French Fried (18 page)

I held Carolyn upright while she blinked and pressed both palms to her temples, and Albertine said, “From now on, Carolyn, you should listen to me. I am the most sensible.”

“More sensible,” said Carolyn. “More for two, most for more.”

“You haven’t been drinking, have you?” I asked.

She wrinkled her nose and replied, “No matter what Albertine thinks, I am an
amazingly
sensible woman. When one has a concussion, a bit of dizziness is normal, and who wouldn’t want to ride on such a beautiful carousel?”

A professor from the Avignon university bowed to her and replied, “We in Avignon thank you, madam. We all agree that our carousel is the most irresistible to be found anywhere. If it were not for your concussion, I would be happy to accompany you on another ride.”

“Give me a few days, and we’ll do it. Oh, and Jason, I must tell you, Albertine has a brilliant idea about who is trying to kill us.”

“Someone is trying to kill you?” cried Pierre, the Avignonnais, whom I found very irritating.

Albertine had missed this interchange because she was walking her dog back on a leash, while the carousel operator, with whom the dog had been left, glared. Pierre—I couldn’t remember his last name, but who wanted to ride the carousel with Carolyn—took my wife’s other arm, and we all proceeded toward the city hall. “Look at that,” Carolyn exclaimed, “nineteenth century. Very rectangular and—ah—symmetrical, isn’t it? Twenty identical windows, five on each side on each floor. Sort of Palladian.

“Unfortunately, they tore down the livree d’Albano, the 1326 home of Cardinal Pierre Colonna, but they did leave the big square tower with the machicolations for defense.” She was peering at the tower behind the city hall. “Obviously they replaced the defensive part with the campanile and that spire with pinnacles. Can you see the clock and the figures on the little balcony? That’s all fifteenth century. The square is named for the clock.”

I dutifully looked up at the tower behind the offending town hall. Pierre, the modern professor, not the late cardinal, said, “Madam, I have fallen in love. You know the history of our beautiful city. Professor, you are a fortunate man to have a wife so lovely and so interested in things of importance.”

He was in love with my wife? I tried not to take it too seriously. Albertine remarked that Carolyn could be counted on to provide not only the history of places, but also the history of food, and Mercedes, if I heard correctly, muttered something about how boring that sounded and then asked me a question about a research problem. At that point we entered between the double-columned portico and through the rounded doors of the hall.

Albertine’s dog pranced forward to nuzzle my wife’s hand. “No, Charles de Gaulle,” ordered his mistress, and he stopped, very different behavior from his shenanigans in Italy.

“Just scratch his head or ears, Carolyn, so he knows that you like him.” Carolyn did that, and the dog shook himself with delight. “After the reception, we are going to a restaurant named L’Epicerie that Carolyn has chosen.”

“An excellent choice!” exclaimed Pierre. “May I invite myself along?” Before my wife could answer, a small pug dog with a violet ribbon around its neck, bounced toward us, dragging along Sylvie Girard, and attacked Charles de Gaulle. Albertine snarled, her dog backed up in shock taking the pug with him, and Sylvie said firmly, “
Non
, Winston Churchill.” Both dogs froze at the
“non,”
although Charles de Gaulle by then had his teeth fastened to Winston Churchill’s lavender bow, while Winston Churchill had his teeth in the fur on the poodle’s ankle and shook his head instead of letting go.

My wife, who knows nothing about canines and has never shown any desire to have one, separated the dogs. First, she shook her finger at the poodle and tugged the ribbon from his mouth, after which she said, “
Bon
—ah—what’s the French for dog?” Then she knelt by Winston Churchill and separated him from the poodle’s ankle by speaking to him gently. He immediately rolled over on his stomach and wiggled his legs. To Sylvie Carolyn said, “I’d give him a scratch, but I’m afraid Charles de Gaulle would take offense.”

“My dear dog has already taken offense,” snapped Albertine, glaring at Sylvie. “Charles was attacked.”

Sylvie shrugged. “Winnie is also in love with Carolyn, and he took offense because she was petting the ears of another dog. Tell me, Carolyn, are you going to report my dog to the police, and after I spent three days showing you around Lyon?”

