His answer had been pithy and to the point. ‘Lousy, that’s the way you look, kiddo, take my word for it.’
Later, she had looked at herself in a mirror, and had had to admit that Arch had spoken the truth. She had examined her face minutely, with objectivity, and had decided that he had actually understated the facts. She looked positively ill; her face was unusually pale, even haggard, she had dark rings, and her hair was lifeless. Much to her alarm, her eyes, always so clear and vividly blue, had seemed dull, faded almost, as if they were losing their colour, if such a thing were possible.
Nicky was well aware that cosmetics could camouflage a number of flaws for the benefit of the camera, and that she could continue to hide the tell-tale signs of fatigue with a few clever makeup tricks. But she had also recognized that afternoon that it would be foolish not to take a rest, especially since the network owed her so much time off. She had been feeling debilitated and emotionally drained, and apparently the signs were now all too evident to others.
And so she had put her mirror away and made a snap decision. The same day she had phoned Clee at his Paris office, and told him she would like to accept his offer of the farmhouse, if it was still open. He had been thrilled that she wanted to go to Provence.
‘Hey, babe, that’s great,’ he had said, his excitement echoing down the wire. ‘I’m leaving for Moscow tomorrow, to photograph Gorbachev for Paris Match, but Jean-Claude will make arrangements for you to be met in Marseille, and then driven up to the farm. All you have to do is get yourself to Marseille, either via Paris or Nice. Just let Jean-Claude know the day you’ll be arriving, and the time. I’ll call you from Moscow, to find out how you’re doing, how you’ve settled in.’
Within forty-eight hours she was zooming across the Atlantic faster than the speed of sound, a passenger on board the French Concorde, landing in Paris a short three hours and forty-five minutes later. After spending the night at the Plaza Athénée, her favourite hotel, she had taken a plane from Orly Airport to Marseille the following morning.
Jean-Claude, Clee’s office manager, had explained to her that a chauffeur from the car company they used would be waiting for her at the airport. ‘You won’t be able to miss him. He’ll be holding up a card with your name written on it in bold letters,’ Jean-Claude had said on the telephone.
True to Jean-Claude’s promise, the chauffeur had been there when she had alighted from the plane and gone to the baggage area. He had introduced himself as Etienne, and he was a pleasant, chatty and informative Provençal, who throughout the drive inland had kept her highly entertained with rather fantastic folkloric tales of the region. He had also recited more facts about Aix and Arles than she could possibly absorb at one time.
Although she spoke French well, having spent part of her youth in Paris with her globe-trotting parents, Nicky had nonetheless found the Provençal accent a bit difficult to understand at first. But relatively quickly she had realized that Etienne was adding the letter g to many words, so that bien became bieng, and so forth. Once she had got the hang of this adjustment of the French language, had attuned her ear to the rich and throaty cadence of his speech, and his rapid delivery, she had discovered she had no problems grasping everything he said.
On the way to Aix-en-Provence from Marseille, Nicky had begun to notice that the landscape was completely different from the Côte d’Azur, which was the part of southern France she knew so intimately. Her parents were Francophiles, and as a child she had been taken to many of the renowned coastal resorts by them, for annual holidays and shorter stays. In particular, her mother and father had favoured Beaulieu-sur-Mer, Cannes and Monte Carlo. And then in October of 1986 she had spent those two extraordinary weeks in Cap d’Antibes with Charles Devereaux, before he had disappeared from her life altogether. And forever.
But this area of Provence was entirely new to her and, as such, it did not hold any kind of memories, neither good nor bad.
This sudden knowledge had made her feel more at ease, and finally she had begun to relax in the air-conditioned comfort of the Mercedes, continuing to glance out of the window from time to time.
They had passed through a land of flat plains interspersed with hills and mountains. There were quaint little towns set in bucolic surroundings, and picturesque hilltop villages that looked as if they were propping up the vast unblemished blue sky. Many fields and hillsides were luxuriant with purple lavender, and dark vineyards and an abundance of cherry and fruit orchards stretched for miles. And dotting this fertile landscape intermittently were lines of crooked olive trees and stately black cypresses which stood like sentinels against the far horizon.
