The Secrets of the Bastide Blanche

by M. L. Longworth

  “Is that what he’s playing?” Marine asked, turning around to watch the guitarist. “But you’re right. I haven’t been to Portugal in years.” She picked a black olive from a bowl and put it in her mouth.

  “Correction,” Verlaque said. “You’re not only dreaming about Lisbon but also of those colorful ceramic tiles the Portuguese put everywhere.”

  “Azulejos,” she said. “Given a choice, yes, I would put them everywhere.”

  Chapter Four

  Aix-en-Provence,

  Monday, July 5, 2010

  Bruno Paulik loved summer. Provence became even slower than usual; there was still work to be done, but conversations lingered longer as colleagues exchanged vacation plans and news about which beaches had the best sand, parking, or moules-frites. Léa didn’t have school, only choir and music notation lessons at the conservatory, and Hélène’s grapes, fat but still green, hung heavily on the vines. Once a week Hélène’s alarm went off at four, and she got dressed, went out to the barn, and climbed on the tractor. She worked until six or so, spraying the vineyards with sulfur to protect them from powdery mildew. It was a task for the early morning, when there was no wind. Bruno felt guilty that Hélène was up practically in the middle of the night and always waited until after she had left the bedroom to put in his earplugs. The tractor made a heck of a noise.

  That morning Bruno had dropped Léa off at the conservatory, parked his car at the Palais de Justice, and began walking toward the cours Mirabeau, to have a coffee at the Mazarin. He knew who would be at the café: his boss, the examining magistrate, Antoine Verlaque; Verlaque’s wife, Marine Bonnet, who had recently given up a university professorship to write full time; Jean-Marc Sauvat, a childhood friend of Marine’s and a lawyer; and various other neighbors, café regulars, and early-rising tourists—usually German or Dutch. Bruno didn’t usually go to the Mazarin—it wasn’t really his crowd. As a farm boy who grew up in the Luberon, he felt cafés were places where one played foosball with buddies, not where one argued politics with friends who’d studied law in France’s best schools. But he enjoyed Antoine’s company—Antoine was a part owner of Hélène’s winery and always wanted to know what state the grapes were in—and Bruno liked being with Marine and Jean-Marc, too. Besides, today he had big news.

  It was almost nine when Bruno Paulik walked quickly across the café’s crowded terrace, among the wicker chairs and round tables protected from the sun by a red awning. He knew his friends would be inside, and he didn’t have time to say hello or give the bise to acquaintances who might recognize him as Aix’s police commissioner. He almost ran into a black-tied waiter coming out of the café, carrying a tray full of coffee and fresh-squeezed orange juice. “Bonjour, Frédéric,” Paulik said, standing aside and holding the door.

  “Bonjour, monsieur le Commissaire,” the waiter answered, winking. “You’re lucky—your friend the judge hasn’t yet eaten all the brioches.”

  “Save me two, Frédéric.” Bruno walked in, making his way to the far corner, across the black-and-white floor covered with a light layer of sawdust. The café’s golden-lit interior had remained unchanged for decades.

  “Salut, Bruno!” Antoine Verlaque bellowed from their usual table. He held up a small basket and shook it. “Sorry, the brioches are all gone.” The Mazarin only served pastries from Michaud’s, across the street and arguably Aix’s best patisserie.

  “Liar,” Bruno answered, setting his briefcase down on an empty chair. He gave the bise to Marine and shook hands with Verlaque and Jean-Marc.

  “It’s nice to see you here, Bruno,” Marine said. “A new Monday morning ritual?”

  “Perhaps.” Bruno sat down, ordered an espresso from another waiter, and put his large hands on the table. “I’ll get straight to the punch,” he said. “You’ll never guess who our new neighbor is.”

  “At La Bastide Blanche?” Jean-Marc asked.

  “Yes,” Bruno said, looking over his shoulder for the waiter.

  Verlaque said, “Ah, so the unnamed buyer has revealed himself?”

  “Or herself,” Marine quickly added.

  Bruno thanked Frédéric, who had just arrived with two brioches on a white porcelain plate.

  “I only had one,” Verlaque said, pointing to the brioches.

  “You really are such a bad liar,” Marine said, laughing. “Continue, Bruno.”

