“I’m dying to. Do I dare?”
“Why not? Mr. Canetti won’t mind. He loves to show it off.”
“What is it?”
“What kind? A Bugatti. Custom-made. Hand-tooled. It’s ever so grand. The French are impressed.”
“So am I. Is it yours?”
“I think so, but I’m not sure. Mr. Canetti and I have been doing deals with cars for years. Sometimes they’re mine. Sometimes they’re his. I think he let me have this one. It’ll be fun having you to drive. We won’t have to call for Mr. Canetti all the time. I believe it has a few extra gears, but he’ll show you. Shall we climb aboard?”
“I feel as if I should have goggles.”
“I don’t want you to have to concentrate on the road and miss the countryside. Drive and get the feel of the car, then Mr. Canetti can take over.” Billy was swallowed up in the backseat.
Perry pulled himself up behind the gleaming wooden wheel with Mr. Canetti beside him, spouting French and gesturing at everything in front of them. Perry adjusted the rearview mirrors and looked at him questioningly. Mr. Canetti turned the key in the dashboard and indicated the starter button on the floor. Perry stepped on it, and the motor sprang into life.
He felt as if he were in command of a battleship. The motor purred with power. He clutched into what he assumed was first and looked at his instructor, who nodded enthusiastically. They moved smoothly away from the platform.
“Somebody better tell me where I’m going — and soon,” Perry called back to Billy.
“Turn around. We go left when we get to the main road. We’re going down to the coast road. Once on it, it’s clear sailing till the Saint-Tropez turnoff, but I won’t let you drive that far. I want you back here with me to see the sights.”
“Okay. Here we go.” Perry accelerated and swung around in front of the station, then headed off in the other direction.
The hills receded, and the land opened out onto a fertile valley. There were groves of citrus trees along the road, interspersed with vineyards. Long, compact farmhouses with tile roofs like the ones Perry’d seen from the train were scattered about among the fields. He decided to give up the wheel so he could watch.
“Grimaud and Cogolin are the biggest towns near here,” Billy said. “They’re back in there.” He pointed inland, off to the right, where low hills rose. They were thickly covered with trees, which Perry saw weren’t pines. They looked like real trees, with leaves.
“What kind of trees are those?” he asked.
“Cork oaks. There’s forests of them along here. Where the corks come from.”
“Corks?”
“You know. Those things you have to pull out of bottles.”
“Corks grow on trees?”
Billy laughed. “Not the way they are when you see them. They don’t grow like berries. They have to be cut out of the bark.”
“Corks come from bark? Amazing.”
“You’ll see where the trees have been stripped. They wait for the bark to get thick enough and then cut it off in sheets. After that it has to be put through machines, I imagine, to turn out the finished product. All so we can pop a cork.”
“You’re full of useful information, Billy. I’ll know where to come if I’m looking for a cork.”
After another few miles they came to an intersection and turned left. “Here we are — the Saint-Tropez peninsula,” Billy pointed out. “The road we were on follows the coast to Toulon and Marseille. This one goes nowhere but here.”
Ahead of them Perry saw a low pyramid of ocher rectangles that seemed to rise out of the water, crowned by a sort of citadel with a square tower. Coming upon it so unexpectedly was a giddy shock. He couldn’t think of anywhere else quite like it; it was unrelated to the rest of the coast he’d seen, unique and isolated. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said. “Where did it come from? What’s it doing here? I love it already. Let’s buy that house.”
“That’s settled.” They clutched each other’s knees and laughed.
Details took shape as they approached the town. The ocher rectangles became old houses that rose in irregular ranks toward the citadel. The waterborne effect was lost as perspective was restored, and they could see the formation of the land on which they were built. Houses fell into line along the road, unadorned facades with weathered painted shutters.
The houses began to crowd closer to each other, and the road became a narrow village street. Unpretentious shops appeared, and people, mostly women, moved about unhurriedly on their errands. Mr. Canetti used the bulb horn liberally to warn them of danger. It sounded rather festive in the narrow street, but nobody paid any particular attention to them.
