by Joan Carter
Their welcome from Paul was sombre. Estelle and Paul embraced and he shook Imogen’s hand. He led them through to a small side room where Sophie was with a man, who was introduced as Raoul, a long-time friend of Paul’s. Imogen guessed that, like Paul, Raoul was in his late thirties. He was of medium height and dark complexion. He seemed familiar to Imogen, but she couldn’t place him and dismissed the thought.
“Raoul is an old friend,” said Paul. “He heard the news and came straightaway to offer support.”
Raoul shook hands with Imogen. He was smartly dressed in black trousers, a cream shirt and a grey cotton jacket. As he smiled at Imogen, she again felt that there was something familiar about him, but she couldn’t pinpoint it.
“What else could I do?” said Raoul. “I have known Paul since we were at college in Nice and have been coming to visit him in Provence for years. I know all the people involved. I had to come to offer my help.”
“Of course,” said Imogen. She was overtired, she knew, but this was important.
“Yes, we were musicians together, weren’t we, Paul?” said Raoul.
“Yes,” said Paul, “but some of us were better than others. Look at me now. I am a restaurateur.”
“And you, Raoul,” asked Imogen, trying to sound as calm as possible, “what do you do nowadays?”
“Oh, I work in music,” he said. “I am not so famous as my brother, but I make a living nevertheless.”
“Now, you don’t have to be so modest,” said Paul. He looked at Imogen. “Raoul sings – he has a wonderful baritone voice – but he is chiefly a composer and conductor. He works mostly in South America, though, so he is not so well-known here.”
“Except as the brother of my brother,” said Raoul, laughing.
“And who is your brother?” asked Imogen, although she knew what the answer was going to be.
“Frédéric Junot,” Raoul replied. “Frédéric Junot is my brother. I am sure you will have heard of him.”
“Oh, yes, I have,” said Imogen.
“He is the famous one of the family.”
“I didn’t realise he had a brother.”
“Not many people do,” said Raoul. “We are not very close. He is older than me. I left to continue my studies in America and never came back to live here. It is a fact. He lives his life and I live mine.” He shrugged.
“He has had so much trouble,” said Imogen.
“True,” said Raoul, “but sometimes people get what they deserve.”
Imogen couldn’t believe she’d heard correctly. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“Well,” said Raoul, “if you don’t treat people with respect, you can’t expect much sympathy when you lose them.”
Imogen was so stunned by Raoul’s callous attitude, she found herself unable to reply. Estelle came to the rescue. “It is no secret that these brothers are less than fond of each other,” she said, facing Imogen. Turning to Raoul, she added, “But let’s not talk of this now, Raoul. There are others who deserve our sympathy.”
“You’re right,” said Raoul.
“It’s fortunate that you are here now,” said Paul. “That we are all here, in fact, to support Marie’s family.”
“I’m sure it is,” said Imogen. It reminded her of why they were there.
“Excuse me,” said Paul, “I must finish preparing our meal. Sophie, I wonder if you would mind helping me to bring some food to the table?”
“Of course.”
Estelle turned to Imogen.
“I suppose you knew Frédéric because you worked in the world of opera?” she said.
“Oh, yes,” said Imogen. “He was singing in London at the Opera House when Elodie…” she hesitated, “died. In fact, I interviewed him while he was there.”
“Really?” said Estelle. Imogen could have sworn she caught a glance between Estelle and Raoul.
“Yes. I was doing a profile for the magazine I work for.” She turned to Raoul. “I don’t think that I know a Raoul Junot, though, despite working in the world of opera.”
“That’s because there isn’t one,” said Raoul. “For professional purposes, I use my mother’s surname, Graves.”
“Ah, yes,” said Imogen. “Raoul Graves. That name rings a bell.” She couldn’t remember why, though.
*****
“Bravo,” said Raoul, as Paul and Sophie entered, carrying dishes. Sophie had some bread and a dish of rice. Paul had some chicken breasts, ratatouille and a green salad that he had prepared. He filled their glasses with a chilled Chablis. When they had finished serving themselves, Raoul turned to Imogen.
