The Lost Carousel of Provence

by Juliet Blackwell

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  PRESENT DAY

  CHTEAU CLEMENT

  Cady

  “Fabrice?”

  The old man had stopped speaking, staring at the carousel figure for so long that Cady started to worry. But he seemed to be telling his own story, in his own time.

  “There were terrible retaliations for the French who cooperated with the Germans. We called them collaborateurs. But when you live with your occupiers, like we did . . . Well, there are many sides to every story.”

  “So what happened, when Paulette came?”

  “She was sitting on that horse, the one you’re cleaning. Just sitting there, but with a gun in her hand. She had heard that I was looking for her; she said she knew I would come out to the carousel eventually.”

  “Why?”

  “We used to talk about my family’s château back in Paris. Before she betrayed us all, before she gave my name to the Gestapo. She was the reason my family was taken.”

  Cady let that sink in for a moment.

  “My mother and sister did not survive. My father did; he never blamed me for what happened, though of course he had cause. I found him after the war. One thing you can say about the Germans: They kept excellent records.

  “After I made money off my writing, my father and I came back to the château and lived here together until his death at the age of eighty-two. We worked together to renovate it, for a while. Sometimes when he and I carved together, he would say it was God’s cruel joke, to allow him to live so long, after taking the lives of his wife and child. But I knew the truth: God did not take their lives; I did.”

  “Fabrice, it wasn’t your fault. It was war. The Nazis committed atrocities. . . . It wasn’t your fault.”

  “It was,” he said, his voice matter-of-fact as he gazed into the shadows. “It was my fault. My father begged me to keep out of it, to work with him in his woodshop, to survive.”

  “And you did survive.”

  He nodded grimly.

  “So did I,” Cady said, thinking of the last time she had seen Jonquilla—or Maxine, for that matter. She thought of the baby she had miscarried, and the wretched, desperate urge to continue, even while leaving others behind. “So what happened with Paulette? She threatened to shoot you?”

  “No, she tried to shoot herself. I wrestled the gun from her, but my cousins, Pierre and his brothers, were coming out to meet me at the château. The gun went off, but neither of us was hurt. They heard the shot and found us, and took her to be arrested.”

  “And hailed you as a hero.”

  “She was put on trial as a traitor, which, of course, she was. . . .” He trailed off, clearing his throat. He stroked the head of the horse, running his fingers along its wavy, beribboned tail. “Eventually she managed to kill herself while in prison. Can you imagine the pain of being called a hero for leading to the death of the woman you love?”

  “If Pierre and the others hadn’t found you, would you have let Paulette go?”

  Fabrice did not answer. He just turned and walked out into the black night.

  * * *

  • • •

  The next day Jean-Paul arrived early and found Cady sitting on a low stone wall in the courtyard, perusing The Château and trying to compare a few passages to the French version of the novel, which she had found in the book room.

  Their eyes met as he walked toward her. He looked delicious, and all she could think of was the feeling of lying in his arms yesterday. The scent of him surrounding her; the enchanting warmth of his bare chest under her palms; the way his whiskers tickled and scratched.

  From the heat in his gaze, she could tell he was remembering the same thing.

  “I wish I could have stayed last night.”

  “Me, too.”

  “No renovation this morning?”

  “Of course. I was just looking through the book, trying to find a few answers. Or insights, at least. What do you think this poem means? Can you tell if it’s translated properly?”

  He read:

  Round and round on the carousel. Will I ever catch up?

  The apprentice Anon

  Round and round, chasing

  like a fairy tale

  The horses run and run but never arrive

  The carousel carver bows down

  And within the healed wound,

  the figure keeps the secret

  Anon

  “It seems basically correct,” said Jean-Paul. “But I wouldn’t have translated panser here as a healed wound—panser les plaies can mean to heal or lick one’s wounds, but I think in this instance the word could mean something like this part, here, of an animal.” He patted his flat stomach.

  “The torso? As in belly? As in the belly of my rabbit?”

  “It could be,” he said. “You found something there, after all. That would mean that Fabrice knew about the box as well—or maybe he’d heard the story, at least. But what secret did the box reveal?”

  “I’m trying to figure that out. I wish I knew who ‘Anon’ was.”

  Cady went on to tell Jean-Paul what Fabrice had said the night before, about Paulette’s betrayal and his finding her sitting on the carousel horse. “So this is one of the reasons he’s been tormented all these years. He feels guilty because he was fooled by her, and she betrayed his family.”

  “I don’t think that’s exactly on point,” said Jean-Paul. “In fact, I think he feels guilty because he still loves her. To this day, he still cares.”

  “But . . . she led to the death of his mother and sister.”

  “That’s where the guilt comes in. But love is not always sensible. In fact, it almost never is, is it? I know you’re reading his first book, but the theme runs through all of his novels: an unrequited love that leads to disaster. Much like the poetry Pétrarque wrote while at Fontaine-de-Vaucluse.” He held his hand out for the book. “Look at the dedication of Le Château. It’s a quote from Pétrarque, about his Laura:

  I see, think, burn, weep; and the one who undoes me

  is ever before me thanks to my sweet pain:

  a war, my condition, filled with ire and pain;

  and only thinking of her do I have some peace

  “I can’t believe it,” said Cady. “How could you love someone who had betrayed you like that?”

