Hotel Pastis

by Peter Mayle

  “It’s Simon Shaw. Put me through to Mr. Ziegler, would you?”

  Simon looked out of his office window. The sky was turning dark at the end of a brief grey afternoon. London was already showing signs of Christmas, even though it was a month away, and the corner of Harrods he could see through the rain-streaked window was festooned with lights. It wouldn’t be long before the creative department embarked on its annual marathon of four-hour lunches and office parties, and the agency would slip gradually into hibernation until early January. In the past, Simon had taken advantage of the dead period to get some work done. This year, like everyone else, he was going to take a holiday—maybe quite an extended holiday, he thought, as he heard a click at the other end of the line.

  “Okay. What is it?” Ziegler’s voice was like a slap in the ear.

  “How are you, Bob?”

  “Busy.”

  “Glad to hear you’re keeping out of mischief. Tell me, how are you fixed between Christmas and the beginning of January? Skiing in Vail? A cruise in the Caribbean? Pottery classes in New Mexico?”

  “What the fuck is this about?”

  “I’d like to have a meeting with you when there aren’t a thousand other things going on, and that’s a quiet time of year.”

  “A meeting? What’s wrong with the goddamn phone?”

  “It’s not the same as face to face, Bob. You know that. And what I have to say is personal.”

  There was a pause. Ziegler’s curiosity was almost audible. “Personal” in his vocabulary meant only two things: a career move or a terminal illness.

  “How are you feeling, Simon? Okay?”

  “Afraid so, Bob. But we need to talk. How about December twenty-seventh? That’ll give you time to get out of your Santa Claus outfit.”

  So it was a career move, Ziegler thought as he looked at his diary. “Sure. I can do the twenty-seventh. Where?”

  “We’ll need to see someone else. Here would be best. I’ll book you into Claridges.”

  “Tell them to turn the goddamn heating up.”

  For the second time in a few days, Simon felt a sense of nervous exhilaration at having gone further down the road to a new life. He’d committed himself to the hotel, and now to Ziegler. Jordan, the third member of the meeting, had better be kept in the dark for the time being. His capacity for discretion was limited, particularly in the bar at Annabel’s. Where would he be over Christmas? Killing small animals in Wiltshire, probably, unless he’d managed to get himself invited to Mustique. Simon made a note to find out, and returned to the press release he was drafting which would announce his departure from London.

  He drew up a list of essential clichés: continuing close ties with the agency, vital co-ordinating role, global overview, expansion opportunities, highly effective management team—all the implausible claptrap that is traditional whenever a senior advertising executive and his agency part company.

  He had decided to use Europe as his escape route. He could disappear in Europe, as many advertising men before him had done, under the guise of a roving trouble-shooter and acquisition hunter, constantly on the move for the greater glory of the group. That would explain the absence of an official fixed base. He would have to play down his association with the hotel, but that was a comfortable six months away. By then, the business would be talking about someone else. Advertising is not noted for the length of its attention span.

  There was a tap on the door, and Simon slipped the draft release into a folder and looked up.

  “Bonjour, jeune homme,” said Ernest. “May I intrude?”

  “Come in, Ern. How’s it going?” Ernest was in the first days of his Berlitz course and was taking the role of student to heart, wearing a long scarf and carrying a superior kind of school satchel made from chocolate brown suede.

  “My dear, I’m limp with exhaustion. Four hours alone with Miss Dunlap—or Mademoiselle Dunlap, as she prefers to be called—is completely draining. But my studies are making progress. I’m told that my musical ear helps.” Ernest unwrapped his neck and let his scarf hang down to his knees. “Apparently, my vowels are particularly good.”

  “I’ve always admired your vowels, Ern.”

  “According to Miss Dunlap, very few of us can pronounce the French u correctly.” Ernest perched on the arm of the couch. “Anyway, I didn’t come to bore you with tales of my school days. I’ve had an idea.”

  Simon took a cigar from the box on the table and leaned back.

