The Seven Turns of the Snail's Shell: A Novel (26 page)

A
quarter of an hour after Diamanté and Charles-Christian arrived in Castagniers, André Narbon joined Diamanté in the wine cellar of the Ajaccio. From behind Diamanté’s wooden stool, Max expressed his discontent with an uncharacteristic onslaught of low, menacing growls. Diamanté grabbed the dog by the collar and ordered him to stay.

“I was expecting you,” he said, staring at the man whom he had seen descend from the rear of the train in Nice. “What are you up to, André? What are you doing here?” The man’s sudden appearance in Castagniers was unsettling to Diamanté. “So it was you then, following Charlie in Paris all this time. Who are you working for?”

André Narbon swirled the thick liquid in his glass and took a sip. His mouth curled in a twisted, mocking grin. “Will he stay in Castagniers?” he asked.

Diamanté studied the man’s eyes, magnified to at least twice their size by bottle-thick lenses. He thought how they never changed; they always looked malicious.

“I don’t know. What he does with his life is his business. He is a grown man. He will have to assess the situation for himself, and then make his decision. A lot will depend on his relationship with his father.”

“And with the woman in the convent.”

Diamanté was taken by surprise at that comment. No one, except himself, he had thought, knew about her.

“I am told that she is still very ill,” Narbon went on.

“André, how do you know all this?”

Narbon’s eyes were hard; he showed no emotion. “The nurse should have been killed; she could finger us all,” he said.

Diamanté removed his beret and scratched his forehead. It was a reaction one could expect from André Narbon. He was the one among them who could kill.

“She won’t trouble any of us.” Diamanté downed the rest of his
marc
.

“When do we deliver him?”

“We?
Non
, André, I will take him by myself. Tomorrow morning will be soon enough. Your role is finished.”

The two men’s black eyes locked like angry bulls setting up for a fight.

With both hands, André Narbon slowly removed his glasses. His eyes narrowed. He had waited a long time for the day when he and Diamanté would meet again.

“I heard that you moved in with Elise in Paris.” His tone was hateful. “
Félicitations
. You finally got in the door with her, you old fool.”

“Look, André, she didn’t choose either one of us originally. We had that ridiculous fight over her, but she chose Ferdinand in the end.” Diamanté refilled their glasses. “And then Ferdinand was killed. He was the strongest and the bravest of us all. He took the hit that saved the rest of us.”

He stopped talking and swallowed hard as he recalled the scene so long ago when members of the
maquis
were setting dynamite charges on railway tracks under a bridge. The German soldiers had discovered them and opened fire. His older brother, Ferdinand, was the closest. He held them at bay with his rifle, motioning to Diamanté and Narbon to escape. When he thought it was clear to run himself, a lone shot rang out. Diamanté had gone back for his brother only to discover him lying in a pool of blood, the back of his head blown away. He had died instantly.

“
Putain de merde!”
he said. “Goddamn it. Shit. She made a life for herself without either one of us…or Ferdinand, for that matter. It’s all water under the Pont Neuf now.” He spat into a copper bucket that was used for wine tasting.

“To Ferdinand.” André held up his glass in mock toast. “He loved her. That was obvious.” He paused. “She sure was a pretty lady.”

Diamanté met his toast. “Still is,
mon frère
. Still is. Petite, delicate hands, eyes blue as periwinkles. She’s a live wire, too. She has such vitality.” His eyes sparkled despite his efforts to conceal his emotions.

The two men stared at each other for several minutes until Diamanté put down his glass and folded his knotty hands between his knees, rubbing them to relieve the arthritic pain. “I’m going to ask her to marry me, André,” he said. “I’m not sure that she’ll have me, but I’m going to ask. Once things settle down here. I have fallen in love all over again.”

Narbon studied his eyeglasses, then snatched a handkerchief from his pocket and began to wipe them. He took his time, not looking at Diamanté. Finally, he slowly placed the spectacles back on the bridge of his nose. His thick eyebrows rose slightly. “
Eh bien
, I wish you well,” he sniffed as he carefully folded the white cotton square and returned it to his pocket, still not looking at Diamanté.

“I don’t suppose you are going to tell me why you’re here, André.”

Narbon gave Diamanté a hard, cold stare.

Whatever it is
, Diamanté thought,
it can’t be honorable
. He knew from experience that André Narbon was a dangerous man. He just hoped that it didn’t involve a dead body somewhere.

CHAPTER 47

T
he morning after their arrival in Castagniers, Diamanté, Charles-Christian, and André Narbon sat eating brioches in silence at the breakfast table in Diamanté’s apartment above the Ajaccio. In the kitchen below, Jacques was already at work preparing the day’s menu.

Charles-Christian studied the large room, envisioning guests enjoying the warmth of the small bed and breakfast in Provence, in winter. A striking crystal and gold chandelier hung from the high ceiling. Two overstuffed chairs with ottomans and two large sofas were arranged around low, square coffee tables on an outsized Persian rug. Conversational groupings of smaller, similarly upholstered chairs and mahogany game tables with various types of antique lamps lined the wall near the windows.

“Do you intend to run a
chambre d’hôtes
eventually?” he asked Diamanté.

“
Non, non
, not at all,” Diamanté responded. “I only wanted the bar and restaurant. The inn was very small. Just these few guest rooms, as you can see. I converted the largest bedroom suite into this apartment by combining it with the central salon and the library.” He pointed through a doorway to a room lined with shelves of books and more overstuffed chairs with reading lamps. “The previous owner passed away and had no one to leave his furniture and books to, so I got it all with the purchase price.” He cocked his head to the side. “
Pas mal
as real estate deals go. I have closed off the rest of the guest rooms for now.”

