“Look at the poor women from Bath,” Marine said, motioning to the British tent, trying to change the subject. “They have no shoppers.”
“No one is interested in their royal family mugs and calendars,” Florence said. “The Windsor family members are a bunch of German inbreds who live off the British taxpayer—”
“Maman! Did you not sleep well last night?”
Florence shrugged. “Your father snores too much.” She was about to say something else when she noticed France Dubois. “Do you see that girl speaking to the women from Bath?”
“Yes,” Marine said. “Although she’s hardly a girl. She must be almost my age.”
“Well, she carries herself like a girl. Anyway, I know her; her name is France Dubois. She’s some kind of secretary at the APCA.”
The line moved about a foot and Marine and her mother stepped forward. “The APCA?” Marine asked, her stomach growling.
“The Anglo Protestant Church of Aix. We are helping them with their Christmas carol service this Sunday.”
“Oh, I love that service,” Marine said. “I’m going to try to drag Antoine with me.”
Florence snorted. “Antoine Verlaque at church? I can’t imagine—”
“He’s not a heathen, Maman, just agnostic.”
“Hm. I suppose that if his grandmother was English, he’ll at least know the words to the songs.”
“Exactly,” Marine said, relieved. “Is your choir assisting?”
“A dozen or so of the choir members. The Protestant church’s reverend, they call him Reverend Dave,” Florence began with a snort, “asked us to help. That’s where I met her.” Florence tilted her head in the direction of France Dubois, and Marine watched the young woman try to daintily eat a flaky British pastry.
“She looks very sweet,” Marine said.
Florence said nothing and kept watching. “In the theology faculty I knew others like her. France Dubois types.”
They were now second from the front of the line, and Marine stretched her head to watch the American flip the steaks on a makeshift grill. She wouldn’t tell Antoine, a food snob, about the bright orange melted substance that dripped out of the sandwiches. “Oh? What type is that, Maman?”
“Those meek-looking marginal types. You don’t notice them at first, but they watch what’s going on from a distance. Nothing gets by them.”
“Wallflowers?”
“Yes, but you were never associated with those types, Marine, so you wouldn’t understand.”
“I think I do understand,” Marine tried to argue. She was about to add something about a former classmate whose name she could no longer remember when she stopped. She knew now that her mother—the headstrong, widely published, now-retired professor—was confessing; she herself had been a wallflower. She knew little about her mother’s youth, except for her academic successes, naturally. Marine was about to ask about her mother’s high school, located in a small town in the southwest, when she realized they were at the front of the line.
“Hello!” a male voice bellowed before them. “Welcome to Philly cheesesteak heaven!”
“Thank you!” Marine heard herself yelling back in English.
“O Mon Dieu,” Florence whispered, pulling Marine closer to her. “Is that bright orange stuff supposed to be cheese?”
Chapter Three
Antoine Verlaque had mixed feelings about Christmas, and it didn’t help his mood that the Cours Mirabeau was now lined with little wooden Alpine-style chalets selling trinkets. Having just had a long, drawn-out meeting in a café with a courtroom lawyer, going over a case that involved a botched kidnapping of the wealthy wife of a Parisian businessman who owned a home in Aix, he felt a headache coming on. Too much espresso and not enough water, his wife, Marine, would tell him.
He looked at his phone—it was after twelve and he was hungry. Stopping on the sidewalk, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Marine. Shoppers knocked into him with their oversize bags that advertised the latest “in” shops; this year it seemed to be Sandro and Maje, whatever those were. Women’s clothes, he presumed. Next year another brand would be le must, and the Sandro and Maje clothes would be taken to Emmaus or simply thrown out. His headache increased and his mood fouled; he really hated Christmas, he decided. He stepped aside, closer to a building, to get out of the shoppers’ way.