  “You remember saying how important it was to have the mayor on our side when the hotel opens? Well, it occurred to me—just a pensée, but rather a good one, I thought—that we might give a Christmas party. The mayor and his lady wife, of course, that nice Monsieur Blanc, one or two of the locals. Nicole could advise us on the guest list. It would be a friendly gesture, a little entente cordiale, just to let them know what we’re up to. I suppose one could call it public relations.”

  Simon nodded. It was sensible. It might even be fun. “Have you thought about where we could do it?”

  “Where else, dear? The hotel itself. Our very first soirée.”

  Simon thought of the bare stones, the holes in the wall, the mistral. “Ern, it’s going to be cold. It may be freezing. It’s a construction site, not a hotel.”

  “Ah,” said Ernest, “you’re being a tiny bit unimaginative. And, if I may say so, terribly unromantic.”

  “I can’t be romantic when I’m cold. I remember one of my honeymoons—Zermatt? Yes, Zermatt—what a bloody disaster that was.”

  Ernest looked disapproving. “It was the temperature of the wife, I suspect, rather than the weather.” He dismissed her with a sniff. “Anyway, you won’t be cold, I promise you. We’ll have shutters up at the windows by then. The festive log will be roaring in the chimney. There’ll be braziers of glowing coals partout, the flicker of candlelight on stone, plenty to eat and far too much to drink—it will all be tremendously cosy. And another thing—”

  Simon held up both hands in surrender. “Ernest?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s a wonderful idea.”

  Later that evening, when the last meeting of the day had ended and the whistling of the office cleaners had replaced the sound of ringing phones, Simon called Nicole. Ernest had already spoken to her.

  “What do you think?” Simon asked.

  “Well, the village is talking already. The notaire’s secretary told the baker, the baker told the mayor’s wife—everybody knows there is a new proprietaire. It would be good for you to meet them and tell them what you’re doing. Ernest is right.”

  “Who should we invite? Everybody? There’s always a problem with these things—you miss a couple of people out, and they get upset.”

  Nicole laughed. “Chéri, some will be against you whatever you do.”

  “The villagers?”

  “No, I think not them. You’re bringing work into the village, work and money. No, it’s the others—the ones who think they discovered Provence, you know? Parisians, British … some of them want nothing to change.”

  Simon thought for a moment. It was probably true. He didn’t know much about Parisians, but he could remember, from the time he’d worked as a waiter in Nice, the attitude of some of the long-established British expatriates who would come to the restaurant from time to time: patronising, often arrogant, complaining about the prices and the tourists, conveniently forgetting that they had once been tourists themselves. And, he also remembered, distinguished by the smallness of their tips. The French waiters had competed to avoid serving them.

  “Well,” he said, “let’s invite them anyway. All we can do is try. Do you know these people?”

  “Of course. In a village of this size, one knows everybody. I’ll tell you about them when you come next week.”

  “What can I bring you?”

  “More old shirts. I wear your shirts to sleep in.”

  Simon smiled. That was a vision to sustain him through the days of tedium laid o
ut in segments in his diary like an obstacle course between London and Provence.

  Nicole put down the phone and went back to the pile of plans and estimates that Blanc had delivered that afternoon. He had suggested starting with the completion of the swimming pool before moving into the building, so that landscaping could be done in the early spring. It was logical, although Simon would be disappointed that the interior would be as unfinished as ever by Christmas. Still, Ernest had been full of ideas to dress it up for the party. What a close couple they were, she thought. It would be easy to feel jealous. Yes, easy and stupid. Look what had happened to the other women in Simon’s life.

  She shrugged and lit a cigarette. There was no point in trying to guess about the future of their relationship, no sense in trying to push it. Things were good at the moment, and that would have to do. Meanwhile, there was the exercise in village diplomacy to deal with. Nicole brought the phone directory and a notepad to the kitchen table and started to make a guest list.

