Amuse Bouche (9 page)

By 9:30 1 was beginning to worry. No one even close to Tom's description had come out of the hotel. This was not good. I waited another half an hour, emptied my third cup of coffee and decided to pay the front desk a little visit.

This time it was an older lady. Brigitte, who greeted me. I smiled and jumped into my best French. "I'm waiting for my friend," I told her.

"Mr. Chavell in room twelve. Have you seen him this morning? He hasn't checked out has 94

Anthony Bidulka

he?" I crossed my fingers.

She looked down into the book. "No, no, he is still here." She looked over my shoulder and eyed a girl who was arranging a massive heap of dried flowers on a shelf near the entrance to the restaurant. French people are so lovely. She would never have considered screaming out, "Hey, whatsyourname, come over here for a sec!" Subtle eye contact was enough.

The young woman, the same one from last night, came over and smiled at me. Again with those killer split shifts. I learned her name was Sylvie. "Yes, monsieur?"

The older lady described what I was asking in hurried French she probably reserved for fellow countrymen. Who knows what she really said? I kept on smiling. I didn't want to make a big deal out of this. I just hoped Sylvie didn't wonder how I now knew what room my

"friend" was in. I explained I had been waiting for him in front of the hotel all morning but never saw him come out. Certainly he wouldn't still be asleep?

"Yes., your friend," she said, flashing those blues at me. "1 don't know, but he may have gone out the back door. It leads to the parking lot. Perhaps he drove to Loriol for breakfast.

Some people prefer a big breakfast. We don't have big breakfast here. Only cafe and bread
95

Amuse Bouche

with chocolate. Some toast, marmalade..."

Back door! What back door? "Do you know what car he was driving? Are you sure he hasn't checked out?" I tried to keep the desperation out of my voice.

She cocked her head and looked at me quizzically. "Why would your friend check out without telling you?" Smart girl. I'd have to be more careful around her.

I laughed light-heartedly, or I hoped it sounded that way. I gave the women a jaunty, carefree wave and headed to the rear of the hotel. Indeed, off die tiny sitting room I'd seen the night before was an even tinier outdoor patio with a gate that led directly into the parking lot. There were now several cars, all much smaller than mine, in the lot. It was like a collection of sardines and one big old tuna.

I had no way of knowing which car, if any, belonged to Tom or whether it was missing or not.

Back to room twelve.

The ear against the door trick still told me nothing. Okay, I thought, enough of this.

Chavell never said I should sneak up on Tom, just that I should find him and ask him a few questions. And maybe bring him home? Time for the direct approach. I knocked on the door.

Nothing.

96

Anthony Bidulka

Again.

Nothing.

I figured a wee bit of sneaking around might be useful at this juncture. I pulled my precious lock picks out of my jacket pocket. If nothing else, maybe I could find something in his room that would tell me where he was headed next, just in case we should happen to miss each other again. Not that I wasn't confident I was going to nail him right here in Cliousclat, but it's always advisable to have a Plan B. 1 might even luck out and find a diary or journal that would explain his actions (it's important for Pis to have active imaginations).

As I expected, the lock on the hotel room door was fairly simple and I heard the satisfying click in record time. Possibly a personal best.

Glancing about to ensure I was alone I slowly turned the doorknob and pushed forward.

Thud!

I stepped back, speechless.

The chain was on the door.

Someone was inside the room!

My cheeks began to burn. This had never happened to me before. I blurted out the first stupid thing that came to mind.

"Housekeeping!"

Not only was it a stupid thing to do, but 1

inexplicably said it in my version of an old Amuse Bouche

Frenchwoman speaking English!

What was I thinking?

I quickly pulled the door closed and ran away. I felt like a ten-year-old playing the doorbell game. Ring it and then dash away before the door opens. Growing up on a farm, I didn't have much chance to play this game as a kid. I was obviously making up for it now. I locked myself in my room and fell on my bed. Without reason I started to laugh as I tried to catch my breath. Nothing was funny—I was just having a little nervous breakdown.

