A Noël Killing

by M. L. Longworth

  Marine’s car pulled up the pebbled driveway and she got out and waved. Verlaque watched her approach him, tall and slender but with a strong, purposeful stride. She wasn’t Florence Bonnet’s daughter for nothing. In fact, Marine had inherited qualities from both her parents. Her politeness and calm nature came from her father, a retired general practitioner; her quick intellect and drive from her mother, who for years ran the faculty of theology at Aix’s university. “I see you’ve put the nets down,” Marine said after giving him a kiss. “Good job. Now what?”

  Verlaque shrugged. “Bruno was too busy to tell me,” he said. “He put the nets and buckets in the back of my car and sped off. Do you think we shake the tree?”

  Marine looked up at the blue sky shining through the branches. “That seems awfully harsh, doesn’t it? Although olive trees must be the sturdiest trees that exist. They’ve survived thousands of years of frosts, droughts, parching sunshine . . .”

  Verlaque reached up and shook one of the branches and they watched as three fat black olives fell to the ground. “I really don’t want to shake it any more than that.”

  “You’re such a softy,” she said, kissing him again. “What have we done, buying a house in the country?”

  Verlaque laughed. “Listen, we’ve both been to very good law schools and held down prestigious jobs. So we must be able to figure out how to harvest some olives.”

  “The green ones mustn’t be fully ripe yet,” Marine said. “That’s why they’re hanging on.” She reached up and pulled at one, examining it in her hand. “They really are beautiful.”

  “And so will their olive oil be.” He ran his hand along one of the branches, gently pulling at the olives as he went, and a dozen fell to the ground. “There you go!”

  Marine did the same, and they worked side by side, in silence, for ten minutes. The net at their feet became littered with green and purple olives. “Antoine, you’re stepping on them!”

  “Merde!”

  “Let’s gather these ones up and put them in a bucket,” Marine said, dropping to her hands and knees.

  “It will take forever at this rate,” Antoine said, reluctantly following her to the ground.

  “But that raking motion we were doing with our hands seemed to work.”

  “Ah! The rakes!” Verlaque said. “Bruno was angry with himself that he forgot to bring the rakes for us. He said they’re these little mini plastic rakes, like kids use at the beach.”

  “Oh, those would have been useful.” Marine sat up and said, “I’ve just thought of something. I’ll be right back.” She got up and marched over to the house as Antoine continued to pull olives off the branches, careful where he was putting his feet this time. He looked over at the other trees and couldn’t imagine finishing even this tree before it got dark out. It was certainly more cost efficient to buy olive oil straight from the mill. But he continued on, and after a few minutes he was lost in thought, enjoying the sensation of the soft leaves running along his hands.

  “Ta-da!” Marine said, now at his side and holding up two small wicker baskets, each with large handles. She handed one to her husband. “We’ll gather up the olives in these, and then when they get full, we’ll dump them in the buckets.”

  “Great thinking.”

  Marine hooked the basket on her left forearm, leaving her right hand free to pick. Verlaque, not to be outdone, found a stubby knob on one of the branches and hooked his basket onto it, leaving both hands free. He held his hands up for effect. Marine laughed. “Let’s try to finish at least this one tree before dinner,” she said. “Once we get going, I’m sure it will go quickly.”

  They began picking again, and in less than fifteen minutes both wicker baskets were full. They chatted about their day as they went, and Marine made Antoine laugh with her description of her mother eating a gooey Philly cheesesteak. “The funny thing is, it was really good.”

  “Of course it tasted good,” Verlaque said. “That’s the problem with fast food.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t really call it fast food!” she said, although Verlaque looked unconvinced.

  “You’ll never guess who I had lunch with,” he said.

  “Margaux Perrot?” Marine grinned.

  Antoine stopped picking and turned his head toward Marine, surprised. “How in the world?”

  “Sylvie saw you leave the office—the café, that is—with Perrot and a man.”

