by Kathi Koll
Don and I had been invited to a dinner party in Cap d’Antibes, France. It was unusual for Don to say yes to venturing very far from St. Tropez, but he thought it sounded fun and said, “Go ahead and accept.” The day of the dinner threatened rain, and Don’s mood soured at the idea of driving to Cap d’Antibes in bad weather. “Get us out of it,” he said.
I said, “Don, if you had said this to me a few days ago, I could have come up with an excuse, but it’s too late now. We can’t be rude and cancel the day of. Let’s just leave early and make an adventure of it.”
We had bought a new Porsche that summer in Stuttgart, Germany, which we had tucked away in the St. Tropez garage to be shipped back to the States at the end of our vacation. We didn’t use it much, especially with the reputation of crime in Southern France. On this particular morning, our houseguests had our rental car, so we thought it would be fun to put a few miles on the almost empty odometer driving along the Côte d’Azur in our silver turbocharged Porsche.
As we packed the car with our dinner clothes, Don was still complaining about leaving until I said, “Come on, Don. You always say, ‘You can’t worry about things you can’t change.’ We’re committed; let’s just have fun.”
“OK, but don’t talk me into this again,” he said gruffly. “Next time they come to us.”
Off we went, waving to the staff as we drove up the cobblestone driveway from Le Patio. Once out the front gates, we followed the winding road lined with pink oleanders, each French home we passed more charming than the next. We passed through the guard gate, waved to our friendly neighborhood guard, and we were off. I always marveled at how Don could maneuver the narrow streets of the old town of St. Tropez. The village was within minutes of our house and always our exit route, no matter how much traffic there was or what direction we were really going. We just had to drive through the town. We passed the first place I stayed at in 1976 with my brother Don, the Hotel Le Yaca, and the Sénéquier where Don spent countless hours as I combed the local shops with friends. We passed the boats, each one larger than the next, and street artists we were on a first name basis with.
Once out of town, our adventure began. As we drove through the forest towards the highway, the sky opened up, and it began to pour. Don pulled over in front of a roadside convenience store. “Let’s go in and wait for the storm to pass.” We weren’t there for very long when he said under his breath, “Let’s go.”
“Why?” I countered. “It’s still pouring out there.” He motioned towards a man in the corner who I had also noticed. He seemed to be staring at us, and we agreed there was something unsettling about him. We got absolutely soaked just running the short distance to our car. We drove off, but it was raining so hard we couldn’t see five feet in front of us, so Don pulled over under an overpass where we stayed close to an hour. We didn’t dwell on the guy in the store, but we agreed how creepy it was that he seemed to watch our every move while talking on a mobile phone. Don was always very aware of his surroundings after taking a kidnapping avoidance class while officing in Mexico City, and he felt that the whole situation seemed unnerving. I was inclined to agree.
The clouds parted, and we were enjoying the bright, sunny Côte d’Azur as we sped along the highway. I couldn’t help but secretly feel like I was Grace Kelly and he was Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief. Don, handsome and tanned, me feeling the breeze off the sea and through my hair. We were creating new memories and a history together rich with meaning and happiness. Don made me feel as if my life with him was like living in a movie, a dream, an adventure unlike any other. Like two little kids always raring to go, living life with a zest unmatched. I didn’t think it was possible to be so happy or so in love.
It was approaching noon when we reached Villefranche-sur-Mer, a charming historic seaport village on the Mediterranean Sea. Don had his favorite restaurant on the port where we took time to savor our déjeuner, notre vin, et l’atmosphere. Next to St. Tropez, Villefranche is my favorite village in Southern France. The old part along the water has a beautiful bay perfect for idling the day away at lunch while watching magnificent boats with anchors dropped and passersby diving into the refreshing water of the Med before a hike along the shore or a walk into town. The cobblestone streets and narrow passageways are rich with history dating back hundreds of years.