As he waited for Marine to pick up, he watched one of the chalet sellers arrange tiny blown-glass animals on velvet pads. Verlaque winced and turned away, instead busying himself by reading the plaque at number 3, where, on October 10, 1799, Napoleon dined, only to leave quickly after dinner, disappointing his hosts, who had no doubt hoped to entertain the dashing young Corsican for a longer period.
“Oui, Antoine?” Marine answered just as he was about to give up.
“Where are you?” he asked. “It’s so loud I can barely hear you.”
“Well, hello to you, too.”
“Sorry. I’m on the Cours.”
“Oh, that explains your mood,” Marine said. “Have you picked out what you want for Christmas?”
“I’d like a new mayor who doesn’t allow this . . . this . . .” He trailed off, gesturing at the scene before him, and Marine laughed.
“Listen, Antoine, I’m in the middle of lunch with Maman,” Marine said. “On the Place des Cardeurs, that’s why it’s noisy. Is this important?”
“No, no,” he answered, knowing now that he’d have to eat alone. “I’ll see you at home after lunch. Say hello to your mother.” He hung up and began walking up the Cours, remembering Napoleon would be back through Aix in 1814, disgraced, on his way to exile at Elba. There would be no downtown dinner for him that night, thought Verlaque, but a quick stop at an auberge north of Aix that was now a pizza restaurant.
Verlaque watched the crowd amble up and down the boulevard, some stopping to browse the chalets. A well-dressed couple stopped to look at one—this one selling santons—and he guessed, from their black cashmere wool coats and expensive boots, that they were Parisian. The woman turned her head slightly toward Verlaque and he recognized her, as did a few of the pedestrians who stopped to whisper to one another. She was Margaux Perrot, the actress. They bought a few santons and walked away, arm in arm, toward Verlaque.
“Antoine?” the man said when they were about two feet away.
“Léo?” Verlaque said, guessing the name and hoping he was right. Was it Léo from Bordeaux law school?
“I heard you were in Aix,” the man answered, holding out his hand. “You’re now Aix’s examining magistrate, right? Oh, I’m sorry. This is my wife, Margaux.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Verlaque said, shaking her hand. He wondered if he should add something like I love your work, but in truth he hadn’t seen very many of her recent films, which tended to be romantic comedies.
“We were buying some santons for our crèche,” Margaux said hurriedly, as if embarrassed.
“That’s the one authentic Provençal item you’ll find for sale here,” Verlaque said, because, if truth be known, he had a soft spot for the miniature figurines that represented the varied personages of nineteenth-century Provence—the cobbler, the winemaker, the laundress, the ironmonger. “I went to law school with Léo,” he added.
“I don’t know about you, Antoine, but that’s a distant memory for me,” Léo said. “Are you free for lunch?” he asked, turning to his famous wife for a nod of approval.
“Oh, yes, what a good idea,” she answered. “You two can get caught up that way, and I’ll listen in and take notes.”
Verlaque laughed, charmed. “As a matter of fact I am free, and happen to know of a good restaurant right behind us. But I’m not sure you’ll find anything interesting, Mme Perrot, in our escapades as law students.”
“Léo doesn’t tell me anything about his past,” she said. “So any little tidbit will do.
”
Verlaque then remembered his old friend’s full name—Léo Vidal-Godard—and some tidbits, as his wife had referred to them, about Léo’s life after Bordeaux law school: various business ventures, some having more success than others; a few marriages and divorces; and perhaps, if he remembered correctly, a court case. He wondered how long they had been married.
Verlaque pulled open the door to the Café Mazarin and said something to Frédéric, the head waiter, who led them upstairs to a small wood-lined dining room where luckily there were two small tables free. Frédéric quickly pushed the tables together and discretely whisked away the fourth place setting and pulled out a chair for Margaux.
“It’s charming here,” Margaux said, smiling.
“My friends call it the office,” Verlaque answered. “We often meet downstairs for coffee before the day begins.” As Mme Perrot studied the menu, Verlaque was able to steal some looks at her face, which seemed to have been chiseled out of pale white marble, accentuated by her bright blue eyes and dark red lipstick.