***
Clee’s farmhouse was in the department of Provence called the Bouches-du-Rhône, situated between the ancient university town of Aix-en-Provence and St Rémy. It was on the outskirts of a tiny village close to the lush green foothills of Lubéron, one of the great mountain ranges of Provence.
The farmhouse was larger than Nicky had expected it to be. It was sprawling yet had a certain gracefulness and was obviously quite old. It had looked beautiful in the late afternoon sunshine which glanced across its red-tiled roof and cast a warm honey-coloured glaze over the pale stone walls. Standing at the end of a long straight driveway lined with cypress trees, it was visible for the entire approach to the white front door.
When the car had finally been brought to a halt by Etienne, he had exclaimed, ‘Eh, voilà!’ and had waved one hand at the farm with a grand flourish. Then he had swung his head and smiled at her triumphantly, looking as though getting her here had been a major achievement on his part.
Clee’s housekeeper Amelia and her husband Guillaume had been waiting for her on the doorstep, and they had welcomed her enthusiastically, their smiles warm, their manner friendly.
Guillaume had then promptly whisked away her luggage—along with Etienne. The latter had apparently not needed a second invitation from Guillaume to ‘come inside the kitchen for a pastis.’
With billowing laughter and perpetual smiles, Amelia had ushered Nicky inside the farmhouse, and had insisted on showing her around before taking her upstairs to her quarters.
They had started out in the kitchen, obviously Amelia’s favourite spot in the entire house, and she was apparently proud of it.
The room was large, painted white, and had dark wood beams on the ceiling, terracotta tiles on the floor. A massive stone fireplace took up an end wall; to the side of this stood a big oven, and several marble-topped counters for baking and food preparation were set under the three windows. Placed on these were flat woven baskets brimming with local produce. One held a selection of fruit—apples, oranges, pears, plums, peaches, apricots, cherries and grapes; the other overflowed with vegetables—carrots, cabbage, potatoes, beans, artichokes and peas. Ropes of onions and garlic, and bunches of the herbs of Provence swung from a ceiling beam, and the lovely aroma of marjoram, rosemary and thyme wafted to her on the air.
A round table stood in the centre of the kitchen, covered with a red-and-white gingham cloth to match the neat little tied-back curtains at the windows, and taking pride of place on the far wall was an antique baker’s rack made of black wrought-iron trimmed with brass. It had been stacked with a variety of copper pots and pans that glittered and winked in the sunlight, while on the wall opposite a series of built-in shelves displayed colourful pottery platters, plates, soup bowls and double-sized café-au-lait cups and saucers.
The dining room opened off the kitchen, and these two rooms flowed into each other, were visually linked through the use of the same terracotta floor tiles, white-painted walls and ceiling beams.
Here there was a big, old-fashioned fireplace and hearth made of the local cream-coloured stone and stacked with logs for the winter, and a window at each end of the room filled it with light. A country feeling had been created by the long oak dining table, high-backed chairs and carved sideboard. Floating over the table was a rustic black-iron chandelier, and running down the centre of the tabl
e was a collection of brass candlesticks holding thick white candles. Huge bowls of flowers in the centre of the table and on the sideboard brought touches of vivid colour to the rather simply furnished room.
Hurrying forward, Amelia had next shown her out into the main hall, and had opened a door into a small downstairs sitting room. Highly polished cream flagstones gleamed on the floor, the walls were painted a soft butter yellow, and two sofas covered in cream linen faced each other in front of a small fireplace. Wood occasional tables were scattered around, and two tall pottery lamps with cream shades stood on antique chests on either side of the chimney. A table under the window held all the latest magazines from around the world, copies of Life and Paris Match being much in evidence, as well as Time and Newsweek.
‘Now we shall go upstairs?’ Amelia had said to her, swinging around and guiding her back to the front hall. Nicky had dutifully followed her up a white stone staircase, broad and curved, which stopped on a square landing.
