Promises to Keep

by Patricia Sands

  Philippe laughed. “M. Bouchard is an old softie under that tough exterior. He used to be my football coach back in the day, as you say.”

  It took them a while to wend their way into Marseille’s Old Quarter and to find a parking spot. Eventually—in a way Kat could never quite understand—Philippe squeezed the car into what seemed like an impossibly small space.

  “It’s a French talent,” he told her.

  Even on a weekday morning, there was a festive atmosphere down La Canebière, the mile-long street running through the old part of town. It was lined with covered stalls where santonniers displayed their wares. The air was filled with laughter and the cheery calls of vendors.

  Philippe called the number Tim had given him. They arranged a rendezvous with Nick’s contact in an hour’s time at a specific food stall. Tim gave him detailed instructions: “Order three pieces of pissaladière and sit at the back, at the last table by the garbage bins. Put one piece on a separate tray with an espresso.”

  “But who is meeting us?” Katherine asked him, after he told her. “It’s not the most pleasant spot to sit. Maybe that’s why they picked it.”

  “Aucune idée—I’ve no idea. We will just have to go there and see what happens.”

  “Now I’m hoping the undercover guys really are watching us.”

  They walked on, through a lively Christmas market at the far end of La Canebière, where excited children were lined up for rides on traditional roundabouts and were entertained by street musicians and clowns while they waited.

  They were both jittery, so they stopped at a coffee bar but discovered they could not sit still. Quickly draining their cups, they strolled back and paused at a few stalls for distraction.

  “I can’t believe the variety of the santons,” Katherine exclaimed as they made their way along the street, but she resisted buying any.

  Soon they arrived at the specified food stall. Philippe ordered the three slices of pissaladière, the traditional snack he’d been told to buy, and they carried their trays to the patio behind the stall, where a few tables were being warmed by a heater, and sat down at the table Tim had mentioned.

  “If anyone ever told me I would enjoy eating anchovies and onions for breakfast, I would have thought they were crazy. And even more crazy if they’d added that I would be meeting a mysterious stranger—possibly a criminal—in Marseille while eating it next to garbage bins.” Kat laughed nervously, and Philippe put his arm around her.

  The patio was jammed with people, and two others joined their table, leaving a few empty seats between them. Philippe put the separate tray next to his place.

  After a few minutes, a man in a long dark coat, scarf, woolen hat, and sunglasses slid into the chair next to Philippe. His hat was pulled down almost to his glasses, hiding most of his face. Stubble, too long to be fashionable, covered his cheeks and chin.

  He pulled the tray roughly toward him and said, “Merci. J’ai faim.”

  Then he looked at Kat. “As gorgeous as ever.”

  Kat gasped, “Nick! Oh my God, it’s you,” before she put her hand over her mouth and looked to see if anyone was listening.

  Philippe attempted to stifle his surprise. “Incroyable!” he whispered, his eyes about to pop. “You’re the last person we expected. Are you okay? Is it safe for you to be here?”

  “Ah, mes amis, Marseille takes care of me. You know how it is here. Money talks. I’m okay, mate. I flew in only to see you two and give you this.”

  He picked up a napkin and, with a sleight of hand, tucked a piece of paper into it before sliding it under Philippe’s tray. “When you get up, pick that napkin up with the others and slip it in your pocket when you throw the rest in the garbage. You can do it.”

  He grinned at them. “It’s so good to see you both, and I’m happy to hear you are together. Sorry about this mess you’re in, and I hope I can help. I’ve given you the private cell phone number for Inspecteur Roget Thibideau, who is a reliable senior member of the narcotics division in Paris. He is smart and honest—that’s the key. And he would love to get this gang. He will contact you directly, but if you don’t hear from him within three days, call him at that number.”

  Philippe began to thank him, but Nick was already on his feet, gulping his espresso as he got ready to leave.

  “Gotta get out of here. I’ve got my chartered plane waiting. I’m going straight to Oz. I’ll be back in Antibes in the summer.”