  “So guess who it is,” Bruno said, pausing to take a bite of brioche.

  “Let’s play twenty questions,” Marine suggested. “Obviously, they are famous. A family?”

  “No.”

  “A man?” Jean-Marc asked.

  “Yes.”

  “An actor?” Verlaque asked. “Aix is being overrun. I wish they’d all move back to Saint-Tropez or the Luberon. One of the secretaries at the Palais de Justice saw Brad Pitt on the Cours the other day.”

  “No.”

  “Not an actor, then. A soccer star?” Marine asked.

  “No, but good guess.”

  “You’re only supposed to say yes or no, Bruno,” Verlaque said. “A politician?”

  “No.”

  “A writer?” Jean-Marc asked.

  “Yes.”

  Marine clapped. “This is exciting. Does he write fiction?”

  “Yes.”

  Marine continued, “Do I like his books?”

  Bruno set down his half-eaten brioche and looked up to the ceiling. “Yes. No.”

  She looked at him with a furrowed brow. “You don’t know?”

  Bruno shrugged.

  “He can only answer yes or no,” Verlaque said, laughing.

  “Marine may like some of his books but not others?” Jean-Marc suggested.

  “Yes!”

  “Because after winning all kinds of awards and having his books made into films he switched genres!” Marine said.

  Verlaque snorted.

  “Yes,” replied Bruno.

  “Holy cow,” Jean-Marc said. He was a shy and thoughtful man, and “holy cow” was as profane as he ever got. “It’s Valère Barbier.”

  Bruno nodded. He couldn’t speak; he was finishing the brioche.

  “That’s quite a scoop,” Marine said. “What is the Great Man like?”

  “A little awkward at first,” Bruno replied after swallowing. “We met him down by the mailbox, and he was having a hard time looking us in the eye. But he took a shine to Léa and out of the blue invited us for tea the next day.”

  “You got inside the house?” Verlaque asked.

  “Did you see Agathe Barbier’s pots?” Marine asked.

  “Or Valère Barbier’s awards?” Jean-Marc asked, leaning forward.

  “Photos with Mitterrand? Or Jacques Brel?” Verlaque asked. “Barbier apparently had many all-nighters with Brel and Georges Brassens. I think I took up cigars because of Barbier.”

  Bruno motioned with his hands. “One question at a time, please.”

  “When I was a law student, I used part of my monthly bursary to buy an Agathe Barbier bowl,” Marine said. “A very small one.”

  “That I once used for cereal,” Verlaque added.

  “Yeah, well, let’s just say you’re lucky I forgave and married you,” Marine said.

  “You have an Agathe Barbier piece?” Jean-Marc asked. “You couldn’t buy one now.”

  “Do you guys remember where you were when you first read The Receptionist?” Verlaque asked. “Barbier’s books were so important for our generation.”

  “In the barn,” Bruno said.

  The group laughed, and he continued, “No kidding. I would sneak off from chores and read it. I hid it under a pile of burlap sacks.”

  “I don’t remember how old I was when I read the book, but I sure do remember seeing Alain Denis in the film,” Jean-Marc said. “It was love at first sight.”

 
Marine smiled. “Me too.”

  “In answer to your questions,” Bruno continued, “the house is still very much in a move-in state. Boxes everywhere, some vintage designer furniture, but no big terra-cotta pots, no awards, no celebrity photographs. The house is imposing from the outside and has always freaked us out a bit by its sheer size. But the inside is very different—just as big but so worn down and . . . faded . . . that it’s charming. The walls are peeling, revealing layers of paint—blue to green to pink then pale yellow—and many of the old floor tiles are broken. They clank as you walk over them. You can imagine a Vogue photographer shooting there with five or six skinny models wearing flowing white dresses, one of them with a parrot perched on her forearm.”

  Verlaque raised an eyebrow.

  “Hélène buys Vogue from time to time. Anyway, the house has lots of potential,” Bruno said as he bit into the second brioche.

  “What did you talk about?” Marine asked.

  “We hardly had time to talk,” Bruno said. “Barbier went out to the kitchen, and by the time he came back we had to leave.”

  “Why?” the trio asked in unison.

  “Léa had gone up the stairs to look at a fresco, and she came back acting like she had just seen a ghost. She was breathless and burning up.”

