Amuse Bouche (8 page)

"Bonjour," I said to her. Same woman as last night. They must work killer split shifts.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Quant. Did you have a wonderful rest?"

"Yes, absolutely."

"And the restaurant. Did you enjoy your meal?"

"It was fantastic." Aside from the early morning tanning session, I was a pretty happy guy. "I wonder if you could help me?"

"I will try, Mr. Quant." She still had that pleasant singsong quality to her voice. It probably irritated her husband all to hell.

"A good friend of mine is arriving today and I was wondering if perhaps you knew what time he was expected."

She looked a little uncertain but didn't shut me down. "What is your friend's name, Mr.

Quant?"

I guessed Tom Osborn would have checked in under Chavell's name. "Harold Chavell," I told her.

"Ah, yes, Mr. Quant." This sounded hopeful.

"Mr. Chavell left very early this morning."

Pardon? I didn't say anything at first, going over the translation in my head to make sure I'd
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gotten it right. "He left?"

"Qui."

"This morning?"

"Out."

"Mr. Harold Chavell?"

"Qui."

I was grateful the woman showed no out-ward signs of being impatient with me. "Is there anything else I can help you with this morning?"

"I'm a little confused," I told her. I'm sure she'd already figured that one out. "My information says Mr. Chavell was not to arrive at Domaine Des Hauts until today."

"Yes, that is correct."

Okay. Something was not working between this woman and I. "But he left already? Even though he wasn't supposed to arrive until today?" This was not easy to put into French.

She laughed.
"\
see the problem now. You're wondering why he has already checked out?"

Bingo!
"Out!"

"Mr. Chavell called to change his reservation to yesterday, rather than today. He was fortunate, as you were Mr. Quant, that we were able to accommodate him on such short notice. The tourist season is nearly over, you see. We can do such things easier this time of year."

Fortunate? I did not feel fortunate. Tom Amuse Bouche

Osborn had been right under my nose and I'd missed him.

What was worse, he was no longer following the itinerary.

84

OVER BREAKFAST OF RAVEN DARK COFFEE and soft breads oozing butter and slathered with chunky jam, I studied the itinerary yet again. I was irked to have missed Tom Osborn and by such a narrow margin. I was also more than a little worried about his deviation from the itinerary. He had come to Domains des Hauls a full day earlier than planned. What did that mean? Was he playing some kind of game? Was he trying to make Chavell work for his prize? Would he abandon the itinerary altogether? I hoped not. It was my only chance of finding him. All I could do now was choose a spot and try to get there before he did. From the itinerary I knew Chavell and Tom had planned to eventually drive east from the Loire Valley into the Rh6ne Valley and head south after that. I studied the map and chose a place called Cliousclat They had a reservation in the small town's hotel for the day after tomorrow. If I drove hard, I could make it before nightfall. My only worn' was, would that be a sufficient leapfrog to catch up to my prey?

After breakfast, to hedge my bet, I sweet-talked the concierge into calling the hotel in Cliousclat to confirm a booking for Chavell. She proved to be helpful. By the time I returned to 85

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the foyer with my luggage, she had not only confirmed that Chavell's reservation remained unchanged but booked a room for me as well.

Never underestimate the power of sweet-talk, straight white teeth and full lips. 1 can be a shameless flirt when I want to.

1 noticed a marked difference as I crossed France from the Loire Valley into the Rhone.

While the Loire appeared dry and lifeless and the river sluggish, the Rhone was rich and green and the river flowed with vigour. Not that I saw much of either, travelling almost exclusively on the autoroute, which allowed me speed in excess of one-hundred-and-forty kilometres an hour. And still cars passed me. 1 stopped only once, around noon, for a quick sandwich. The weather had greatly improved and most of the day was warm and cloudless. Road signs were plentiful and helpful. As long as 1 knew approx-imately what direction I was heading and the names of towns near my destination I could almost navigate without a map.

Almost.