After lunch, we had time to kill before arriving at our friends’ home, and I suggested we check out Institut de Français, a total-immersion French school I had been contemplating applying to. The school was located high above the village on the side of the hill, with an incredible view overlooking charming rooftops and the sea. We rang the bell and were immediately welcomed with enthusiasm by the secretary in the front office. She gave us a wonderful tour, but as we were about to leave, it took a rather strange turn. “Where did you park your car? You should be very careful around here. The summer months are full of gypsies looking for unsuspecting tourists. Always be aware of your surroundings.”
Don and Kathi in Villefranche-sur-Mer
We meandered down the winding street from the school, actually taking a wrong turn and ending up at the seaport again. Without a care in the world and no timeframe, we both laughed and agreed that there was no better adventure in the world than finding our way through villages of France. Within minutes we were back on track on the lower Corniche with its narrow two-lane road hugging the hillside above the Sea. Don pulled over at a small lookout point and said, “Jump out. Let’s get a good photo of the town.” There was only enough room for one car, and the space between my door and the small cliff wall was only a couple of feet. I left my door open and stood looking at the magical view below. Don quickly got out and was standing next to me. “Take a picture,” he said.
I was looking through the lens of the camera, waiting for the clouds to part for that perfect awe-inspiring photo when I heard Don yelling words I’d never heard him say. He was screaming, swearing—his voice was strong with incredible confidence, but in those few seconds I was completely confused about what in the world was happening. I looked towards the car, and there in my seat was Don. I leaned in and realized there was a stranger in the driver’s seat.
Don was hunched over the stick shift, pulling up on the brake with one hand and striking this stranger with the other with all his might. He had his head in the guy’s ribcage and was trying to poke at his eyes with his index and middle finger. Neither of us would have done what we did if we had stopped to think, but instinct and adrenaline drove us into action. Seconds seemed to move in slow motion, and I can still remember each one clearly. I dove on top of Don as he continued to struggle. Up went the hand brake by Don; down went the brake by the intruder. The car was screaming. The robber mistakenly put the car into third gear, which resulted in jerky leaps and bounds rather than smoothly racing off as was his intention. My face was within inches of the guy. He had dark skin, wraparound sunglasses, and was, much to my surprise, rather handsome. (How in the world did I notice that?) “Leave us alone,” I yelled. “Leave us alone!” The car took a leap, and I was thrown out onto the pavement. I got up and immediately jumped back into the fray. The three of us were now committed, and there was no turning back. I’m going to be killed, but I’ve got to help Don, I thought through the panic. The car continued screaming as it was over-revved again and again.
Again I was face-to-face with this wretched man. Once more I yelled. I screamed, but his conviction was not lost on our aggressive self-defense. He can’t win, I kept thinking. He can’t hurt us. This isn’t happening.
My small Elph Canon camera was still dangling from my wrist, and without a bit of hesitation, I raised my hand and as quickly and as hard as possible I swung the metal camera towards him. I made contact. A direct hit to his face. His glasses shattering into a thousand pieces, head turning left and right as he arched his back, knuckles tightening on the steering wheel as they turned white. I started to back away when the car took another leap, but this time my tee shirt caught the side of th
e door, which grabbed me as the car jumped ahead. I was flung into the air and came down through the glass and hit the top of the door so hard I felt my breath get knocked out of me. I landed in a pile of glass with my head snug against the door; I saw blood smudged along the side of the car. I thought it must be my blood, but I felt OK. If the car was put into reverse, I would be run over, dragged, and killed. I was completely vulnerable and curled into a fetal position. Helpless.
The car took off. The door slammed shut with Don inside. I attempted to get up, each movement cutting me more and more. People appeared from all directions and were trying to comfort me. They could only speak a few furtive words of English. “Kidnap,” I yelled. “Kidnap!” Between Don’s kidnap avoidance lessons, the strange man in the convenience store, and the harrowing experience I was having, my initial thought was that he had been kidnapped. The car was completely out of view, and I stood there thinking how fast everything had happened, how I had found the love of my life and how suddenly he was gone. I kept thinking about how much I loved him and he was gone. What was happening? Strangers were telling me to sit down and directed me to a small wall where we had been standing, with a five-hundred-foot drop to the sea. Another woman grabbed me by my shirt and said, “No, she’s in shock. She can’t sit here; she will fall.”