  “You really can’t do anything in Aix in secret.”

  Marine shook her head, smiling. “So what is she like?”

  “Very affable. Her husband, Léo, was a friend of mine at law school, who seems to be one of those guys who every two years has a new business that’s bound to fail. The latest is some quarry in North Africa; Tunisia, I think.”

  “Oh, dear,” Marine said. “Margaux must be very patient. What were they doing in Aix?”

  “They live here now,” Verlaque said. “The exodus from Paris—”

  Marine sighed, thinking of the days before Parisians had moved en masse to her town. “Do they have kids?”

  “Margaux has two teenagers from her first marriage. They go to some private school north of Aix.”

  “Private!” Marine said, stopping to pick up a fallen olive. “Why on earth private? The public ones are better.”

  “I know,” Verlaque said. “But her son has been kicked out of public school, so it’s an expensive private school for him.”

  Marine pulled more olives off a branch and watched them drop into her basket. “Kids,” she said. Taking a breath, she added, “They must be a lot of worry.” She looked over to see Verlaque’s reaction, but he continued to pick.

  “Yeah, especially spoiled rich kids,” he said, “which is what I was, I suppose, but somehow I came out all right.”

  “That private school is bilingual,” Marine said. “I’ve heard people talk about it. It’s outrageously expensive.”

  “That’s perfect,” Verlaque said, “as the kids’ father is some American film producer.”

  Marine said, “Stay still for a second. I’d like to take a photo of you working the land.”

  “Stop teasing me.”

  She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out her phone. “Antoine, smile and look over here.” Verlaque did as he was told. Marine fussed with her phone, squinting at its tiny screen. She then held it away from her, pointed at Verlaque, waving her index finger in the air before deciding which button to finally press. He laughed and looked at his beautiful wife, whose wavy auburn hair was framed by the silver leaves and blue sky. “It’s really quite good,” she said, looking at the photograph on her screen. “I’ll get it printed and framed for your father for Christmas.”

  There were so many things he wanted to say at that moment. He had mixed feelings about Christmas and family celebrations; about his father, who lived in Paris with a much younger art historian; about his dead mother, with whom he had never been close; and about his estranged brother. But Marine was already heading into the house to preheat the oven—they were going to eat a small roast beef—so he merely gathered up the net, carefully picking up the stray olives and throwing them into one of the large black bins Bruno had lent him. He placed the baskets and the net on top of the impressive pile of olives in the bin and carried it around the side of the house to a stone outbuilding that housed tools and the summer patio furniture. It was now dark, and by the time he walked into the house he was quite cold. He watched Marine cut narrow slices into the beef with a knife, knowing she would insert a sliver of garlic into each one. She bent over, concentrating, not humming as she usually did when she cooked. He knew why; it was the same reason he had a lump in his throat. Her comment about children had been about them, about their marriage, and it had not gone unnoticed. But he had not answered her.

  * * *

  Did the Aixois ever work, or go home, or sleep? thou
ght Gerhard Rösch as he quickly opened a new pack of paper plates and stacked them on the table in front of him. His neighbor in Tübingen (who had been to Aix the Christmas before and visited this very Sister City fair) had suggested that Gerhard apply for a permit to sell his cheese, sausages, and dumplings. Gerhard, although exhausted, was thankful. It had been excellent advice, as he and Anna desperately needed the money. Nobody in Aix would know that all they owned in Tübingen was a snack shack.

  Gerhard knew his products were good, but business back home had suffered since the high school moved into a brand-new building four blocks farther away from his popular snack shack. The high school students had been faithful customers for years, and he and Anna loved to tack up postcards from former students who had graduated, gone to college, traveled (hence the cards), then settled down to work and, sometimes, a family life. Their own sons, Edmund and Clovis, were both in college, both training to be dentists; and just at the time when they needed financial assistance from their parents, Gerhard and Anna had had their lowest annual intake in their twenty-five-year career.

