by Peter Mayle
She flinched as he tapped her on the shoulder. “You look as though you’re late,” he said. “Anything I can do?”
“How long do these guys need to get the bags out of the plane?”
Andre shrugged. “This is the south of France. Nothing happens fast.”
The girl consulted her watch again. “I have a meeting in Sophia Antipolis. Do you know where that is? How long will the cab take?”
The business center of Sophia Antipolis, or the Parc International d’Activités, as the French had christened it, was back in the hills between Antibes and Cannes. “Depends on the traffic,” said Andre. “Forty-five minutes should do it.”
The girl looked relieved. “That’s great. Thanks.” She almost smiled. “You know, on the plane? I thought you were a wiseass.”
Andre sighed. “Not me. My good nature gets in the way.” He saw his bag creeping toward him on the carousel. “Have your meeting and get out of that place as quick as you can.”
Her eyes widened. “Dangerous?”
Andre shook his head as he picked up his bag. “The food’s terrible.”
He left the coast road at Cagnes-sur-Mer and aimed the rented Renault along the D6 that twists above the river Loup toward Saint-Paul-de-Vence. There was a snap to the air, an early morning chill that would soon disappear. The sun was already warm through the windscreen, the peaks of distant hills glittered white against the blue sky, the countryside looked newly washed. Manhattan and winter had been left behind on a different planet. Andre opened the window and felt his head begin to clear after a night of rationed oxygen.
He arrived in Saint-Paul in time to see, emerging from the café, the village police force, a corpulent gendarme with the reputation of giving the fastest parking tickets in France. The gendarme paused in the café doorway, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he surveyed the little place, an eye out for the first offender of the day. He looked on as Andre backed into one of the very few permitted parking places. He studied his watch. He walked over to the car, his boots creaking, his pace measured and slow, befitting his position of authority.
Andre nodded at him as he locked the car. “Bonjour.”
The gendarme nodded back. “You have one hour. After that”—he tapped his watch—“contravention.” He adjusted his sunglasses and moved off, alert for any hint of wrongdoing, pleased with this first small triumph of the morning. How he looked forward to July and August! They were his favorite months, when he could stand grim-faced at the entrance to the village, turning away a continuous procession of cars. On a good day, he could infuriate several hundred motorists. It was one of the perks of the job.
In the café, Andre ordered a croissant and a coffee and looked out at the center of the place, where, weather permitting, vicious games of boules took place throughout the year. He remembered his first visit to Saint-Paul as a child, in the days when Yves Montand, dressed in waiter’s black and white, used to play against the old men of the village while Simone Signoret smoked and watched, and when James Baldwin drank in the hotel bar. Andre’s mother had told him that these were famous people, and he had stared at them for hours, drinking Orangina through a straw.
On his second visit, ten years later, he had fallen in love with a Swedish girl. Greedy kisses behind the post office, heartbreak on the train back to Paris, an exchange of letters that faltered and finally stopped. Then the Sorbonne, and other girls. Then the years of apprenticeship as a photographer’s assistant in London. And then, drawn by the thought of exotic assignments and American-sized fees, New York.
He finished his croissant and spread his map on the table. The Russian dowager and her icons lived below Saint-Jeannet, no more than ten minutes away. He decided to go and introduce himself before checking into the hotel.
Saint-Paul was coming to life as he pulled out of his parking spot, the gendarme on the prowl, a waiter from the Colombe d’Or hosing down the entrance to the hotel courtyard, drops of water bouncing off the stone like diamonds in the sunlight. Andre drove slowly up toward Saint-Jeannet, comparing the views on either side of the road. To his right, jolies villas huddled together as far as the eye could see, a jumble of concrete and tile that covered the terraced land and extended all the way down to the Mediterranean. To his left, the slopes of the Col de Vence rose up above the treetops, bleached and barren and building-free. It was the kind of contrast found often along the south coast, with intensive development abruptly giving way to emptiness, as though a line had been drawn beyond which no villas were allowed. Andre hoped the line would endure. Modern architecture was not one of France’s great accomplishments.
