by Mj Roë
“It is not your concern,” Diamanté said as he watched Narbon retreat. “André will be departing Castagniers in the next hour or so.”
Diamanté and Charles-Christian crossed the bridge, climbed the pathway up the steep hill, and entered the statue-studded grounds through an archway. A sign beside the main entrance read:
Nous avertissons nos visiteurs que notre accueil monastique est actuellement fermé pour cause de travaux de restauration dans les bâtiments de l’Abbaye. Avec tous nos regrets.
—La communauté de Notre Dame de la Paix
“The convent is closed for restoration?” Charles-Christian asked.
“Oui, for at least a year,” Diamanté responded. “It was badly in need. The main building, the old monastery, is over a hundred thirty years old.”
“This person who needs medical assistance is, I’m assuming, a religieuse here in the convent? What exactly is the matter?”
Diamanté rang the bell at the huge entrance door.
“I was asked simply to deliver you. I shall wait for you here,” he said.
Charles-Christian didn’t have time for another question. The portal opened slowly, and a diminutive woman, her face framed in a black veil, peered at them through tiny wire-rimmed glasses.
“Oh, Bonjour. Entrez. We have been expecting you.” She opened the door just enough to let Charles-Christian through and nodded to Diamanté.
“I am Soeur Sulpice. Soyez le bienvenu.” She extended her hand in welcome to Charles-Christian.
He took her hand. It was bony and felt cold. The nun was about sixty years of age. A wide, black belt fixed the black and white fabric pieces of her penguin-like habit together at the waist, and she wore heavy, flat, black sandals. A large, ornate filigree cross hung on a long, silver chain around her neck.
“Enchanté, Mère Abesse,” he said.
“Oh, Monsieur, I am not la mère abesse,” she said in a soft voice. “The abbess is away. Please follow me.” She turned quickly and quietly escorted him across the dark courtyard, through an archway, and into the largest of the buildings. There appeared to be no one around. The only sound was the slight rustling of Sister Sulpice’s habit as she walked. Her soft sandals made no sound at all on the tile floor. Charles-Christian became aware of the echoing clack-clack of his own heels as he followed her down a long corridor with closed doors on either side. They came to the end, turned the corner, and entered a shorter hallway.
It was then that he noted the strong odor of antiseptic.
“This is Saint Bernard,” Sister Sulpice said as she bowed her respect to a statue in an arched niche in the wall. The bronze monk was seated at a table, writing. “He is the most famous of all the Cistercians,” she continued. “We celebrate his fête every year in August.”
Charles-Christian suddenly became aware that a single doorway just like all the others, halfway down the hall, was being guarded by two men. He recognized one of them as they approached. It was the helicopter pilot who had flown him to Paris. Sister Sulpice nodded to the two guards and knocked quietly at the door. “Take your time. I will wait here to escort you back to the main entrance,” she said as the door opened a crack.
Two brown eyes appeared, then grew wide. The door opened. Nurse Florence LeBlanc slipped through it and silently but emotionally hugged the doctor.
“I am so glad you have come,” she whispered, pulling him in to the room and closing the door again behind them. “She will be so happy to see you.”
The outside shutters had been closed to buffer the howling of the wind. Charles-Christian squinted his eyes as he tried to make out the contents of the room in the limited light. Against the wall was a single bed with someone lying in it under a heavy coverlet. Alongside the bed, lights blinked, accompanied by beeping sounds from an extensive electronic panel for medical monitoring equipment. The only other furniture was against the opposite wall: a chair and a small table with a low lamp. The aroma of chlorine and disinfectant permeated the room. The hospital smell, he thought.
Nurse LeBlanc motioned to him with her hand. He put down his medical bag, opened it, and took out his stethoscope. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of Anna’s letters still stuffed inside the case. A sudden panic seized him. Would he be detained again, here in this convent?
Calm down. He told himself. Feel her forehead, check her vital signs, listen to her heart…you are a doctor.
CHAPTER 48
At the end of the hall, Sister Sulpice waited patiently. When Charles-Christian and Nurse Le Blanc finally emerged from the room, they spoke in hushed tones just outside the door.