Frédéric reappeared and, as Verlaque had suspected, Margaux ordered a large salad and sparkling water, while he and Léo had the daily special, a ham hock with lentils.
“So who are your office mates?” Margaux asked, leaning forward.
Verlaque stared at her, surprised. Did she want to know about his colleagues at the Palais de Justice? His secretary, the posh Mme Girard? He then laughed, realizing she was referring to the café downstairs. “My best friend, Jean-Marc, a courtroom lawyer; our commissioner of police, a guy named Bruno Paulik; and my wife, Marine, who was until recently a law professor.”
“Until recently?” Léo asked. “Did she give up on law?”
Verlaque smiled, stopping himself from saying like you.
As lunch wore on, the conversation shifted to Aix real estate, as Margaux and Léo had recently relocated from Paris to Aix. Verlaque asked them why, but couldn’t get an answer that made any sense to him. Surely Margaux Perrot’s work would keep her in the capital? Mme Perrot also admitted that her children from a previous marriage, ages thirteen and fifteen, were less than thrilled by the move.
“Maybe Sacha will manage to not get kicked out of the high school here,” Léo said, smirking.
“Sacha is my fifteen-year-old,” Margaux explained, visibly embarrassed. “He has . . . trouble with authority.”
Verlaque tried to give a sympathetic answer, unimpressed with Léo’s insensitivity. It seemed that Sacha would not be getting any male guidance from his stepfather. Margaux changed the subject back to real estate and Verlaque’s mind wandered further on the question of male role models. His own father would have scored about a three out of ten, by his estimation; his paternal grandfather, Charles, more like a seven. Charles could have scored higher, but he was too busy running the family’s flour mills, and he did come from a generation where men simply did not play with children. Nevertheless, he’d had a big impact on Verlaque in the limited time they did spend together. His maternal grandparents died when he was very young. How would he score if he was ever in that role, especially to a young boy, he wondered? He tried to return his attention to Margaux and Léo as they bickered affectionately about housing prices, but the question stayed with him, lingering in the back of his mind long after the subject had passed.
* * *
France Dubois tried not to stare. Especially since everyone else in the café was staring. She knew the woman was an actress, but suddenly couldn’t remember her name. The waiter set down the plat du jour, and she regretted choosing it. She would be able to eat the lentils, but how in the world would she be able to finish all that ham? France raised her hand and the waiter came back. “Un verre de rouge, s’il vous plaît,” she said. A glass of red wine would help, as she was still cold from her walk through the Place des Cardeurs that morning.
The wine would bring the bill up over what she normally allowed herself for lunch, and she’d have to use at least two of her restaurant vouchers, and then some cash, to pay. But, she rationalized, she sometimes didn’t use the restaurant vouchers at all, but brought leftovers from home for lunch, saving the vouchers to use at the butcher shop. She smiled, glad to be living in a country where employers and the government shared the cost of a lunch, even if her vouchers were worth only seven and a half euros each. It meant that people went out for lunch more often, restaurants were busier, and she even thought it helped the downtown businesses. If you were out for lunch, you might also pop into a shop and buy something.
She cut into her meat, which fell easily off the bone. It had been cooked with the lentils in red wine and carrots, and was salty and delicious. Perhaps she’d be able to finish it after all. She continued watching her fellow diners, trying not to look too long at any one table. The film star had her back to France, but she had a good view of the two men the actress was eating with, one of whom France assumed to be her husband or boyfriend, for every so often he would take her hand. He also served himself wine twice, without offering any to the other man, and France found herself frowning in distaste. She checked herself, looking down at her lentils. When she glanced up again, the three of them were laughing, but not a hearty laughter. More of a strained one. Their friend, the other man, looked from the actress to her husband with his dark eyes, as if assessing them. Who was he? An old friend? Or perhaps their lawyer . . . wealthy celebrities always had strings of lawyers and accountants working for them, didn’t they?