  A small queue had formed in front of their tent and he saw that Anna was smiling, listening intently, as her French was much better than his. She turned to him and spoke in quick German, with the lilting accent of her native Black Forest, and asked Gerhard to serve two orders of dumpling soup. He picked up two paper bowls—relieved that they had brought the more expensive, thicker ones with them—and ladled the soup, knowing the French clients would be happy with his dumplings, a recipe passed down in his family for generations.

  Gerhard looked up and saw a young woman across the way, standing erect against a lamp pole, watching him. It was France—he couldn’t remember her last name—the girl from the Anglo church, although she wasn’t a girl at all; she was at least ten years older than his sons. He had agreed that afternoon that he and Anna would contribute to the dinner at the cathedral, even if it cut into their earnings. He didn’t want to be the only sister city to refuse. Was she staring at him, or at Anna? He couldn’t quite make it out, with the steam from the dumplings and the glare of the bright Christmas lights. And then he saw the American—the young man who couldn’t stop yelling about his steak sandwiches—walk up to France and say something in her ear. She backed away, and the American followed her, grabbing her upper arm. France grimaced and shrugged him off, walking quickly through the crowd. Gerhard froze, not knowing if he should run after her and see if she needed help, or go and rough up the American, who was now walking back to his own tent, hands in his coat pockets, smiling.

  Anna had also seen France watching their tent, despite the queue. And while Gerhard was perplexed, Anna wasn’t at all.

  Chapter Five

  As Damien Petit drove, he tried not to let Cole Hainsby anger him. Or let Cole’s actions frighten him. What was Cole thinking, going to them for money? Just last month the magazine Le Point did a feature article on the Corsican mafia in the South of France and it scared the wits out of him.

  Damien pulled his car up in front of the Hainsbys’ house, glad they were meeting here this evening. He liked Debra, and kind of felt sorry for her, stuck with Cole. As a bachelor, Damien was always grateful for a home-cooked meal, and Debra was one of those expats determined to master every single dish in the French gastronomical repertoire.

  “Bonsoir!” Cole called from the open front door.

  Damien smiled, thinking perhaps he had been too harsh on Cole. Besides, Americans who signed up for their tours liked his kind of enthusiasm. Didn’t they? “Hello,” Damien answered, handing Cole a bottle of local red wine.

  “Hélène Paulik,” Cole said, reading the label. “A woman!”

  “Yes! Imagine that!” Damien replied, realizing he was now speaking as loudly as Cole and was teasing him slightly. Damien walked into the living room, where he was glad to see a fire lit in the fireplace. It was cold out—his nose was freezing, a sensation he hated—and the wind was blowing. He grew up in Nice, and the cold winters in this part of Provence had always surprised him. Here they couldn’t even grow lemon trees.

  “The kids are upstairs,” Cole said, taking Damien’s coat. “They ate already.”

  Damien thought of his family back in Nice, and the fact that they had always eaten together, even during the week. He was about to ask if that was an American habit, not to eat together, when Debra came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel.

  “They couldn’t wait, sorry,” she said. “Plus since we’ll be talking about the tours tonight, I let them eat this once on their own. Besides, they both have too much homework.”

  “That’s fine,” Damien said. “Tell them I say hello.”

  “Kids!” Cole hollered. “Come down and say hello to Damien!”

  Damien heard loud footsteps and remembered that kids always ran, never walked. Mary—Damien guessed that she was about thirteen—gave him the bises and Sean, who was a year younger, shook his hand. They ran back upstairs as quickly as they had come down. “Let us know when you’re serving dessert, Mom,” Sean said from the top of the stairs.

  Debra smiled and shrugged. “Lemon tart.”

  “The French way,” Cole cut in, “without the meringue.”

  “Oh, yum,” Damien said, thinking of the lemon tree in his parents’ garden in Nice that would now be covered in fruit.

  “Cole, serve Damien a glass of white wine while I preheat the plates,” Debra said.

