Hotel Pastis (34 page)

“Everybody must profit, is that it?”

“Exactly, my friend. Everybody must profit.”

Jojo backed the van into the parking area opposite the hotel, next to a large black Mercedes. The chauffeur, also large and black, watched as Jojo opened the van door, careful not to touch the spotless bodywork of the Mercedes. It had been polished that morning, as it was polished every morning. The two men exchanged nods, and Jojo crossed the street, holding the envelope delicately between thumb and index finger so that it wouldn’t get dirty. He stamped his boots on the pavement to shake off the dust, and went inside.

For personal reasons that he kept to himself, Jojo was always happy to come to the hotel, and so he’d volunteered when Fonzi wanted a bill delivered to Simon.
He tapped the envelope against his palm as he looked round the deserted reception area. He could hear Françoise talking on the phone in the office, and walked out to the terrace in the hope of seeing Madame Pons, whose magnificent bulk occupied so many of his dreams.

He looked down at the tables. Perhaps she was taking a
digestif
with one of the clients, cooling off after the heat of the kitchen. He had visions of warm pillows of flesh, lightly coated with perspiration, and he shielded his eyes against the sun as he studied the figures sitting below him. There was the
patron
, the Englishman, with his jacket slung over the back of his chair, talking to … Jojo took a second, longer look at the face of the man in the suit, a face he’d seen in the newspapers.

“Monsieur?”

Jojo turned to see Françoise smiling at him. A pretty girl, he thought. Another twenty kilos on her—that’s what she needed to turn her into a real woman.

He gave her the envelope and went out to his van. Now he knew who the Mercedes belonged to, he was extremely careful opening his door, and thoughtful as he drove back to the
chantier
. What was the Englishman doing with a man like that?

Nicole listened to Simon’s account of the lunch with increasing disbelief. It was blackmail, it was intolerable, the police must be informed, this gangster must be locked up. She would immediately call the
gendarmerie
.

Simon took her hand as she was reaching for the phone. “Don’t get all French and hysterical. What are the police going to do—arrest him for buying me lunch? He didn’t threaten me—well, not directly, anyway. He just told me some horror stories.”

Nicole paced up and down, smoking in short, agitated puffs. “It’s impossible. We must do something.”

“What? Set Mrs. Gibbons on him? Tell him we’re quite satisfied with the laundry service? Jesus, I don’t know if he’s dangerous or bluffing. He might be trying out a new sales pitch. Nicole?” She stopped pacing. “Calm down. Your bosom is heaving.”

“I’m very mad.”

“Look, let’s find out more about him, and then we can decide what to do.”

“Suppose he is what you think he is?”

Simon shrugged. “I’ll have him killed, or I’ll change laundries.”

“You’re not being serious about this.”

“I’ve given up being serious. I’ve got a lunatic uncle asking me for pocket money, there’s a hysterical woman next door whose husband lives on top of a ladder, and now my new friend Enrico wants to turn the hotel into a Mafia franchise. For all I know, Madame Pons is pregnant, and the German couple in room 8 are cleaning their shoes on the curtains. How can I be serious?”

Nicole walked over to him and clasped her hands round his neck. “You’re not very happy, are you?”

He smiled and shook his head. “Do you realise we’re hardly alone anymore? You work late every night while I’m being the perfect host, we fall into bed, and we’re back here every morning by eight to start all over again.”

“
Chéri
, that’s what a hotel is. It’s full-time.”

They looked at each other in silence. Through the open door of the office, they heard Ernest’s voice, polite but cool, and then murmurs and footsteps fading away in the direction of the terrace. Ernest came into the office, closing the door behind him, and raised his eyes dramatically to the ceiling. “Well, my dears, we’re blessed with a visitation.”

“Who is it, Ern?”

“You will not be pleased, I’m afraid. The ex-Mrs. Shaw has dragged herself away from Harrods to come and see us, and she’s with her new friend.” Ernest sniffed. “A rather ornamental young man. I sent them off to play in the garden.”

“This is turning into a perfect day.” Simon stood up and sighed. “Does he look like a lawyer?”

“Dear me, no. Far too well dressed for a lawyer.”

