Provence - To Die For (3 page)

I laughed. “Is it that obvious?”

She grinned. “Well, you speak French with an American accent. You don’t hold your mouth like the French people do, kind of pushed forward a little—at least that’s what I have to do to sound French—and they make
‘bonjour’
sound like ‘boojoo,’ real quick.” She pursed her lips to demonstrate. “And when you asked me how I was, you spoke very formally to me. Most adults don’t.”

“You’re very perceptive,” I said. “It sounds as if you’ve made quite a study of the language.”

She shrugged. “I’m almost fluent, but I still can’t read a newspaper very well.”

“How long have you been traveling in France?” I asked, folding down my side of the table and resting my book on it.

“How do you know I’m traveling?” she asked coyly. “Maybe I live here and I’m on my way to school.”

“Maybe you are,” I conceded. “But your backpack is a new American brand, and while that might not be unusual, it’s too large to be simply a school bag or a substitute for a handbag. It’s lumpy, but there aren’t any hard edges protruding, so it’s doubtful you’ve got schoolbooks in there. My guess is you’re carrying clothing, perhaps even a sleeping bag. Plus, you still have the airline tag tied to the handle.”

“You’re pretty perceptive yourself,” she said. “I’ve been here since August.” She closed her journal and zipped it into a small compartment in her backpack. “I took a course at the Sorbonne, which was okay, but I was really here to see Paris, and the city was dead in August. I hung around to see what happened when everyone came back from vacation. I’ve been here ever since.”

“Have you been in Paris all this time?”

“A group of us from school went to Versailles once with our professor. That was cool, although I don’t know why anyone would want to live in such a fussy place.” She pulled her braid around her shoulder and started playing with the wispy end. “And I took the train to Lyon with my boyfriend for a weekend. And once we went up to Rouen. But I really haven’t been anywhere else. There’s a big ex-pat community in Paris—you know, expatriates—and most of them speak English and they’re a lot of fun. So I hung out with them.”

I wondered why she wasn’t in school and how she supported herself all these months, but couldn’t raise such a personal question. Instead I asked, “Where are you going now?”

“Down to Marseilles for bouillabaisse. I figured it’s time I saw a little more of France before I have to go home.”

“Where are you from in the States?”

“Portland.”

“Maine or Oregon?”

She chuckled. “I forgot Maine has a Portland. I’m from Oregon.”

“Well, as it happens, I’m from Maine,” I said. “I’m not likely to forget about our Portland. I’m Jessica Fletcher, by the way.” I extended my hand across the table.

“Mallory Cartright,” she said, shaking my hand quickly, then busying herself with the rubber band on the end of her braid. “Where are you going?”

I told her about my house-swapping with Martine, and my plans to take cooking classes at the Hotel Melissande in Avignon a week from Wednesday. We chatted for a while longer, but her eyes became heavy and she yawned widely, patting a hand over her mouth. “Oh, excuse me. I don’t mean to be rude. I was awake a lot last night. I think the train is rocking me to sleep.”

“You look tired,” I said. “Why don’t you take a nap?”

“I wanted to see the French countryside,” she protested. But she had removed her glasses and was settling herself against her backpack in preparation for sleep. “Would you mind waking me in an hour?”

“Are you sure that’s long enough? It’s three hours to Avignon. I could wake you when I get off.”

“I’ll never sleep that long,” she said, snuggling into the canvas. “I put my ticket in the slot up there.” Her eyes indicated a piece of molding under the rack above, into which other passengers had tucked their tickets. When I looked back, her eyes were closed.

The countryside as we left Paris unraveled southward with mile after mile of flat plain, broken only by rows of trees marking off farmers’ fields. Hovering over the landscape, which had been scraped bare by harvesting machinery, were low gray clouds canceling any shadows that might have given the land definition. A few black-birds, scavenging for scraps of grain on the barren ground, jumped into the air at the blast of sound and current generated by the train, only to settle back to their repast when the threat went unrealized. I studied the view as the train sped past trees and fields and clumps of buildings that might have been villages. How different from the stands of tall evergreen forest that led down to the rocky shore of eastern Maine, and our coastal villages with Victorian houses crowded around the bays.

