The Secrets of the Bastide Blanche

by M. L. Longworth

  “How do we go about it?” I asked.

  She sat down and got out her cell phone. “I’ll just look it up,” she said. “Why hadn’t you thought of that?”

  “I still forget, perhaps intentionally, that nowadays one can find almost anything on the Internet. Books are no longer—”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Sandrine said as she stared at her screen. “M Barbier, you need to get with the twenty-first century! There. I’ve only just begun to search, and already there’s all kinds of advice.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “You’ve found a Web site called Sisters in Sorcery or Ten Easy Ways to Rid Your Home of Unwanted Ghosts?”

  Sandrine looked up at me. “How did you know?”

  I laughed and she narrowed her eyes.

  “You’re teasing me. That’s not nice, M Barbier.”

  “I’m sorry, Sandrine,” I replied. “Please tell me what we can do.”

  Sandrine began reading. “The first thing this guy stresses is to be polite about it.”

  I snorted. “They’re the ones keeping me up.”

  “You don’t want to anger them,” Sandrine continued, giving me a raised eyebrow. “If you’ve politely asked them to leave, and they don’t, it may be because they’re trying to communicate something to you. But do not try to communicate with them. ‘Do not’ is in bold letters, M Barbier.”

  “Noted.”

  “If you need to communicate with them, find someone that is—”

  “Who is.”

  Sandrine sighed. “Experienced.”

  “That should be easy. Anyway, I have no wish to chat with them.”

  Sandrine smiled. “I think it could be very interesting. But I’ll read on. The next bit is called ‘Cleansing the Home.’ As your housekeeper that should be my job. Ah, it says to use holy water.”

  “Can you just buy that stuff?” I asked.

  Sandrine shrugged. “I’ll look into it. I haven’t been to Mass since . . .” She got out a little notebook and made a note to herself. “Sprinkle holy water everywhere in the home, including closets, doorways, attics, and basements. And don’t forget outside too. Many people have succeeded by saying the Lord’s Prayer while sprinkling.”

  “I can’t remember it.”

  “Surely you can,” Sandrine said. “Or you can say any prayer. I’ll bet you can even make one up.”

  “Because that’s basically what a prayer is. Made-up hocus—”

  Sandrine cut me off: “Here’s the bit for you. ‘Nonbelievers can burn a sage stick.’”

  I broke out in laughter. “Does this person live in New Mexico by any chance?”

  “I don’t know where that is,” Sandrine answered curtly. “But we have plenty of sage around here. I think can make you a sage stick.”

  “You can probably look up directions on the Internet,” I suggested.

  She didn’t get the sarcasm and answered, “You’re right! You’re catching on, M Barbier!”

  We heard a vehicle pull up on the pebbled drive and honk its horn. “The electrical guys are back,” I said. They stayed for the rest of the morning, Sandrine following them around the house, asking questions and taking notes. The whole house would have to be rewired. They were surprised I was even living in it, given the state it was in.

  Chapter Eleven

  Aix-en-Provence,

  Wednesday, July 6, 2010

  It was a long time—perhaps over two years—since Verlaque had been to his friend Jacob’s house, north of Aix. The last time was also for a cigar event, and it was also a warm summer evening. He remembered that Marine had been with him, and how much she liked Jacob’s old stone house. This time he had Jean-Marc with him. Jean-Marc, as a choice, not from necessity, didn’t own a car.

  “The only time I’m tempted to buy a car is when I’m in yours,” Jean-Marc said, running his hand along the 1963 Porsche’s padded dashboard.

  “Seriously?” Verlaque asked as he veered the car to the right at a fork in the road. The top was down, and they could hear cigales in the trees. “I thought you hated cars.”

  Jean-Marc shook his head. “Actually, I really like cars—well, at least beautifully made ones like this. But I’m a practical man, Antoine, and I live downtown. When I do the math and calculate how much per month a car would cost, with the garage rental, and gas and insurance, I realize I’m far better off renting one on those rare weekends when I need a car.”

  “I get it,” Verlaque replied.

  “And thank goodness for Monoprix grocery delivery,” Jean-Marc said, laughing. He leaned his head out into the warm evening air and looked at the valley as it rose and fell below the road, bright green vineyards dotted with silvery olive trees. “This is a beautiful part of Provence.”