Simon walked out to the terrace, squinting against the sun as he looked instinctively over to the wall. The bugger didn’t even bother to duck anymore, and Simon was tempted to invite him to climb over for a drink and a closer look at the bodies sprawled around the pool.

He saw Caroline’s elaborate hair and the familiar profile, smiling as she turned towards the man at her side. She looked, as usual, expensive. When she noticed Simon coming across the terrace, she waved, the sun catching the heavy silver bangle on her wrist. He remembered buying it for her, and he remembered that she’d once thrown it at him.

“Simon, how are you?” She offered the small patch of cheek that wasn’t covered by sunglasses to be kissed. “You’re so brown.”

“Hello, Caroline. You’re looking well.”

“Simon, this is Jonathan. Jonathan Edwards.”

The two men shook hands. Jonathan was younger than Simon by several years, dark-haired and slim. In his double-breasted blazer and dove-grey flannels he looked impeccable and too hot. Be nice to him, Simon thought. This might be husband material.

“Why don’t we go and sit in the shade?”

Simon noticed the care with which Jonathan pulled back Caroline’s chair before sitting down himself, and the instant appearance of his lighter when she took out
a cigarette. Promising behaviour, Simon thought, and composed his face into an expression of interest as Caroline prattled on about their drive down through France. They had stayed at the most divine hotel outside Paris the previous night, and now they were on their way to spend a few days on a friend’s yacht near Antibes. It would do Jonathan so much good to take a break from the City, wouldn’t it, darling? She called him “darling” every dozen words, it seemed to Simon, and touched his hand in a casual, possessive way to punctuate her sentences.

Jonathan himself said nothing, but had allowed himself to relax to the extent of undoing the crested brass buttons of his blazer so that the thick barathea lapels fell open. There was a small monogram on his blue striped shirt. He looked prosperous, and Simon wondered if he was capable of assuming the burden of Caroline’s American Express bills.

“What do you do in the City, Jonathan?” Simon felt like a prospective father-in-law.

“Commercial property. I’m with Levenson’s—we specialise in vertically integrated developments. Work with a lot of the big fund managers.”

“Sounds fascinating,” Simon said. “And where are you staying tonight?”

Caroline resumed her grip on Jonathan’s hand. “We thought here, didn’t we, darling? It’s too late to go on to the coast now.”

“I wish we could put you up.” Simon did his best to look disappointed, shaking his head as if he’d just heard bad news. “But we’re full. You could always try Gordes.”

“Oh.” Caroline’s mouth tightened. “What a bore. I rather wanted to have a little chat with you.”

Jonathan excused himself diplomatically and went
inside to call some other hotels. Simon braced himself. Caroline’s little chats invariably began with sweetness and light and ended with threats, the old mixture of alimony and acrimony. But while she was lighting a cigarette and plotting the most direct route to the wallet, Nicole came across the terrace to join them. She winked at Simon before Caroline turned to look up at her.

“I’m so sorry. There’s a call from America.”

“Oh, God.” Simon jumped to his feet. “I’d better take it. Caroline, this is Nicole Bouvier.”

The two women inspected each other with a polite and evident curiosity. Simon felt like a mouse between two cats. “Well,” he said, “can’t keep America waiting.”

Simon came into the office and closed the door behind him with a sigh of relief. “I don’t know whose idea that was, but the timing was perfect.”

Ernest looked pleased. “It was a team effort. When the young gentleman said that Her Highness wanted a chat with you, I assumed the worst, and Nicole volunteered to go to the rescue. Actually, I think she was dying to have a good look. You know what women are like.”

“Where’s the boyfriend now?”

“He went down to collect her. We found them a room in Gordes, but they have to be there by five.”

Simon grinned. “What a pity.”

“Don’t start celebrating, dear. They’re coming back for dinner.”

Jojo and Claude sat in the cool gloom of the Fin de Siècle café in Cavaillon. The first pastis had cut through the taste of the day’s dust. That was quick and medicinal. The second was the one they both enjoyed.

Jojo lit a cigarette and felt the muscles in his back relax. “You know I went up to the hotel in Brassière this afternoon? To drop off a bill.”

Claude grunted and continued his study of the newspaper that someone had left on the bar.

“Guess who I saw there, having lunch. Mercedes the size of a house waiting for him outside, chauffeur in a uniform.
Cong
, what a way to live, eh?”

