She did not greet him, but immediately addressed Alphonse.
“You heard?” she asked.
“Heard what, Louise?”
She leaned over the counter towards the baker. “Blown up. That caravan. The one that’s been on Bernard’s field.”
Paul remembered who Bernard was—the alcoholic pig-farmer, whose pigs, themselves said to be drunk, had famously broken out of their enclosure and disturbed a Bastille Day picnic in a village garden.
The baker let out a whistle. “Where Bleu’s been staying? Blown up?”
“Destroyed. The police have come in from Montmorillon. Almost nothing left. All blown up.”
The baker lowered his voice. “Anybody hurt? Bleu?”
The woman shook her head. “They were out. They came back to find it. They say he’s disappeared. And her too. That…” She looked over her shoulder at Paul, watching her language in the presence of a stranger.
“These people have their feuds,” she whispered to the baker. “If you cross one of them, they never forget it, and they set fire to your barn. That happened down at Albert’s place—remember? They argued with him about something or other and set fire to his stable. It’s what they do.”
Paul, having paid for the croissants, thanked the baker and left. His heart was racing. This was no accident—he was sure of that. He paused outside, uncertain as to whether to go directly home or to visit the scene of the crime. For that, he thought, was what it was—a crime—and it had been perpetrated, beyond any doubt, he felt, by Chloe and Marc. And possibly by Claude, too, the helpless lover in thrall to a dominant mastermind. The thought appalled him. You did not blow up other people’s caravans, no matter the provocation, no matter how much you felt they deserved to be blown up. How dare Chloe? How dare she? And he could be implicated because he was living under her roof. If she were to be arrested, then he would be taken in too—the police were never going to discriminate between an innocent cousin and a criminal plotter. For a moment he imagined a shoot-out, with the police, in those black uniforms of theirs, sniping at the house before storming it. Les flics were tough and would not hesitate to use force. Was Chloe armed? The possibility had not occurred to him before, but now it did.
A police car shot past him in the street. It was heading in the direction of the pig farm, and he did not follow it, but turned back towards the house.
* * *
—
Chloe was in the courtyard when he returned. Marc was with her, dressed in a tight-fitting black T-shirt that accentuated his muscular build. He was loading a small suitcase into the back seat as Paul appeared.
“I’m taking our guest back,” said Chloe brightly when she saw Paul. “He cannot stay for breakfast.”
“A train,” Marc grunted. “Poitiers.”
Paul glanced at him and then looked back at Chloe. “There’s been an explosion,” he said.
Chloe put her hand to her mouth. It was an exaggerated, unconvincing piece of acting, thought Paul. It was almost risible. “No!” she exclaimed. “An explosion!”
Marc shrugged. “Gas cylinders,” he said. “Caravans have gas cylinders. They’re always exploding.”
Paul stared at him. “Why would you think it’s a caravan?” He thought: How elementary. How absolutely elementary.
Chloe spoke quickly. “We need to leave for the station. I’ll be back late morning, Paul.” She paused. “I know—I’ll come for lunch at the restaurant. You’ll be working there, won’t you, darling? We can have a nice little chat.”
Paul said nothing. Chloe and Marc got into the car, slammed their doors, and set off. Chloe took a hand off the wheel briefly to give Paul a wave, and then they were gone. Escaping, thought Paul.
He went inside. Annabelle and Thérèse had arrived while he was at the baker. They received the croissants with expressions of appreciation, and put them into the oven to warm. Audette was in her dressing gown at the table, smoking a cigarette. Aramis was in his basket, apparently sound asleep.
“You’ve heard the news,” Thérèse said. “Bang! The whole thing went up.”
“Bleu was very lucky,” Annabelle said. “They say that he and that woman were off with his people somewhere—a wedding, I believe.”
“Those people are always getting married,” said Thérèse.
Annabelle nodded. “Yes, they are. Anyway, they were extremely lucky they weren’t there.”
Audette had not said anything. Now she said, “Pity.”
Paul glared at her. “Pity what?” he snapped. “That they weren’t there? Is that what you’re saying?”
Audette drew on her cigarette. “Why would I say that? No, I meant it’s a pity their caravan’s been blown up. They’ve had a narrow escape.” She smiled up at Paul. “See?”
Aramis awoke, and was immediately picked up by Thérèse. “He needs his bottle.”
Annabelle said, “Poor Audette is finding it difficult to feed him.”
This information was for Paul, and he acknowledged it with a glance at Audette, who shrugged. “Sore,” she said.
Annabelle took the croissants out of the oven and placed them on plates. Paul sat down at the table.
“Well,” said Annabelle. “What a start to the day.”
Paul’s mobile gave its characteristic, intrusive ping. He fished it out of his pocket and switched it on. There was a message from Gloria.
Snap decision. They want to send somebody to scout it all out. Not in the bag yet, but initial sounds are very positive. I think this is going ahead. We’re on our way, Paul. Love, Gloria. xx
* * *
—
Claude had left Hugo in charge in the kitchen, and was concentrating on the customers. In the kitchen, Hugo showed Paul what he had prepared. “This,” he said. “See this. And this. How about that? Smell this. Yes, go on.”