After a moment they emerged from the street onto a big, peaceful port bordered on three sides by wide paved quays from which rose tall buildings, five or six stories high. They leaned precariously against each other as if for support and were color-washed in streaked and faded shades of pink and blue and green. The fourth side was open to the bay, and a massive seawall protected the entrance to the harbor.
Billy sat forward briefly, looked across at Perry, then sat back, smiling. “She’s there,” he announced.
“Bet?” Perry asked with a twinge of apprehension. The unknown was always a potential threat no matter how secure he felt now.
“We’ll soon find out. I was talking about the boat.”
“Oh, good. Where?” He turned to look where Billy’s eyes had been.
“You’ll get a good look in a minute.”
There was a small fleet of clumsy-looking sailing boats tied up at the quay along which they were making their stately advance. Farther out near the seawall there were several gleaming craft with tall masts that looked impressive enough to be private yachts. One of them was conspicuously bigger than the others.
They turned onto the third leg of the quay, heading toward the yachts. He saw that several of the ground floors of the tall buildings had been converted for business — a couple of bars, a shop with lots of clothes hanging carelessly in front of it, another with a single coil of rope in front of it. None of them had show windows.
“Senequier’s,” Billy said as they passed one of the bars. “The hub of Saint-Tropez. It’s hard to believe, but it’ll be crowded in about an hour. The locals have it pretty much to themselves till noon, and then all the summer crowd comes out. Quite a lot of people come from up and down the coast for the day. The swimming at the beach they call Pampelone is superb. It’s getting to be a bit too famous. All we need is a three-star restaurant, and we’ll be sunk. Actually, there’s a couple of pretty good restaurants nobody knows about yet, but that won’t last.”
Mr. Canetti swung the car around as if he were going to drive into the harbor and came to a halt.
Billy looked eager and expectant, perched on the edge of his seat. “I seem to have been saying ‘Here we are’ every few minutes for the last two days. But here, finally and definitively, we are.”
He climbed spryly out of the car and stood near the end of the gangplank that had been let down from the stern of the biggest yacht at the quay. BELLE ÉPOQUE was painted in big gold letters on the stern with CANNES in smaller letters under it.
“Belle Époque,” Perry read aloud.
“The former owners named her,” Billy said. “I thought it would be bad luck to change a name like that.”
“Someday I may be well-educated enough to get all your references, Billy. I’ve heard of the Belle Époque, but I don’t know exactly what it is.”
“It means ‘good times’ in a general sense. It refers in particular to the early years of this century before the Great War when all of Europe was thriving and prosperous and at peace. You could hardly call the Depression a belle époque.”
Perry didn’t take his eyes off the boat. He was too unfamiliar with sailing and water to be a judge of what he was looking at, but she looked comfortably big. The hull was black, and the rest of it, the cabin part, was white. There was a lot of glittering
brass everywhere. The two masts weren’t as tall as a couple of the others nearby. There was an American flag at the top of one of them.
As they looked, a man in white shirt and pants appeared on deck. He caught sight of them and called out, waving as he trotted down the gangplank to join them on the quay. He and Billy greeted each other with cordial familiarity, shaking hands warmly. Billy introduced him as the captain.
“This is Captain Mario,” Billy said. “He’ll be in charge of us for the next six weeks.”
The captain was a swarthy, stocky man who spoke fluent English with an Italian flourish. “You’re right on time, boss,” he said. “I’ve been watching for you. You said the morning of the fifth.”
“Here I am. Have you heard any news of my daughter?”
“Nothing, boss. Several of your friends have come to ask if you were coming. I told them what you said. I’ve been here a week like you told me. We’re all shipshape and ready to go.”
“Send somebody to help Mr. Canetti with the bags.” Billy waved Perry up the gangplank and followed, with the captain at their heels. They stepped out onto the deck under an awning. There was a burst of activity around them. Young men in black trousers and white shirts appeared from somewhere and, after deferentially greeting Billy — “Welcome back, Mr. Vernon!”— hurried down the gangplank to the car. Others in less tidy work clothes drifted out to pay their respects to the owner. Their bags were paraded up the gangplank and past them through a door that presumably led to living quarters. The captain returned.