“So, Imogen, what did my brother have to say to you in his interview?” He smiled, but the look of concentration in his eyes made Imogen wary. “I hope that he was helpful, although I’m sure he was. He is a very charming man and would do anything to further his career. Anything.”
Meaning what? thought Imogen, shocked by the force of Raoul’s statement. “Oh, yes,” she replied, “he is certainly very charming.” She returned the smile, but mentally decided that she would not reveal any of the dealings she had had with Frédéric apart from the initial interview. “He was about to make his debut at the Opera House in La Bohème, so we very much focused on that, plus the usual type of things – his background, career path etc. It was quite wide-ranging.”
“So you didn’t discuss the death of his wife?” asked Paul.
Imogen was aware of the sudden silence in the room, as everyone focused on her and awaited her response. “No,” she replied, “the interview took place before she died.”
“But she had withdrawn from the production, had she not?” asked Estelle. “Was there not some controversy surrounding that?”
“Yes, she had withdrawn, but we didn’t go into that in the interview.” It wasn’t a lie; they hadn’t discussed Elodie’s withdrawal as Frédéric hadn’t been willing to.
“So strange. First Elodie dies, then Marie,” said Paul. “And you were close by when each of the deaths occurred.”
“I didn’t really know very much about either of the people involved,” said Imogen. “I had never even met Elodie and I only recently met Marie.”
“Yes, but you still had links with both,” said Sophie, not exactly accusingly, but not far from it.
“I suppose so,” said Imogen.
“Let’s not talk anymore of these things,” said Estelle. “Raoul, pour me some more wine and tell us what you have been doing since we last saw you.”
“I hope you don’t want an early night,” said Raoul, “as I have been very busy.”
*****
It was, in fact, well after midnight when Paul escorted Imogen and Estelle up the road to Estelle’s house. It had been a quiet evening, but Imogen was glad to have received the invitation. It had helped to have company, even if she had sensed an undercurrent that she couldn’t quite define. What was not in doubt, however, was that Marie’s death had cast a huge shadow over all of their lives.
*****
“Imogen, I’ve got a surprise for you.”
“Sebastian, how lovely to hear from you.”
“Not just hear from me, darling. You’re going to see me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m here, in Nîmes.”
“I don’t believe it!” Imogen was delighted. “What are you doing in Nîmes?”
“Luc Favier. You’re going to interview him today. Well, he’s an old friend. We go back years. He contacted me when he saw that you worked for Opera London and, well, you know how it is. He suggested that I come down for a long weekend and join the interview – sort of twisted my arm. (I bet it didn’t need much twisting, thought Imogen.) I didn’t have time to let you know. I’m sure I’ll be very helpful.”
“I’m sure you will,�
�� said Imogen, managing not to laugh. “What about the office, though?” she asked. “Have you just left it?”
“Well, it turns out that this Tarquin chappie is rather good. Pretty efficient. I’m pleased I decided to take him on.” What? Imogen thought to herself. “It’s meant that I can get out and about a lot more – you know, talking to people, doing research, that kind of thing.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” said Imogen.
“In fact, he practically put the last issue together. Although, of course, I kept a very strict eye on what he was doing.”
“Very important with one so young, I’m sure. It sounds as though you’ve hardly missed me.”
“Oh, but we have. Of course we have. Anyhow, I thought I’d let you know that I’ll be there when you arrive. Didn’t want to give you too big a shock. See you later, darling.”
“See you later.”
*****
A couple of hours later, Imogen pulled up outside Luc Favier’s house in Nîmes. She thought it a lovely city. It had much evidence of occupation in Roman times and Imogen could remember finding, with her father, the Castellum in the backstreets where the Roman pipeline came in, bringing water from the Pont du Gard. Luc’s house was on the upper slopes of the city, an upmarket residential area. All the houses had high walls, very obvious alarm systems and ‘Attention Chien Méchant’ signs. Imogen was amused when she rang the bell to hear the ‘Brindisi’, or ‘Drinking Song’, from La Traviata wafting over the garden wall.
