by Nell Goddin
“Well, sure, but like I said, there’s not much in the larder. Will a salad be enough? I have some eggs I could hard-boil to give it a little more substance. And I can throw in some sardines too, if you like. So tell me how it went in Thiviers? Did you get any damning evidence? Is the client happy?”
“It was a curious case,” said Ben, sliding onto a stool at the counter and watching Molly assemble their salad. Then he hopped up to pour them glasses of rosé. “The owner of the shop, who hired us, was suspicious that the man doing the accounting for the business had been embezzling. So I went through the accounts all the way back to 2003. Laborious work, especially considering I had to study up on accounting beforehand. Not exactly an expert as you know, but the owner had heard good things about us so she was willing to give me a shot.
“Well, that decision made more sense once I was there for a few days and could get the lay of the land. Turns out there was probably no embezzling, and the owner was perfectly well aware of this. But she and the accountant had had a brief affair, the accountant had ended it when he took up with a younger woman, and the owner was hurt and wanted revenge.”
Molly chopped some fresh herbs to sprinkle over the salad and shook her head. “But how was she going to get any revenge if he didn’t actually do anything wrong?”
“I suppose just the word getting out that he was being investigated might be damaging? It’s a business that depends largely on reputation, after all.”
Molly blew out some air, still shaking her head. “People are strange, aren’t they? What happened to dealing with heartbreak by just eating a quart of ice cream or drinking-and-dialing?”
“The what?”
“Oh, you know. You get cheated on or broken up with, you’re at home feeling sorry for yourself and drinking too much, and you decide calling up the person who broke your heart is a good idea.”
“Which it never is.”
“Right. Here you are,” she said, pushing a plate in front of him. “Well, I’m glad you’re home. I missed you!”
Ben smiled and dug into his salad. “I hope you’re going to tell me we have some more work lined up? Anything?”
“Nope. Nothing. I was hoping you had some leads.”
Ben shook his head. They sat in silence for a few minutes, eating but in an un-French manner not paying any attention to what they were putting in their mouths, as they considered the dreary prospect of their private investigation business going belly-up before it had a chance to get started.
“Something will come along,” Ben said finally.
“I just…I’m worried you won’t…”
“Be able to make a living here in Castillac?” He shrugged. “I’m not worried about that. Not yet. I’ve lived here all my life, remember. If our business doesn’t make it, someone will give me work. I can always go back to Rémy’s.”
Molly said nothing. After Ben had quit the gendarmerie, he had worked on his friend Rémy’s organic farm for some months. No one involved had thought it was a success.
“It’s a little weird to be hoping someone does something bad, so we can try to catch them,” she said finally.
“I would like to do something bad right now. With you,” answered Ben, with a twinkle in his eye.
“Right in the middle of lunch?”
Ben stood up and took Molly’s hand, pulling her toward the bedroom. “Lunch can wait. I want to show you how much I missed you.”
They broke into a run, laughing all the way.
9
The next day Coulon waited longer to go to the mairie. He wasn’t sure whether his suspicions were the result of actual wrong-doing. Josette might be upset about something at home, or simply not have been feeling well, but over the last week he had noticed a change, and he wanted to stick around and keep an eye on her, if only for an hour or so.
Josette arrived at the usual time, dressed in her usual jeans and T-shirt. She greeted him cheerfully and went straight upstairs to the guest room to change into her La Perla. The mayor was always tempted to try to find a way to peek in on that process, but he had restrained himself, leading to no small amount of self-congratulation. He helped himself to another croissant, having walked over to fetch them at Pâtisserie Bujold that morning, and spread it with a generous spoonful of strawberry jam. After gobbling that up and finishing his coffee, he waited for Josette in the foyer, wondering what in the world could be taking her so long. The elections for city council were right around the corner and he didn’t have time for nonsense.
“Josette!” he called up the stairs. “I’d like you to come down, please!”
He could hear the drawer of the bureau close and he smiled to himself, thinking she had spent the last half hour contemplating her finery and feeling extremely grateful to him.
“There you are!” he exclaimed, as she came trotting down the curving staircase. “It just occurred to me—is your farm outside the commune limits? I’m afraid you won’t be able to vote in the elections.”
“I…I haven’t ever voted for anything,” said Josette, slowing to a walk, her hand lingering on the bannister.
“What? Don’t ever say such words to a politician, chérie! What blasphemy!” he chuckled, pleased with the idea of himself as gracious and quick with a suitable pleasantry. His eyes flicked over to Josette, who had chosen a pair of ice-blue pantalettes with a slit up almost to her hip, and a matching bra that was unfortunately rather modest.
“I wanted to have a word with you before leaving. I’ve noticed lately…well, you seem…you seem rather pre-occupied, I suppose that’s it. I’m wondering if there is anything wrong, anything you’d like to talk to me about? I have been quite pleased with your work, and if there is anything…”
Josette blushed and looked at the floor.
Charming, thought Coulon.
“It’s my mother,” said Josette. “She’s always after me to ask for a raise. And I…it makes me uncomfortable, like you say.”
“What kind of raise do you—or your mother,” he added with a snicker, “have in mind?”