  Kat had been sitting speechless. Stunned, really. Finally she spoke to Nick. “We’re so happy to see you and to know things are okay with you. What a reunion we’ll have next summer. Thanks for helping.”

  Nick spoke into a napkin as he wiped his lips with it. “No worries, but be careful. These people can be dangerous. Do exactly what Thibideau says.”

  With that, he turned his back, tossed his napkin and paper plate into the bin, and disappeared into the crowd.

  Kat and Philippe stared at each other in astonishment.

  “This just keeps getting crazier.”

  “God bless Nick. What a good guy.”

  They agreed that they might as well carry on with their day, and as they stood to leave, Philippe slipped the napkin from under the tray and into his pocket. Then he tossed the others, along with the uneaten pissaladière, into the bin. They had completely forgotten the food during the rendezvous.

  Their plan was for Kat to choose two santons at this market, and then they would drive the short distance to the historic hillside village of Aubagne to check out its pottery shops.

  Kat was overwhelmed at the selection in the stalls along La Canebière. The enormous variety of sizes, paint styles, and characters made choosing just two a challenge.

  “I’m sorry, but I need to look at them all to make sure I’m not missing anything.”

  “Choose as many as you want, then, Minou.”

  Every once in a while they would look at each other, raise their eyebrows, and shake their heads. One or the other would say, “Incroyable” or “I don’t believe it.” But she did finally pick four, and soon they were on their way to Aubagne, a short drive from the city.

  “Promise me we’ll have time to visit the house where Marcel Pagnol was born,” Kat asked as they drove through the countryside immortalized in his beloved stories Jean de Florette and Manon des Sources.

  They visited a number of ceramics studios, where they admired the craftsmanship and bought a few more irresistible santons, then managed to tear themselves away in time for a quick visit to Pagnol’s birthplace. Several rooms in the townhouse where the writer was born had been furnished with original pieces.

  “I’m so glad we had time for that,” Kat said afterward. “The video presentation was a nice touch.”

  Philippe agreed. “And dinner will be even better. J’ai faim!”

  He was true to his word, although they could not stop talking about Nick through the entire meal at a small bistro in the picturesque Place Joseph Rau.

  As they drove home, Kat examined their ten new santons before her thoughts turned again to their unexpected meeting with Nick.

  “This is unreal,” she said. “And I’m not talking about the santons.”

  “Well, I am. I think we lost control,” Philippe laughed. “I might have to extend the mantle after all. But just in case we need more, the Foire aux Santons in Aix opens in two weeks.”

  They looked at each other and grinned.

  “I can’t believe we’re being so relaxed about this right now,” Kat said. “It’s bizarre.”

  “We have our moments,” Philippe said. “I’m anxious to talk to this Inspecteur Thibideau. Maybe then we will begin to get somewhere.”

  “I hope so. Now, about these santons—let’s set them up as soon as we get home, chez nous.” Kat yawned and snuggled into her seat for a nap. Philippe reached over to pull her closer, gent
ly tousling her hair.

  “Chez nous,” he repeated softly. “Home. We are going to have a very joyeux Noël, I promise you that.”

  “That’s a promise to keep,” Katherine whispered.

  15

  Calendale, the period of Christmas celebration, began in earnest on December 4, the feast day of Sainte-Barbe. In every home and shop window, on the counter at La Poste, on the bar at every one of the cafés Kat frequented, and even in the windows of the patisseries, saucers of sprouting lentils and wheat seeds were on display. Everywhere she looked, a mini wheat field was sprouting.

  Joy had explained on the phone. “It’s a tradition that goes back to Roman times. The sprouts are carefully nurtured, and if they grow straight and green, there will be a bountiful harvest in the coming year. If they go yellow or droop over, then that’s bad news. Some of the wheat is used to decorate tables and crèches on Christmas Eve, but most bunches are wrapped with a red ribbon and cared for right through to la Chandeleur, la Fête de la Lumière, on February 2.”