The door was opened by Luc. Imogen’s entrance was greeted by lots of air kisses and cries of “Darling” from Sebastian, while Luc looked on, smiling. He had a benevolent air, was of medium height and looked to be in his seventies. He was a little on the plump side, but had a good head of grey hair and a wide smile. He was wearing cream shorts and a light green polo shirt. Sebastian, of course, was totally over the top in flowery knee-length shorts, a white, short-sleeved shirt, a straw hat and open-toed sandals. He always believed in looking the part.
CHAPTER 13
“Let me introduce you,” said Sebastian. “Luc, this is Imogen, my very dear assistant editor.” Wow, I’ve been promoted, thought Imogen. “She’s deserted me for a month to write a book, but, as much as I miss her, I had to agree to it.”
“That’s very kind of you, Sebastian,” said Luc.
“Well, there has been a lot of pressure. I have a young chap, how do you say, doing work experience, but one can’t give these young people too much responsibility. In fact, in some ways, they can be an extra burden.”
“Poor you, Sebastian,” said Imogen. “I am so very grateful.” She gave Sebastian one of her meaningful looks. He had the grace to blush.
“Let me offer you a drink before lunch,” said Luc.
“Thank you,” said Imogen.
“I think it’s a wonderful idea to write about artists living in Provence,” said Luc. “There are so many of us.”
“Exactly,” said Imogen.
“If you want to paint, the light and the landscapes are wonderful,” said Luc. “If you want to compose or write, then there is so much lovely countryside in which one can lose oneself. And, if you’re old like me, then the sun works wonders on all sorts of ailments.”
“Of course, the food and wine are marvellous, too,” said Sebastian.
They all laughed.
“I note that your doorbell plays the ‘Brindisi’ from La Traviata,” said Imogen. “Alfredo and Violetta never made it back to the countryside, did they?”
“No, so sad,” said Luc. “The duet, ‘Parigi o cara’, which they sing as she is dying, is one of my favourites, even after many years of listening to it.”
“Really?” said Sebastian. “I don’t think it compares with ‘O Soave Fanciulla’ in La Bohème.”
“Yes, but they are different situations,” said Luc. “When they sing ‘Parigi o cara’, Violetta is very ill, probably dying. There’s a very sad, wistful background to the music. In ‘O Soave Fanciulla’, Mimi and Rodolfo have just fallen in love. The music is full of hope and excitement. I always like music with a wistful element.”
“Well, La Bohème has plenty of that,” said Imogen. “Even without the romance, I always find the Act Four duet between Rodolfo and Marcello, when they sing of their lost loves, very moving.”
“We seem to have got very quickly into opera,” said Luc. “Is that what you want to talk to me about?”
“Oh, yes, but within the context of your career. For example, I’d love to hear about your life as a young musician in Paris, and when and why you came to live in Provence.”
“Ah,” said Sebastian “then La Bohème is just the right opera for us. You lived the life of a bohemian, just like those in Murger’s story, didn’t you, Luc?”
“Indeed I did,” said Luc, laughing. “I even did some painting, but fortunately none of my lovers died of consumption or drowning.”
Imogen shot upright. “What do you mean, drowning?” she asked. They both looked at her, surprised. She realised her question had a degree of urgency not suited to the relaxed atmosphere.
“Well, you know, Imogen,” explained Sebastian. “La Bohème is based on what was originally a series of articles, then a book, written by Henri Murger around 1850. He also co-authored a play based on the articles.”
“But no one drowns in the opera. Only Mimi dies and that’s from consumption,” said Imogen.
“Not in the opera,” said Luc. “However, the opera libretto is based partly on Murger’s book and one of the characters in the book is based on a woman who drowned.”