“Her condition has obviously improved since I last saw her,” he said. “The signs of recovery are evident. She knew me.”
“She has been asking for you daily,” Nurse LeBlanc replied. “We flew her in by helicopter yesterday—when we knew you were on the way to Castagniers, at last. Soeur Sulpice will explain everything briefly to you when she shows you out.” She smiled at him. “I have decided to stay with her, indefinitely, if you want to know.” She glanced over Dr. Gérard’s shoulder at the two British guards beside the door and winked at one of them. “That one’s my fiancé. It happened after you left.” The one Charles-Christian had recognized as Geoffrey kept his stern composure but winked back at her.
Charles-Christian smiled and nodded to the young soldier. “It is a small world. Is she…are you…staying here permanently in Castagniers, then?”
“It depends on you. Yes, she wants to stay here until she can recover fully. It is secluded, and very few people know where she is. She is still very ill, but she will recover. A strong woman.” The nurse’s voice trailed off as she accompanied him down the corridor to the waiting nun.
As Sister Sulpice led the doctor back through the corridors to the main entrance of the abbey, her head low, hands folded into the sleeves of her habit, she articulated the proposed arrangement in hurried, hushed language.
“It is hoped, Monsieur le Docteur, that you will consider staying in Castagniers as the village doctor. There is no current local physician for the population, which is over twelve hundred inhabitants, as you may know. If you should choose to stay…you understand that you are not being forced to. It is entirely your freedom to depart, if you wish. This is what is proposed: you will make a daily visit to the convent, ostensibly to check on the conditions of some of the older nuns who are ailing, of course. During that time, you will do what is necessary to assure the recovery of the woman, your primary patient.”
They reached the exterior door. She took his hand in hers. “She will decide when she is well enough to depart. Until then, we have agreed to keep quiet. That is the reason for the restoration period for the convent, which is being funded. You also will be well reimbursed for this arrangement, Monsieur, should you decide to stay on indefinitely. I hope to see you again. Bless you.” She bowed her head in respect as she opened the door for him.
Diamanté was seated on the bench just outside the entry, his arms folded over his chest and his beret pulled down over his eyes. He rose quickly as Charles-Christian, his face pale and his eyes glassy, appeared on the doorstep.
“I think you could use a glass of marc,” Diamanté said, putting a fatherly hand on Charles-Christian’s shoulder.
Infuriated, the stunned doctor pulled away. Diamanté noted at that instant how much the son resembled his father, Jacques. His brows were knit, his eyes charcoal gray, his jaw set firm, his whole body rigid in a great effort to control his anger.
“You knew about this, didn’t you? You…you set it up,” he snapped.
Diamanté put his hand up as if to halt the conversation. “I can explain.”
“What about my father? Have you involved him in this?”
Diamanté shook his head. “He knows nothing. He is not even aware that she is here.”
“And he shall not be told. Understand?”
Diamanté nodded.
Charles-Christian said, “I have a lot of questions for you
, then.”
The wind was blowing so hard that they could barely hear each other.
“I need to take a walk first,” Charles-Christian bellowed as he turned his back and tramped down the hill toward the village.
Diamanté looked at his pocket watch. It was noon. The cypress trees that rose over the convent tossed and turned in a dance with the cold wind, but the monastery’s bells were silent.
CHAPTER 49
Working through his anger, at times with his back to the cold wind, at times facing it, Charles-Christian wandered the narrow streets of the several small settlements which made up the village—les Moulins, la Grotte, la Garde, le Vignon, le Cabrier, le Carretier. He thought about the things he should have done in his life and yet somehow never did, the lost opportunities he had let slip by. True commitment in most everything hadn’t come fast enough—or at all in the case of Anna. His only devotion had been to his profession. As he found his way into the Masage quarter with its archways and ancient houses dating back to the nineteenth century, it occurred to him that the woman who had entered his world under such terrible circumstances in August was now asking for a commitment, too, one which would require a drastic change.
