Provence - To Die For (5 page)

“Yes,” I said slowly, casting my eyes over the rough limestone walls. What was different here?

“Ah, something is not right.” He was pleased. “Can you tell what it is?”

“This is a strange room,” I said. “What function did it have?”

“See if you can guess.”

We walked to the center of the area where a long wooden table with a battered top stood in solitary splendor on the stone floor. Piles of plates, bowls, flatware, and napkins had been arranged neatly on its rough surface. On one end, laid out on a white linen towel, was an array of large kitchen knives in size order. A short earthenware pitcher held a bouquet of what I presumed were small knives; I could see only their black, brown, and white handles. The table, a bench along one side, and several high-backed chairs drawn up to the other were the only pieces of furniture in the room. The light in the sconces flickered and dimmed.

“Oh, dear,” I said, resting my hand on the corner of the table.

“Don’t be concerned. It’s a temporary malfunction. They do this from time to time. Someone must have switched on the dishwasher.”

I turned to scan the room. There were three arches in the masonry walls. Those on the right and left had been fitted with heavy wooden doors; the open one behind us led back to the hallway. High on the walls were sets of shutters covering what might be storage cupboards.
Peculiar places for storage,
I thought. They’d be inaccessible without a ladder. On the other side of the table, up a step, was a multipaned glass window looking into another room.

Guy picked up one of the large knives and idly tested its point with the pad of his thumb. “There is a mystery here, eh?”

“Why are those storage cabinets so high?” I asked. “Can you reach them from another room?”

“You have a keen eye,” he said, replacing the knife and aligning its blade so it matched the others. He was enjoying the game. “I give you a hint.” He tapped the floor with his foot. “This stone was laid in the thirteenth century.”

“But you said the building was built in the fourteenth century,” I said, pointing to the wall.

“Exactement.
The floor is older because it isn’t a floor at all. We are right now in the middle of a medieval street. Do you see the outside of the houses?” He waved a long arm at the walls.

I looked up and realized that we stood in what appeared to be a courtyard with buildings all around. Those possible storage cupboards were at one time windows overlooking this small square. The table was standing in the street. Perhaps the glass window on the other side had been the window of a shop. It was only the beamed wooden ceiling, high above our heads, that had transformed the spaces into an interior room.

“Those arches,” I said. “Were they passageways leading to other streets?”

“Oui!
And, like our streets, they are narrow because there were no cars in those days, only mules.”

“Yes, I can see the square,” I said slowly. “It’s obvious now that you point it out.”

The knowledge of the room’s origins, however, did not lessen my uneasiness. I made a mental note to bring a warm sweater to the cooking class. Perhaps it was just the cold that was bothering me. Stone walls and floors, especially in a subterranean room, will hold a frosty temperature for a long time.

“The room above this is the same,” Guy continued, oblivious to my discomfort. “It is the atrium, where we serve breakfast and tea.”

“And what do you use this room for?” I asked.

“This is where we consume the fruits of our labor. It’s the dining room for our kitchen over there.” He pointed at the room beyond the multipaned window. “When we have spent all morning cooking our meal, we sit down together here, and drink wine and eat up all we have made. Chef Bertrand always makes a complete meal, including dessert.”

“I look forward to it,” I said, moving around the table and climbing the step to peer through the window into the darkened kitchen.

Guy patted his jacket pockets and frowned. “I don’t have the keys to open the kitchen,” he said. “Emil must have them.”

“Do you mean Chef Bertrand?” I said, cupping my hands on the glass to see inside.

“Oui.
He is always forgetting his keys and taking mine.”

I looked back at him. “Have you worked for him for a long time?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” he replied with a wry smile.

“He’s a demanding boss, I gather.”

Guy’s eyes flew up to the ceiling. “The worst.”

“But there must be some benefits or you wouldn’t stay, would you?”

“He is a tyrant in the kitchen, but also a genius,” he said. “Not everyone gets a chance to work for a chef who has a Michelin star. I am very lucky, so he tells me. And he promises to make me a partner someday. I am hoping to take over his restaurant in Avignon when he opens one in Paris. But you cannot tell anyone that. It’s still a secret.”

