The Secrets of the Bastide Blanche

by M. L. Longworth

  Today the temperature read 34°C, and she was thankful that the Clio had air-conditioning. “There’s the mountain!” Charlotte called out, leaning forward to get a better look at mont Sainte-Victoire.

  “It looks like it’s leaning over us, it’s so close,” Marine said. She swerved the car to avoid a pothole. “As if it’s protecting the vineyards.”

  “It’s so white!” Charlotte exclaimed. She shielded her eyes and Marine laughed.

  “Here we are, and there’s Léa waiting for you!” Marine said as she parked the car under an oak tree, hoping it would provide a little shade. Léa came running and embraced Charlotte as soon as she stepped out of the car. Marine smiled as the girls chatted. Charlotte was almost a head taller than the short, plump Léa.

  “llo, Marine!” Léa called, and she ran to Marine to give her the bise.

  Marine embraced her and said, “You sure do a lot of running, Léa.”

  “I’m not allowed in Mom’s wine lab,” Léa said, wiping some perspiration from her brow. “She’s afraid I’ll break something!”

  “That’s probably a good idea!” Marine said, laughing. “Hélène’s wine is very expensive these days.”

  Léa shrugged, having no idea of, or interest in, the prices of her mother’s wines. “Let’s go to my room,” Léa said to Charlotte. “I have some new Alices.” The girls ran off to look at the adventures of the French Nancy Drew.

  Hélène and Bruno Paulik walked out of the house and called over to Marine. “It’s cooler inside, believe it or not,” Hélène said.

  “I believe it,” Marine said.

  They exchanged the bise, and Hélène ushered Marine into their vast kitchen. “I’ll pour you a big glass of water,” Hélène said, “and then we have a surprise. We’re invited to our neighbor’s for an aperitif.”

  “Chez Valère Barbier?” Marine asked.

  “Yes,” Bruno answered. “Apparently, he has a gift for Léa.”

  “It’s a bit like meeting a rock star,” Marine said after taking a sip of water.

  “You’ll see,” Bruno answered. “He’s just a regular bloke.”

  Hélène said, “He’s even a bit . . . melancholy.”

  “He’s probably never gotten over the death of his wife,” Marine offered.

  Hélène smiled, knowing that her newly married friend was a romantic.

  Marine finished the water and went on: “And the fact that Agathe Barbier died mysteriously—”

  Bruno waved his hand. “No amateur sleuthing, please.” He adored Marine but worried for her safety when she stuck her head into police business. “She drowned.”

  “The case is still open,” Marine quickly said. “I looked it up.”

  “You’re supposed to be writing your book,” Hélène said, shaking a finger and laughing.

  “You’re so right,” Marine said. “I thought when I retired from the university I’d have all kinds of time to write. But the days seem to fly by.”

  “You guys, it’s time to go,” Léa said, calling from the front hall.

  Bruno rolled his eyes. “Our alarm clock.”

  “I heard that, Papa,” Léa answered.

  * * *

  “Do you know who this is?” Valère asked Léa. They were sitting on the cool tiled floor of the bigger salon, gathered around an opened cardboard box, looking at a black-and-white photograph. Charlotte sat beside them, and Hélène, Bruno, and Marine were seated on armchairs formed in a circle around the box. Sandrine was in and out of the room, bringing in chilled rosé for the adults and Orangina for the girls. Sandrine was thankful the electricity was on—but the EDF guys warned her that one day the ancient wiring would need to be entirely redone.

  Léa smiled and stared at the photograph. “Of course I do,” she said.

  Bruno winced; his daughter was getting more and more haughty as she got older. But Valère Barbier adored her assurance and egged her on. “So then, do tell me,” he said.

  “Why, it’s Maria Callas,” she answered. Léa brought the photo closer and said, “She was so beautiful.”

  “Yes, she was,” Valère said.

  “Did you take the photograph?” Charlotte asked, as she twirled a colorful silk scarf that had also been in the box around her shoulders.

  Valère laughed. “No, that’s me in the photo, beside Maria.”

  “The sailor?” Charlotte asked, leaning in to get a better look.