I flicked on the overhead light and opened my book. The train was remarkably quiet—it had none of the usual sounds I associate with rail travel—and the ride was smooth, altogether an impressive technological achievement by the French. But despite the perfect atmosphere for reading, the words on the page made no impression as my mind wandered to the past two days.

 

I’d gone straight to the airport following my dinner with Matt. The Air France overnight flight to Paris had been full, and I counted myself lucky that a month earlier I’d secured a seat in business class, after trading in a hefty chunk of my frequent-flyer miles for the upgrade. The staff was friendly and attentive, and the food surprisingly good, what little I’d tasted of it. I’ve never slept easily on a plane, but I managed to fit in a few catnaps, and felt almost refreshed by the flight’s early-morning arrival at Charles de Gaulle airport.

My travel agent had arranged for a car to pick me up, and I was grateful to see the hand-lettered board with MME. FLETCHER held up by a middle-aged man with a beard. He was neatly dressed in a blue blazer and gray slacks, and his car was equally tidy, if smaller than most American models. On the ride into town, he switched on the windshield wipers, and bemoaned the timing of my trip in accented but clear English.

“You are here on business, yes?”

“Not at all,” I said cheerfully. “I’m on vacation. I’m going to Provence tomorrow.”

He scowled. “The weather there is no better than here, madame. You may as well stay in Paris, where at least there is entertainment.”

“Paris is a lovely city,” I said noncommittally. I wasn’t going to allow his grumpiness to affect me.

“You Americans come to Paris in all seasons. For the spring and the summer, I can understand. The fall, maybe, too. But now? It’s almost winter. It is strange,” he said, clicking his tongue. “I don’t complain. It’s good for business. I am driving many, many of your countrymen to hotels each day. But look.” He swept his arm in front of the windshield as the wipers methodically cleared the spatters of rain from two small wedges of glass. “When I go on holiday, I go where it’s warm and there’s sun.” He thumped the steering wheel, punctuating what he obviously considered his more sensible attitude on places to vacation.

“I don’t mind the weather,” I said. “There are plenty of inviting indoor activities. I’ll probably go to a museum.”

He shook his head as if unable to fathom the peculiarities of these visitors. He was correct about the numbers of Americans in Paris, however. My hotel, the Pont Royal, was full, and the accents around me in the lobby and at breakfast the next morning were mostly American. The cordial English-speaking staff may have had a lot to do with the hotel’s popularity, as, I’m sure, did the wonderful views over the rooftops of Paris from the long windows on the top floors. I’d thrown open the French doors in my room and stepped up onto the small balcony that overlooked the intersection of Rue de Montalembert and Rue du Bac. The sun had punched holes in the clouds and lit up patches of blue sky over the Eiffel Tower, away to my left, and Montmartre, at some distance on my right. I decided a museum visit would have to be put off. Better to take advantage of the partial sunshine, and spend my one day strolling the city.

I stopped at the front desk for a map, and admired the oval lobby and the slice of warm, wood-paneled bar I could glimpse through its curtained portal. The Pont Royal had once been a legendary Left Bank gathering place for well-known authors. Crowding into its bar and signing its guest list were such famous names as the French writers Jean-Paul Sartre, Albert Camus, and Simone de Beauvoir. Aldous Huxley, Arthur Miller, and Truman Capote visited, as did T. S. Eliot, James Baldwin, Oscar Wilde, and Gabriel García Márquez. In the lobby, the faces of some of those regulars could be seen peering down from their portraits at the current guests, perhaps less celebrated but equally enthusiastic recipients of the hotel’s hospitality.

The hotel was located in the heart of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, a section of the city named after a famous church, and home to the narrow, winding streets and outdoor cafés that evoke the image of Paris around the world. I’d left my suitcase packed, removing only those items I’d need for the night, slipped a small umbrella into my raincoat pocket, and stepped out into the crisp, fresh air. The rain had washed the empty streets clean, and many other people had responded to the break in the weather as I had, spilling outside and tilting their faces to the sun. I walked, map in hand, all over the neighborhood, window-shopping in the elegant boutiques of world-famous designers, sampling the heady scents on offer in the
parfumeries,
and admiring the antique stores filled with furniture and objets d’art centuries older than what was usually available at home. Finally, jet lag caught up to me. I found a vacant chair at a sidewalk café on a street closed to traffic, sipped a strong café au lait, and watched the parade of tourists and natives examining the wares of an outdoor market

 

The train entered the station at Lyon, and I looked up from my musings. Mallory was sleeping soundly; her face in repose was soft and very young. I revised my guess at her age downward. Seventeen at most, I thought, perhaps fifteen or sixteen. I leaned across the table and tapped her shoulder.