France sat back and took a sip of wine, enjoying herself. She had been watching people and making up stories about them for years, even when her parents were still alive. Sometimes it depressed her, as if she were creating a life of fantasy for herself. But today she let herself savor it, like a guilty pleasure. She was in a good mood; perhaps it was the spirit of Christmas, and the kind words she had exchanged at the Sister City fair with the English women and the Tunisian. She’d go back in the afternoon to talk with the Americans and Germans when they weren’t so busy serving lunch. She tore off a piece of bread and thought of the Italian, unsure whether she liked him, when one of the men eating next to her pounded the table with his fist. She jumped and tried not to look over, concentrating on dipping the bread into the red wine sauce.
“Don’t worry,” the man beside her said in French with a heavy American accent. “You’re always worrying.”
“One of us has to,” his dining partner, whom France could see, answered. He was French, and young, perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties. Even in winter his face was very tanned. “You never think of the finances. Somehow you believe that the money will always appear, and everything will turn out okay.”
“And it always has,” the American answered. She could see him throw his hands in a wide gesture in her peripheral vision.
France glanced over as she reached for her water glass; both men were slim, and the younger one looked like an athlete, as his arms had the sinewy look that France did not at all care for. That would explain his tanned face. A skier? A biker? Neither man drank wine.
“I see it will be up to me,” the Frenchman said, leaning toward the American, “once again.”
“You don’t have to do anything,” the American said. “My new ideas are going to work their magic.”
The Frenchman snorted in response, pushing his half-eaten salad away from him.
“You’re not finishing that, Damien?” the American said. France could see his fork now piercing bits of lettuce and green beans from the athlete’s salad.
France, embarrassed for him, buried her head in her book. She wanted to see the American’s face, as she recognized his voice. The expat community was small enough in Aix, and he obviously lived and worked here. Many of the expats—especially the Americans—came to the church where she worked.
She looked up just as the waiter came into the room, and she signaled for the bill. The film star and her companions were gone.
&n
bsp; “You really get on my nerves, Cole,” the younger man said, folding his arms across his chest and sitting back.
France froze, tightly gripping her fork. Cole; she had recognized the voice. It was an unusual enough name. He must be Cole Hainsby, the local businessman; she thought he ran some sort of Provence travel company. France knew his wife, Debra, who volunteered at the church. She couldn’t remember where they were from; the American Midwest, perhaps. France had never met Cole, as he often had guided tours to give on the weekends. But she certainly knew who he was.
She had spoken to Cole on the telephone, and didn’t like his voice. He spoke too quickly, too chirpily, not really listening to her replies. And he was too friendly, and too chatty, even though they had never met. She remembered imagining the big wide grin in his voice as they spoke on the phone. She thought there was an English word for people like him: a phony. He also told France twice, and unnecessarily, that they lived in Saint-Marc-Jaumegarde, a wealthy suburb of Aix.
She quickly gathered her things, now embarrassed to have overheard their conversation. Her hands were shaking. She hoped Cole Hainsby wouldn’t recognize her if they ever did meet. As she walked down the stairs to pay her bill at the well-known zinc-topped bar, she felt her face flush. She realized she would be meeting Cole Hainsby this Sunday, at the Christmas concert. He and Debra were this year’s hosts.
Chapter Four
Verlaque looked at the olive orchard and remembered that someone had once said olive groves were God’s first temples. But he couldn’t remember who. A poet? A politician?
There were fifteen trees, three rows of five, which had been planted ten years previously by his friend Jacob, who sold them the house. It looked easy enough to harvest the fruit, he thought as he looked around, as most of the trees were only about six or seven feet tall; though they would need a ladder to reach the olives on some of the upper branches. He ran his hands along the silvery leaves, delighting in their smoothness. He wouldn’t even need gloves; this would be his kind of gardening.
A Noël Killing Page 3