“Wonderful,” said Paul. “They’re going to love this.” He paused. “And Uncle out there?”
“He told me to get on with it. He’s going into town to meet his friends. They were in the army together. They drink beer.”
“They’ll be happy,” said Paul.
Hugo frowned. “I suppose so.”
“Are you all right?” asked Paul. “Do you need any help?”
“Maybe this evening.”
“I’ll be here,” said Paul. “And there’s good news. That television show I told you about.”
Hugo grinned. “I can go and have a shower. Smarten myself up.”
“Unnecessary,” said Paul. “This is fly-on-the-wall stuff. Now, can you give me that table near the window? I’d like to have lunch with my cousin.”
“Of course.”
* * *
—
“Oh dear, Paul,” said Chloe. “I can see that you’re upset about something. Tell me, darling. Tell Chloe.”
Paul closed his eyes briefly. He would not be distracted by feminine wiles. She could flutter her eyelids as much as she wanted, and act the ingénue, but he would not be distracted. He opened his eyes. “Chloe, did you and that friend of yours…”
“Marc?”
“Yes, Marc. Did you and Marc blow up Bleu’s caravan?”
He had expected a florid, expressive denial. He had expected injured innocence and reproach at the very thought. But what came was quite different.
“We thought about it,” she said.
Paul gasped. “You mean to tell me that you planned to blow up a caravan? Is that what you’re saying?”
Chloe was calm. “Keep your voice down, Paul. You don’t want to enliven people’s lunch with lurid accusations! Heavens no!”
“Well, did you?” Paul hissed.
“No, we did not. We had decided not to do anything quite that dramatic. Marc was going to get the message across rather differently.”
Paul frowned
. “With violence?”
“Not necessarily. Sometimes the prospect of violence—the threat—is more effective than actual force.” She spoke as if she were furnishing an explanation of simple physics. “So, Marc had a word with this Bleu in town yesterday evening—earlier on, well before the explosion. He made the situation quite clear. Bleu was to leave the neighbourhood. People like that—like Bleu—understand that message. Whether or not he would have complied, who knows? But when he came back to find the caravan in pieces, I think he put two and two together.”
Paul shook his head in disbelief. “Chloe, who exactly is your friend Marc?”
She replied without hesitation. “French security. A specialised branch of it. The French are—how can one put it?—robust about these things.”
For a few moments Paul was silent. At a nearby table, a middle-aged couple scrutinised the menu in silence. Then Paul asked, “Chloe, who exactly are you?”
“Your cousin, Paul. You know that.”
“Mrs. Pangloss? Amongst other identities, perhaps.”
Chloe studied him in silence. “All right,” she said at last. “That’s one of them.”
“Are you a…a criminal?”
He saw that Chloe’s reaction to this was unfeigned. “A criminal?” Her voice was full of reproach. “A criminal, Paul? Is that what you think?”
“Well, you don’t give me much of an alternative.”
She shook her head. “Oh, Paul, what a conclusion to reach. No, darling, I am not a criminal. I am a helper.”
“Whose helper?”
“The authorities. I shouldn’t have to spell it out. And I’m not meant to, anyway. But for years my career has been—on an on-and-off basis—with British intelligence services, with occasional bits of work for our American friends. And the French. We’re all meant to be on the same side, Paul. A bit of a bourgeois club, I suppose, but there we are. You make do with what you get in life.”
He searched for words, but found none.
“Marc and I have worked together in the past. He’s a very persuasive man, you see, and so I thought he was just the fellow to sort out this awkward Bleu customer. And he was. But by complete coincidence—and I mean this, Paul—by complete coincidence on the evening that he had a word with Bleu, their wretched caravan blew up. Convenient, of course, because it underlined the message to Bleu, and these people understand that sort of thing. So he’s away, and Audette will hear no more about the custody of le petit Aramis. That name, Paul. Aramis!”
“It’s the perfume,” said Paul. “She told me.”
“How priceless,” said Chloe. She looked at Paul—fondly. “All forgiven?”
He struggled with his feelings. What had Chloe done? She had resorted to threats and force to achieve what was probably the right result—and yet, and yet…means and ends: it was the same debate, endlessly rehearsed, endlessly unended. As a boy he had participated in a school debate: Does the end justify the means? He was fifteen, and it was all new to him then; but it was very old, he realised, and it would get older yet. Audette was, in her very particular way, awful, but she was not as awful as Bleu. Aramis would be better off with her than with his father, and he would have Annabelle and Thérèse to help him through life. They clearly loved him, and they had no children of their own, what with their unfaithful and model-railway-obsessed husbands.
And then there was Claude, who would no doubt enjoy his dalliance with Chloe and would probably be hurt when it came to an end, as it most certainly would. But he wanted a change, and a change is what he would get. Which left Hugo, who was going to be left to get on with the thing that he seemed to love above all else.
Paul sighed. “I suppose everything’s worked out for the best.”
“The best of all possible worlds,” said Chloe. “Now, who said that, Paul?”
“Voltaire. Candide’s companion, Dr….”
“Of course. Of course.”