  “That’s exactly what Marine said when we went to Jacob’s a few years ago. And it’s only twenty minutes north of Aix.” Even though Jean-Marc was Marine’s childhood friend, Verlaque felt like he too had known the mellow lawyer for years. Jean-Marc impressed Verlaque with his calmness and his easy acceptance of others’, and his own, situation in life. He had once had a live-in lover, Pierre, but they were no longer together. And yet Jean-Marc never complained, remaining ever the discreet and dependable friend. If Verlaque had become a better person since he met Marine—and he knew he had—it was partly due to Jean-Marc’s kindness and steadfastness.

  “Marine sent me a text message this morning about meeting Valère Barbier,” Jean-Marc said. “She seemed rather impressed with him. Is it true he’s coming this evening?”

  “Yes, if he can find his way. I gave Marine directions to forward to him since it was her insane idea to invite him.”

  “Insane idea? You’re not okay with it?”

  Verlaque sighed. “The cigar club is sacred to me,” he began, trying to find the words to explain himself. He glanced over and saw his friend nod in agreement, so he continued, “With you guys, I’m no longer a magistrate—”

  “You’re one of the guys. And Virginie?”

  Verlaque laughed. “Including our glorious, cigar-loving pharmacist, Virginie. I can let my hair down at the club, as the Americans say. I’m not a Parisian, or a judge, or the son of a wealthy industrialist. I’m just Antoine, another crazy person who closes his eyes when he starts to smoke a Cuban cigar and all his worries seem to disappear.”

  “I think we all share that feeling,” Jean-Marc said. “You wanted to keep the club to yourself, so to speak. And Valère Barbier isn’t one of us.”

  “He very well could be,” Verlaque said. “But right now he’s living next to my commissioner, and I’ve sort of linked Barbier to work, as silly as that seems.” He slowed the car and turned into a pebbled drive lined with plane and umbrella pine trees. At the end of the drive the large but unpretentious old house appeared, and Verlaque parked the Porsche beside a black Mercedes he didn’t recognize.

  “Paris license plate,” Jean-Marc said as he got out of the car and looked at the back of the Mercedes. “It must be the Great Man’s.”

  Verlaque laughed. “He’d better get rid of those Parisian plates if he wants his car to stay in one piece around here.” They walked to the back of the house, along a stone path lined in lavender that was blooming and at its peak. Fat, ecstatic bees flew in and out of the flowers. When the men got to the end of the path, they stopped and looked at the stone terrace, where a group was gathered, drinking champagne and smoking cigars.

  “Oh, mon dieu,” Jean-Marc whispered, having immediately recognized Barbier. “Fabrice and Julien have Valère Barbier cornered.” Jean-Marc looked at Verlaque with worry. “What do you think they’re saying?”

  “When I told you my misgivings about inviting Barbier here this evening,” Verlaque replied, “I wasn’t being entirely honest.”

  Jean-Marc grinned. “You were worried about what some of our members might say to Barbier�
��”

  “Yep. Kind of.”

  “Well, let’s go get some champagne and find out.”

  They walked across the terrace, exchanging bises with fellow club members and choosing cigars from a wooden Partagás box that Virginie held open for them. “One of my clients was just in Cuba,” she said. “The cigars are half the price there.”

  “For now,” Verlaque said, “until the embargo is lifted. Then they’ll be expensive even in Cuba. Thank you so much for bringing these.”

  “Antoine, come here!” Fabrice hollered.

  Verlaque excused himself and walked with Jean-Marc to where Fabrice and Julien—best friends and both in their early sixties—had more or less cornered the writer with their imposing stomachs. Fabrice, the club’s president, took Verlaque by the arm and asked, “Antoine, what’s the better book? Red Earth or The Receptionist?”

  Julien said, “I think—”

  “Shut up, Julien,” Fabrice said.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Verlaque said, reaching a hand toward Barbier. “I’m Antoine Verlaque, Marine’s husband.”

  “Delighted to meet you too,” Valère said, shaking the judge’s hand.

  “Antoine?” Fabrice asked. “Which one?”

  “Well, that all depends,” Verlaque said. “I always think one’s favorite book or film coincides with how old one was when one read or watched it, especially the first time. A few years down the road, you can change your mind, and another book might become your favorite.”

