“Absolutely,” I said, impressed by her question, and equally sous le charme of her beauty. “The things we had drilled into us in a high school or university—plot, theme, symbolism—don’t come up in conversations with fellow writers. But if we’re experimenting with the narrative—the form—we talk about that. Once you decide on the narrative form, the book can almost write itself.”
“I disagree,” Michèle cut in. And we finally had a glimpse of the real Michèle Baudouin, in all her bossy glory. “The story is everything. The characters rule.”
I could see Bruno, Hélène, and Marine looking at each other with confused faces. So Sandrine had recognized Rosalie di Santi, but not my neighbors. That gave me huge satisfaction, being the competitive and jealous asshole that I am. “Ladies and gentlemen,” I announced, waving my arm in Michèle’s face, “may I introduce my old school friend, known to the general public as Rosalie di Santi.”
They all gasped, even the big guy, Bruno. The little girls giggled, aware that there was something exciting going on but not knowing what.
“You can wipe that smirk off your face, Valère,” Michèle said as she downed her glass of red wine. “I’m not at all upset that these fine people didn’t recognize me as the romance writer, because, Valère, do you know how many of my books are in print right now, as we speak?”
“A few million?”
She roared with laughter. “Four hundred million.”
“Is that a lot?” Léa asked.
“Oui, ma chérie,” Bruno answered. He looked like someone had just punched him in the lower stomach.
Hélène poured Michèle more of her delicious Syrah from 2004, as if egging her to go on, which she did: “Romances are story driven, and it’s a hell of a job writing them. The writer must have a keen ear for dialogue and be able to craft deft sentences, create page-turning tension, and give the reader compelling characters. They are written by women for women, and I’ll defend them to the ends of the earth, even if none of you here have read them. If a man writes them,” she said, looking at me, “they are called women’s fiction, or not even given a label. If a woman writes them, they are called romances, and they are never reviewed by the major newspapers, nor are they ever made into films.”
“But I’ve read about you in Le Monde,” Hélène said. “Or perhaps it was Le Figaro.”
“Yes, you read about me,” Michèle said, “but you didn’t read a review of my books.”
Hélène nodded. “I think you must be right.”
“I’ve never thought about it like that,” Marine added. “My husband, Antoine, is a bit of a snob—” Here Hélène and Bruno laughed, and I was getting curious about this Antoine guy. Marine continued, “A few weeks ago we were in Paris, on the Métro, and most people were looking at their cell phones, not reading. That got Antoine cursing under his breath. When we finally did see someone reading, it was—”
“A woman of a certain age,” Michèle said.
“Exactly,” Marine replied. “And she was reading one of your books. Antoine made some disparaging comment, but I defended your books, saying that I much preferred to see someone reading than not at all.”
“Odd logic,” I said. “It’s like giving students Abba lyrics to read in a poetry class.”
“Shut up, Valère, you little twerp,” Michèle said.
“If I may,” Marine said. “I think the problem many people, including myself, have with romance fiction is the obligatory happy ending. It gives women unrealistic expectations.”
“But my books aren’t bodice rippers, where the ultrawealthy man meets the governess or secretary and they hate each other but are in each other’s arms by the end of the book,” Michèle explained. “Jane Austen invented that, by the way. In my books, my heroines are strong, they have unusual occupations, and they may not even want to get married in the end. Besides, women are smart; I think they know the difference between reality and fiction.”
“There’s also an assumption that if a book has a happy ending, it’s light reading, and if it has a tragic ending, it’s more important,” I said.
“Finally, you’ve stopped talking gibberish,” Michèle said.
“My lighter books were huge sellers but panned by the critics, and my earlier, dark ones won every literary prize in the book.”
“Except the Nobel,” Michèle said.
“I’m saving that one for my next opus,” I replied, grinning.