Paul looked at her. This, he thought, was the moment when he would know whether she was telling the truth. “Was there a Dr. Pangloss? I mean, a real Pangloss, who lived somewhere near here? Somebody said something, you see—I think it was Annabelle or Thérèse. They said there had been…”
He stopped. Chloe was shaking her head.
“I have no idea,” she said. “Absolutely none. Perhaps there was. Somebody must be called Pangloss.”
He watched her. He watched her eyes.
She said, “Don’t you believe me, Paul?”
Paul hesitated.
Chloe stared at him reproachfully. “You must, you know.” And then, “I’ve never lied to you, Paul. Never. I told you, didn’t I? I was joking about being Mrs. Pangloss. That joke had nothing to do with my false passport—or, shall I say, my passport of convenience. That was work. All officially approved.”
Wine arrived and Paul poured each of them a glass. “White Burgundy,” said Paul as he lifted his glass. He saw Chloe through the wine, a shifting form, blurred. “Let’s not talk about it any more. Fini.”
Chloe raised her glass. “How lovely. You know, this restaurant seems to be improving.”
He told her about the imminent arrival of the television producer. “Nothing’s decided yet, but somebody’s coming to scout it out. I gather they like the idea of doing a programme about a restaurant that is made into something special.”
“From being pretty awful?”
“Yes. Although…” Paul sounded tentative. “Although, do you think this place was really that bad? Even when Claude was through there in the kitchen?”
Chloe took a sip of the wine. “They called it the second-worst restaurant in France—as you know. I thought that was a bit unkind. Possibly the third- or fourth-worst might have been more fitting.”
Paul savoured the description. He was not sure. “The fourth-worst restaurant in France? I’m not convinced that has the right cachet.”
“You think if you’re going to be bad, be really bad?”
“Perhaps.”
“Yes,” said Chloe. “I think you’re right.”
“For the purposes of the programme—if they make it—they’ll need to show it as it was. They’ll need to get Claude back—and show some of his creations. That green onion soup, for instance.”
“The toxic mussels.”
Paul shuddered. “Don’t talk about those.”
“So, you think they really will make the programme?” asked Chloe.
“I don’t see why not. It’s a good story, isn’t it? People like a rags-to-riches tale. They love to see things turned around. You may have seen some of those programmes where they give people a makeover. They sort out their hair and their apartments and so on. They make their life better. Or different, should one say. It’s not always clear that things are better afterwards.”
“How perfectly wonderful,” said Chloe. “Do you think there might be a part for me in this film? Just a tiny part? Comme ça.” She held up a tiny gap between thumb and forefinger.
“No,” said Paul. “I don’t.”
“Oh well,” said Chloe. “I just thought I’d ask.”
“No harm in asking,” said Paul, and reached across the table and took her hand.
“Dear Chloe,” he said. “You know that we used to call you Remarkable Cousin Chloe.”
She smiled. “Did you really? Well, well.”
“It was a compliment, you know. We admired you.”
“Well, that’s good to know.”
“Of course, we had no idea that you…that you did the things you do. This career of yours…”
“Oh, that,” said Chloe. “It was largely part-time. And I was always on the right side.”
“Of course. The right side.”
Her expression was serious. “Oh, there is a right side, Paul. Don’t ever be mistaken about that. The right side is the side
that, by and large, is kind to people. I know that sounds terribly simple—childish, even. But it’s ultimately the only test. There are kind countries and there are unkind countries. There are countries that hold people down, and those that don’t. Kindness, Paul, operates at every level of our lives—up there at state level, and down there, amongst ordinary people doing ordinary things.”
“And freedom?” asked Paul.
“Oh, that’s part of it, too. As a general rule, making other people happy is one of the few things we can do with utter certainty that what we’re doing is the right thing. And I think we have happy outcomes to our little sojourn in France, wouldn’t you say?”
Paul said that he thought Chloe was right.
“And now,” said Chloe, “you have these people who want to make a film about the restaurant and its fate. Will that be a film with a happy ending, do you think?”
“Yes,” said Paul. “I’m certain of it.”
“Then, good. I’m glad.” Chloe looked thoughtful. “And Gloria? What about her?”
“She remains a friend. A colleague too.”
Chloe stared at him. “Do you love her?”
Paul looked out of the window. How does one find the answer to that question? he asked himself. How do you?
“Remember one thing,” said Chloe. “The human heart has many chambers.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Paul.
“Exactly what I said,” replied Chloe. And then she added, “Be kind to her, Paul.”
Paul sat quite still.
“Did you hear what I said?” asked Chloe.
“Yes,” he said. “I did.”
* * *
—
The following morning Paul went to the market with Hugo. The young man had a long list of things he intended to buy, and they moved from stall to stall, examining produce, talking to the stallholders, and sampling wares. When they had everything they needed, they sat down at a table of the café near the church and ordered two cafés au lait.
Hugo was keen to talk about the menus he had planned. “I’ve found this book,” he said. “It’s a reprint of a book of recipes by a chef who wasn’t very well known except in this area. But he had a real following round here.”
The Second-Worst Restaurant in France Page 22