  “Love is pain, I think was his point.”

  “You can say that again,” Johnny said, joining them right at that moment. “So, what are you doing sitting around? Don’t we have a carousel to save?”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  PRESENT DAY

  CHTEAU CLEMENT

  Cady

  Cady’s favorite part of the day was watching Johnny speak to the owner of the art supply store in Avignon about the carousel, passion in his words. She had taken him with her for supplies, and it seemed that he had caught the fever.

  Once a person understands the value of reclaiming trash, Cady thought to herself, it’s tough to go back.

  They also stopped by the university briefly, “just to look.” It was obviously not up to Cady to decide whether Johnny pursued a higher degree, but she wanted him to understand that it was a possibility.

  As they were driving back to Château Clement, Cady’s phone beeped.

  “Could you check and see if that’s Jean-Paul?”

  “It’s someone named Olivia,” Johnny, said scanning the text. In heavily accented English, he read: “‘When can they see some examples for ze book about ze derelict château and carousel, with photos of ze owner and dog.’ What is ‘de-re-lict’?”

  “Run-down, old.”

  “Aaah,” he replied, reverting to French. “But you’re serious? You want to do a book about Fabrice’s creepy old place?”

  “I don’t know. I’m thinking about it. I’d like to. But .
. .” Her voice trailed off. How was she even going to approach Fabrice with the idea? He could simply say no, of course, and that would be that. Still, even asking him would have to be handled very, very delicately or he would fly off the handle.

  “Why do you care so much? You’re not even from here. My dad says you’re obsessed with my family.”

  “Well . . .”—she had a sudden vision of wrapping her arms around Jean-Paul’s well-muscled torso last night—“maybe some members of your family.”

  “Why? Family’s a pain in the ass, people always asking where you’re going, knowing someone everywhere you go.”

  “That’s why you should consider going to university. Seriously. I never had the chance to go, myself, but it sounds like a lot more fun than hanging around Saint-Véran your whole life. It’s a great little village for families and old people like me, but someone like you should experience more before you settle down.”

  He seemed to be weighing her words.

  “You should speak to Jean-Paul about it. He went to Paris for school and stayed.”

  “That’s because his dad used to beat his mom and everything.”

  “He did?”

  “Yeah. He was a drinker, too, like my dad. But at least my dad didn’t hit my mom. He just hits me, every once in a while, when I drive him really crazy.”

  “Is he the one who gave you that black eye?”

  He shrugged. “I asked for it.”

  “Johnny,” Cady began, realizing that if everyone thought she was meddling before, this was even worse, “your father shouldn’t hit you. If you need—”

  “Seriously,” he said, cutting her off, “it’s fine. We’re fine. We understand each other. And it’s been hard for him, since my mom died and everything.”

  “I’m sure it has.”

  “But . . . maybe you’re right. Going to university could be cool, maybe.”

  “Maybe. Talk to Jean-Paul.”

  “I don’t know if I could even get in.”

  “There’s no way to know until you try.”

  He nodded and looked out the window.

  “So, what happened to Jean-Paul’s father?”

  “He got cancer and died pretty fast after that. I got the feeling no one really minded. I heard he beat Jean-Paul up really bad one time, when Jean-Paul tried to defend his mom. Not too long after that was when Jean-Paul went to live in Paris; my mom said he stayed with some relatives there so he wouldn’t have to come back home on vacations.”

  “Was this Madame Martin?”

  “Maybe. I forget the names.”

  They had arrived at Château Clement. The tires crunched on the gravel as Cady pulled down the drive and around the back.

  “Would you like to stay for dinner?” she asked. “I went shopping earlier.”

  “Nah,” Johnny said. Fabrice had opened the back door and was standing on the threshold, Lucy beside him. “I think Fabrice has seen enough of me lately. But thanks.”

  “Anytime. At least wish Fabrice a good night before you go, will you?”

  They got out of the car, called a salut to Fabrice, and Johnny helped Cady to unload the supplies into the carousel building.

  Then he bade Cady good night and went over to speak to Fabrice. Cady lingered, lining up the supplies just so and giving the two a moment alone. It pleased her that they didn’t just exchange a quick word but conversed for several minutes. Maybe Johnny really did just need a little friendship, a little guidance. And Fabrice, too, for that matter. Could she have actually accomplished some good with her stay in Saint-Véran?

  But Johnny gave her an odd look when he left—part guilty, part embarrassed—and then quickly shifted his gaze away and loped down the drive.

  Cady read bleakness in Fabrice’s eyes before he turned his back to her and limped toward the château.

  “Fabrice, is everything okay?” Cady called out.

  He ducked into the servants’ entrance.

  Cady trailed him inside. He continued down the narrow corridor without looking back, the rhythmic tapping of his cane on the old stones seemingly counting down to . . . what?

