The Secrets of the Bastide Blanche
Page 27
New York City,
September 23, 2010
Justin had spent so much time worrying about the restaurant and what wines to order that he hadn’t chosen a spot to smoke cigars after dinner. Instinctively, he ushered his guest toward the river, where there were bike lanes, trees, and views of Brooklyn. Thankfully, it was still warm out, despite being after midnight. Neither of them felt like going to an uptown cigar bar. They bought some sparkling water on the way.
“Is that Brooklyn?” Valère asked as they cut the Cuban cigars he’d removed from his jacket.
“Williamsburg,” Justin replied, touching a newly purchased torch lighter to his cigar and slowly turning it, trying to get it just right.
“Maybe someday you can buy a house over there, eh? A brownstone?”
“In my dreams.”
Valère sat back and took his first mouthful of smoke. “Chocolate.”
“Gingerbread,” Justin said, smoking.
“And earth,” Valère said. “Always earth. That red earth of Cuba.”
“Like Provence, right?”
Valère nodded. “In Pantelleria it’s mostly rock. But from my new house I can see Tunisia. Did I tell you that? Always buy a house for the view—never because it’s big or because you like the way it looks. What you see from inside, looking out, is more important. It makes the soul soar.”
“You won’t miss La Bastide?” Justin asked.
“No. All those bad memories—my own, and the past residents’—are gone now.”
“You kind of breezed over that part,” Justin said. “Hugues de Besse and the young girls.”
“It’s too terrible to even think about. Marine Bonnet and her mother took me out for tea one afternoon and told all about it. Those poor girls.”
“And Agathe’s essay?”
“It’s gone too. Michèle told me she left Agathe’s story behind at the bastide, hidden between her mattress and box spring, instead of taking it to Gordes. She’d given me until July 14 to make up my mind about working with her; if I said no, she was going to tell all to the press. But I’m not sure if she was telling the truth.”
“Maybe it doesn’t matter,” Justin said, turning toward Valère. “It all depends on the kind of book you’re planning to write.”
“I told you,” Valère said. “A memoir. Starting with my childhood, schooling, first job at Le Monde, then writing.”
“And what happened at La Bastide?”
“Undecided.”
“I don’t know how much of Michèle Baudouin’s claim is true, but this book could be your chance to defend yourself.”
Valère smoked, not speaking for a minute. “Are you saying I should confess?”
“I didn’t say that,” Justin said. “But, if, let’s just say, Mme Baudouin still has that story, and if, let’s just say, there’s some truth to her accusation, and your late wife did help you write the early books, why not take the high road?”
“And beat her to it?”
“Exactly. Again, you’re the only one who knows how much of her claim is true. And if you did confess, I’d back you up 100 percent.”
“My career would be in shambles,” Valère said. “Your company wouldn’t make any money on this book.”
“Au contraire,” Justin said, smiling, pleased that he managed to remember a French phrase.
Valère stared at him. “Explain.”
“Americans love confessionals,” Justin said.
“The French don’t!”
“But it’s more than a confessional. It’s a story of redemption.”
“But if what Ursule claimed, and Michèle is claiming, is true, I’m a cheat. And a liar.”
“Your romances! You’ve made millions of dollars on the power of your storytelling,” Justin said. “You’re loved as a storyteller, and readers will want to know everything about you, even if you have failed. In fact, it’s better if you’ve slipped up. It makes you human, like them. And you’ll no longer be a liar, because you’ll be fessing up. Telling the truth.”
Valère thought for a moment, smoking. “Redemption is trickier than justice—isn’t it?” he said. “Redemption is beyond the law. We get there by our own methods and means—hopefully.”
“I’d wager that with this book you’ll lose some readers but gain many more.”
Valère nodded. “And I’ll wager, too,” he said, gesturing toward the opposite bank, “that one day you will own one of those brownstones.”
Justin laughed. “I’d be happy with a small village house in the South of France,” he said. “Somewhere near the Pauliks.”
“A young guy like you has no business in one of those dilapidated old houses,” Valère said, waving a hand.
“Perhaps you’re right,” Justin chuckled. “Did the fire start because of the faulty wiring?”
“Yes, and lit the hot-water heater, which had a fuel leak, on fire.”
“All those stacks of newspapers . . .”
“Poor Monica. I never liked her, but still . . .”
“Why did she do it?” Justin asked, shaking his head. “Was she trying to drive you mad?”
“Yes, as mad as she was,” Valère replied. “She was mad with jealousy. I had always seen that side of her. But she was greedy, too, and could have made a lot of money by exposing me.”
“How did she get up to Paris so quickly?”
“It’s only a three-hour train ride,” Valère answered. “She may have overheard either Antoine Verlaque and myself, or me and Sandrine, speaking of his planned trip to Paris. We now know Monica was hiding in the house even when we were all there. Or she may have just gotten lucky and been back in Paris exactly when Verlaque showed up.”
“Ursule Genoux was obviously suffering,” Justin said. “Was she in love with Agathe?”
“No no,” Valère replied. “She loved her, yes, but not in the way you’re implying. If Ursule had her doubts about Agathe’s participation in writing my books, she never let on. That said, her sister must have shown her the documents in the archives at Les Loges. But I know for sure that Ursule was even more dedicated to Agathe than to me. So if Agathe didn’t want anyone to know that she was helping me, then Ursule and Célestine would have respected that.”
“The schoolgirl bond thing.”
“Exactly.”
“And Michèle?” Justin asked. “You told Sandrine that she was in Gordes but was coming back.”
“You’re a good listener, despite your fidgeting. When I saw Michèle again, two days later, she didn’t even seem to care about our joint project. The film producer in Gordes took out an option on three of Michèle’s recent books, for a television series, so writing with a has-been like me was no longer interesting. Especially when the producer offered Michèle a minor role in the series.”
“Wow. She could play herself.”
Valère laughed. “Yes, no script needed.”
“One last question before we get back to discussing your next book,” Justin said. “Sandrine?”
“I bought her the shoe store. It really wasn’t that expensive, and the family who owned it was thrilled. Sandrine sends me postcards, and once I decipher the spelling mistakes, I get little pieces of her life in Aix. She’s actually making money on the store, for one, and Marine Bonnet stops by once a week to say hello. When we were trying to rid the house of ghosts, Sandrine told me we should tell the ghosts that their time on earth was up, and that they should go peacefully toward the light. I think it was sage advice, even if she did get it from a shoddy Web site. I like to think that when the house burned down, all its pain and sordid history went with it. My own included.”
Valère reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a black-and-white postcard: a somewhat out-of-focus photograph of a grand house.
“La Bastide Blanche?” Justin asked, looking closely
at the postcard.
“Yes, Sandrine must have picked it up at the flea market,” Valère replied. “I’ll read you what she wrote on the back, as it’s in French: ‘When La Bastide caught on fire, I decided to let Josy go. Once we knew that Léa was safe, I suddenly felt lighter, relieved that there’s no hell or final judgment. Josy’s safe up there. And you, M Barbier, should think of Agathe like that too. Safe and perhaps looking down at you. Possibly laughing. But watching all the same.’”
“That’s really lovely,” Justin said. “Did you lose everything in the fire?”
Valère stretched out his legs and reached into his pants pocket. He pulled out a linen handkerchief and Justin immediately knew what it was.
“Not this,” he said with a smile.
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