“The boys will get you settled, boss,” Captain Mario said. “Henri will be along in a minute to give you drinks. He and Emile are back. Sylvain’s the new boy. He’s from the islands too. I told them to put Mr. Langham in No. 2 cabin. The cook’s the same. So’s the engineer. We’ve got a good crew, boss. I’ve known the new deckhand since he was a kid. He even knows how to handle sail. I can show you the books whenever you can spare the time. Everything’s up-to-date. No shocks. We’re in good shape.”
“Leave them in my cabin,” Billy said. “I want to explain them to Mr. Langham. He’ll be helping me with the routine. If you’re cheating, you’d better be careful. He’ll catch you.”
The captain looked at Perry with hearty good humor. “You and me, we May be do a deal together,” he said. “We can work something, he’ll never guess what’s happening to him.” He nodded cheerfully at them both and disappeared somewhere up front.
“A good man,” Billy said. Despite his natty clothes, more country-club than nautical, he managed to look completely at home. The shaded deck was comfortably furnished with upholstered outdoor chairs and conveniently spaced tables. “How nice to get back and find everything running smoothly. I hope you didn’t mind my saying that you’d help with my housekeeping. I want them all to know that you have the authority to act for me. It’s not a bad idea your getting some practice at managing a household. Maintenance is much higher at sea than it is ashore, but basically, the problem is the same — watching where the money’s going.”
“How many do you have working for you?” Perry asked.
Billy sat and dropped his hat onto the table beside him. “Six plus the captain. We have three to take care of me and the guests and two for the dirty work, on deck and in the engine room. The cook looks after all of us. The captain lies back and gives orders. This is Henri,” he added, as one of the young men emerged from the door where most of the traffic had passed. “You could say he’s the chief steward. I hope he’s ready to give us a drink.”
Henri crossed the deck to them. “Excuse the delay, patron,” he said softly in accented English. “Sylvain is new. The cook wants to know if you have lunch on board.” He was dark-skinned and personable in an exotic way; Perry couldn’t guess his nationality. He had added a black bow tie to his informal uniform of white shirt and black pants.
“Lunch on board, I should think,” Billy said, looking at Perry. “The port can be hot and crowded at lunchtime. Let’s spend the evening ashore so you can see the sights and find your way around. Tell the cook no dinner, Henri, but first give us a drink for heaven’s sake.”
They ordered Perry a beer and a gin drink for Billy, and Henri returned to the area around the door. Perry watched him opening cupboards, revealing a well-stocked bar. An ice chest was secured to the deck. On the other side of the door, there were things that presumably figured in running the boat — a wheel, levers, a panel of dials. Perry settled into a chair beside Billy.
“How big is the boat?” he asked. “Bigger than most yachts?”
“No indeed. Eighty feet. Bigger than the general run of sailing yachts, but she’s not strictly for sailing. She’s a motor sailer. I have two powerful engines. I could cross the Atlantic if I wanted to go mad with boredom.”
“It sounds sort of exciting. How long would it take?”
“Good God. A month, May be? You’d have to choose the season carefully. My heart sinks at the thought.”
Henri returned with the drinks. “You’ve been well, Henri?” Billy asked. “The news from home is good?”
“Yes, thank you, patron. My family is well. My sister got married.”
“Splendid. I remember she was about to. I must give you a present for her. That reminds me. I’ll give you a note for the post office so you can pick up my mail from poste restante. Don’t let me forget after lunch. I think we’ll eat promptly in about an hour. We’ve been up since dawn. You can do the table up here. We’d like some of that white Montrachet. Have you got a bottle cooling?”
“I’ll see to it, patron. I think you’ll be pleased with Sylvain. He has some knowledge of wine.”