  Damien’s stomach growled at the glorious smells coming from the kitchen. “Thanks,” Damien said when Cole handed him a glass of wine.

  “I have a great idea for a tour,” Cole said, sitting down.

  “Really?” Damien helped himself to some salted almonds from a bowl on the coffee table. He supposed it was okay; he was hungry and Cole hadn’t offered him any.

  “Wait until I’m there, Cole!” Debra called from the kitchen. Did she need to approve all of Cole’s ideas? Damien wondered. And so they chatted about Aix, complaining about the ongoing construction and then changing the conversation to Marseille’s soccer team’s recent winning streak.

  “A table!” Debra said a few minutes later, coming from the kitchen carrying a large baking dish with oven mitts.

  “Coq au vin,” Cole said, rubbing his hands together.

  “Cole, can you open the wine that Damien brought?” Debra asked as she disappeared back into the kitchen.

  “Right!” Cole jumped up from the table, muttering to himself about where the corkscrew was.

  “On the side table!” Debra called.

  Damien smiled, glad he wasn’t married. Debra, it seemed to him, had changed so much over the past year, even the past few months. It was like she had matured, wizened. No, toughened. He watched as Cole opened the wine bottle and poured what Damien considered to be too much wine into each glass. Debra came out of the kitchen carrying another dish. She sat down and looked at the wineglasses and sighed. She caught Damien looking at her and smiled as she served him a piece of chicken with mashed potatoes.

  “Purée,” Damien said, smiling back. “This is one of my favorite dishes, Debra, and yours looks velvety smooth.”

  “Du beurre, du beurre, et encore du beurre,” Debra said.

  Damien laughed. “Escoffier, bien sûr.”

  “Who’s that?” Cole asked.

  “A nineteenth-century food writer,” Debra replied. “A food tour,” she continued, tasting the chicken and deciding she had gotten the ratio of red wine, stock, mushrooms, and salty bacon perfect this time. “Wouldn’t that be interesting? Many international food writers have lived in Provence at one time or another.”

  Cole wiggled his nose, eating the food but, Debra could tell, not truly tasting it. “I have a better idea.” He set down his fork and looked from Debra to Damien.

  Debra said, “Cole, the business is losing money—”

  “This is going to blow you
away,” Cole said, his eyes wide with excitement. “A salt tour.”

  “Tasting salt?” Damien asked, coughing.

  “The ancient salt route,” Cole went on. “They’ve been moving salt around here for two thousand years!”

  “That’s true,” Damien said. “And it might have been exciting back then, with the Roman roads and bands of thieves hiding along the route, but I’m not sure today’s traveler”—he was careful not to say tourist—“wants to see that.”

  Cole continued as if he hadn’t heard. “We could start in the Camargue, where they’re still harvesting salt, then head along the coast and go as far as Ventimiglia in Liguria, then head up into the mountains, following the route. Even Hannibal used it to his advantage.”

  Debra tilted her head to one side. “And could salt be a theme in the food you’d be eating along the way? Just last week I tasted the most amazing dourade cooked whole in a crust of salt.”

  Cole looked up. “Where was that?”

  “In Marseille,” Debra said quickly. “We were there for work.”

  “Food could be a small part of it,” Cole said. “But we’d mostly picnic along the way. Kind of do a rough-and-tumble thing, like in the old days.”

  Debra and Damien exchanged looks. “Do you mean the Middle Ages?” Debra asked, not hiding her frustration.

  “Without cutlery?” Damien added.

  “I haven’t worked out the details,” Cole said, not registering Damien’s sarcasm. He held his hands up in the air. “I’m a history nut! I plead innocence!”

  “Please serve Damien some more wine,” Debra said flatly.

  “Cole,” Damien said, leaning forward. “The business, as Debra said, is faltering. We hardly have any tours booked, and not much interest coming in on the website.” He wondered if Debra knew about Cole’s little arrangement with the Corsicans and swallowed nervously.