My car was pointed up and chugging into the hills outside of Loriol, a modern town on the verge of becoming a city. I was on a steep, winding road that became narrower with each pass-86

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ing kilometre. I'm sure the view of the valley I was leaving far below would have been pictur-esque in daylight but it was now darker than pitch and my headlights, the only illumination, were having a hard time slicing through the black of night. I had been on the near-vertical road for such a long time I was certain I'd passed through a layer of clouds. The whole scene was beginning to feel too spooky for my liking. Here I was, in the middle of a foreign country, in the middle of the night (well pretty late anyway), driving a rental car and chasing after a stranger to some little hamlet, both of which didn't seem to want to be found.

I considered going back. I could get a room in Loriol and try again in the morning. But the road had gotten so narrow there was barely enough surface to keep my car on, never mind turn around. There wasn't even a decent ditch.

Cliff to the right of me, mountain to the left. I began to contemplate what I would do if I met another car on the road. There was no way two vehicles could pass. I decelerated until it seemed the car was barely moving forward. My sweaty palms tightened around the steering wheel and I could feel a knot develop between my shoulder blades. I continued in that state of discomfort until, thank you stars above, I saw a cheery sign welcoming me to Cliousclat.

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Entering the village was like entering someone's farmyard. After a minute or two you've seen it all. Yet difficult as it had been to get there, I sensed I had stumbled upon a special place. A place where you could easily believe time had stopped centuries ago. Not unlike the drive up, there was only enough clearance in the street for one vehicle. Unfortunately, the vehicle the street builders had in mind was something more like a horse and buggy or a big bicycle, not an oversized, fat-ass Mercedes that stuck out like a Tonka truck on a street made for Hot Wheels. Finding my hotel, La Treille Muscate, was not difficult and I was grateful to see a parking lot sign. I had to get my monstrosity off the street. Even foot traffic could not get by me—people had to duck into doorways and side alleys to make room as I chugged by at the speed of cold molasses. I made the right turn and immediately felt the entire chassis lurch forward and down. The postage-stamp-sized parking lot was built on the steep side of a hill and as I slid into it I wondered if I'd ever get out again. Mercifully, my brakes did their bit and I was able to stop before I hit anything. After claiming a quarter of the lot's space as my own I retrieved my luggage from the trunk. It was dark, it was late and I was buzz-eyed from driving all day. At that point, if I'd had to desert my
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car in that lot forever, so be it.

My suitcase weighed me down like an

anchor as I hoisted it up the slope of the parking lot back to street level. Where's a Sherpa when you need one? I followed a crackled sidewalk along the rough stone walls of the hotel. I came around a corner and still twenty metres away from the entrance I stopped, dropped my bags and fell in love. Paris was Paris, but this was France. As a young man, when I'd dreamt about what France might be like, long before I'd visited Paris for the first time, it wasn't about scaling the Eiffel Tower or visiting the Louvre—it was this. Cliousdat is what I'd imagined France would be. It's what I wanted it to be.

The rumpled street was dim, lit by the occasional torch or bare bulb, as if electricity had only recently been discovered. I saw shades of apricot and tangerine, scarlet and magenta—the colours of fall, harvest and romance. The buildings were flagstone, none higher than three storeys, and squeezed together like an accordion. They leaned into the street—the threat of falling over already centuries old. Grapevines, thick arid gnarled and heavy with fruit, covered entire walls. From somewhere hidden down a winding pathway came the sound of singing and two
petanque
balls striking one another. At the front of the hotel were half a dozen round Amuse Bouche

bistro tables. A man and a woman, spectacular-looking in the ambient amber light, lounged at one of the tables, drinking wine, laughing and probably falling in love. The air was soft and fra-grant as it massaged my skin.

I floated the rest of the distance into the lobby, which was nothing more than a tiny porch with a desk. No one was behind the counter and I looked for a bell to ring. Nope. I was glad. The sound would be too jarring in this gracious atmosphere. Leaving my bag behind, I poked my nose into a small sitting room off the porch.

Empty. Stepping back I noticed a low clearance entranceway opposite the desk that led two steps down into the hotel's eating area. Given the late hour, the kitchen was likely closed, but 1 decided to take a look anyway. And there, around a heavy wooden table, sat a group of four people who were likely the restaurant staff, relaxing with a litre or two of local vintage after a hard night's work. Or maybe they were just waiting for the laughing couple outside to finally leave. A blonde young woman sluggishly got up and gave me a friendly bonsoir as she brushed past me and headed to the desk. She was petite but curvy and had cornflower blue eyes.