  The adults laughed, including Valère. “It was a sort of fashion back then, in the early seventies, on the Côte. I paid a lot for that white linen jacket and blue cap. Pierre Cardin!”

  “What was she like?” Léa asked, not interested in designer clothes.

  “Always hungry,” Valère answered. “Poor Maria loved food but had to watch her weight. We’d go out to eat, and she’d bug the chef about the dishes we had all eaten—but not her. Then she’d write down the recipes on little pieces of paper and stuff them into her purse. She loved cakes and desserts but could never eat them.”

  “But you have to eat to sing,” Léa said.

  “I agree!” Valère answered. “Maria ate lots of salad and raw beef.”

  “Beurk!” the girls cried in unison.

  “We listen to her at the conservatory,” Léa said. “My teacher says that her middle ranges were perfect, but she was too shrill in the higher registers.”

  “She was more than perfect in the middle ranges,” Bruno said. “She was hauntingly beautiful.”

  Valère turned to face Bruno. “You’re an opera fan?”

  “Since I was so high,” Bruno answered, placing his hand, palm down, about three feet off the floor.

  “And are you also in the wine business?”

  Bruno laughed. “No, I’m a police officer.”

  Valère dropped the photograph and tried to laugh. “A cop, eh?”

  “Police officer,” Léa said. “Daddy is the commissioner.”

  “Léa,” Bruno said, “please don’t correct adults.”

  Valère waved his hand. “It’s quite all right. ‘Police officer’ is the correct term. I for one hate to be called a romance writer.”

  “Did you know Maria Callas very long?” Marine asked.

  “Only very briefly,” Valère said. “She was . . . difficult.”

  “‘I am alone, always alone,’” Bruno said. “That’s what she said at the end, right?”

  “Exactly,” Valère said. “It’s odd, how often writers and actors and singers say that. Here we are, surrounded by people—our characters, our fans, our public—and yet often we feel alone.”

  “Snacks!” Sandrine called out as she walked into the room carrying a tray of small bowls.

  “And here I am, living in the country for the first time in my life,” Valère continued.

  “My husband and I are thinking of buying a house in the country,” Marine said. “But I’ve lived downtown all my life. He—Antoine—works downtown, so there will be days when I’ll be alone at the house. I love being surrounded by my fellow Aixois.”

  “Night is worse,” Valère began.

  “Who would like something to eat?” Sandrine cut in. “We have pistachios, expensive English potato chips, cherry tomatoes, and olives from the market.”

  Léa didn’t answer. She was still staring at the photograph. Valère looked at her and said, “I’d like you to have the photo, Léa.”

  She looked up at him wide-eyed. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, M Barbier, are you sure?” Hélène asked.

  “Absolutely,” he answered. “Sandrine is forcing me to throw out things I haven’t used or looked at in the past few years. I had even forgotten about that photograph.”

  “Let’s get it framed, M Barbier,” Sandrine said. “We’re already going into town to get your late wife’s drawings framed. That way you can
sign it for Léa.”

  “Excellent idea,” Valère answered. He looked at Charlotte, who was still playing with the silk scarf, twirling it this way and that. “And you, Charlotte, may keep the scarf.”

  “Merci beaucoup!” Charlotte said, beaming. “I love it!”

  “A woman’s scarf I’m certainly not going to use,” Valère added, laughing.

  “The scarf didn’t belong to Maria Callas, I hope?” Bruno asked.

  “Oh no,” Valère replied, staring at the scarf, “I don’t think it did.”

  The front door knocker sounded, but before anyone could move, a voice bellowed from the front hall. “You have no idea how expensive a taxicab is from the TGV station to Puyloubier!” Hélène, Bruno, and Marine swung their heads toward the voice, and Valère and the girls instinctively jumped up. Sandrine set down the tray and put her hands on her hips.