On either side of this were the library and the main living room. Both were painted white, had soaring fireplaces, pale wood floors and flat woven rugs from Morocco.
The living room was decorated with French country furniture in the Provençal style, and the sofas and chairs were upholstered in cream, café-au-lait and caramel-coloured fabrics. Again, masses of flowers introduced vivid colour everywhere, and Nicky had an instant impression of air and light and spaciousness, and the most marvellous sense of tranquillity.
Across the landing, the library was lined with books and furnished with two overstuffed sofas covered in melon-coloured cotton. Clee had created an audio-visual centre in one corner, using the most up-to-date equipment: a large-screen television, video player, tape deck, compact disc player. Stereo speakers were positioned high on the bookshelves.
‘This is Monsieur Clee’s room, he likes it the best, I think,’ Amelia had informed her, nodding her head. She had then pointed her finger at the ceiling, and announced, ‘One more flight, Mademoiselle. Allons!’
The two of them had gone out onto the large landing and climbed up a narrower flight of white stone steps to the bedroom floor.
Nicky had discovered that she had her own suite under the eaves: a bathroom, a bedroom and a sitting room. The latter were quaint, and charmingly decorated, again with lots of white, cream and caramel. Several good wooden pieces were set against the walls of the sitting room and an antique armoire and a chest graced the bedroom; with only a cursory glance, she had noticed that a great deal of care had been taken, and every comfort had been provided.
‘I will bring up your cases,’ Amelia had said, after showing her around, opening the armoire doors, sliding out drawers in the chest. ‘And please, Mademoiselle Nicky, you must tell me if there is anything else you need. Monsieur Clee will be angry if I do not look after you properly.’
‘Thank you very much, Amelia,’ Nicky had answered, smiling. ‘I’m sure I have everything. And thank you for the grand tour.’
‘Ah, it is a pleasure, Mademoiselle,’ Amelia had answered with a smile, before disappearing down the stairs.
***
This conversation had taken place only four days ago, but already Nicky was beginning to feel rested. The farmhouse and the surrounding grounds had had a soothing effect on her, and she was more tranquil than she had been for a long time. She had slept better than she usually did, and had relaxed completely in this peaceful environment.
Her days were slow, lazy, without pressure, and she had done nothing more complicated than walk around the grounds and the woods close by, and swum in the pool. The fresh air and exercise, and Amelia’s delicious cooking had done her good; in the evenings she had read, listened to music or watched French television in the library, although mostly she had found herself tuning into CNN, being such a news addict.
According to Guillaume, Clee had recently installed cable to pick up the American news network. ‘For his work, you know, Mademoiselle,’ Guillaume had found it necessary to add, and she had turned away to hide the small, amused smile that had touched her lips.
Nicky shifted slightly on the chaise, reached for the citron pressé, took a long swallow, enjoying the tart taste of the lemonade.
It was the last week of June and already hot, although not yet unbearable. Amelia had told her only this morning that July and August were the worst of the summer months in this part of Provence. Blistering was the word she had used. Then Amelia had suddenly launched into a little histoire about the Mistral, the dry north wind that could blow so furiously even in the summer, bringing with it havoc. It came whistling down to the south from the Rhône Valley, and it was often the first real warning of mean weather brewing. Amelia, like most Provencaux, blamed a variety of problems and ailments on the Mistral.
‘Animals can go mad. And people,’ she had confided somewhat dolorously as she had poured Nicky a second cup of café-au-lait. ‘It causes migraine. And la grippe. And toothache. And earache. And sometimes in winter it can blow for as long as three weeks. It destroys property! Uproots trees and flings tiles off the roofs! Quel vent!’ And then with a typical Gallic shrug she had hurried off to the kitchen to refill the coffee pot and warm up more milk for Nicky.