  The mayor and the year-round inhabitants, Blanc and some of his senior workmen, one or two of the local real estate agents—all of these, for their own reasons, could be expected to welcome the hotel. But then there were the part-time residents, many of whom would be coming down to Brassière for the Christmas holidays. Harmless and pleasant, most of them, they tended to shuttle between each other’s houses for drinks and dinner and limit their contact with villagers to a few minutes each day in the boulangerie or the butcher’s shop. Their reactions would be mixed. Nicole remembered the outcry that had been raised by a small group of Parisians when the gendarmerie had first been sold for development. They would complain like last time, she was sure. And like last time, the mayor would nod politely and wait for them to go back home and leave him in peace.

  But the shrillest squeals of protest would come not from any Parisian, nor indeed from any Frenchman. After a moment’s hesitation, Nicole added a final name to the list: Ambrose Crouch, the village’s longest-serving Englishman, who existed on the retainer paid to him by a London newspaper for his weekly Sunday column on Provence. He was a contentious, self-appointed guardian of the purity of peasant life (for peasants, it should be said, rather than for himself), a snob and a scrounger. Nicole detested him for his malice and his clammy, undisciplined hands. The people of Brassière tolerated him. The summer residents gave him food and drink in return for gossip. When sufficiently drunk, which was quite often, he would deliver a tirade on the vulgarity of modern times and the horrors of what he called “human interference” with the fabric of rural society. He could be counted on to be violently and loudly opposed to the hotel. Nicole put a question mark next to his name. She would call Simon tomorrow and warn him about Ambrose Crouch.

  The weather had settled into its winter pattern of bright days and clear, hard nights, and when the General went out to his car there was frost on the windscreen. Not the best weather for cycling, he thought; the air would be bitter on the face and like ice in the lungs. He left the car running while he went back for a bottle of marc. The boys would need some encouragement today.

  They were waiting for him when he arrived at the barn, and he was pleased to see that they were beginning to look like authentic cyclists in their black tights and close-fitting wool hats. “Salut, l’équipe!” He held up the bottle of marc. “This is for later. Today will be short and steep, up to Murs, along to Gordes and back. And then I have some good news for you. Allez!”

  They mounted up, flinching at the coldness of the saddles, and rode off while the General locked the barn. He checked them one by one as he overtook. Not bad. They were all using their toe clips, riding straight, looking comfortable. Not bad at all.

  After fifteen minutes of fairly flat, easy riding, the road began to curl upwards into the hills. The General stopped and got out of the car. As the cyclists passed him, he cupped his hands round his mouth. “Don’t stop. Go as slow as you like, use the width of the road to zigzag, but don’t stop. Courage, mes enfants, courage!”

  Rather you than me, he thought as he got back in the car. The Murs hill was seven steep, twisting kilometres—nothing like the Ventoux climb, of course, but more than enough to make a man sweat even in this weather. If none of them threw up today, it would be a miracle. He gave them a five-minute start and then followed them up the hill.

  They were strung out over fifty yards, some bent over with their noses almost touching the handlebars, others standing on their pedals, faces livid with effort. Those with breath to spare spat. The General passed them slowly, shouting encouragement, and drove on until he reached the halfway mark, where he pulled into the verge and got out.

  “Only three kilometres to go,” he shouted at them as they crept past him. “Downhill all the way from Murs. France salutes you!”

  Bachir had just enough breath to respond. “Up your ass with France.”

  “Anything you like,” said the General, “but don’t stop. Courage, toujours courage!” He lit a cigarette and leant back against the car, enjoying the sun. Nobody had stopped. They were all taking it seriously.

  The road down from Murs came as a visible, audible relief to the seven men. Freewheeling after the climb, they unkinked their backs, caught their breath, felt the fluttering subside in their thigh muscles, cursed and grinned at each other with a sense of shared achievement, shouted obscenities at the General as he drove past, and swept through Gordes feeling like pros. It made a change from feeling sick, and they loved it.

  Back at the barn, still glowing with the elation that often follows extraordinarily hard physical effort, they compared souvenirs of bursting lungs and tortured legs as they passed the bottle of marc around.