  The visitor walked into the salon, a woman somewhere between sixty and seventy-five years of age, tall, and heavyset. She had short jet-black hair and wore bright-red glasses. Her lipstick matched the glasses. She said, “Valère, thank you for the welcoming committee. Did you not get my text messages? I was lucky and got a taxi driver who lives here, in the village, but when I gave him the address he quickly made a sign of the cross. What’s going on here?” She laughed and looked around at the group. “And, Valère,” she went on, “what on earth is that child doing wearing my Hermès scarf?”

  Chapter Eight

  New York City,

  September 22, 2010

  Of course I had seen Michèle’s text message. I thought if I ignored it she wouldn’t come,” Valère said. “But that was very stupid of me. She never listens to a word anyone says.”

  “So who is this Michèle?” Justin asked.

  “Michèle Baudouin, my archrival. She sells more books than I do. In fact, I think she may be one of the best-selling authors in the world.”

  Justin shrugged. “I imagine I would know the name if she’s that well known. What’s her pen name?”

  “Rosalie di Santi.” Valère waited and watched Justin. “Ah! I see from your amazed expression that even a millennial like you knows the name of Rosalie di Santi.”

  “Hey, millennials are cultured!” Justin almost added “more than you lucky-to-be-born-in-the-fifties baby boomers,” but he kept silent.

  “I’m not making a judgment against every kid born in your decade, so stop complaining or I won’t let you choose the next wine.”

  Justin smiled and picked up the wine list, turning many pages until he got to the reds. He looked up and said, “Go on. I’m all ears. And I already don’t trust her.”

  * * *

  I’ve always hated her pen name; di Santi sounds like a cross between an Italian countess and a flamenco dancer, and Rosalie sounds like a made-up Disney name. But she’s stuck with it. Michèle and I go back, way back. We grew up together, on the same street in Paris. We were rivals all through school and then at university—just like Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre were—albeit Michèle and I had much lower intellectual ambitions, and, unlike the philosophers I mentioned, neither of us has a political bone in our body.

  The French press love writing about us, given that we’ve known each other since we were kids and we both ended up being famous writers. They even tried to link us romantically, which was terrible for me and especially for Agathe. Now, I’m not saying I was never physically attracted to Michèle; that would be a lie. She is a handsome woman, though her beauty has faded as the years have passed. When she was young, she was tall like Agathe, but rounder, not as skinny and frail looking. Michèle had olive skin and big eyes and big lips and big . . . Cut it out, Justin. I was going to say big hair. It was thick and jet black, with a white streak that ran down the front. She drank and smoked like my buddies from the newspaper; in fact, she’s a cigar smoker, and a mutual friend just told me that she recently married a Cuban man thirty years her junior, all in order to be able to buy a house in Havana.

  When you’re writing, a little devil sits on your shoulder, always nagging you about how really shitty your first draft is. The devil may be one of your parents or your favorite writer or an old teacher. But mine is Michèle. Despite all our drunken arguments—once we were both thrown out of the Café de Flore for yelling too much—she’s my conscience. She’s the little critic in my head who urges me to be a good writer. And when Agathe died, Michèle was there almost immediately. In fact, I always wondered how she got to the sea so quickly. But she’s a superwoman. Her books have been translated into over forty languages—okay, so have mine—but Michèle has been on the New York Times best-seller list for over twenty years, without a break! She writes two books a year, on average, and takes a one-day break between each. One day! Sometimes I don’t write for months. And besides her romances, she’s now a best-selling cookbook writer and appears on all those horrible competitive chef shows on television. Poor Agathe couldn’t even fry an egg.

  And so there was Michèle, like a ghost, standing in my newly organized living room. I jumped up and introduced her by her real name, not as Rosalie. Sandrine was on the ball and brought Michèle a glass of chilled rosé, then ran upstairs with her suitcase. Michèle was in a good mood, and Charlotte recognized her from television. Michèle brushed it off with a wave of the hand and told everyone that she wrote cookbooks; no one asked any questions. They must have recognized her as Rosalie di Santi, but perhaps not. My new neighbors—my new friends—don’t seem to be interested in fame or fortune, or who knows whom, like so many chic Left Bank Parisians are. We got back to talking about Maria Callas, and then Aix in general, with Michèle asking lots of questions—totally out of character, by the way—and then she had everyone in hysterics with a story about a recent trip to Scotland she made for a cooking show, where she threw up on camera after eating haggis. (She insisted it had nothing to do with the haggis; she said she had a stomach virus.)