Just as Clee had suggested she would, Nicky had fallen in love with Amelia. The housekeeper was small, stocky, and obviously a very strong woman physically, undeniably Mediterranean with blue-black hair pulled back in a bun, eyes like black olives and a nut-brown complexion. Forever laughing and smiling, and always in a high good humour, she went through the farmhouse doing her vast number of chores like a whirlwind. Or the Mistral perhaps. She cleaned and polished, washed and ironed, baked bread and cakes and tarts, prepared the most wonderful meals, and arranged the beautiful vases of flowers and the decorative baskets of fruit that were all around the house.
Like Amelia, Guillaume was a typical Provencal. He was as brown as a berry with a weather-beaten face from being outdoors, jet-black hair spreckled with grey, and kindly, humorous brown eyes. Medium in height, and very muscular, he tackled every job with the same vigour and enthusiasm as his wife.
He swept the yard, the outdoor dining terrace and the barbecue patio, cleaned the pool, kept the garden and the orchard spruce, and attended to the little vineyard. This stretched out behind the farmhouse, and covered about four or five acres. Guillaume did the spraying, the cropping and the pruning, and he and Amelia, with some local hired help, picked the grapes, kegged the wine and bottled it.
‘Some of it is sold. Some we keep for ourselves. And for Monsieur Clee, naturellement,’ he had explained to her when he had taken her around the property yesterday, pointing out many of its distinctive features.
Amelia and Guillaume had a son, Francois, who was studying at the Sorbonne in Paris, of whom they were very proud; Nicky had already heard rave notices about him from his doting mother. Their two daughters, Paulette and Marie, were married and lived in the village, and were frequently pressed into service at the farm whenever Clee had more than one guest.
When Clee had called from Moscow, on the night of her arrival, he had described Amelia and Guillaume as the salt of the earth. Now she knew exactly what he meant. They were devoted to him, took care of the farmhouse and the land as if they themselves were the owners. The house they lived in adjoined the main farmhouse and was entered through a door opening off the kitchen. It was built of the same local stone, pale beige in colour and weathered by the years, and had an identical red-tiled roof, heavy wooden shutters and doors painted gleaming white.
Both houses were visible to her from the pool area where she was sitting, and it seemed to her that they appeared to grow up out of the earth, as if they were part of the land itself. And in a sense, they were. The farm and its out-buildings were a hundred and fifty years old, so Guillaume had told her, and they did look as if they had been there forever.
Everything about the farm fascinated Nicky; she was beginning to realize how much she enjoyed being in the country, close to the lan
d. It was easy to see why Clee loved the farm, although he was not able to come here as often as he would like. During the two years she had known him, he had talked about this place occasionally, and she understood why his voice changed slightly whenever he discussed his home in Provence. It was a very special corner of peace and beauty in the troubled and turbulent world.
***
Nicky stayed outside until almost six o’clock, enjoying the changing light as the sun slowly began to sink down behind the rim of the distant dark hills. Then she took her book and glasses and walked slowly up the flagged garden path to the house.
Climbing the two staircases to her rooms under the eaves, she thought of Yoyo, as she did at some moment during every day. His whereabouts were unknown, and this was the only thing marring her stay here. She and Clee had looked hard for him in Beijing before they had left for Hong Kong. He had disappeared. But then so had most of the other student leaders. ‘Gone underground,’ Clee had said to her, and she had hoped this was really the case, that he had not been arrested.
She and the crew and Clee had hung around Hong Kong for several days, hoping he would show up, but he had not and in the end they had had no alternative but to leave.
Nicky’s only consolation was that Yoyo knew where to find them. She had given him her business card in the first week she had met him, as had Arch and Clee. She could only hope that he would be able to get himself out of China, using the money they had given him.
At one moment she had thought about writing to him at the Central Academy of Arts, but had resisted, knowing that a letter from a Western journalist could easily create untold problems for him. Who knew whether the mail was censored or not? In her opinion, it most probably was these days. And a letter from her might cost him his freedom. Or his life.
Sighing under her breath, Nicky pushed open the door to her rooms and went in, trying to set aside her worries about Yoyo. She was helpless. There was nothing she could do except pray he was still safe, and that he would find a way to escape to the West.
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