“You haven’t written in years,” she said. “You’ve lost—”
“Dessert time!” Hélène said, standing up. “Léa and I bought strawberries at the market this morning.” She looked over at her daughter, who was bored with our bickering and playing a game with Charlotte. I’ll do it for you now, Justin. Reach over and grab the tip of my chin, and now I’ll grab yours. I’ll sing the rhyme; the first person who starts laughing loses. You’ll have to excuse my singing voice. Je te tiens, tu me tiens, par la barbichette; le premier de nous deux qui rira aura une tapette! Je te tiens, tu me tiens, par la barbichette; le premier de nous deux qui rira aura une tapette! That was bad, Justin. You only lasted two verses. Plus you spewed out wine all over the table. Léa lost after about ten rounds, as Charlotte was an expert at keeping her face still. When the girls finished, Michèle turned to me and said, “We used to play that when we were kids, didn’t we, Valère? I’ve got you, you’ve got me, by the little beard.” She reached over and grabbed my chin and added, “I’ve got you, don’t I?”
* * *
I haven’t yet told you why Michèle was there, what she had on me, but you’ll know soon enough, perhaps by the time our dessert comes. I hope there’s no corn in the dessert. We left the Pauliks’ just before midnight, and Michèle and I walked up the lane to the bastide with the help of a flashlight. We heard noises—an owl, and then a branch snapping—and she grabbed my arm and said, “I’m sorry, Valère, but your new house gives me the creeps.”
“It’s scary at night,” I replied, “but that’s only because the blasted cigales have stopped their racket, and the sounds seem louder, exaggerated.”
“No,” she argued, “it’s more than that. Like the taxi driver making the sign of the cross as he turned up your lane.”
I laughed. “Some kind of Provençal village superstition.” And I really meant it. “Who knows what—”
Another breaking branch caused Michèle to jump and pull me in closer. She turned around and grabbed my arm, pulling me along. “Faster,” she said. “There’s someone behind us.”
“Don’t be daft,” I said. And again I really meant it. She was getting on my nerves. “You’re a novelist. It’s normal to imagine things and be under the spell of a centuries-old house.”
“I’m no stranger to centuries-old houses,” she replied, almost running. “I own one in the Loire, built during the reign of Louis XV, and it has good karma!”
We got to the front door, and she almost grabbed the keys out of my hand. “Hurry up, Valère! You were always so slow!”
When we stepped into the front hall, we were both breathless. I showed her how well I was locking the door, giving each lock—there were three—an exaggerated thump as I turned them. “Okay?” I asked.
“I need a nightcap,” she said, leaning against the banister.
“Help yourself,” I said. “Sandrine set up the drinks cart in the big salon.”
“Won’t you join me?”
“No, I’m exhausted. Help yourself to anything, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
I practically had to pull myself up the stairs by the banister. I scowled at the lady in the pink dress, who seemed to be having such a good time watching me and the cast of characters who came and went in and out of my house. I brushed my teeth and got dressed for bed, too tired even to read. But for the first time in a few days, I wasn’t frightened to go to sleep. Sandrine’s hysterics in the cellar and now Mi
chèle’s marathon up the lane made me see how ridiculous we were all being. It was an old house in the country, just like the Pauliks’ house, and I would bet my fortune that all three of them were already sound asleep, with no imaginary goings-on. I turned off the light and could vaguely hear Michèle downstairs, chatting to herself and moving about. I fell asleep to voices and conversations in my head—most writers will tell you this. It’s often dialogue you’re working on—your characters never give you a break—but since I wasn’t working on a book, the voices that accompanied me as I tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable, were the Pauliks’, the children’s, Marine Bonnet’s, and mine and Michèle’s. And, of course, Sandrine’s “I don’t trust her.” Again, just like the taxi driver’s, a Provençal hunch; a superstition.