  Time flew by and eventually Sandrine nudged me and lifted her right eyebrow, signaling that perhaps our guests might want to go home for dinner. But before I could speak, Bruno and Hélène, who had been off to one side whispering, turned and invited us all back to their place for dinner. “Bruno was going to barbecue tonight, and he always makes way too much food,” Hélène said.

  “You have room for all of us?” Michèle asked. “I was going to have Valère take me out to Aix’s finest restaurant tonight.”

  “Nonsense,” Bruno said. “It’s too hot to eat in a restaurant, and we have more than enough food.”

  The little girls cheered, which was quite adorable, and we told the Pauliks we’d be at their place in thirty minutes so they could get things ready and Michèle could have a quick swim after her train journey. Sandrine got to work clearing away the aperitif dishes, and something seemed to be bothering her, so when we were alone I said, “You’re invited too, Sandrine.” I was worried that perhaps she felt a little out of place, as she was—thank you, Justin, yes, the hired help. But having spent the past few days with her, I felt like she, too, was a friend.

  “Oh, I know I’m welcome there,” she answered.

  “Then why are you pouting?” I asked.

  She nodded her head in the direction of the swimming pool, where Michèle was splashing and yelling, “J’adore Provence!”

  “Michèle?” I asked. “She’s nice once you get to know her.” But, then, Michèle had been perfectly amiable that evening, despite her abrupt entry.

  “Well, I just got a text message from the garage that my car is ready. So I’ll be on my way. I’ve made up her room, and I’ll come back to help you once she’s gone.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Sandrine,” I pleaded. “I need you here during the day. Michèle will be no help whatsoever. She’ll be down at the pool all day, talking into her Dictaphone. She still gets her books typed up by a secretary. So will you come back tomorrow? We still have so much to do.�
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  Sandrine snorted. “I don’t trust her.”

  I laughed and she gave me another raised eyebrow.

  “And what are you basing that on?” I asked. “You know nothing about her.”

  “She wants something—that’s all. Besides, I know who she is. She writes romances too. I recognize her from her book jackets. But Josy and I prefer your books. They’re . . . smarter.”

  Our conversation was stopped by the appearance on the doorstep of a dripping wet, raucous swimmer. “I’ll get you a towel,” Sandrine said, looking Michèle up and down. “I mopped the floors this afternoon.”

  “Oh dear,” Michèle answered with an audible amount of sarcasm in her voice. “Then I’d better stay outside. I say, Valère, bring me a shot of whiskey. I’m getting cold.”

  Sandrine went upstairs and seemed to be taking forever to find a towel, and by the time I had handed Michèle a tumbler of whiskey Sandrine still wasn’t down. “She doesn’t like me,” Michèle whispered. I then knew she’d overheard our conversation.

  “Just what are you doing here, Michèle?” I asked.

  She threw her head back and laughed. “Why, I’m here to see you, darling Valère!”

  * * *

  What in the world is a succotash, Justin? Oh, just a bed of sweet corn? More corn? Then why don’t they say that? But these deep-fried frogs’ legs, they’re fantastic. What are they battered in? Yes, you’re right—it’s shredded filo.

  The Pauliks didn’t have food as adventurous or glamorous as this, just a barbecue of lamb chops and sausages, as they had promised. But Hélène had made a fantastic potato salad, and for dessert we had oodles of fresh strawberries, nothing else. The conversation was very interesting, just as interesting as any conversation in Paris. Marine, their friend, asked about my books. She said, “Valère, if I may call you that—”

  “You may,” I answered.

  “Thank you,” she replied, very courteously. She had a very proper way of speaking, and before she began a sentence, you could see her brow begin to furrow, as if she were carefully choosing the best words. “I recently read an interview in Le Monde, with an American author whose name escapes me, who said that writers never talk about their stories—I mean the plot, or the characters—when they’re together. It’s more about the form—the narrative, for example—or the language. Is that true?”