seriously contemplates actually disappearing completely, opening a bistro or a bar on some remote Aegean island à la Shirley Valentine, but stops himself — I’m not going down that road again — the quaint English pub scenario. The only difference would be the climate and the prices. “How much?” they’d screech in disbelief, though it wouldn’t stop them from getting plastered.
Marcia is waiting for Bliss at the bar L’Escale and can barely conceal her excitement.
“He’s back,” she whispers as he sits.
“Where?” he asks, his eyes roving the harbour and not finding the large yacht.
“No, he’s not here,” she explains. “He sailed into Cannes this afternoon. I couldn’t find you. I looked everywhere.”
“I was dealing with a death on the beach.” He laughs, but doesn’t elaborate. But what now?
All his plans have been thrown into turmoil. With Johnson uncovered he can go home — as soon as he is sure the Morgan Johnson on the yacht is the Morgan Johnson in the photograph. But what then? Case closed. Bon voyage, Monsieur Burbeck. But the detective in him wants more — wants answers. If this isn’t a put-up job, then who wants Johnson, and what for? What about the information Samantha has gleaned regarding the huge investments? And where is Edwards in all this?
Maybe it is time to disappear after all, he decides, as he plans to visit Cannes the following morning. “Richards has no way of knowing I’ve tracked Johnson down so quickly,” he mutters, “so he can wait for a few days while I dig a little deeper.”
Hugh and Mavis seem a little out of sorts as they sit alone staring silently out over the harbour as Marcia leaves.
“So,” says Bliss, going over and taking a seat. “How was the beach today?”
“Never made it, old boy,” says Hugh, clearly prepared for the enquiry. “Surprised you even asked after what happened.”
“Sorry,” Bliss says, concerned that his dalliance with an old mat has caused him to miss news of a global catastrophe. “What’s happened?”
“Storms, of course. Didn’t you watch the news?”
“I try not to.”
“Don’t know what you’re missing.”
“Storms, apparently.”
“Half of France got washed away last night,” says Hugh, with a disaster-monger’s delight. “Thunder and lightning like you wouldn’t believe — dozens dead and missing.”
Bliss casually inspects their surroundings. “Seems to have missed us though,” he says, heavy with sarcasm.
“Luck if you ask me, dear boy. Mavis was petrified, weren’t you dear?”
Mavis nods on cue. “Petrified.”
“Wouldn’t risk the beach today, would you, old dear?”
“Not likely — not with all those storms about. But there’s always tomorrow.”
Hugh shakes his head solemnly. “Not tomorrow, dear — you’re getting your hair done.”
But what of Jennifer and John? Bliss looks along the promenade. “Are you expecting the others?”
“Wouldn’t know,” says Mavis, with unconcealed chagrin. “They can do what they want. They don’t have to ask us. Do they, Hugh?”
“Of course not, dear.”
I guess they went to the beach, then, Bliss figures, but sees no point in asking.
Jacques is also conspicuous by his absence, just like his wind — la tramontane. What a day, thinks Bliss, wondering if any other relationships have been destroyed by contrary meteorological conditions, and he sets off along the promenade, determined to extract some information from Marcia’s husband in the first stage of his plan to uncover the truth — the whole truth.
The evening’s breeze dies, and the moon — another full moon — picks its way across the harbour, highlighting the masts of yachts while perfectly mirroring the vessels in the still water. Bliss sits in a comfortable canvas chair opposite L’Offshore Club readying himself to ambush Greg the potter when he has finished his work for the day.
Midnight on the quayside and the families start thinning, leaving little gangs of girls flaunting their sexuality like gaudy fluorescent signs while fending off those attracted with a nasty glare. The body allures — face repels. This is the game — this is not a game — this is war. If you don’t know the rules of engagement — you’re dead.
Will I ever learn the rules? wonders Bliss, his mind returning to the sensual woman on the jetty.
The crowds may be winding down, but the pots keep coming; Greg is having a heavy night. How can you not be busy when you have nothing to sell? thinks Bliss, realizing the prospect of receiving something for nothing, even something as useless as a wet clay pot, turns almost everyone into a child.
The menfolk, standing back, or wandering to a nearby bar, scowl at the delicate pots won by their womenfolk, and laugh, mockingly. “And just how much did you pay for that?”
“Absolutely nothing — the nice man just gave it to me.”
“Yeah. Right.”
“Well, I did tip him a few euros,” they admit under continued scorn.
“A few euros’ tip for two cents worth of cheap clay — une merde!”
“But you don’t understand ...” they complain, and they’re right.
“Want a beer?” asks Bliss, apparently catching Greg’s eye by chance. “Burbeck,” he adds, holding out a hand at the passing man. “Dave Burbeck.”
“Greg Grimes,” the potter replies, but waves off the handshake, his hands still caked in clay.
Promenaders still toting their pots nudge each other as if they’ve spotted a film star as they pass. “That’s him — that’s the potter,” they whisper, just loud enough for him to hear.
“You’re something of a celebrity around here,” says Bliss, grateful for an opening gambit.
But celebrity is not on the potter’s mind as he mocks the stupidity of gullible foreigners. “There are a thousand potters better than me up there,” he says, giving a nod to the wooded hillsides shrouded in darkness above the port. “Picasso himself lived up there — did you know that?”
“I saw a sign,” admits Bliss, “but I thought he was a painter, not a potter.”
“He was an artist,” screams Grimes, his hands clenched in passion. “Painters slap whitewash on walls — artists create masterpieces.”
Bliss drops the temptation to say he’d visited the Picasso exhibition in Antibes at which he personally thought whitewash slapped on walls would have been an improvement.
“Picasso was a