I don’t remember falling asleep—who does?—but I do remember waking up. I always will. I woke up with the very vivid impression that wet lips had been whispering in my right ear. They had spoken quickly, and with much forced importance, for some time. I couldn’t even tell what the language was. French? English? I couldn’t move. The voice stopped, as did the humid sensation in my ear. “Michèle?” I whispered. I held the sheet up around my chin, and my heart pounded against my pajama top. I closed my eyes and must have fallen back asleep, as I later awoke with the distinct impression that someone had laid a hand on my right shoulder. This time, I shot out of bed and ran out of the room.
I stood at the top of the stairs, panting. Turning on the lights, I ran down the hall to Michèle’s room and swung open the door. Her bed was empty and still made up. “Michèle!” I called out. “I know that was you!” I flew down the stairs, turning right at the bottom, to go into the big salon. Michèle was sprawled across the sofa with a half-empty bottle of sixteen-year-old Lagavulin sitting on the floor beside her. Was she faking it, Justin? If so, she was pretty good at fake snoring. The noise she was making would have woken up any ghost wandering around the house! I pulled a small mohair blanket over her and poured myself a glass of whiskey and took it to my office, where I spent the rest of the night reading, on the Mies daybed, rubbing my right ear, trying to rid it of that most unpleasant feeling.
Chapter Nine
Aix-en-Provence,
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
I can’t believe you invited Valère Barbier to my cigar club!” Verlaque hollered to Marine from the bedroom. He fluffed up two pillows, wanting to read a little poetry before turning off the light. He had a headache. Fabrice and Julien had argued all night about the potential clubhouse, each detesting the other’s choices and prerequisites. And yet they were best friends. Four of them—Fabrice, Julien, Jean-Marc, and Verlaque—had visited three apartments with a young, very patient realtor who had carefully chosen what he thought would suit the club’s demands: a large kitchen and dining space for at least sixteen members, a fitted bathroom, a terrace, and a salon. Fabrice insisted the salon be big enough for each member, or almost each one, to have his or her own leather club chair. Julien and Verlaque thought that impossible, and ridiculous. Jean-Marc, ever the diplomat, tried to argue both sides.
“I know!” Marine called from the bathroom. “Wasn’t that a good idea?!”
“No!” Verlaque called back. “It’s tomorrow night, as you know, and I have to check with the club about whether I can bring a guest. It has to be approved.”
“Who wouldn’t approve Valère Barbier?” Marine finished brushing her teeth and made a gurgling sound, then spit into the sink.
“That’s not the point,” Verlaque yelled. “It could be Queen Elizabeth—or, let’s say, Winston Churchill back from the dead—and I still couldn’t invite them without approval.”
Marine laughed through the bathroom door. “That’s ridiculous,” she said. “You’d think you guys were some kind of elite top secret club, like the CIA or MI6 or something.”
“I couldn’t hear you,” Verlaque called. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.” Marine began to change for bed.
“You don’t need to wear a nightgown,” Verlaque called. “It’s hotter than Hades in here. A fourth-floor downtown apartment in July . . .” If the poetry didn’t cure his headache, perhaps a little . . .
Marine appeared, wearing a long cotton nightgown with big blue letters across the chest: BONNE NUIT.
“Good night?” Verlaque asked. “Not my favorite nightgown. I guess you’re too tired to make love?”
“I don’t feel that great,” Marine said.
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Verlaque said as Marine got into bed. He kissed her forehead and held her hand. “I hope you had fun this evening?”
“Yes, it turned out to be full of surprises, with all of us, including Rosalie di Santi, eating at the Pauliks’.”
Verlaque sat up. “Rosalie di Santi? For real?”
Marine laughed. “In all her glory.”
“What’s she like?”
“Very droll,” Marine answered. “We had a very interesting discussion about form versus story when writing—”
“That sounds more interesting than Julien and Fabrice arguing about whether our clubhouse needs two ovens or one, or a gas or induction burner—”
“You guys are so spoiled. So many people in the world don’t even have clean water.”
“That’s beside the point.”