C-C quickened his pace as he took out his cell phone and dialed Elise’s number in Paris.
“Allô?” He heard Elise’s soft Portuguese accent on the other end.
“Salut, Elise. Charlie.”
“Oh là, Charlie. Bonjour. Comment vas-tu?”
“Bien. Merci. Dis-moi, Elise, est-ce que…eh, c’est que, je suis curieux, Elise, si Anna Ellis t’as visitée recemment?” He tried to sound nonchalant in asking if Anna had visited her.
“Beh, oui, elle était là hier après-midi, vers deux heures, si je me rappelle. Elle m’a donné l’argent. Merci, mais c’est trop.”
Good, he thought. Anna delivered the money. He told Elise that it wasn’t too much, despite her objections, explaining that he may have to be gone for a while. She wished him well, and they hung up. Interesting, he thought after the call. Elise didn’t inquire as to where I am.
A few minutes later, Martine answered the phone at the Ajaccio. “Oui, un moment, Madam-ah…” She laid down the receiver and hollered in the direction of the kitchen. “Diamanté! Au téléphon-ah! C’est Elis-ah!”
Diamanté ascended to his apartment, picked up the receiver, and waited for the click that meant Martine had replaced the receiver in the bar below.
“Salut, chérie, ça va?”
“Oui, c’est que Charlie m’a donné un petit coup de téléphone tout à l’heure.”
Diamanté and Elise had spoken just this morning. He had not shared with her C-C’s story about the possibility of Anna’s being related to him. He still wasn’t able to believe it.
“Charlie called? What did he want?”
“To know if Anna had been here. Of course, I told him she had delivered the money.”
“Did he ask you any more?”
“No, and I didn’t tell him anything. Of course, I don’t know anything, either. Anna said she would maybe come by to see me before she leaves Paris; that is all I know.”
“Bon. I’ll be leaving for Paris in a day or two. Elise, if you see Anna again…” he paused.
“Oui?”
“Don’t mention anything about me to her.”
“Oui, c’est fait. A tout de suite, Lobo.” There was no reason for Elise to consider his request unusual. After all, Anna didn’t know him.
When Charles-Christian finally returned to the Ajaccio, Jacques and Diamanté were working together in the kitchen, speaking loudly and rapidly in the Corsican dialect. Wondering what they were discussing, he removed his coat and scarf, hung them on a coat rack, then took a bench seat by the bar and lit a cigarette. As on the previous day, the assembly of old men had gathered to play cards at the table in the rear. Probably boules players in nice weather,” he thought. The big, brown café dog lumbered over and plopped himself down for a snooze beneath his table. Narbon was nowhere in sight.
From behind the bar where she was polishing glassware, Martine spotted Jacques’ son.
“Would you like something to drink?” she inquired, winking at him in a slightly flirtatious manner. She wore a brightly colored, tight-fitting, ginger-red sweater and snug blue jeans with black leather boots just as she had the day before.
“A bottle of rosé, s’il vous plaît, Mademoiselle.”
The young woman frowned at him. The provençaux only drank rosé wines in the summer. It was the middle of the winter. “It will only make you colder,” she warned wagging a finger at him.
“It is not as cold here as it is in Paris,” he replied, a crooked, cheerless smile on his face. “I have not had a good rosé since the last time I was in Provence.”
“Very well, then. We’ll pretend the mistral isn’t blowing, that the leaves are on the plane trees and the flowers are in bloom, that the tourists are gathered at the outdoor café, laughing and drinking pastis, that the square is shimmering in heat and the fountain is bubbling,” she said wistfully, cheerfully, her back to him as she disappeared through a doorway behind the bar. In a minute she returned from the wine cellar and produced the desired bottle. “Voilà, pour Monsieur, a perfectly chilled vin rosé, dry, fruity in flavor, product of Provence.” She popped the cork and poured a taste into a slightly canted glass and handed it to him.
He held the glass by the stem, checked the wine’s reddish pink color, appreciated its aroma, tasted it, swirling it in his mouth before swallowing, and finally nodded his head in approval. It was a ritual he knew well. As the sommelier for his father’s restaurant in Rouen, he had performed it many times.