“Oh, I couldn’t say,” said Josette. She looked up at him with wide eyes. He didn’t know, she thought. For a minute there, I thought he did know, somehow. But now I think he doesn’t. Whew.
“Would an extra ten euros a week please you?” he said, as though offering her a chest of jewels.
“Oh yes, monsieur,” said Josette, dipping that curtsy her mother had so carefully taught her. Ten measly euros, she thought, nearly rolling her eyes.
“Maxime, please. Call me Maxime.”
“Thank you, Maxime,” Josette said softly. Well, she would take the whole ten euros and add it every week to her stash in the henhouse. She had decided to save for a trip to America, and any little bit helped.
“All right, then,” said Coulon awkwardly. He desperately wanted to take the girl in his arms and carry her up the stairs to his bedroom, and the force of his desire made polite conversation difficult. Finally he mumbled an awkward goodbye and went out, leaving Josette to her Tuesday duties.
It was nearly ten in the morning, and rue Malbec was empty save for a young mother pushing a baby carriage and a stray dog Coulon kept seeing around. He hurried to the mairie, anxious to find out anything he could about the state of the upcoming election.
The system for municipal elections was straightforward enough. The council had twenty-seven seats, evenly divided between men and women, based on the size of the commune Castillac belonged to. The citizens voted for council members in two rounds with proportional representation, and then the council members elected a mayor from their number. So if Coulon was to be mayor a third time, he would have to be reelected to the council, and then that group would have to reelect him to the top job. He thought he had the second part of that sewn up pretty well, having dispensed plenty of favors to the right people over the course of his two terms. The commune vote was a trickier business, since it involved around six thousand people, far more voters than he had favors. He seemed
to be well-liked, as far as he could tell. In his daily walks around the village, he usually met with smiles and people did seem genuinely glad to see him.
But Coulon knew as well as anyone how fickle people could be. Sure, they had supported him for the last twelve years, but that was no guarantee at all. A few good-looking charmers find their way in, and that could spell the end of his mayoral career. He was usually more confident, but he had heard some gossip about a new candidate that disturbed him a great deal. He reached the steps of the mairie and stood for a moment gazing at the stately building, a nineteenth century edifice that conferred a sort of grandeur on all who worked there, Coulon had always believed. Clamping his teeth together, he strode in, trying to push away the image of Odile taunting him if he were no longer mayor. I must not lose, he said fiercely to himself. Above all, I must not lose.
“Annette!” he said, kissing the receptionist on both cheeks after coming inside.
“Maxime, I’ve been looking for you,” Annette said. “I don’t know if you’ve heard,” she said, lowering her voice, “but André Lebeau has officially entered the race. You just missed him; he came in this morning to file the forms.”
“Merde,” said Coulon under his breath. “Did he…how did he seem? I mean, just generally.”
Annette shrugged. “I don’t want to say it, but he is…he is an impressive man, Maxime. Physically, I mean.” Annette looked as though she might need a drink of water.
“All right, yes, he is well-built. That is not a crazy, never before seen occurrence, yes? And I will add that muscles are not part of the job requirement for civil service.”
“And he’s tall, quite tall. Imposing, you might say.”
“I believe we do most of our council work sitting down, so I don’t see how that will be of advantage to him. Too bad he is not running for a position on a basketball team.”
Annette heard the bitterness in the mayor’s joke and did not smile. Coulon took a deep breath and pulled himself together. “Thank you, Annette, I appreciate the heads-up.” He stalked into his office and closed the door.
Just when everything was finally starting to come together, he thought. If I lose, it will be years of work down the drain! I bet Odile urged André to run against me, just to humiliate me. Well, she’ll see. I’ll beat her pretty boy, and anyone else who tries to push me out. I didn’t get to be mayor for almost twelve years because I don’t know how to fight.
His words were strong but he slumped in his chair, staring at the door instead of getting a start on the pile of papers on his desk. He opened a drawer and reached in for a handful of Haribo gummy worms, and chewed on one thoughtfully as he worked out how to fatally maim André LeBeau—politically speaking—as quickly as possible.
* * *
Once Monsieur Barbeau had died and was no longer around to torment his family, life in the Barbeau household improved rather dramatically. Madame Barbeau and her children suffered no beatings, and did not have to tiptoe around, fearful that any sound would set him off in another unpredictable rage that would end up being taken out on them.
But growing up in such a violent home, the children failed to learn the most basic lessons of trust. Though their mother had been a victim of Monsieur Barbeau as well—even the primary one—after his death she did not prove capable of trying to heal her family with warmth and loving kindness. She was a different sort of mother, more interested in how her children could be used for her own ends now that she was free to indulge her ambitions. Unfortunately for Josette and Julien, these ambitions did not include happiness for them, though it could generously be thought that Madame Barbeau assumed they were happy enough and she needn’t worry about them. For herself, she wanted more, and better—ideally, some way to escape the farm and the backbreaking work necessary to run it. Julien was helpful enough, and more or less dutiful; he tried to relieve his mother of the chores she could no longer accomplish because of her arthritis.