The ambulance and police arrived. People were crying. One man said in his best but broken English, “I wanted to help, but I didn’t know who the bad guy was.” I noticed that there were no more cars coming towards us. My heart sank. I knew the only thing that could have happened was that they had gone off the cliff.
Later, Don told me he had grabbed the steering wheel and turned the car into the oncoming traffic. He knew it was his only chance of survival. The car stopped, and the guy jumped out. He started to run, but turned and tried to pull my beach bag from the back seat. It was a struggle for him because the front seat was locked into position and there wasn’t enough room to squeeze the bag through the small opening. I had no idea the bag was there. Don had had a funny feeling we would be robbed that summer, so he took my jewelry from our safe and brought it with us in this little canvas bag. Don leaned over, pulled back his arm and then let go with a hard right hook right into the guy’s jaw—possibly breaking it. He went flying. When he picked himself up off the ground, he hopped into a blue Mercedes, which had apparently been trailing us. Our little Porsche sat in the middle of the road looking quite abused and barely drivable, but some onlookers came to Don’s aid.
In the distance, through my tears I could make out three figures walking in the middle of the road towards this little crowd of people trying to help me. It was Don. He had a woman on either side walking with him. Their arms were holding him up as he emotionally took one look at me, and noticing the blood on my shirt, started to cry. We fell into one another’s arms with relief and shock.
The medics wanted to take me to the hospital, but Don looked me over and said, “Come on, Kathi, they’re superficial wounds. You’re OK, and if we go to the hospital, we’ll be there all day.” Once again, Don was the eternal optimist, and we were on to another adventure without ever looking back.
We thought we escaped everything with the carjacking, but a week later things changed. It started out as a day like all the rest. Don and I jumped into the speedboat we rented each summer and headed for town where he liked to sit at a little cafe sipping his coffee and watching the morning activity of the port. I usually sat with him for a few minutes then walked around the village looking in the windows of all the charming little shops. By 10:00 AM, we would scurry back to the house and grab our things before heading to the beach, which Don always expected us to do by boat. He loved driving the boat; it was an exact model of the one he had at home in Newport. As soon as we passed through the speed control area, he would put the throttles forward and speed over the waves. “I have the need for speed,” he’d say, quoting his favorite expression from Top Gun. We’d fly over the waves, passing sailboats and leaving everyone in our wake.
But that day, the young man who helped with the boat said there was something wrong with its engine, and he’d have to take the boat to the mechanic. While we were getting ready, he said Mario, the chef, had asked him for a quick ride to a beach cove because he was taking the day off. When he did, he noticed a strange noise and thought it best we didn’t take the boat out into the open sea until it could be checked.
Pascal, the guardian of the house, said he’d give us a ride by car to the beach and pick us up when we were ready. I can’t for the life of me remember why we didn’t just drive ourselves, but we took him up on it.
As we were leaving, I noticed that the maid Anna was cleaning behind the books on the shelf outside our room. I passingly thought, That’s strange; most of the time one has to ask a maid to be so thorough. She was new this summer and seemed out of place. She was from Poland—tall, beautiful, more like a model than a maid. I didn’t have a good feeling about her, though; her demeanor was strange. When she casually asked if we knew anything about a painting hanging in the bedroom, I thought it was a weird question. It was hard to put my finger on my feelings, but I felt uncomfortable around her.
After our usual day of swimming, beach, and lunch at Le Club 55, we were ready to go home. Pascal was in the parking lot waiting for us. All the way home, he talked about all the work he had done in the garden, and when we got home, he insisted on showing us the lawn down the hill he had mowed. Why was he making such a big deal about where he mowed the lawn? I wondered.