He turned off the narrow road, following instructions that led him down a gravel track into a fold of the valley, and found himself in a pocket of land that had escaped the developers. A range of old stone buildings sprawled along the banks of a small stream, swags of geraniums drooping from the walls, a breath of smoke coming from one of the chimneys.
Andre parked the car and went up a flight of shallow, uneven steps to the front door of the largest of the buildings. Two stout cats sitting on a wall watched him through half-closed, supercilious eyes, and he was reminded of one of his father’s favorite quotes: “Cats look down on you. Dogs look up to you. But pigs look you straight in the eye.” He was smiling as he knocked on the door.
There was a rasp as iron bolts were drawn. A round, ruddy face with brown button eyes under a frizz of gray hair peered around the side of the door. Andre felt the cats push past his legs to go inside.
“Madame, bonjour. I’m the photographer from America. From the magazine. I hope you were expecting me.”
The face frowned. “I was told a woman.”
“She’ll be here later today. If it would be more convenient, I could come back then.”
The old woman rubbed her nose with a bent, arthritic finger. “Where is your camera?”
“In the car.”
“Ah bon.” This seemed to help the old woman come to a decision. “Tomorrow will be better. The girl comes today to clean.” She nodded at Andre, closing the door firmly in his face.
He took his camera from the car to shoot some exteriors of the house while the light was still coming from the east. Through the lens, he saw the pale blur of the old woman’s head as she watched him through a window. How would she cope with Camilla? He finished a roll of film and, squinting at the sun, decided to leave the other exteriors until the evening.
He drove back to the hotel and checked in, swinging the heavy key in his hand as he went down the corridor to his room. He liked it here. It was rambling and informal, more like a simple country house than a hotel—until you started to look at the paintings on the walls and the sculptures in the gardens.
The Colombe d’Or had been founded after World War I by Paul Roux, an ex-farmer with a sympathy for hungry artists. They came to eat at his restaurant and, in the way of artists, sometimes found themselves a little short of funds. Monsieur Roux obligingly allowed them to pay for their food with their work, accepting paintings from and by Chagall, Braque, Picasso, Léger, Bonnard, and many others. With his acquisitive instincts awakened, Roux then began to buy—at friend’s prices, one hopes—and after forty years, he had assembled one of the finest private collections of twentieth-century art in France. He died leaving a few hundred dollars in the bank and a fortune on the walls.
Andre dropped his bag by the bed, and was pushing open the shutters when the phone rang. There was a fax for monsieur. He told the girl he’d pick it up on the way out. From previous trips, he knew exactly what it would be.
Camilla was incapable of going anywhere simply and quietly. Her travels were always preceded by a fusillade of notes and reminders that supplemented her standing instructions (a litany commencing with “Never put me in a pink room” and going on to describe her every whim, from the size of the bubbles in the mineral water to the color of the fresh flowers). Additional bulletins, such as the one Andre was reading in the sunlit courtyard, covere
d Camilla’s imminent movements and appointments. Behind her back, these communications were known as Court Circulars, after the London Times column that lists the engagements of the Queen and the royal family.
Wednesday. Concorde a.m. to Paris, connecting with Air France to Nice. LimoAzur to pick up at Nice airport, drive to Colombe d’Or, dinner with Andre.
Thursday. The day with Princess Ospaloff. Air Inter 5 p.m. to Paris. LimoEiffel to pick up at Orly, drive to Ritz. Dinner with Vicomtesse d’Andouillette.
Friday. The day chez Beaumont, Avenue Foch. Lunch with Gilles at L’Ambroisie. Drinks at the Crillon with …
So it went on, a breathless catalogue of self-importance, each minute of Camilla’s trip accounted for, each drink and each meal itemized. As Noel had once said, merely reading the schedule was enough to exhaust any normal person. Glancing down the page, Andre could almost hear the thud of names being dropped. There were times when it was quite an effort to find Camilla amusing. He shook his head and stuffed the fax in his pocket.