“I won’t say a word.”

“Till then, I work for him at the restaurant and also here as his sous-chef when he teaches in the cooking school.”

“Is Monsieur Bertrand the only chef to teach at the cooking school?”

“Oh, no,” Guy said, shaking his head. “He is one of many. Daniel Aubertin, the head chef here at the hotel, invites all the
maîtres de cuisiniers,
master chefs, in Provence to teach, even the ones he doesn’t like. It is a matter of honor to make sure the school has only the top chefs in the region.”

“Even the ones he doesn’t like?” I said, teasing. “That’s certainly dedication.”

“It is indeed,” Guy said, his smile back in place.

The light in the sconces wavered and then went out, plunging us into total darkness. Disoriented, I turned so my back was to the window and stood absolutely still, trying to remember the layout of the room. “A temporary malfunction, I believe you said.”

“Ah, madame. It’s just a momentary gap. Wait. I’m sure they will come back on.”

We stood in the inky darkness waiting for the sconces to flicker to life again, but it soon became apparent that there was a problem with the electricity.

“This never happens, I promise you,” Guy said. “I will see if I can find a flashlight in the kitchen.”

I heard him shuffle his shoes across the stone toward the archway through which we’d entered. Then I heard a thump and a muffled curse as he stumbled on the step. His footsteps faded as he made his way down the hall toward the hotel kitchen, until I could hear nothing at all.

Without the lights, the room seemed even colder. I waited, running my hands up and down my arms from shoulder to elbow, trying to counter the icy air. There was no sound of footsteps returning. The colder I grew, the less patient I became. I inched one foot forward, conscious of the narrow step I’d climbed to look through the window. My toe found the drop and I eased my foot down to the floor, twisting my shoe back and forth on the uneven footing till I felt secure. I patted the air with my hands, groping for the end of the table. I swung my other foot down and started to move forward, but my heel was wedged in the gap between two stones and I went flying sideways. One hand caught the end of the table, and in my efforts to gain purchase my fingers closed around the white towel and I fell, twisting around, landing on my bottom, and pulling along the kitchen knives that had rested on the linen. They jangled loudly as they hit the floor around me just as the dim light of the sconces came back on.

I heard someone sprinting down the hall. Guy rounded the comer and ran to assist me as I climbed to my feet and surveyed the damage. He took my elbow and bent down to examine my face. The thick lenses of his glasses magnified his eyes.

“Madame, how terrible. Are you hurt? It is very difficult, this floor, so rough. I have tripped myself sometimes.” He pulled out a chair and pressed me to sit down.

“I seem to be fine,” I said, more embarrassed than injured. I brushed the dust off the legs of my pantsuit, and looked around for the shoe I’d lost in my tumble. The knives were scattered across the floor, but fortunately not one had landed on me, and except for some bruises I would be sure to feel later, I was unscathed.

Guy knelt to retrieve my shoe, rotating it to free the heel from the grip of the boulders, and brought it to where I sat.

“Guy. Oh, Guy,” a soft voice called from the hallway.

I looked up to see Claire hurrying into the room.

“Madame, I am so sorry about the lights,” she said, slightly out of breath. “The new dishwasher cut off the electricity. The whole hotel went out. You are all right, I hope. We are calling the electrician to have it repaired right away.”

“Madame Fletcher tripped in the dark and fell down,” Guy said, as I pushed my foot into the shoe he held for me. He straightened up and stepped back, his foot knocking against one of the knives.

Claire gasped. “Oh, madame. Are you hurt?” She rushed to my side and leaned over me. “Would you like me to call the doctor? These old floors are just awful. May I bring you some coffee or tea?”

“I’m really okay,” I said. “I was just clumsy, and, as you see, I’ve made a mess.”

“Not at all, madame,” Guy said. “Don’t upset yourself. Let Claire take care of you. I will only be a moment. Stay where you are.” He bent his long body in half and moved around the room, bobbing up and down, picking up the knives and the linen towel. He reminded me of the birds I see at home on the shore, pecking at the sand.