  When he reached the kitchen threshold, he paused.

  “Fabrice?” Cady tried again. “Johnny’s been doing really well lately, but if he—”

  “Johnny’s not the problem.”

  “Then . . . ?”

  Fabrice turned toward her, very slowly and deliberately.

  “Cady, are you taking your photographs of Château Clement—and of me—to make a book?”

  “No, no, of course not. I mean, I suggested to my publisher that your carousel might make a nice addition to the book, and I . . .”

  A curtain came down over his features.

  “But, Fabrice, I would never—”

  “I thought you were different, Cady. Get your things and get out of here. I’m serious this time.”

  “Fabrice, please listen to me. I wouldn’t have done anything, and certainly would not have published anything, without your permission. Of course not. I just—”

  “I’m so sick of people, I could just spit,” Fabrice said, studying the old stones as if seeking clarity in their unyielding hardness. “You would think I’d learn. This is what comes of having people around. Lucy and I were just fine, and then you come along, and you act a little like her and . . .” He looked at her with the saddest eyes in the world. “And then you betray me, just as she did.”

  “Who, Paulette?”

  “I’d like you to leave, Cady. Please be gone by morning.”

  “But . . . we haven’t gone to Fontaine-de-Vaucluse. And the carousel—”

  “Please, Cady, leave this old man in peace.” He shuffled into the kitchen and closed the door behind him.

  * * *

  • • •

  Cady packed her things and walked the couple of miles into town, trailing her small suitcase behind her, her photography bag weighing heavily on her shoulder. She made her way to Jean-Paul’s apartment.

  “Cady! What a lovely surprise,” he said, but then his eyes flickered down to the bags she was holding. “Everything okay?”

  “Fabrice kicked me out,” she said, her voice shaking.

  “Oh, Cady, I’m so sorry. Come in and let me make you something. Coffee? Apéritif?” He picked up her bags and ushered her inside.

  Her arms ached from lugging the bags all the way into town—stepping behind the stout plane trees for protection when cars came speeding past along the highway—but the weariness she felt was not due to that as much as to her emotions. How could everything have gone so wrong so fast? She felt as if she was back in foster care, when she would start to feel relaxed in a new situation, letting her “real” self shine, starting to care for the people she was with, and then she was abruptly yanked out, left completely unmoored.

  She took a seat at his little kitchen table, and he moved aside a thick roll of blueprints and a pad of graph paper.

  “You’ll join my mother and grandfather and me for dinner, and spend the night, and we’ll figure out what happens next. We can go talk to Fabrice together, if you like.”

  “It was just a stupid misunderstanding, but he wouldn’t even let me explain.”

  He blew out a long breath. “Listen, Cady, he’s been remarkably open to you so far. But I think you must know that Fabrice hasn’t allowed people into his life for a very, very long time.”

  “I know. I just felt like we had a . . . connection.”

  “I think you did. Or you do.” He set a small glass of Campari in front of her and added a splash of mineral water. “Give him a day or two to cool down, and see what he says then. Do you want to tell me what set him off?”

  “Well, Johnny—”

  He rolled his eyes. “What’s Johnny done now?”

  “No, nothing like that. Johnny
read a text I received, about the idea to do a book about Château Clement, with photographs.”

  “You mean the carousel?”

  “It started with the carousel, but then the publisher liked the idea of me hanging out in a decrepit château with an old man and his dog, and they thought it could make a really cool book.”

  Jean-Paul remained leaning against the counter. His typically open expression seemed suddenly guarded. “You’re planning to do some sort of exposé on Fabrice?”

  “No, of course not. I would certainly never have done anything without his permission. It was a fantasy, really—I just love taking photographs, and of course the idea of them being published was enticing, but I would never do that. Not without permission. I know I have a few boundary issues, but not like that.”

  After a beat he nodded. “Good. Glad to hear it. So Fabrice wouldn’t let you explain all of that?”

  She shook her head and took a long pull on her drink. “It was almost as if he was waiting for me to betray him. The way Paulette did. He said I remind him of her.”

  There were footsteps overhead, and the muffled sound of voices. Jean-Paul glanced at his watch. “I should go help my mother prepare dinner. Will you eat with us?”

  “Thank you, I would like that. Could I just wash up . . . ?”

  “Of course,” he said. He went into the bathroom, flipped the light on, and handed her a towel. “Take a shower, whatever you like. There’s no rush; dinner will be an hour at least.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Cady,” Jean-Paul said. She turned back to him. “You’re telling me the whole truth? Nothing else happened?”

  She gave a humorless laugh, and refrained from slamming the bathroom door between them.

  * * *

  • • •

  Cady allowed herself a quick, frustrated cry in the shower. She still blamed it on hormones—it had better be hormones, she thought. If this was what came of aging, she was going to be seriously pissed off. But again, she’d been staying in Saint-Véran only a short period of time. It seemed like forever in some ways, but in reality, her time in the Provençal countryside was barely a blip on the screen of her life, much less in the life of a town old enough to remember dragons.