He spent an enjoyable day, dividing his time between pleasure and work: visits to the Fondation Maeght and the Matisse chapel, a late outdoor lunch in Vence, a return to the dowager’s house for more exteriors, this time with a western light. Back at the hotel, he showered and changed and sat in the bar with his old and often-read copy of M. F. K. Fisher’s Two Towns in Provence.
Business that night was slow. A couple doing their best not to look guilty drank champagne in the corner, their hands and knees touching under the table. A man at the bar delivered a stern monologue to the bartender about the spreading influence in France of Jean-Marie Le Pen, the right-wing ideologue, and was rewarded by the intermittent, perfunctory nods of the bored professional listener. From the restaurant came the sound of a cork being drawn from its bottle. Outside, darkness fell swiftly and the courtyard lights came on.
The throb of an idling engine made Andre look up from his book, and he saw that a Mercedes had eased across the courtyard entrance and stopped. The chauffeur opened the back door to reveal Camilla, in head-to-toe Chanel. She issued instructions to the night air as she clicked over the flagstones.
“Luggage to my room, please, Jean-Louis, and be sure to hang the garment bag. I’ll see you here tomorrow afternoon at four on the dot. Comprenez?” She caught sight of Andre, who had come out of the bar. “Ah, there you are, sweetie. Be an angel and tip Jean-Louis, would you? I’m just going to check my messages.”
The chauffeur dealt with the bags. Andre dealt with the chauffeur. Camilla’s incredulous voice echoed down the hall. “But that’s impossible. C’est impossible. Are you sure there isn’t anything?” Other staff were summoned and interrogated. The hotel played hunt the message.
Andre picked up two menus from the restaurant and retreated to the bar. It was remarkable how quickly a single determined individual could disrupt the calm of an entire establishment. He ordered another kir for himself and, hoping he remembered Camilla’s water of the moment, some Badoit.
She joined him, sitting down with a prolonged sigh, and took a pack of cigarettes from her bag. “What a day. I must look a complete hag.” She crossed her legs and leaned back, waiting for Andre to contradict her.
“Nothing that dinner won’t put right.” Andre smiled and passed her a menu. “The lamb here is very good. Nice and pink.”
“Oh, please. Do you know how long meat stays in the colon? For days. Now, tell me all. How was the princess?”
Andre went over his brief meeting, while Camilla sipped her water and, careful not to inhale, puffed at her cigarette. She seemed unaffected by a long day of travel, bright and attentive, asking questions, planning the next day’s work. Her energy continued over the salad Niçoise that was her dinner, while Andre, sedated by roast lamb and red wine, felt himself becoming more and more drowsy.
“You’re fading, sweetie,” she said, as the bill was placed on the table. “Do you want to go to bed?” The waiter, whose English covered the essentials, raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips.
Andre looked at her. She looked back, with a half-smile that didn’t reach her eyes. He had an uncomfortable feeling that an invitation had been extended. Office gossip had it that Camilla maintained a liaison with a wealthy lover and possibly enjoyed discreet matinees now and then with Garabedian. Why not the occasional photographer? Editor’s comforts while on location.
“I haven’t had an offer like that for weeks.” And then he laughed, and the moment passed. “Some more coffee?”
Camilla tossed her napkin on the table and stood up. “Eight o’clock tomorrow. In the lobby.”
Andre watched her leave the restaurant, a woman declined. He wondered if he’d just jeopardized his meal ticket.
3
PUNCTUAL to the minute, Andre stood at the hotel entrance and inspected the morning. Apart from a few sparse licks of high cloud drifting above the hills, the great blue sweep of the sky was clear. It promised to be a day like yesterday. He walked across the terrace and looked down at the pool, guarded along one side by a closely planted, military-straight row of cypress trees, watched over at one end by a gaunt Calder mobile. The couple he had seen last night in the bar were in the heated water, laughing and splashing each other like children. Andre thought how pleasant it would be if he had someone to share a glorious day like this with him. Which, of course, he did have.