  “You rode like champions, all of you.” The General took a swig from the bottle and wiped his moustache. “And I promise you, next time will be easier.”

  Fernand coughed over his cigarette. “That’s the good news, is it?”

  “No. The good news is that I paid a little visit to the Caisse d’Epargne, rented a strongbox, had a look around.” He looked at their faces and smiled at the sight of the bottle of marc frozen just below big Claude’s open mouth. “C’est normal, non? I wouldn’t want you to find any nasty surprises.”

  “That’s right,” said Jojo, as though he’d known about it all along. “C’est normal. Tout à fait.”

  The General took out the sketches and notes he’d made. “Now then …”

  Half an hour later, when they locked up the barn and went their different ways, they hardly noticed the beginnings of stiffness in their legs. It had been a good morning for morale. Sunday lunch would go down well.

  London was sinking deeper into the festive spirit. Pre-Christmas traffic clogged the streets, and taxi drivers performed their monologues of complaint. Responding to the large numbers of shoppers coming in from the suburbs by train, British Rail cut their services. A shoplifter was stopped as he tried to walk out of Harrods wearing two suits, and a man was arrested for assault while trying to prevent his car from getting the boot. The season of goodwill had got off to a promising start.

  In the headquarters of the Shaw Group, executives fought manfully against indigestion as they worked their way through the list of mandatory Christmas lunches with their clients. It had been an excellent year for the agency, and thoughts of substantial salary increases and larger cars brought an atmosphere of cheerful expectancy to the offices. Jordan, more expectant than most after the hint dropped by Simon about future developments, had decided to test the water, and sauntered along the corridor towards Simon’s office, holding details of what he hoped would be his Christmas bonus.

  “Got a minute, old boy?”

  Simon beckoned him in. “Let me just get rid of these and I’ll be with you.” He signed half a dozen letters and pushed them aside. “Right.” He sat back and tried not to wince at the broad chalk stripes that seemed to vibrate against the dark blue of Jordan’s suit.

  “Bumped into a chap the other day,” Jordan said, “who put me
onto rather a good thing.” He tossed a brochure onto the table and went through the selection process with his cigarettes while Simon turned the glossy pages.

  Jordan tapped the end of the winning cigarette before lighting it. “Magnificent beast, isn’t it? Bentley Mulsanne Turbo, with all the bells and whistles.”

  “Nice car, Nigel.” Simon nodded. “Very practical for the country. What do these go for?”

  “About the same as a decent little flat in Fulham—that’s if you can get hold of one. The waiting list on that model is as long as your arm. Seriously good investment. They appreciate, you know.” He blew a smoke ring into the air conditioning.

  Simon smiled. How straightforward it was keeping people like Jordan happy. “Do I take it we’re thinking of investing?”

  “Well, I was coming to that. This chap I bumped into has just been let down. Customer ordered the car eighteen months ago—one of the names at Lloyds, actually—and now he’s feeling the pinch.”

  “And he can’t pay for the car?”

  “Poor bugger will be lucky to keep his cufflinks.” Jordan paused and looked solemn. “Dicey business, unlimited liability.” The moment of grief passed. “Anyway, my chap’s prepared to knock ten thousand off the price for a quick sale.”

  Simon turned to the back page of the brochure, found the dealer’s number, and picked up the phone. “Good morning. You have a Bentley Mulsanne in the showroom, I think.” He smiled at Jordan. “Yes, that’s the one. Mr. Jordan will be round with a cheque this afternoon. Put some petrol in it for him, would you? Thanks.”

  Jordan’s face was still recovering from the surprise. “Well, old boy, I must say this is—”

  Simon waved him to silence. “What’s the point of having a good year if we don’t allow ourselves a few simple pleasures?” He stood up and looked at his watch as Jordan retrieved the brochure. “I meant to ask you—what are you doing over Christmas?”

  “Tour of duty, I’m afraid. The in-laws are descending on Wiltshire. He’ll bang on about the stock market and his gout, and she’ll want to play bridge all day. If I’m lucky, I might fit in a bit of shooting.”