  Philippe insisted there was one more aspect to growing the Sainte-Barbe wheat that she needed to know. “Every day, you must hold the wheat between you and your lover and kiss passionately. This makes the wheat grow strong and healthy.”

  Kat never refused.

  On the morning of December 4, she phoned Simone to invite herself for tea that afternoon. She had been thinking about the woman a great deal, and she and Philippe had been by the gate a few times during the week, so she had no difficulty finding it now.

  Since the mistral, the weather had remained chilly, and Kat was bundled up. It felt more like fall in Canada than the weather she associated with the Côte d’Azur, a feeling accentuated by the faint smell of a wood fire.

  Simone had described how to find a hidden call button. Kat pressed it now and the gate slowly opened. As she walked down the driveway, Kat noticed a lane leading off it, away from the house, and made a mental note to tell Philippe that it appeared to be used. She also noticed fresh tire tracks on the driveway and thought perhaps the grocer had visited Simone.

  Simone was beaming as she reached up, from a wheelchair, to bise Katherine at the door. “Chérie, I hoped I would hear from you again soon,” she said, tilting her head.

  “Et voilà! Here I am!”

  Kat handed her a small package that contained everything for Simone to start her own saucer of Sainte-Barbe wheat.

  “Thank you. Shall I open it now? Please excuse my wheels. Some days when my arthritis is bad, I find this makes it easier to move around.”

  “And why not? I think it’s a very wise idea.”

  At the table, Simone unwrapped the gift while Kat plugged in the kettle. “How thoughtful. What memories this brings back. It’s been a long time since I celebrated la Sainte-Barbe.”

  While the tea steeped, Kat talked about her visit to the Foire aux Santons and how much she was loving the holiday traditions in France. Simone listened with the same wistful expression on her face that Kat had seen during her first visit.

  “Do you have a collection of santons?” she asked.

  “Hélas, my crèche and santons have not seen the light of day since Jean-Luc died.”

  She looked past Katherine and began to speak in a soft voice. “For two years after the war, I remained in Normandy. There was much work to be done. Much healing—for the people, for the country, for our hearts . . .” Her voice drifted off and she sat quietly in thought.

  Kat waited for her to speak again.

  “Many of us had spent years together in the Resistance. Some could not wait to leave when the battle was over, but others of us could not bear to leave. I had a lover, and we remained together until we were strong enough to go our separate ways. He had a life to return to, and I was not part of it.”

  Simone’s words were passionate but tempered with wisdom.

  “I finally returned to Paris in 1949 and moved in with my mother. I was twenty-nine. My mother was alone after my father had died of a heart attack during the Occupation. They had a rambling apartment in the Sixth, which had been in her family since the Revolution. Later, after Jean-Luc was an adult, we made it into two—but I digress. Those postwar years were a struggle for many. We mourned the ravages of the war years. But by the time I arrived, it was also a magical time to live in Paris, and the Sixth was alive with the arts. Writers, artists, and thinkers, the intellectuals of the day, endlessly debated the philosophies of the time. Le Café de Flore and Les Deux Magots were just down the street from us and they were constantly abuzz—electric, really.”

  As Simone spoke of the excitement of those heady years in Paris, Kat was reminded of that sense of a new dawn in her own life.

  “I read so much about those postwar years,” she said, “and studied them at university. I wrote many papers on Jean-Paul Sartre and his revival of existentialist thinking. I found his writing intellectually intoxicating, and yet I married someone who didn’t get it and frowned upon the entire movement. I know now I should never have been with him. But I had led a relatively sheltered childhood and chose to study when others my age were partying.”

  Speaking in generalities at first, Kat was soon baring her soul. She felt a trusting intimacy with Simone and found herself expressing thoughts she had never voiced before.

  The teapot was replenished.

  “I feel now that I have control of my life. I’m open to change and to opportunities, and it is so liberating.”