After I'd composed myself and mentally wrote on a blackboard "Never break into a room that you don't know for a fact is empty"

one hundred times, I found a piece of paper and wrote Tom Osborn a note.

To Tom Osborn—Room 12

My name is Russell Quant. 1 would like to meet
with you on a matter of some importance.

Would some time today be possible?

Russell Quant, Room 6

I had concluded that if Tom was already on to me he would know exactly what I wanted to meet about. If he wasn't on to me, I didn't want to scare him off by mentioning Chavell's name.

I couldn't be sure if he was purposefully trying 98

Anthony Bidulka

to avoid me or if he simply hadn't answered my knock on his door because he was in the shower.

After delivering the note to the front desk I decided to heal my battered wits by taking a stroll around town. I wished I had a camera.

Everywhere I looked was a postcard. The town rests on top of a hill, vineyards to the north, sunflower fields to the south, the distinctive scent of each mingled in the air. Each ancient building, covered with the mildew and dust of many long years - some good, some not so good - revealed its own unique charm.

Generations of families have lived in these buildings, worked in them, raised children in them and died in them. I could feel history emanating from these stone edifices.

Cliousclat is a renowned artists' retreat.

Painters, sculptors, potters and musicians gather here. Some set up shop. Others come simply for the inspiration of sight, sound and smell. As I walked the crumbling streets I could believe in mystical elves and fairy godmothers. I could believe this was a medieval village, and on the other side of the hill, atop a beautiful mountain was a castle with a king and queen and perhaps a dragon. It is a magical place. Magical, but not Amuse Bouche

big. I was done my in-depth tour in under forty minutes and still had nervous energy to burn. I checked in at the front desk on the off chance Tom had responded to my note. He hadn't. I wandered back outside to the rear of the hotel and took advantage of a now near-empty parking lot to retrieve my car. I headed for Loriol and guiltily ended up at a McDonald's featur-ing "international" burgers. There isn't much to see in Loriol. It lacks the charm of smaller villages and the amenities of a larger centre, so after patriotically feasting on a McCanada burger, I returned to Cliousclat. Hoping Brigitte couldn't smell the back bacon and cheddar on my breath, I asked for any messages. She pulled a lone sheet of paper from my mail slot. Hooray!

I asked her if I could order a glass of wine to have in the front courtyard. She pulled a jug of red from under the counter and poured while I waited. The glories of a small country inn. I stepped back outdoors with my wine and selected a seat partially shaded by a Cinzano umbrella. I took a healthy sip of the local vintage. Even wine from a jug kept under a desk was remarkable in France. I unfolded the note.

100

Anthony Bidulka

Dear Mr, Quant,

1 will meet you at 8:00 p.m. tonight at the war
memorial near the east end of town.

Tom Osborn

The content of the note was about as vague as mine had been.

No mention of Chavell or any indication he knew who 1 was or what I wanted. I thought about this as I sipped the vin de table. A mischievous thought crossed my mind. Was it possible Tom believed my note to be an invitation for a data, a passionate French rendezvous?

Perhaps Mr. Osborn was not beyond having a clandestine encounter while he waited for his Prince Charming to track him down? I blushed and ordered another glass of wine. I would never act on such an invitation, even if it was proffered, but with a few hours ahead of me until the meeting with my quarry, it couldn't hurt to entertain the idea in my mind—for recreational purposes only. So I sat back with my imagination and welcomed the afternoon sunshine on my face as the aroma of crushed grapes being harvested only metres away played in my nose.

101

Amuse Bouche

I couldn't maintain a surveillance of the parking lot, the back door, room twelve and the front entrance of the hotel all at once but I tried my best. I'm. sure Brigette and Sylvie thought me strange as I ricocheted from one location to another. I was hoping to at least catch a glimpse of Tom before our meeting, but no such luck. At 6:00 p.m. I retired to the little restaurant and ordered a simple and inexpensive meal from Sylvie. The main course was something called a
marmite.
I think it was fish. I know it was delicious. I ended off with a
bombe
of ice cream for dessert.