But still, even if the children somehow managed to do all of the work—the ambitious woman was stuck in a dreary, cramped house way out in the country, far from the village where she had grown up and still considered, in the way that a childish perspective is slow to erode, to be the center of all that was sophisticated and glamorous. Josette and Julien's stubborn refusal to open up and relate the details about what was going on beyond the farm was making her crazy.
“Josette!” she said, letting a cast iron pot of beef stew drop to the dining table with a loud thump. “I’ve been doing some thinking. You have been working for the mayor for years now. Obviously he is happy with you or he would have gotten rid of you long before now. I do congratulate myself for having raised you with a good work ethic so I am confident you are not slacking off. So where is the raise? You did ask him?”
“Well, I—”
“You wouldn’t be holding out on me, would you? Taking the money for yourself, after all I have done for you? I’ve made peace with your ignorance, out of necessity, but I never thought you were devious on top of it. And think for a moment, daughter, where you would be without me?”
“A lot happier?” muttered Julien softly enough that only Josette could hear. Josette giggled and put her hand over her mouth.
“I’m not joking,” said Madame Barbeau, ladling out the stew into three shallow bowls. “I have a mind to call the mayor and have a few words with him myself.”
“Please don’t do that, Maman!” said Josette. “You’ll make me look like a child. I promise to talk to him, I’ve just…um…I’ve just been too shy to ask for more money. It’s embarrassing, you can understand that, right?”
“No,” said Madame Barbeau. “I don’t see what could possibly be embarrassing about asking for what you are worth. That man depends on you, and there’s an election right around the corner. He might bring people home for meetings, or want to entertain. He may want you to stay late helping him with these kinds of things. If he had any sense, he would be using that grand house to his advantage, instead of treating it as though it were nothing more than a cheap apartment not worth showing to anyone.
“I hope you have had the sense to make yourself indispensable, and if so, I congratulate you for that,” their mother continued. “It’s too bad the experience of practically living right in the center of the village is wasted on you. You’d probably be happier in a pig pen.”
“There’s nothing wrong with liking the country,” said Josette.
“Oh, sure. Nothing at all,” sneered her mother.
“I’ve been wondering about getting a different breed of chick next time,” said Julien, bringing up something to divert Madame Barbeau’s attention from his sister.
“Fool,” said Madame Barbeau. “Why would you even suggest such a thing? Do you not sell out of the meat nearly every single market day? Josette, how are the layers doing?”
“Fine, Maman,” said Josette, helping herself to more stew, having cleaned her bowl.
“And hold it right there. I plan to have this stew for my lunch the rest of the week, and you don’t need any extra padding. If you get too fat, the mayor will replace you in the blink of an eye, I can tell you that right now.”
“He…he said he likes…”
“Mon Dieu, speak up!”
“He said he likes girls with some meat on their bones.”
“Excellent. A man who talks of women as though they are cattle at the auction. Delightful.” She pushed herself back from the table, her appetite diminished.
Julien winked at Josette, who choked down a snicker. Her habit of privacy was so strong that she never shared with her brother what had happened between her and the mayor, or how well her campaign to lure him into marriage was going. They both finished second helpings and then began clearing the table, while Madame Barbeau smoked a cigarette and stared at the floor, the corners of her mouth turned down.
After the kitchen was cleaned up, the siblings separated without a word, each going to the place where they kept their private stash. Josette cluck
ed to the hens and talked to them while she reached up to the rafters and took down the small bag stuffed with money that she thought of as her whole future. This moment, every evening, when she was alone in the henhouse, was the only time she felt almost happy. It was time to find a better place to keep it, now that it was such a big pile, she thought with pleasure, imagining herself climbing the long stairway up to an enormous jet that would take her to the bright and brilliant shores of America, far away from the intrusive clutches of Maman.
10
By three-thirty, Coulon had had enough of the office. The workers kept talking about André, and when Coulon went into his office and shut the door, just knowing they were out there still talking was making him crazy. So with a falsely cheerful wave he said his goodbyes, inventing a story about something pressing he needed to do at home, even though if he had left without a word no one would have given it a thought.
On the short walk home, he daydreamed about Josette’s staying to have dinner with him. Her brother was sometimes late; maybe today he wouldn’t show up at all and they could have a nice, intimate dinner together, and then he could gallantly drive her home. Or even invite her to spend the night.
Coulon paused at his front steps, considering what to do for the rest of the afternoon. Since he had told his co-workers he needed to get home, it would hardly do to wander about the streets, and in any case, he wouldn’t mind another sighting of Josette in her ice-blue La Perla. Instead of going in the front way, he walked down the block to stretch his legs, then around and down the alley, wanting to get a screwdriver from the workshop in the backyard so he could tighten a wobbly hinge on a kitchen cabinet.
His father had been a great one for spending hours and hours in the workshop, fiddling around with one thing or another. He had never invited Maxime to join him, or taught his son any of the prodigious mechanical skills he had developed over the years. The workshop, with its tiny windows and concrete floor, was a place Maxime had been excluded from during his formative years, and all these decades later, he entered the building tentatively, as though his father were going to rise from the dead and bark at him to leave at once.