  “Don’t lose it now that you have found it.”

  Kat could see Simone was starting to get tired.

  “I should be going. Please tell me if there is anything I can do for you.”

  “You are right, chérie. I do lie down in the afternoon. It’s another of the joys of aging.”

  During their chat, Kat had worked out that Simone was ninety-one and she was stunned. Now another thought came to her. “The next time I come, would you like me to help you set up your crèche?”

  Simone paused and then nodded. “Come again when you can, Katherine. I had forgotten how pleasurable it is to chat with another woman you like. I will tell you the next chapter then.”

  Kat had hoped Simone would continue her story, but did not want to ask in case it appeared rude. She was captivated by this woman and the stories she had told so far, and couldn’t wait to hear what happened next.

  But she had another reason to come back. She was feeling concerned about her new friend now that she was aware that drug smuggling was going on so close to her house.

  16

  The following day, Philippe said, “Pack for two days, Minou. You will need warm clothes and good walking shoes. The day after tomorrow we will go to Lyon. We’ll take the train.

  “I knew it was on your list of places you wish to visit,” he grinned.

  She threw her arms around him and whispered, “Wish list.”

  “This isn’t exactly the best reason to take a trip, but we’ll manage,” she said after Philippe explained the plan. He had told his cousins they were coming so that they could meet Kat and show her their beautiful city.

  “We will be enthusiastic tourists for two days,” he said. “During that time I have to attempt to get as much information—casually—from Denise about Idelle’s whereabouts. Apparently, she and Dimitri moved from Normandy two years ago, and the police have not been able to trace them. They suspect they are running things from Russia.”

  “I can play along, no problem. Still can’t believe all this, though.”

  Kat settled into her comfortable seat on the TGV, glad to be back on the train for the first time since her trip from Avignon to Paris at the end of her first exchange. Philippe had booked first-class seats on the upper deck so they could have the best view.

  After an unimpressive departure between blocks of fairly modern apartments in the upper part of Antibes, the train hugged the narrow san
dy beaches that lined the coast from Juan-les-Pins west to Cannes. The early-morning rays reflecting off the sea made them squint as they took in the lovely coastal views.

  “I’m surprised that people still come to sit on the beach at this time of year. Some of them are even swimming. And the fishermen just bundle up and keep setting their lines,” Kat said.

  Philippe laughed. “Bien sûr! Fishing never stops. Some of the locals are diehards and take a dip no matter what. The Germans and Scandinavians don’t seem to care how cold it is.”

  Not long after the stop in Cannes, the scenery changed dramatically as they passed through rock cuts and tunnels in the Massif de l’Esterel. Kat noticed that the morning sun was coaxing a startling range of shades from the distinctive red, craggy hills.

  At times, the train wound out of the hills to present them with spectacular views of sparkling coves—some filled with moored boats, others solitary and inviting. Here the Med was a deep azure where the water met the jagged shoreline.

  “The change from the turquoise of Antibes and Nice is so dramatic,” Kat exclaimed. “It’s a very different kind of beauty.”

  Philippe nodded. “There are many who prefer one area to the other. Often with great vehemence.”

  A brief stop in Saint-Raphaël signaled a change of scene as the train moved away from the sea for a while until it neared Toulon. They sped past quiet hamlets and farms with low outbuildings, surrounded by seemingly endless rows of grapevines, some still showing their autumn colors. They passed olive groves and fields green with winter wheat, and spotted here and there the last of the season’s figs still stubbornly clinging to branches.

  Kat was enchanted to see several villages perched on outcroppings or huddled in wide valleys and was reminded of the strict regulations in France that control the colors of walls, shutters, and roofs. There were isolated, vine-covered, stone farmhouses and rambling barns that led her to wonder about the histories forever captured in their thick walls. A glimpse of the particular blue of a swimming pool at times made it clear the ancient and the new coexisted, if not always happily.