At the chime of his pocket watch, Diamanté stood and put on his beret. “
Bon
. Get your medical bag,
mon ami
,” he said to Charles-Christian. “We are going to pay a visit to someone who is in need of your attention.”

Charles-Christian was taken by surprise and somewhat mystified. Why would someone suddenly need his medical assistance the day after his arrival? Who could even know he was here?

“Isn’t there a doctor in Castagniers?”

“Not presently. The nearest clinic is in a neighboring village five kilometers away.”

Still wondering why he was being asked to tend to a medical emergency, Charles-Christian dutifully donned his overcoat, picked up his bag, and followed Diamanté through the restaurant and out into the square. André Narbon, who had said nothing to either of them at breakfast, trailed a few feet behind. A strong wind was blowing. White lights that had been strung for the holidays in the barren trees around the place de la Mairie danced in the wind.

“Another mistral is brewing,” Diamanté said as he anchored his beret lower on his forehead and pulled his jacket collar over his ears to shield his face from the cold gale. “It blows for a hundred days a year here.”

The stone fountain in the center of the square had been newly filled with fresh evergreen branches. The three men paused a moment to admire a large crèche nestled amongst the evergreens and paid their compliments to two women from the village who were populating the nativity scene with giant versions of hand-painted terracotta
santons
.

Surrounded by hills, the small village stretched out along one long, paved street. Christmas trees were stacked in bundles on the corners, and the few shops along the
rue
advertised with handwritten signs their specialties for the traditional Christmas Eve meal,
le réveillon
.

Diamanté stopped suddenly, turned abruptly in Narbon’s direction, and said, nodding harshly, “Here is where we separate, André.”

Narbon acted as if he had not understood.

“As we discussed, André.” Diamanté stood firm. He glanced in the direction of a stone walking bridge. The entrance was framed by two sandstone pillars crowned by ornate wrought-iron crosses. Behind, on the hill overlooking the entire valley below, stood an imposing complex of large, pink stucco buildings with tile roofs surrounded by tall Italian cypress trees swaying in the wind. Above the buildings rose a slim, two-story-high carillon tower with arched openings and a cross on top.

“The convent where we are going,” he said in a low voice to Charles-Christian, nodding in the direction of the buildings. “Cistercian.”

The three men remained motionless, frozen in place. Charles-Christian could detect that there was considerable animosity between the two old-timers, who were staring at each other. Finally, André Narbon turned on his heel, deliberately not shaking hands with either of them, and walked back to the Ajaccio with a scowl on his face.

“What was that about?” Charles-Christian asked Diamanté.

“It is not your concern,” Diamanté said as he watched Narbon retreat. “André will be departing Castagniers in the next hour or so.”

Diamanté and Charles-Christian crossed the bridge, climbed the pathway up the steep hill, and entered the statue-studded grounds through an archway. A sign beside the main entrance read:

Nous avertissons nos visiteurs que notre accueil monastique est actuellement fermé pour cause de travaux de restauration dans les bâtiments de l’Abbaye. Avec tous nos regrets.

—La communauté de Notre Dame de la Paix

 

“The convent is closed for restoration?” Charles-Christian asked.

“
Oui
, for at least a year,” Diamanté responded. “It was badly in need. The main building, the old monastery, is over a hundred thirty years old.”

“This person who needs medical assistance is, I’m assuming, a
religieuse
here in the convent? What exactly is the matter?”

Diamanté rang the bell at the huge entrance door.

“I was asked simply to deliver you. I shall wait for you here,” he said.

Charles-Christian didn’t have time for another question. The portal opened slowly, and a diminutive woman, her face framed in a black veil, peered at them through tiny wire-rimmed glasses.

“Oh,
Bonjour. Entrez
. We have been expecting you.” She opened the door just enough to let Charles-Christian through and nodded to Diamanté.

“I am
Soeur
Sulpice.
Soyez le bienvenu
.” She extended her hand in welcome to Charles-Christian.

He took her hand. It was bony and felt cold. The nun was about sixty years of age. A wide, black belt fixed the black and white fabric pieces of her penguin-like habit together at the waist, and she wore heavy, flat, black sandals. A large, ornate filigree cross hung on a long, silver chain around her neck.

“
Enchanté
,
Mère Abesse
,” he said.

“Oh,
Monsieur
, I am not
la mère abesse
,” she said in a soft voice. “The abbess is away. Please follow me.” She turned quickly and quietly escorted him across the dark courtyard, through an archway, and into the largest of the buildings. There appeared to be no one around. The only sound was the slight rustling of Sister Sulpice’s habit as she walked. Her soft sandals made no sound at all on the tile floor. Charles-Christian became aware of the echoing clack-clack of his own heels as he followed her down a long corridor with closed doors on either side. They came to the end, turned the corner, and entered a shorter hallway.

It was then that he noted the strong odor of antiseptic.

“This is Saint Bernard,” Sister Sulpice said as she bowed her respect to a statue in an arched niche in the wall. The bronze monk was seated at a table, writing. “He is the most famous of all the Cistercians,” she continued. “We celebrate his
fête
every year in August.”

Charles-Christian suddenly became aware that a single doorway just like all the others, halfway down the hall, was being guarded by two men. He recognized one of them as they approached. It was the helicopter pilot who had flown him to Paris. Sister Sulpice nodded to the two guards and knocked quietly at the door. “Take your time. I will wait here to escort you back to the main entrance,” she said as the door opened a crack.

Two brown eyes appeared, then grew wide. The door opened. Nurse Florence LeBlanc slipped through it and silently but emotionally hugged the doctor.

“I am so glad you have come,” she whispered, pulling him in to the room and closing the door again behind them. “She will be so happy to see you.”