  “That hardly sounds like Léa,” Verlaque said. He was a big fan of Léa Paulik, a singer in the junior opera. She was polite, smart, and thoughtful. “She’s such a solid little girl.”

  “I know,” Bruno said. “That’s why we made our excuses and left. Léa is stubborn and sometimes a bit of a know-it-all, but she isn’t theatrical. We were a bit freaked out. But the weird thing is, Léa didn’t even seem scared. She was . . . concerned, and . . . perplexed. But not frightened.”

  “How did Barbier handle it?” Marine asked.

  Bruno Paulik thought for a moment before answering. “He looked terrified.”

  Chapter Five

  New York City,

  September 22, 2010

  Justin excused himself and went to the restroom. At the beginning of dinner he had placed his new iPhone on the table, with the microphone on. He had recorded forty-five minutes of Valère Barbier’s story and now sent himself an e-mail with the file attached so he could delete it and begin recording anew. He had no idea how much memory the phone had and didn’t want to take any chances.

  “Lobster nage?” Valère asked as Justin returned to the table. He had put on his reading glasses and was looking at the evening’s menu, printed on a sheet of white paper.

  “Their signature dish,” Justin replied. “Or so I’ve read. A lobster soup with squash and zucchini. The white burgundy will be perfect.” He set his phone back on the table, and Valère smirked.

  “You’re expecting a call?” he asked.

  “My boss wanted updates,” Justin said. “So I just sent her a text message.”

  “You’re honest.”

  Justin forced a smile. He continued to lie: “She’s also a big fan of this restaurant, and I promised I’d send her our menu, dish by dish.”

  The soup arrived, followed by the sommelier. She walked around the table and showed Valère the bottle, a 2006 Puligny-Montrachet. “Merci,” he said. “I think my young friend would like to test it.”

  The sommelier poured a little wine in Justin’s glass. He noted its fine golden yellow, then swirled it a few times, keeping the base of the glass on the table, and slowly brought it to his nose. He breathed in, long and slow. “It’s perfect.”

  Both the sommelier and Valère smiled. After filling Valère’s glass and pouring more wine into Justin’s, the sommelier said, “Enjoy, gentlemen,” as she set the bottle into an ice bucket and carefully draped a white linen napkin over it.

  “Énorme,” Valère said, leaning toward Justin. “You could tell simply from the aroma whether it was corked.”

  Justin shrugged. “I watch a lot of wine shows,” he said.

  “While we eat this nage, should I continue my story?” Valère asked.

  “By all means,” Justin said, and he took a sip of wine.

  * * *

  I had, I think you can guess, another restless night. One of the good things about being retired is that you know you can have an afternoon nap. I tossed and turned for a while, trying to get comfortable in the heat and not think about the indentation I had seen on my bed. Around two or three a wind came in through the windows, and I had to pull up the blanket that was folded at the bottom of the bed. I lay on my right side, facing the door, and tucked the blanket up under my chin, finally feeling comfortable. Suddenly, the blanket pulled away. I froze. I very slowly and gently pulled it back over my body. I thought I heard a sound, like a low groaning. It must be the wind, I thought.

  I tried thinking of errands that had to be done, and began making a list for Mlle Matton. I was at item five—buy a new hose for watering the garden, one that doesn’t leak or kink up every foot—when the blanket was again torn off me from the left side. This time I sat up and fumbled for my cell phone, turning on its flashlight. I again heard noises, but there seemed to be nothing in the room. Something banged, and my heart leapt. I looked at one of the windows and saw that a shutter was wildly swinging back and forth, hitting the stone wall. I got up and ran to the window, fastening the shutters against the wall and closing the window. I’d roast with no fresh air coming in, but maybe I’d sleep.

  I awoke to the sound of a car spinning on the gravel drive. It almost sounded like it had sped around in a tight circle before coming to a stop. You call that a donut, Justin? Well, doing a donut in your car is probably better for your health than eating one. I got out of bed and opened one of the windows that face south, over the front gardens. I knew right away it was Mlle Matton. The car was a real . . . how do you say it? Shit box. A little two-door Citroën AX that must have been thirty years old. She jumped out of the driver’s seat before I had a chance to duck my head back inside the window. “Oh là là!” she hollered up to me. She laughed, pointing to her watch, a bright-pink plastic thing that was so big I could almost read it from my bedroom. “Someone sure sleeps in!”