“Don’t forget,” said Sebastian, “that the libretto isn’t necessarily completely faithful to the story. The librettist adapts the story to make it suitable for setting to music.”
“I used to have a copy of Murger’s work,” said Luc. “I lent it to someone and, of course, I never got it back.”
“We have a copy,” said Sebastian. “Haven’t you seen it, Imogen? It’s in the office. You can read it anytime you like. I’m surprised you haven’t already.”
Imogen’s pulse was racing, but she was careful to keep her voice normal. She didn’t want to show too much of what she was thinking, but this was hugely relevant to what she and Ned were trying to do.
“A friend of mine, Ned, is very keen on opera,” she said. “Would it be possible for him to borrow the book? I know he’d be very interested.”
“Darling, of course he can borrow it. Tell Ned to ring Tarquin – he’s my little assistant,” he explained to Luc. “Then he can pop along to the office to pick it up. I should actually be back by Tuesday, although Luc is pressing me to stay longer. I must say, it’s very tempting. I think the rest is just what I need.”
“I’m sure it is,” said Imogen. “I’ll ring Ned this evening.” I just can’t wait, she thought to herself.
*****
“Thank goodness,” said Ned. “I seem to have countless missed calls from you. Whatever’s the matter?”
“Nothing. In fact, things couldn’t be better. I just wanted to talk to you urgently. Something’s come up.”
“About Marie?”
Imogen hesitated. “No, I’m afraid not,” she said, her voice lowering.
“Then what?”
“I went to interview Luc Favier today and Sebastian was there.”
“How come?”
“Oh, you know how Sebastian manages to wangle his way into things. Anyway, we discussed the book by Murger upon which La Bohème is based and guess what? They say it is partly based on someone who actually drowned!” Imogen couldn’t keep the excitement out of her voice.
“Fantastic – well, not for her, of course.”
“Anyway, Sebastian has a copy of the book and has agreed to lend it to you. You just have to phone Tarquin and arrange to pick it
up.”
“I’ll do that asap, although I’m pretty snowed under at work. This could give us the insight we need.”
“Exactly. I’m back in Eygalières now, with quite a lot to do. I’ve rather packed the interviews in, so I need to keep up the preparatory work. I must say, though, I love it.”
“I had thought of trying to get down once more before you leave, but perhaps you’re going to be too busy?”
“I did have an idea, actually. I have been considering going back via Paris to do some sightseeing and take in a bit of music, although the opera season won’t yet be in full swing. It occurred to me that you could meet me there for a couple of days.”
“Or even a couple of nights?” Imogen didn’t respond and Ned laughed. “That would be great. I have a pretty heavy schedule in September, but could possibly call in a few favours.”
“My last week is the week after next, so if I travel up on the Friday, we could have a weekend in Paris.”
“So romantic.”
“Well, I suppose so, if you’re the romantic sort.”
“I would be, given half the chance.”
“Well, then, you never know.”
*****
As there had been no news with regard to the timing of Marie’s funeral, Estelle had returned to Paris. Although Imogen was once again alone in the house, she was now less nervous, partly because she had recovered from the shock of the death and partly because Estelle’s matter-of-fact approach to the affair had reassured her. Having returned from Nîmes, and finding herself low on food stocks the following morning, she decided to venture into the village. This meant she had to smarten up – in Eygalières, one didn’t just leave the house in an old pair of tracksuit trousers. She put on a navy and white floral skirt, a white blouse and – the temperature was definitely beginning to drop – a navy cardigan.
It was a beautiful morning. She always thrilled to the scent of flowers and the sound of cicadas, although both were fading as Autumn began to close in and the intense heat of high summer had gone. Passing Paul’s restaurant, she saw him putting some cases into the car. As ever, he looked very macho in dark grey jeans, a white T-shirt and dark glasses. Imogen would have preferred not to acknowledge him – she hadn’t spoken to him since the dinner just after Marie’s death – but he spotted her and hailed her. She went over to him.