The house was void of the usual afternoon activity since the staff had the day off. A couple of them returned, but went to their rooms. It was actually a nice respite. I sometimes thought of our July visit to Le Patio like a summer stock play. All the drama of so many personalities, the month of bonding with everyone and then POOF—the “play” quickly comes to a close at the end of July. Not to reopen until the following summer.
While I puttered around the quiet house, Don sat in his usual after-beach spot on the patio overlooking the Med, snacking on peanuts and a Diet Coke while reading a book and watching the boats speeding back to the port from the beaches. We were invited to dinner that evening at our friends’ Heidi and Alberto’s home, and Don decided to take a nap while I started getting ready.
I walked in and said, “Why are there papers all over the floor?”
“The shutters were left open, and a wind must have come in.” Don was not nearly as concerned as I was.
I thought something looked different when I opened the closet, but couldn’t place my finger on it for a moment. “The safe is gone,” I gasped.
“What do you mean?” he said, jumping out of bed and passing me in the little vestibule, looking at the missing spot in my closet where the safe had been. He got on a chair and looked above the doorframe into a small crevice. “Son of bitch—the money’s gone.”
“What do you mean?” I had no idea what he was talking about. “What money?”
“I’ve hidden cash here all these years,” he said, “to pay the staff for incidentals and tips.”
Mario and Pascal appeared at our doorway with a look of horror on their faces. They held our American flag, which they found on the ground at the foot of the steps to the dock. We were upset over the robbery, but also fearful of what the symbol of our flag being torn down meant. The first year we rented the house, we had asked our neighbors if they felt comfortable with us flying an American flag at an old lookout tower on the property lined up across the bay from the ancient fort in town, and no one had any complaints. The flag had served two purposes: to display patriotism to our country and to let everyone know we were back in town. Seeing our flag in pieces brought tears to both of us. One day, we were awakened early in the morning with music of “The Star-Spangled Banner” blaring. Don and I jumped out of bed and stood on the little porch outside our room in our white terry cloth robes, witnessing a US naval ship passing by. All hands on deck saluting the flag. Now we were staring at that very same belo
ved flag in tatters.
The police were called and arrived quickly. They began questioning the household over and over again. I listened intently and learned a few things I had not known. The maid from the previous year was still Pascal’s girlfriend and had two brothers who had recently been released from jail for robbery. Anna, the Polish maid, also had a boyfriend just released from jail for robbery. What a wonderful group we were dealing with. Of course when questioned, everyone had an alibi. The chef was at the beach. The maid was let off early. The boat captain was with the boat at the mechanic’s. Pascal was outside mowing the lawn.
I telephoned our friends to beg off dinner, but Heidi said, “You have to come. Everyone wants to see you and Don to try to cheer you up. You can’t just stay home and be sad.” It was rather sweet to hear coming from a household of Europeans. We had made true friends during our summers, and they wanted to embrace us—and of course hear all the gossip. We finally got there and did end up at having a nice evening.
The next morning, a friend from New York called. He had heard the story. As a matter of fact, the story was spreading like wildfire with great exaggeration with respect to the value of the jewels. The numbers became so exaggerated that Don considered hiring a bodyguard for us or guard dogs for the house. I, the girl in shorts and tee shirts, now had the ridiculous reputation of having a jewelry collection fit for royalty. Everyone was talking about things I never owned, couldn’t afford, and if I did, would not be stupid enough to bring on a summer vacation. The story took on a life of its own.
The last ten days of our vacation were completely wrapped up with solving the mystery of the robbery and carjacking. We went to the police station with Laetilia, owner of Le Yaca Hotel, who had become a good friend and volunteered to help with translation. Don was certain it was an inside job. The police immediately took Pascal to the police station, where they put him in jail, but after three days, they didn’t feel they had enough evidence to keep him any longer.