“Oh, for goodness sake,” said Carolyn, who was trying to get up and couldn’t without help. “I had a concussion, I was in pain, and the inspector asked who had known I would be at Catherine’s, so I told him. I didn’t say you, or anyone else I know, attacked me. At the time, I could hardly put two words together, and my whole body is covered with scrapes and bruises. And let me give you some advice, Sylvie. I have learned over the years that if one doesn’t want to do something, one shouldn’t volunteer. You did.”

Sylvie thought that over. “True, and I wanted to go, so I apologize.”

“And I apologize—to everyone I may have mentioned to the inspector.”

“I am happy to see that we are all now reconciled,” said Jacques Laurent in his pompous way, “but I think that the mayor is about to speak.”

The mayor was and spoke at length in French while waiters passed around champagne and small snacks. At least twenty people sidled over to my wife and whispered in her ear. After each visit, she made a mark on a tablet she carries. Then she whispered to Albertine, who nodded and slipped out of the hall, upon which her husband looked worried and asked me if Carolyn needed a doctor. The chairman frowned thunderously at everyone whose eye he could catch, but at last the mayor finished, and general conversation resumed. “May I ask what is going on?” Laurent demanded.

“So many people wish to join us at L’Epicerie that Albertine called the restaurant to ask how many they can accommodate.”

“Twenty-two,” said Albertine, cell phone in hand, “but only if we are willing to sit at tables outside on the terrace.”

“Well, I’d love to go,” said Mercedes, “unless, of course you don’t want me.” There was a bit of challenge in her voice, and I gritted my teeth. How did I, a perfectly innocent party, get into these messes?

“There are three more places,” said Carolyn, and she marked across four vertical lines. “Now two.” Two people immediately spoke up and were warned by my wife that everyone had to pay his or her bill, for which I shall always be thankful.

“Catherine,” said Carolyn, spotting her in the group, “how can you ever forgive me for the things that were stolen from your apartment. I’m so sorry. Whoever pushed me downstairs and stole my purse, although I wasn’t conscious during the theft—”

“Do not worry. I am equally sad for your injuries. I should never have allowed you to go by yourself. To show you are forgiven, let me take you to Villenueve Avignon. I lived there as a child and know it well. The sights will pique your interest in history. Tomorrow, perhaps. I can get away in the morning.”

“That is so kind,” said my wife. “I’d love to see the town across the river.”

“Very good. My apartment, which was left to me by an aunt, is very close to your hotel. I will come for you at nine.”

“Has anyone noticed that peculiar exhibit?” asked Victoire Laurent. “What in the world is it supposed to be? I have always considered myself a lover of art, but
that
is most strange.”

We all turned to stare at the exhibit, where white figures, perhaps made of plastic, looked as if sheets had been thrown over their heads; some had round, black circles for eyes; at least one sported a bow tie and a top hat; and on many, long squidlike tentacles undulated from their robes. The guesses were octopus, nuns, snowmen, and, from my wife, Casper the Friendly Ghost. Evidently Casper was not a character known in France, but Carolyn had a point. They did look like the cartoon character. But why would many Caspers, some with long tentacles, be displayed in the Avignon City Hall?

Carolyn was giggling and whispered to me, “Who is that painter who does cartoon characters and exhibits in famous museums? I can’t remember his name. And I’ve never seen a cartoon
sculpture.
”

Those of us
who were going to L’Epicerie straggled out and met at the carousel. Pierre, my admirer, offered to lead us. “Of course, I know where is my church,” he said. It was a good thing he did. I doubt I’d ever have found the entrance, given the instructions I’d received from Bridget.

Albertine and her dog stayed close, and she whispered several times that I should keep alert for terrorists, as if I’d forgotten, but it was dark once we left the Place de l’Horlage and entered crooked, narrow streets with rough surfaces. Had there been a terrorist, I couldn’t have spotted him. I was lucky to get to the restaurant without falling.