At 8:00 p.m. I was waiting for Tom at the arranged meeting place,
le Monument aux Marts.

The only light came from a forty-watt-spotlight focused on the four-sided war memorial. The monument was dedicated to townsfolk who had lost their lives during World War I, World War II and the Algerian War.

By 8:15 it was dark and Tom had still not turned up. Then the sound of shuffling feet. My stomach contracted. I felt a bit nervous to finally be meeting the man I had chased across the ocean and halfway through France. I called out lightly,
"Bonjour?"

"Bonsoir,"
came back the reply. But it was a woman's voice. Actually it sounded very much like my chambermaid impression from earlier 102

Anthony Bidulka

in the day.

From the darkness emerged a stooped elderly woman. She must have been eighty but her hair was jet-black and her dark, liquid eyes danced in the meagre light. She came up to me and thrust a crumpled piece of paper into my chest with surprising force. "Mr. Quant, this is for you," she said in thickly accented French.

"I've been asked to deliver this note." With that she turned on her heel and began to move away into the shadows.

I called out to the retreating woman in English, "Where did you get this?" Nothing. I tried again in French.

"The man!" she shouted without looking back.

"What man?"

"The man." There was to be no further conversation. Her figure melted into darkness and was gone,

1 opened the note, moving closer to the memorial stone where the light was marginally better. What I read made me swear. I even did it in French. I was being stood up. The note was from Tom, telling mc that something had come up and he had to leave right away. It went on to ask if I would meet him in Sanary-sur-Mer on Monday night. He gave the name of what I guessed was a bar or cafe. That was it.

103

Amuse Bouche

"Mr. Chavell?" I shouted into the receiver.

Actually the connection was quite good but something about overseas phone calls always makes me want to shout.

"Mr. Quant. I received your message. Thank you. Any more news?"

"Well, actually I was kind of hoping
you
might have heard from Tom."

"No. Unfortunately."

I explained to him what happened earlier with the no-show at the war memorial and the request to meet in Sanary-sur-Mer. "I was hoping you were the 'something' that came up. I can't think of what else it might be. Any ideas?"

Chavell was quiet for a moment, as if processing the new information. "You're right. This is very odd. As far as I'm aware Tom has no contacts in France, business, friends or otherwise...

unless..."

"Yes?"

"Unless of course he's met someone."

I knew what Chavell was thinking. I had considered the same thing. Had Tom met another man? Was Tom on his honeymoon with someone other than his intended husband?

Ouch! "I've seen no indication of that, Mr.

Chavell." I was trying for compassion.

He sighed as if in resignation. "Call me Harold."

104

Anthony Bidulka

"Russell." We were making nice. I wasn't sure if I was ready for that but 1 couldn't very well continue having him call me Mr. Quant if he was Harold.

"I don't know if I can help you. I can't think of what he could be doing or why he cancelled your meeting."

"Okay, that's okay, Harold," I quickly said. I needed to give this guy some hope.
"1
just wanted to fill you in. I'm right behind him and I know where he's headed. I'll find out what's going on," I assured him sounding more confident than I really was.

"Yes. That's good."

"One more thing before you go," 1 said.

"After Cliousclat, I noticed the itinerary is a little sparse." I was hoping for another opportunity to run into Tom before our meeting in Sanary.

Two days was a long time to wait.

"Yes, 1 know. We were going to wing it until we reached Sanary. This time of year finding adequate accommodation as you go isn't much of a problem. Actually that was Tom's idea. He wanted to be a little venturesome. I prefer making all reservations before leaving home. I feel more comfortable that way."

So what he was telling me was that between now and Monday, Tom was pretty much a Canadian needle in a French haystack. From his 105

Amuse Bouche

voice I could tell he knew it. "I'll call you from Sanary," I told him.

'Talk to you then."

I sat back on my bed and pulled out my map of France.

Where the hell was Sanary-sur-Mer?

ANYONE'S GUESS WAS AS GOOD AS MINE w a s as to where Tom. Osborn was going to be for the next two days. According to my map, Sanary-SurMer was a town on the southern coast of France.