“Ah, there you are, sweetie. I hope you’ve got your Instamatic loaded. Where’s the car?” Camilla stood posed in the courtyard, one hand lightly holding the brim of the straw hat that everyone would be wearing by summer. She was dressed in what she liked to call her working clothes—medium heels and a rugged little Armani suit—and appeared to be in a mood that matched the weather. Andre thought, with some relief, that he must have misread her signals the previous night.
On their way to Saint-Jeannet, she told him how she absolutely adored icons and, indeed, all things Russian. If they had been going to a Bavarian schloss or a Venetian palazzo, she would have adored all things German or all things Italian. It was her way of limbering up, of preparing to charm her subject.
And this she did throughout the morning. She exclaimed with delight at everything, from the elegant but slightly shabby simplicity of the ancient house—“The allure of the unspoiled, sweetie. Wonderful architectural bones. Make sure you capture the essence of it all”—to the icons themselves, which, although few, were magnificent. While Camilla enthused and interviewed, Andre shot, and by midday he felt he had covered the job. With the afternoon’s photographs, he could afford to experiment.
The old woman had prepared a kitchen lunch for them, and here Camilla’s relentless good humor and flattery were put to a severe test. It was the kind of simple meal Andre would have been happy to eat every day: fat, shiny black olives, radishes with white butter, country bread that stood up to chewing, a jug of red wine, and, sliced with great care and ceremony, a wonderfully dense, rosy saucisson.
Andre held out his plate for the old woman to serve him. “What a treat,” he said. “This is impossible to find in America. Actually, I think it’s illegal over there.”
The old woman smiled. “They tell me some French cheeses are, too. What a very strange country it must be.” She turned to Camilla. “Do you have enough, madame? It comes from Aries, this saucisson. A little beef, a little pork, a little donkey. They say the donkey gives it that particular taste.”
Camilla’s smile froze. Lunch was already an ordeal, with no Badoit—no water at all, except for the highly suspect liquid that came from the kitchen tap—no salad, and one of the cats sitting on the table next to the wine jug. And now donkey. Despite the risk of traumatizing her intestinal tract, she had been willing herself to choke down a slice of sausage for the sake of politeness and the greater good of the magazine. But donkey. Donkey was beyond her.
Andre glanced up, took in her rigid face and the glazed desperation of her stare, and saw that she was lost for words. He’d never known this to happen before, and
it had the effect of making her seem very close to human. He leaned across to the old woman.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I completely forgot to tell you—madame my colleague is vegetarian.” He couldn’t resist adding, “She has an extremely sensitive colon.”
“Ah bon?”
“I’m afraid so. Her doctor has forbidden her red meat of any description. Particularly the donkey, which is most aggravating to delicate tissues.”
The old woman nodded gravely. They both looked at Camilla, who assumed an expression of deep regret. “Silly old colon,” she said. “Such a bore.”
An offer of cold noodles and salt cod was quickly made and just as quickly waved away—Camilla declaring herself more than satisfied with olives and radishes—and lunch was soon over. Only the cat lingered at the table, hoping to make off with the remains of the sausage as the others pushed back their chairs to resume work. In fact, there was little more to be done. Andre repositioned the icons, photographing them against a variety of backgrounds—stone, faded plasterwork, a wooden shutter—and coaxed an unexpectedly youthful smile out of the old woman when he took a portrait of her sitting on a low stone wall next to one of the cats. Camilla made notes and murmured into a small tape recorder. By three, they were finished.
As the car pulled away up the hill, Camilla lit a cigarette, blowing smoke out of the window with a long, thankful sigh. “God,” she said, “donkey. How could you possibly eat it?”
“It was very tasty.” Andre slowed down as a mud-colored dog sidled across the road and paused to sneer at the car before hopping into an overgrown ditch. “You should try eating tripe. Now, there’s a challenge.”
Camilla shuddered. She sometimes found the French—or at least the rural French, not her dear, civilized chums in Paris—offensively earthy in their eating habits. And what was worse, they took as much delight in talking about those frightful ingredients as they did in eating them: the gizzards and underbellies, the rabbits’ heads and sheep’s feet, the nameless jellied morsels, the various and unlovely permutations of offal. She shuddered again.