“Mallory, you wanted to be awakened in an hour,” I said. “I’m afraid it’s a bit after that. We’re already at Lyon.”

She mumbled something and snuggled into her backpack.

“Mallory, shall I wake you at Avignon?”

She smiled slightly and nodded, and was asleep once more.

I opened my book, and was surprised when, in a short time, the conductor announced Avignon as the next stop. This time my efforts to rouse the teenager were more successful. She sat up, eyes still bleary, and smiled.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your sleep,” I said, “but you did say you wanted me to wake you.”

She rubbed her eyes and stretched her arms over her head, cocking her head first to one side and then the other. “I’m up now,” she said, blinking rapidly. “Thank you. I hope I didn’t give you a hard time. I’m a sound sleeper.”

“No trouble at all,” I replied. “I don’t wish to pry, but do you have a place to stay in Marseilles?”

“There are youth hostels all over, so I’ll probably stay in one of those,” she said, pulling off the rubber band and releasing her braid. She hesitated and looked at me. “Do you mind?” she asked.

“Mind what?”

“If I redo my hair.”

“No, go ahead.”

“My folks would have a fit if they saw me braiding my hair at a table, even though there’s no food here.” She combed her fingers through her silky locks and divided her hair into three sections to begin replaiting, concentrating on catching the loose strands in her new braid.

“Does your family know how to reach you?” I asked.

She shrugged and avoided meeting my eyes. “I’ve got my cell phone. I can give them a call once I’m there.”

I knew she was reluctant to discuss the situation with me, but I was uncomfortable seeing her so young and adrift.

“Well, on your way north again,” I offered, “you’re welcome to spend a night or two with me in St. Marc.” I tore a blank page from the back of my datebook, and wrote down Martine’s address and telephone number.

“That’s very generous of you, Mrs. Fletcher, but I don’t know my plans right now.”

“Just keep that in your back pocket, in case you need it,” I said. I doubted she’d call, but wanted her to know she had a responsive adult nearby if she ran into any problems. I folded over my side of the tabletop and put my book away. The train slowed, and I pulled my coat from the overhead rack.

“It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Fletcher,” Mallory said, tossing her newly remade braid across her shoulder. She rose from her seat and put out her hand. Someone had taught this child manners.

“It was my pleasure to meet you too, Mallory,” I said, taking her warm fingers in mine. “Be careful in Marseilles. And don’t hesitate to use that number I gave you.”

She gave me a wide smile and dropped back onto her seat. “Thanks.”

I walked slowly to the end of the car, holding on to the seat backs to keep from losing my balance as the train entered the station and shuddered to a halt. I was afraid I was going to have to manhandle my suitcase all by myself, and was pleasantly surprised to see the conductor standing in the luggage area and handing down bags to their owners. I pointed out mine, followed it down to the platform, and moved out of the way so the conductor could assist other disembarking passengers.

The sky was threatening, and I felt the first drops of rain on my head. I pulled out my umbrella and walked up the platform, trailing after the other passengers, who seemed to know where they were going. I hoped they’d lead me to a taxi stand. Knowing that I would arrive late in the afternoon, I’d made arrangements to stay overnight in the hotel where my cooking classes would be conducted the following week. I didn’t want to have to familiarize myself with new surroundings while it was getting dark. My plan was to leave for Martine’s house in St. Marc in the morning.

The Hotel Melissande on Rue de Melissande in Avignon was off a one-way street so small I wasn’t certain the taxi would be able to make the turn without putting a sizable scratch in the white paint of the door. If other towns were similarly laid out with such narrow and twisting streets, it would explain the French preference for tiny cars. Somehow the driver avoided the sharp comers of the buildings that intruded on the intersection and pulled up to the glass front door of an ancient edifice that ran the length of the block.