Claude looked up. “Mitterrand? They say he comes down here. Who’s the other one? Jack Lang?”

Jojo shook his head. “Remember a couple of years ago, the business with the ambulances in Marseille? The
flics
pulled him in, it was all over the papers, but they couldn’t make anything stick. He walked away, clean as a bone, and then sued one paper for saying he was the king of the underworld. What balls, eh?” Jojo shook his head again and took a drink. “Anyway, it was him, all done up in a suit, tie, gold watch, everything, sitting there with the Englishman.”

“So? People have lunch.”

“But a guy like that, a
grosse légume
from Marseille, what was he doing in a little village? Tell me that.”

Claude rubbed his chin and went through the agonies of thought before giving up with a shrug. “Maybe he likes the cooking. Maybe that’s why he comes.”

“Sure. And maybe I’ll go out tomorrow and hire a chauffeur.” Jojo sighed as he considered the evening ahead of him: a pizza and a lonely early night. “
Putain
. What I could do with a few million francs!”

Claude grinned at him and thumped him on the back. “You could hire me. I’d be your chauffeur, and we could go to all the
bordels
. Or are you saving yourself for that chef?”

“Va te faire foutre.”

• • •

There was a lurid, angry tinge to the sunset that evening, and a faraway crump of thunder made the guests on the terrace look up from their food. The air was still, and thick with heat. If anyone had been listening, they would have noticed the dry, ratchety sound of the
cigales
come to a sudden halt.

Simon and Ernest were on duty by the bar. They had made the obligatory tour of the tables at the start of the meal; and now, with the main course served and the second bottles of wine uncorked, the tempo of dinner had slowed down. The United Nations were here again, with foreigners outnumbering French. That was a great advantage of doing business in the Lubéron, Simon thought: the sun attracted people from the North, whatever nationality they were, and if the Dutch were broke one year, the Swedes would be prosperous. Or the English, including his perennially prosperous ex-wife. Simon had been ambushed briefly by Caroline but had escaped to attend to an imaginary crisis in the kitchen. She would try again.

Meanwhile, he was fascinated by a most unlikely couple sitting at a nearby table. Uncle William, his linen jacket surprisingly clean and pressed, was talking volubly, with frequent stops for wine, to Boone Parker.

Simon nodded towards them. “What’s going on there, Ern?”

“Dear Willy.” Ernest sighed. “Such a scamp, but I do like him. I happened to mention that young Boone’s father was a person of considerable wealth. That may have encouraged Willy to take the boy under his wing, in an artistic sense.”

“I’ve no doubt. Who’s paying for dinner?”

Ernest gave a small, embarrassed cough. “Well, I did make Willy a modest advance. Against the portrait.”

“You’re a soft touch, Ern.”

Simon left the bar and went over to Uncle William’s table. The old man looked up, his face the colour of a cherry, and beamed.

“My boy! Join us, join us. Cast aside the cares of office and take wine with us.” He held up the bottle and gazed at it in dismay. “Damn bottles get smaller every year. Have you noticed that?”

Simon ordered another bottle, another glass, and pulled up a chair. “How’s it going, Boone?”

“Real good. That Madame Pons is some cook, isn’t she? I had the
pieds et paquets—
best thing I ever tasted. Swear to God.”

Uncle William used the arrival of the wine to nip this unpromising line of conversation in the bud.

“A toast,” he said. “To art and friendship and hands across the water!”

Before Simon could ask him whose hands he had in mind, Uncle William leaned forward and extracted the leather cigar case from Simon’s shirt pocket, talking excitedly as he did so. “This delightful young man and I have been discussing the possibility of a major work, the definitive artistic study of Parker
père
, bestriding the state of Texas like a colossus, possibly on horseback, at home on the range.” He paused to light his cigar.

Boone grinned. “Hate to tell you this, Willy, but my daddy lives mostly on planes. Doesn’t care too much for horses, either.”

A dismissive puff of smoke from Uncle William. “Details, my boy, details. The great thing is to capture the spirit of the man, his vision, his very essence.” He took a gulp of wine. “Of course, I’d need to spend some
time with him, to absorb his persona, but fortunately I am not discouraged by the thought of travel. Did I understand that your dear father has an aeroplane?”