  Fabrice waved his hands. “Please give a yes or no answer and none of this diplomatic wishy-washy stuff.”

  “We have money riding on this,” Julien added.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Verlaque said. He looked at Jean-Marc, who was smiling. “Red Earth,” he said.

  Fabrice raised his hands in the air and yelled.

  “Thanks,” Julien said. “I just lost fifty euros.” The two friends—who were both financially well off, Fabrice thanks to dozens of plumbing stores across the South of France, and Julien courtesy of a string of luxury used-car lots—seemed to always be betting. Verlaque had the feeling they never actually paid each other, or if they did, that it all came out in the wash. Each seemed to win as often as he’d lose.

  Verlaque continued, “But The Receptionist is a very close second, and one of my favorite films.”

  Fabrice leaned toward Valère, drawing him in close to him with his arm. Verlaque cringed. Fabrice went on, “As you well know, Alain Denis was in that film. Antoine here, our examining magistrate, was on the Île Sordou a few summers ago, trying to have a nice quiet holiday, when Denis—”

  “That’s enough, Fabrice,” Verlaque said, smiling, trying to be light. He thought of his conversation with Jean-Marc in the car. As he’d feared, he was no longer simply Antoine: Fabrice was casting him as the examining magistrate.

  Jean-Marc joined in. “As a lawyer, Fabrice, I advise you to stop talking.”

  “Judge? Lawyer?” Valère said. “Is everyone in this club involved in the law?”

  Verlaque looked at the famous writer, detecting the tiniest bit of . . . apprehension? Nervousness? Even a slight distaste? But it wasn’t the first time this had happened during a social occasion. He was used to it.

  Verlaque walked away to drop some of his cigar ash into an ashtray. Jean-Marc joined him and whispered, “We needn’t have worried. Both Fabrice and Julien seem to have read Barbier’s better books.”

  Verlaque smiled. “Never judge a book by its cover.”

  “That’s another thing I love about this club,” Jean-Marc said. “We come from all walks of life; some of us have multiple diplomas, some of us none, but it doesn’t matter when we are together.”

  * * *

  The wind picked up, and the group was forced to move inside for dinner. Jacob had ordered lamb couscous from a small Moroccan restaurant in Aix, and, as usual, each member of the club had a role to play in helping to prepare for dinner, whether it was cutting the bread, setting the table, opening wine bottles, or—Julien’s specialty—folding the linen napkins into funny shapes.

  The conversation moved from food and wine to local politics, with Valère Barbier sometimes taking part in the conversation but more often just sitting back and listening intently. Verlaque thought this polite behavior for a first-time guest and was impressed. Barbier’s star quality diminished after a few glasses of wine, and by the end of the meal and their second, much larger cigar Barbier was not a famous writer but just another cigar lover and epicurean.

  “When did you start smoking cigars?” Virginie asked Valère after dinner, in Jacob’s living room. Verlaque remembered this room from his previous visit: long, with thick stone walls, honey-colored oak beams, and original highly polished terra-cotta floors.

  Valère took a long, slow puff of the Hoyo de Monterrey double corona and leaned his head back. “I was in Cuba, in 1982. I had just won a prize, in France—”

  “Mr. Modest,” Jacob said, smiling. “It was the Prix Goncourt.”

  “Yes, it was,” Valère replied, nodding. “And I was invited to Havana because my Spanish translations were selling well there. My publicist and publisher were thrilled to come along—they were cigar smokers. Well, we spent a lot of time waiting for Fidel—we were supposed to meet him—and it became a joke. Instead of waiting for Godot, we were waiting for Fidel.”

  “Huh?” Fabrice asked Julien, louder than he meant to.

  “I think it’s a book,” Julien whispered back, shrugging.

  “It’s a play, you dolts,” said Gaspard, a law student and the club’s youngest member.

  Verlaque looked over at Jean-Marc, who was looking at his knees, his shoulders heaving and his face red from suppressed laughter.