  I rubbed my eyes and looked at the bedside clock; it was almost ten. She was right. I quickly got dressed and as I did could hear her getting things out of the car and slamming doors. “I’ll be right down!” I yelled. I wasn’t sure she heard me, as the cigales were busy sawing away. It was the second time in two days that I had been awoken in my new home by a guest. I wasn’t getting off to a good start. I once again stopped in the front hall to check in the mirror and run my fingers through my hair. I noticed that I looked even worse than I had for the Paulik family. I unlocked the door, and there she was in all her splendor.

  You see, Justin, my working life had been spent in the literary salons of Paris and, later, New York. I had never really come face-to-face with such a woman before. She had her hands on her hips and was tapping the stone step with the toe of her enormous platform sandal. She thrust her hand in mine and said, “Sandrine Matton, at your service,” and walked into the entryway, straight past me. She was tiny, even in heels, possibly just a little over five feet tall. Her bleached blonde hair was curly and gathered up, with a gold-colored elastic, at the top of her head. She was giving my house the once-over, straining to see the painting in the stairway and running her fingers along the surfaces as if checking for dust. And, yes, there was dust, as I hadn’t done a single thing since she cleaned the house, before my arrival. She tapped one of her heels on the ancient—very ancient—black-and-white tile floor. “Cracked tiles,” she said. “You’ll be wanting to change these, no doubt. I’d put in shiny new ones. Marble is classy. Orange. Nice and bright.”

  I was so stunned that I could not reply.

  “Still sleepy?” she said, laughing. “That’s all right, as everything’s up here—isn’t it?” she said, pointing to the side of her head. “You must be up in the clo
uds, inventing those stories of yours.”

  I looked at her, not knowing if I should scold her or laugh. Had she read my books? And which ones? The books that made my name, like The Receptionist, or the books that made me rich?

  “I brought my office with me!” she exclaimed, holding up a bucket of cleaning supplies and still laughing. “I’ll get the coffee on, and then we can talk shop,” she said, walking right through the living room toward the kitchen. “Looks like you could use some.”

  I followed like a punished child. I almost told her about the nightly visitor, or visitors, in my house, but she was already displeased with my apparent laziness, and I didn’t want any more shame. But I knew at some point, if the visitations continued, that I could talk to her about it. And that she would be able to help me. That’s how cagoles are. It’s pronounced “cagaule” and it’s slang in Marseille. The cagole is the girlfriend of the little Marseille kéké, the dude who has bad taste, isn’t well educated, and is mostly interested in fast cars and drinking pastis and watching soccer. And she’s even more vulgar than her male counterpart. She’s loud. She swears. She’s provocatively dressed in colors that I must admit look good in sun- and sea-soaked Marseille: neon yellow, hot pink, apple green. None of your Parisian black or gray. Are you getting the picture? Lots of makeup and jewelry, you ask? Right on, Justin. I think you have it. But here’s the thing, and it’s especially true in the case of Sandrine Matton: cagoles can be the sweetest women on earth. They’re affectionate and caring; they’ll rest a hand on your shoulder as they talk and ask about how you are feeling. And they’ll really listen to your answer. They’re hard workers, often far more than their kéké boyfriends and brothers. They’re fearless and make no apologies for their appearance or foul language. A sort of “take me as I am” attitude. That’s it—I’ve just thought of it. They’re honest. You can trust your life with them.

  So I sat down at the wooden kitchen table that had been in the bastide for decades and watched Sandrine strike a match, light the burner, and get to work. Most girls from Marseille are dark, revealing their Italian or North African roots, but Sandrine had soft pale skin, big blue eyes, full lips covered in shiny gloss, a wide smile, and a little upturned nose. She was wearing an impossibly short skirt, its fabric covered in the stars and stripes of the good ole USA, and I almost wondered aloud how she was going to do housework in that getup. She wore a halter top, shiny green, which revealed a midriff that was taut and muscular, as were her thighs and calves. She whistled while she made the coffee, and I sat there twiddling my thumbs. I was exhausted and still thinking of the blanket being torn off me in the middle of the night.