“That’s always been useful. I’ll talk to him.” He turned to Perry. “Is the beer cold enough? You must complain if it isn’t. They sometimes forget we’re not English.”
“It’s pure ambrosia. I hope there’s plenty of it. Where’s he from?” he asked as Henri withdrew.
“Martinique. According to the captain, the new boy is too. I love his name. Sylvain. It must’ve been preserved in aspic in the Caribbean. They’re a good-looking people and seem to enjoy their work. As soon as we’ve got our thirst under control, I’ll take you on a tour of our floating palace. That’ll take just long enough for Henri to fill our glasses again. You see — the port is beginning to get quite lively.”
Perry stretched and lay back indolently in the comfortable chair, watching cars drive up and park along the quay. People in smart summer clothes were beginning to fill the café tables. Strollers paused at the foot of their gangplank and gazed up at them. Perry hoped that he was giving a convincing performance as one of the idle rich. Living on a yacht was rather like the Mauretania on a reduced scale, all for them.
Catching sight of a couple who had stopped to peer at them with undisguised curiosity, he lifted his hand for service. Henri appeared at his side, and Perry ordered another beer but kept his glass to drain it. Henri returned with an icy bottle and filled it. Perry Langham at ease on the deck of his yacht. It was really he. He had it all.
Smiling to himself, he rose and went to the top of the gangplank and leaned against the rail, looking out along the quay. From the slight eminence provided by the deck, he was the lord of all he surveyed, wonderfully removed from humanity and superior.
The yachts immediately next to them looked unoccupied. Farther along at the end of the row he could see people moving around on one or two of them, but they were smaller and didn’t count.
He turned back to Billy and waved a glass at him. “I’m beginning to feel what it’s like,” he said. “I can understand why you love it. You feel so independent and self-sufficient. Nobody can touch you. You can pull out whenever you feel like it and go anywhere you like.”
“Exactly. Here on deck in port, you might not have as much privacy as you like, but the minute you cast off, you have the whole world. There’s nothing else like it. Henri’s getting me another drink, and then I’ll show you around.”
Perry carried h
is glass back to Billy’s table, and Henri served them both. Billy stood. Perry put an arm around his shoulder and fell into step beside him as they started for the door. “Don’t forget,” Perry said, “I’ve never been on a boat before aside from a rowboat or two. You’ve got to tell me what everything is.”
“Well, you may have noticed that you have to go through this door to go anywhere. First off, the living room. I suppose if I wanted to be properly nautical, I’d call it the main salon, but to me it’s the living room. Come in.”
He waved Perry ahead. He went down a couple of steps to a pleasant room that would have done very well as a living room on dry land. It was thickly carpeted and handsomely furnished with nothing about it to suggest the sea. The windows were windows, not portholes, and there were books in built-in shelves and even a fireplace.
“A fireplace?” Perry wondered.
“Yes indeed. It’s very pleasant when it’s chilly. It’s not advisable to light it in rough weather. Needless to say, this is the dining room.”
It was another handsome room but less roomy, primarily designed for sitting. There was a long table with twelve chairs around it and a lot of pictures on the walls. Billy led the way to a passage at the end of the room.
“Forward — that is, toward the bow — is the galley and even a wine cellar of sorts and various utility rooms. We don’t have to bother with all that. Do you want me to explain about the port and starboard again? Starboard is to the right facing forward. This is the grand stairway.” They went down the stairs, which were just wide enough for two, and continued forward along a passage on the lower deck. Billy threw open a door at the end of it and stood aside. “My cabin. It’s disgraceful for it to be so much better than all the others, but that’s the way the designers planned it.”
It took the whole width of the boat, with portholes on both sides and an enormous bed in the middle. Built-in closets were painted gray, with details picked out in blue. There were several easy chairs upholstered in golden yellow with accents of white. The same material was used as curtains at the portholes. Perry realized that this was the first he’d seen of Billy’s taste in furnishing and decoration, and he was impressed. The overall effect was of slightly severe elegance.
The Good Life Page 18