“Merci, Mademoiselle.”
“To the sun!” She smiled at the thought of the warm weather and bright blue skies that would be returning after the mistral had blown itself out.
“Martine. Vite!” Jacques was calling her from the kitchen.
“End of reverie. I am needed tout de suite. Bye-bye.” She winked and was gone.
The doctor took another sip of the wine. He opened his medical case and pulled out all the letters from Anna, spreading them on the table in front of him in chronological order as if they were playing cards. He hesitated. Were they better left unopened? No, he decided, He would read them all. He next pulled out her book. Then he would read that, too. On a sudden impulse, he fished his cell phone from his jacket pocket and called Monique and Georges’ number in Paris. The housekeeper answered.
“Monsieur et Madame Durocher?” she responded. “They are presently out, Monsieur. I don’t expect them back until later.”
Charles-Christian inquired if the woman staying with them was available.
“Non, Monsieur. Mademoiselle Ellis has departed.”
Would she take a message for Mademoiselle Ellis, he inquired.
Well, she could take a message, but she couldn’t deliver it.
He extinguished his cigarette in the ashtray. Why was that, he asked.
“Because Mademoiselle Ellis has left,” the woman repeated, a bit out of patience. Then she clarified that the young lady had bid au revoir to Madame et Monsieur this morning.
Déjà vu. Anna was gone again. Just like before. He sighed.
He left his name and cell phone number and requested, nevertheless, that Monique return his call as soon as possible. He slowly placed the cell phone on the table beside him, lit another Gauloise, and picked up the last of the letters. It was written in blue ink in Anna’s finely formed cursive and dated November 1987. “Mon amour,” it began, “the leaves of the liquid amber trees are turning yellow here in California. The way the leaves swing to and fro in the breeze reminds me of the chestnuts in Paris…and of you.”
Anna’s C-C looked at her novel sitting in front of him. He picked it up. For ten years she had been gone from his life. Had she really wanted to find him again? He took out his pack of cigarettes and shook another one forward. As he pulled it out of the pack and put it in his mouth, the d
og under the table raised its head, put one paw over C-C’s foot, and gently nudged his knee with his big, brown nose. Remembering Anna’s objections to his smoking the evening under the Eiffel Tower, C-C took the unlit cigarette out of his mouth. He studied it at length. The dog watched him intently.
“You’re both right,” he said as he tossed the whole pack of cigarettes into the trash can by the bar.
CHAPTER 50
It was after New Year’s when Monique finally returned C-C’s call.
“Anna has announced her fiançailles, her engagement,” she told him in a cool, unfeeling voice. “Don’t attempt to contact her again.”
CHAPTER 51
Southern France, Eight Months Later
Anna steered the rental car, a Peugeot with no air conditioning, from N202 right onto the D614. The hot, dry provençal wind blowing through the open windows smelled of lavender and herbs. Beside her on the seat rested Nathalie’s tin biscuit box. On top was the letter from Guy de Noailles, which she had received at the beginning of August. She had reread it several times, enough so she knew it by heart. In her mind, she went over it again.
Dear Anna,
I am writing to you from Castagniers. It is the month of August, and I decided to have Jean-Paul drive me to the South. Maria and Puccini have gone to Italy to visit her family. Jean-Paul will join her there, then come back to drive me home to Obernai at the end of August.
How are you, and how is Mark? I see that your next book has been introduced in France. Félicitations!
Now, the good news from Castagniers. It is with great pleasure that I report to you that Diamanté has returned to his restaurant. I was quite astonished to find out that he had been here for some time and had not informed me, but I forgive him. He has been busy falling in love. Yes, in love. The old “con.” Elise has moved here from Paris, and she and Diamanté are planning to be married the third Sunday of the month. Too old for that, I tell them, but they insist that they are good for each other. She calls him “Lobo” (Portuguese for “wolf”). And, I might add, she has given a wonderfully feminine touch to the restaurant.