At one point I found myself beside Catherine’s student, Martin. He would have moved away from me if I hadn’t caught his arm. Jason had told me about his call and his impression that I disliked homosexuals. “Martin,” I whispered, “one of the nicest men I ever met was homosexual.” I was holding on to Martin’s arm and could feel the muscles tense. “He was a Stanford graduate, a funny and delightful man, and a private detective in San Francisco. I have no prejudices against gays, and I meant nothing when I mentioned William Rufus. I didn’t know you were gay, and furthermore, I don’t care, nor do I think other people should. First, it’s none of their business, and second, it’s obviously a perfectly natural thing, given that one tenth of the population—”

“But other people do care,” he interrupted. “Even my own professor says unpleasant things about—”

“Does she know about you?”

“No.”

“Then she won’t hear anything from me,” I assured him. “I’m surprised at her. She’s a scientist. And she seems nice enough in most ways. She even offered to show me Villenueve Avignon. Still, you needn’t worry that I’ll—”

“You are very kind, madam,” he replied. “I apologize for my reaction at the dinner party. Perhaps I am oversensitive.”

Pierre interrupted the conversation by announcing our arrival. Albertine and I went to find the lady in charge, who had arranged two long tables on the terrace and put lamps out at intervals. We talked about the menu in the colorful, crowded interior, and then Albertine and I went outside, to find only two seats left at either end of one table, which seemed to hold all the younger people. At the other table, my husband was seated at the head with Mercedes to his right. Victoire, who might well be looking for another lover or at least a brief fling since Robert died, sat at Jason’s left.

I bit my lip, raised my chin, and headed for the other table, where Pierre was calling, “Carolyn, you are our hostess. Sit here.” Martin towered across from Pierre, and he was smiling at me, as if I were his best friend. Albertine and Charles de Gaulle took the other end, but she stopped to whisper in my ear that she would send the dog down at intervals if she saw any suspicious persons.

Having heard, Pierre asked what suspicious persons could be found here by such a fine church. I murmured,

“Later,” then tapped my wineglass, which was not yet filled, and suggested that we first order enough of L’Epicerie’s bountiful hors d’oeuvres platters, which I had seen inside, to feed us all. After that, if still hungry, we could order separately, but if we were happy with our meal, we could split the bill evenly and save our waitress the trouble of dividing the costs. The young people agreed, and the waitress, when my suggestion was translated, kissed me on the cheek. At the other table they discussed, argued, and ordered different things, so we were served with wine and six platters before they got a bite to eat.

As sad as I felt, we were very merry, pouring and drinking the house wine, which came in pretty jugs, and transferring from the large platters to our small plates so many delights. There was pâté on toast, which I ate, hoping no terrorist had gained access to the kitchen, and eggplant puree, cheese with a rosemary flavor, and sweet marinated artichokes and peppers, a tapenade so delicious I couldn’t believe it, not to mention a salty, sun-dried tomato tart, and delicious goat cheese. I hadn’t had a pain pill since noon and hadn’t drunk the champagne at the reception, so I drank the red wine and didn’t fall off my chair, and we all made gluttons of ourselves and found, in good time, another six plates delivered to our table.

Pierre asked again why I thought suspicious persons might be lurking in the Place Saint-Pierre, so I told him about the beautiful pâté that killed a professor who came to welcome us. “The police think it was poisoned with puffer-fish toxin, but I couldn’t find a single restaurant in Lyon that serves fugu, so perhaps their medical examiner was wrong. Have you heard of fugu?” The question went around the table, but only one person had, and he hadn’t seen it in Lyon.

“What was the toxin? I don’t know fish toxins,” said Pierre.

“In English it’s called tetrodotoxin,” I replied. “And it’s found in other fish and even in frogs and newts; the California newt, for instance, killed someone, although why anyone would eat a newt I can’t imagine.”

“What is this newt?” asked a young man from Slovenia.

“Something nasty the witches in Shakespeare’s
Macbeth
put in their pots.”

“Ah,
Macbeth.
I know
Macbeth
,” said the young man, who had a broad forehead, mussed hair, and an interesting accent.

Martin was staring at me and asked for the name of the toxin again, so I told him. “Do you know it?” I asked. “It’s very—well—toxic,” and I giggled as Pierre poured me a third glass of wine.

“And now you eat the pâté of Avignon? You are not only beautiful, but brave. I am doubly in love,” said Pierre, so flirtatiously that I had to laugh.