"I'm Russell Quant," I told her. "The concierge at Domaine des Hauts made a reservation for me?" I asked it like a question 90

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because I guessed this hotel didn't have a particularly sophisticated booking system and worried I might not be on the list. I certainly didn't want to have to get my car out of that parking lot and drive back down that snaking road.

"Yes," she said after consulting a dog-eared, spiral notebook lying on the desk. She handed me a key with yet another monstrous fob.

"Chambre six."

Yes! "Can you tell me if my friend, Harold Chavell, still has a reservation for the day after tomorrow?" I didn't want another rude surprise tomorrow morning.

She repeated the name and referred back to the book. She looked up at me with a sweet face.

"Nan."

What? Not again! But I had checked, through the concierge, only this morning! "He has cancelled his reservation?" I asked, trying to keep my cool.

"Yes," she said, "because he is already here."

Again I questioned my understanding of the French language. "He is in the hotel right now?"

"Yes. I'm sure he is sleeping. It's very late, monsieur." Was she scolding me?

"That's good. Very good. Could you tell me what room he is in?"

"Absolutely not, monsieur. That is private."

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Suddenly this small town gal had Ritz-Carlton training.

"But he's a good friend of mine and I'd like to visit him."

"As I said, I'm sure he is sleeping at this late hour. Perhaps you could visit him in the morning? Have breakfast together?"

I could see she was not going to budge and I was too tired to try flirting. On the wall behind her was an old-fashioned mail slot system, one slot for every room. There were only twelve rooms in the hotel. How hard could it be to figure out which one Tom Osborn was in? I thanked her and took my belongings up yet another nasty set of stairs to the second floor and room six.

After sprinkling cold water on my face I plunked down on the bed and pushed buttons on the telephone until I finally succeeded getting a line to Canada. It was 4:00 p.m. in Saskatoon. I first tried for Harold Chavell at his office. A receptionist told me he was away for the day and offered to take a message. Instead I dialled his home number and reached his answering machine. I left a short message, updating him on my progress to date, such as it was. At least he'd know that Tom was indeed
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honeymooning without him. True, this was not the cheeriest news, but it was news.

I set my alarm for 3:00 a.m. and tried to get some sleep. I woke up ten minutes before it rang. Jet lag is a bitch.

Sneaking down the staircase in pure dark I began to wonder if any staff actually spent the night here. There wasn't even a nightlight or illuminated exit sign to aid my progress in the unfamiliar surroundings. The complete silence almost hurt my ears. I cautiously made my way to the front desk and with the help of a dozen or so matches found the registration book I'd seen the young woman use earlier. It didn't take me long to find out that Tom, registered under Chavell's name, was in room twelve. It was so easy I was a little crestfallen. Now what?

Shouldn't I have to hide under the desk to avoid a security guard or something exhilarating like that? Not this time. I returned to bed and a good book. I finally dozed off about an hour later.

Perhaps I was overcompensating, but I was determined not to be outrun this time. It was not quite 6:00 a.m. when I found myself in the deserted hallway outside of room twelve. I couldn't very well knock. The guy was probably still sleeping. I put my ear against the door 93

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hoping to at least hear him snoring or breathing loudly. Nothing. A quiet sleeper. I headed back downstairs and took a seat at one of the outdoor tables I'd seen the night before in front of the restaurant. It was chilly but refreshing. After too few hours of sleep I needed the cold to keep me alert. A hot cup of coffee and an English newspaper would have made it perfect. But the restaurant wouldn't be open for another hour or so and I doubted I'd find a newspaper, never mind a non-French version, here in what this morning was beginning to feel like Bedrock. So I wiggled my butt into my seat, sunk my hands into my jacket pockets and made myself comfortable. From where I sat I'd see anyone coming in or out of the hotel. Tom Osborn would have to make an appearance sooner or later.