“I know,” Marine said. “I like your cigar club, which is why I thought Valère would like it too.”
“I’ll call Fabrice tomorrow,” Verlaque said. “He’s the president.”
Marine had her eyes closed, and Antoine wasn’t sure if she was listening. She opened them and said, “When I think about it, Rosalie—Michèle is her real name—was very extroverted, but it was almost forced, like she wanted to entertain us for some reason. Make us all like her. As if there was a hidden agenda—”
Verlaque smiled and rubbed his hands together. “Nobody fools Marine Bonnet.”
Marine pulled the sheet up to cover her shoulders and turned toward her husband. “There is an ocean of history between Valère and Michèle . . . I sense that not all of it is clean.” She yawned and said, “Michèle was just the tiniest bit aggressive with him.”
“Poor Valère,” Verlaque said.
“Picking sides?” Marine asked, smiling.
“I’d defend anyone who wrote Red Earth.”
“Me too. But perhaps we’re being biased, given our literary tastes. Maybe Valère deserves her antagonism. Who knows what went on between them? Besides, Valère has an eye for the ladies.”
“Really?” Verlaque asked. “Did he make a pass at you? I’m sure you can defend yourself.”
“No, not a pass as such,” Marine slowly answered. “But he’s the kind of man who looks at a woman with a certain intent, an intent that is very clear to the person being gazed upon.”
* * *
“Have a good day with the philosophers,” Verlaque called to Marine before shutting the door. Out on the rue Adanson, he felt so happy he could almost sense his heart swelling and constricting with each beat. He had spent years as a grumpy bachelor, and now here he was, married to someone who made him happy every single minute. He was realistic enough to know that their marriage would not always be this easy—his own parents’ had been a disaster—but for now he would allow himself to bask in the glow of newlywed bliss. “Bliss,” he said aloud, using the English word, slowly emphasizing the double s. “Bliss.”
By the time he got to the Palais de Justice he was hungry, even though Marine had forced him to eat granola for breakfast (he refused to eat it with yogurt—that seemed entirely too healthy—and he poured milk in instead). He walked through the giant central courtyard, where a statue of Mirabeau himself—Honoré-Gabriel Riqueti, orator, politician, spendthrift, and skirt chaser—pointed in the direction of a law chamber, although the inside joke was that he was indicating the toilets. Verlaque nodded in Mirabeau’s directi
on and headed up the stairs to his office, where he knew his too-posh secretary, Mme Girard, would be waiting for him to approve and sign a stack of papers.
“Bonjour, Mme Girard,” he said as he saw the well-coiffed sixty-year-old walking toward his office with, yes, a stack of papers. She was tanned and had just returned from a two-week vacation somewhere in the Caribbean but he couldn’t remember where. No tropical island held any interest for him, except Cuba.
“Bonjour, Juge,” she answered, trying not to look down at the judge’s belly, which, in her opinion, seemed to get bigger every day. “The commissaire is on his way.” She handed him the papers and almost did a little curtsy before turning around to walk back to her desk.
“Thank you,” he answered, taking the papers with a bigger than necessary smile. He walked into his office, leaving the door open for Bruno Paulik. Turning on the espresso machine that sat on a glass-top console—he had brought in his own furniture, just one of the many reasons, he knew, other Palais de Justice employees thought him a snob—he sat down, getting out his grandfather’s fountain pen and a jar of ink.
“Knock, knock,” said Paulik as he walked into the office.
“Good morning,” Verlaque said, looking up. He saw that the commissioner held a small white paper bag. “Michaud’s? Brioches?”
“One for each of us,” Paulik answered, setting the bag on the desk. “I’ll make the coffee.”
“The machine should be ready,” Verlaque said. “What’s on the books for today? Besides paperwork and the incredibly fascinating case of the mayor’s extortion ring. Bus pamphlets, right?”
The Secrets of the Bastide Blanche Page 8