  Valère crossed a leg and continued: “To pass the time, the other guys smoked, and I loved the smell. After the second day, I looked around me, and said to myself, Valère, either you can try one or you can be an idiot and just sit here twiddling your thumbs and miss out on experiencing all this fabulous island has to offer. To break me in, they wisely chose a smooth Romeo y Julieta double corona—it’s still one of my favorite cigars. Whenever I smoke one, it takes me back to those humid afternoons, sitting on the rocking chairs that lined the hotel’s roof terrace, with that big, crazy, pastel, multicolored city laid out before us. One of my regrets in life is not having bought a house in Havana.”

  “That’s difficult, isn’t it?” José, a writer for La Provence, asked. “You have to be married to a Cuban.”

  “Alas, yes,” Valère replied.

  “And so, what happened?” Virginie asked.

  “Oh, I got hooked,” Valère replied. “I started reading about the history of cigars, and we visited some of the factories, and I’ve smoked Cubans ever since.”

  Virginie laughed. “No, I meant with meeting Fidel.”

  “Ah. He was a no-show,” Valère said. “After five days it became clear to us that he wasn’t coming, and we were only going to be there for a week. So we explored the city as much as we could. On our last day a minor government official took us to a fabulous restaurant in a kind of no-man’s-land surrounded by what looked like abandoned apartment buildings. But the back of the restaurant faced the sea. You’d sit there on the narrow terrace and watch fishermen—”

  “Rio Mar!” Julien and Fabrice said in unison.

  Valère snapped his fingers. “That’s it. Best lobster I’ve ever had.”

  Julien and Fabrice had an ongoing bet to see who could visit Cuba the most. Since they usually went together, it was another redundant challenge.

  Verlaque’s cell phone vibrated inside his pocket, and he quickly snuck a look at it. Cell phones—and he was one of the biggest enforcers of the rule—were frowned upon during their get-togethers. It was a text message from Officer Goulin: There’s been an accident at La Bastide Blanche. Th
e commissioner thinks M Barbier may be with you. Can you please bring M Barbier to Puyloubier? Tell him to brace himself. Sophie Goulin

  Chapter Twelve

  New York City,

  September 22, 2010

  An accident?” Justin asked. “What happened?”

  “So,” Valère leaned back and continued, “I was in the car with the judge, and I wasn’t nervous as we drove back to the Bastide Blanche. We chatted about this and that—current French politics, Parisian restaurants—as Verlaque’s friend Jean-Marc followed, driving my Mercedes. It made me nervous at first, as it’s a very nice car . . .”

  “Do I need to know that?” Justin asked, anxious to hear what had gone on at the bastide.

  “Whoa! Yes, otherwise you’d be scratching your head later tonight, trying to figure out what we did with my Merc.” A waiter walked in, pushing a trolley laden with cheese. Valère sat upright and looked over the selection of more than twenty French cheeses, all perfectly ripened.

  “Les fromages!” Justin said, relieved thanks to the waiter’s perfect sense of timing. He realized he’d spoken out of turn but was annoyed all the same by the interruption.

  Valère held up his knife and bounced it a few times in Justin’s direction. “Cheese. The perfect dessert. Look at this delectable, runny Saint-Marcellin.”

  “Was someone hurt?” Justin asked, not looking at the cheeses.

  “Okay, I see I’d better continue or you’ll never be able to choose.”

  * * *

  Verlaque didn’t know any more than I did, or why the officer had thought it necessary that Verlaque drive me home, like I was an old man. But I’m famous—or at least I was once—and perhaps the commissioner thought I was accustomed to star treatment. I wasn’t worried. In fact, I was fairly certain that the house had been broken into. Sandrine would have left for the evening, and Michèle was probably passed out again, deaf to the sound of burglars walking around, opening drawers, and emptying cupboards. But what did I even have to steal? An acquaintance in Paris once had his massive apartment in the avenue Foch burgled, and they took nothing! After all, what did he have? Books, records, a silver tea service that was priceless and sitting out on an equally expensive rare Scandinavian buffet. The thieves were looking for money, which he never kept in the house, and electronic equipment—iPhones and computers—and jewelry. His cell phone was on him, and he only owned one computer, which was in his office in the 1st arrondissement. He was a bachelor, so no diamond necklaces. La Bastide Blanche was very much the same as that guy’s apartment: there was little in it that an eighteen-year-old thief would want. Would he care about Agathe’s pots? Never.