle squirms and stretches – like a kitten, he thinks. He is aware that in some circles, comparing a woman to a kitten – indeed to any feline – may not be considered appropriate, but in dealing with the opposite sex, Cyril is not well-versed in matters of appropriateness. And kittens, after all, are lovable. ‘A kiss and a hug...’
‘My love...’ He lies next to her, holding her tight, murmurs in her ear. ‘I’ll try to get back early.’
‘Our last evening together.’
‘For three weeks, my sweet. You make it sound like forever.’
‘It is forever. Feels like.’
‘For me too. But once you’re there, you’ll have so much to do, people to see. It’ll be over in a flash.’
Gabrielle snuggles closer. ‘Another cuddle,’ she purrs.
Cyril and Gabrielle have been married for two months. Tomorrow she leaves for Douala, Cameroun, to prepare the wedding, the much bigger one which will take place in October. The one in France made it official in the eyes of both Lord and law, but only her parents attended, and for her relatives, the second ceremony is the one that really counts. Cyril doesn’t know how many relatives she has, but there are a lot.
The French wedding was beautiful in its way, but the church felt very empty. She had a number of friends from the business school in Naubelair, where she studies luxury marketing, and on his side, just one sister, Audrey, and a couple of colleagues from work. Gabrielle was surprised, a little shocked, that he didn’t have more friends.
Cyril goes back to his desk and checks his email. As expected, there is one from Lieutenant Valentin Bondy, whom he is on his way to see. Bondy is investigating a suspected insurance scam in which a restaurant, L’Ophrys, was destroyed when a fire ravaged a swathe of land near the Sainte Victoire.
Cyril’s concern is different, much bigger, with ramifications spreading to several countries. Cyril himself isn’t fully aware of the details – that’s a matter for General Pico, whose expertise lies in investigating fraud. Actually, Pico’s expertise is even more vast, extending into areas that Cyril barely knows of, but one of the countries concerned by this particular mission is Cameroun, and Pico has entrusted Cyril, as someone with intimate knowledge of the place, with finding out as much as he can about a certain Eddy Ferrucci, who spends a lot of time there. Ferrucci’s name is one of many to feature in Pico’s file, but the extent of his involvement is unclear; what has transpired, though, is that the name appears also in Valentin Bondy’s file. Two different scam operations, Ferrucci involved in both. Cyril’s task today is to find out more. Could Ferrucci be the big fish they are after?
Cyril loves this work. Not so long ago, he was a bored lieutenant in an insignificant gendarmerie way out in the sticks; not long before that, a mere trainee, overawed and clumsy, struggling to adapt to the expectations of the gendarmerie school in Châteaulin; and before that again... well, he’d rather not even go there, rather forget – if he could – the life he had till December 28th, 2002.
Bondy’s email fills him in a bit more. L’Ophrys was owned by a businessman, Gino Escarola, who has his finger in a number of pies, but nothing yet proven to be illegal. Every so often local artists exhibited at the restaurant; the last to do so was Eddy Ferrucci’s wife, Maya, whose paintings were lost in the fire. Ferrucci had insured them for eighty thousand euros, a claim that was of course separate from the far bigger one Escarola put in for the restaurant itself. The two insurance companies are holding out against payment, pending the result of the investigation, but so far Bondy has come up with nothing that points to arson. Both Escarola and Ferrucci are complaining about the delay, and as far as Bondy is concerned, the case is all but closed.
Cyril presses his lips together, sceptical. He doesn’t know Maya’s paintings, but eighty thousand is a lot, and Ferrucci would appear to be no stranger to scams. One must beware of prejudice, but Escarola? With a name like that, no doubt of Corsican origin. Reading on, he learns that Ferrucci was in Cameroun when the fire occurred, so direct involvement has to be ruled out. (A dismissive shrug at this point: maybe he wasn’t the man who lit the match, but a fraudster like that has any number of minions at his disposal.) He and his wife are now staying a few miles away at Venturi View, attending a course for writers and artists. Bondy concludes with a confirmation of his 8.30 appointment with Cyril to discuss how he wishes to proceed. In the event that he plans to interview Ferrucci, Bondy has included an attachment with details of the course.
Cyril thinks that at this point an interview is premature. He’d like to get the full story from Bondy first and then report back to General Pico. It’s a complex affair and he must tread carefully when it comes to dealing with Pico, whose support is vital for the next step up in Cyril’s career, a post in the Research Unit headquarters in Marseille. Despite the competition, Cyril has the highest hopes of getting it. His progress, after all, has been little short of spectacular – you might even say meteoric – and surely there’s no reason for it to stop now. He’s never put a foot wrong. Pico thinks highly of him, fully aware he possesses all the qualities required. But above all Cyril has a secret, invisible, but irresistible asset: Auguste.