Claire hovered over me. “You’re certain I cannot get you anything? A glass of brandy? Perhaps you would like to lie down.”

“No, no,” I said, chuckling. “Really, I’m fine.” I stood up, mentally inventoried my body—no real harm done—and slid the chair back into place at the table.

“But, madame, you must rest and—”

“Now then,” I said, interrupting her, “you were looking for Guy when you came downstairs, weren’t you?”

“Actually, I was looking for you,” she said. Her hands flew to her cheeks. “Oh, my goodness. I almost forgot. You car, it is here.”

I looked at my watch. It was ten o’clock, exactly when the car was originally scheduled to come. An unexpected wave of relief came over me.

Guy dumped the knives on the table and took my arm as we walked back to the hall and rang for the elevator.

“Marcel, he arrives on time after all,” Claire said apologetically, “but I have your bill prepared, and the man has brought your luggage to the front. Marcel puts it in the car, even now.”

“I am so sorry for your fall, madame,” Guy said.

“Not your fault,” I said, patting his arm. “It was an accident. I’ll wear my sneakers next time.”

He shook his head. “I have been a poor host,” he said. “You haven’t even seen our wonderful kitchen.”

“You’ll show it to me when I come for the class.”

“Yes, Guy,” Claire added. “Madame Fletcher will be back.”

He smiled at Claire, reached out, and touched her cheek with one finger. To me he said, “Our Claire will take good care of you. I look forward to seeing you again.
Au revoir.”

He turned and loped back through the arch toward the table. The knives would need washing again.

“Too bad you have not had the opportunity to see the school kitchen. It is very old and charming.”

“Yes, too bad,” I echoed.

The elevator came and we stepped inside. I turned around and watched the door close on the ancient courtyard. I wasn’t at all sorry my car had come early. I was ready to leave.

Marcel was a very confident driver, but I was not his equal as a passenger. As his little car hurtled down the country road, I held tight to the side of the seat near the door, and tried not to close my eyes. The combination of crooked streets and traffic had kept his driving to a crawl in Avignon, but once outside the city’s crenellated walls—a legacy from the later years of the papal occupation—he was liberated. He stomped the accelerator to the floor with his right foot, and I doubt he ever lifted it the entire trip to Martine’s.

An unlit, unfiltered cigarette hung from the comer of his mouth, and as he talked, it bounced up and down. He was a carpenter by trade, but it was winter. The summer tenants had gone back to their homes in Paris, London, and New York, and things were slow. He filled in by providing transportation to those who lacked it.

He pulled a card from his shirt pocket, letting go of the steering wheel and inspiring what I was certain was a stream of colorful language from the driver of a truck he nearly sideswiped. “This is the number of Madame Roulandet,” he said. “She runs the village bakery.” He handed me the card and pulled the car back into the lane ahead of the truck to an accompaniment of blaring horns. “When you need a ride, you call her the day before, and she will find me.
Est-ce compris?
Understand?”

I took the card but vowed I would find another way to get to Avignon for my cooking class. I didn’t think I’d live through a repeat of this harrowing ride. Even if I arrived alive—which was up for debate—my nerves couldn’t take it again.

“You look worried,” he charged, his bushy black brows rising over his tinted glasses. “I am a very safe driver. I never have accidents. Martine, she didn’t tell you?”

“I think she forgot to mention it.”

“Everyone drives like this in France. It’s normal.”

The car flew past a cluster of yellow stone buildings up a hill that Marcel indicated was the village of St. Marc, careened around a corner, and jounced off the pavement onto a dirt road. Fortunately, no human or animal was nearby. The plume of dust in our wake would surely have choked any living thing engulfed by it. As we aimed for a building on a rise just ahead—I prayed it was Martine’s farmhouse—I saw olive trees whizzing by my window.

Marcel skidded to a halt before a graceful two-story building nestled among bare-branched shrubs and trees. Its facade appeared to have been stucco at one time, but over the years chunks had fallen off, and patches of brown showed through the dingy white paint. Martine had ignored the aging walls, but had painted the wooden shutters a bright turquoise and the front door a deep red. The effect was eccentric, like an elegant dowager wearing vivid makeup.