Much of his rise, Cyril attributes to Auguste. Without Auguste, he dreads to think where he would be. Knee-deep in slurry perhaps, like his father. Or a drug addict sleeping rough. Or a criminal. Who can say? And there’s no point speculating anyway. What matters is the here and now.
Auguste has been good to his word, accompanying Cyril all these years, advising and encouraging, pulling arcane strings behind the scene. Exactly how it works, Cyril has no idea – the realm of spirits is by definition mysterious, inaccessible to mortals, but that doesn’t matter. It matters only that somehow or other, it does work, and today’s mission, though little more than routine, will be one more point in his favour, one more opportunity, thanks to Auguste, to impress General Pico.
Humming softly, Cyril brings up the attachment Bondy has sent, clicks to print, curses when the printer doesn’t respond – the damned thing has a mind of its own – goes off for his shower. Wouldn’t it be nice, he thinks, if Auguste could intervene to put the Wi-Fi gremlins in their place! But you can’t reproach him for that – he comes from a different age, and all this new-fangled stuff is gobbledygook to him. No, Auguste’s value lies elsewhere – guidance, moral support, and even more priceless, the influence he brings to bear from wherever he is on events here below. Obliquely, cunningly, not always perceptibly at first – you start to wonder at times what he’s playing at – but in the end he makes sure that everything turns out right. What’s a malfunctioning printer to Auguste? His concern is of far greater importance. He oversees the onward march of Cyril’s progress through life. And as he shaves, Cyril reflects that his beloved ancestor does an excellent job. Romantically, professionally, Captain Cyril Eveno
is on a roll.
Gabrielle is at the kitchen table now, making notes, as she eats her breakfast, of the things she still has to pack. Cyril is a little worried that he’ll have to pay excess baggage. Her family is quite well off, it isn’t as if they’re in need, but if she listened to them all, she’d be filling a whole container. ‘Perhaps you could leave the Nespresso machine behind,’ he suggests. ‘It takes up a lot of room. Can you even get the capsules in Douala?’ He thinks of the baggage fee. ‘And it’s heavy.’
‘It’s for Aunt Ursula, her old one broke. I saved thirty euros on the one I got, there’s no point leaving it here. Now let’s see... Francky’s shoes, I’m not even sure if I’ve got the right model...’
Cyril goes back to his desk. Ah, it’s decided to print after all. Venturi View, Writers’ and Artists’ retreat, 3rd to 9th of August. Lieutenant Bondy has been conscientious, even provided a list of the current guests. He casts a glance – his heart leaps – the page swims before his eyes – can this be right? Sophie Kiesser!
Hurriedly, Cyril folds the paper and puts it into his briefcase. Phew! Thank heaven Gabrielle didn’t see that!
Distracted, pondering the implications, Cyril finishes getting ready. One thing is certain – this is Auguste’s doing. What exactly he’s up to, Cyril has no idea, but the old fellow clearly has a plan.
Ever since they met, Cyril’s life and Sophie’s have been inextricably linked. At first it was unsettling, even scary: there he was, having just met the woman of his dreams, when along comes another, totally different but equally, damnably alluring. What was going on? Was it some kind of test? A way of making sure that he really was committed to Gabrielle? If Sophie hadn’t been married – and she lost no opportunity to remind him of that – he would have been sorely tempted. In fact, no denying it, he was tempted. Initially there was longing – why, you might even call it lust. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. And that dreadful feeling of guilt that just by thinking of Sophie, he was cheating on Gabrielle. But then, quite casually, as if Cyril’s confusion and suffering was a lot of fuss about nothing, Auguste revealed the glorious, liberating truth: Sophie, it transpired was his soulmate, and that didn’t have to be – wasn’t in fact – sexual. The word means precisely what it says: this was a meeting of souls, not bodies; the role of a soulmate is to help you grow, challenge you to become the best possible version of yourself. This is what he has striven to do with Sophie. A little warily at first, he allowed her to work in her own clumsy way on the first murder case of his career; through a combination of charm and obstinacy, a good measure of luck no doubt, and aided by the sort of gift you could only ascribe to feminine intuition, she actually managed very well, in some respects better even than he did himself. He consulted her with increasing trust and enthusiasm, gave her advice, clued her in on the whys and wherefores of criminal investigation, and finally, with some apprehension, introduced her to Pico. Who was in turn impressed. ‘She’s got something, that woman,’ he’d confided to Cyril. ‘An artlessness that’s refreshing. Stands her in good stead. Make sure you don’t train it out of her.’
Painter Palaver Page 3