deliberating the problem of blocked plumbing with more passion than jurors in a contentious homicide. No one seriously articulates a murderous suggestion, though a few moments of solemn consideration are given to ramming a wet pot down the bothersome artisan’s throat — a taste of his own medicine. “Salaud,” mutters one, and the black-robed priest tactfully withdraws to commune with Bacchus at the bar as he decides on the penance for calling someone a bastard.
“I have asked, begged, and pleaded,” explains the président. “But no — he will not stop.”
“I even offered him free dinners for a month in my hotel,” says one, a dustbin-bellied man.
“What did he say?” asks another.
“Zhat he would rather eat his own pots,” he mutters weightily as he forks most of an onion and anchovy pie into his mouth, adding as he chomps, “He said … my food … tastes like la ragougnasse — pigswill — but what does he know? … He is Anglais, n’est-ce pas?”
“The potter is English?” Bliss queries of Jacques, surprised. “Is that true?”
Jacques shrugs. “Perhaps.”
The meeting disintegrates into animated discussion groups as the président, lacking answers, loses control, and a few passers-by become embroiled, most in defence of the popular artisan.
“What harm is he doing?” complains a young woman carrying a pot. “He makes me smile.”
“You’d think differently if you had to dig the shit out of the toilets every morning,” replies one of the hoteliers, although the look on the woman’s face suggests otherwise.
The answer appears simple to Bliss. “Just put a notice on each toilet,” he mumbles, unaware Jacques is listening.
“Do you zhink zhey haven’t tried?” he demands, one ear tuned to the proceedings. “Autant pisser dans un violon. How you say? It is as much use as pissing into a violin.”
“We don’t say that,” protests Bliss, but he gets the drift.
The raised voices dwindle to an angry murmur as a pretty teenager walks by with two freshly minted pots. “Look what I’ve got,” she calls, beaming, balancing a pot in each hand as she rushes to show her prize to her father.
“Someone’s gonna have a bunged-up toilet tomorrow,” mutters one of the hoteliers in French, and no one smiles.
“Oh-oh! Here comes another pot headed for zhe toilet,” says Jacques, giving Bliss a nudge. Bliss turns, spotting another outstretched hand heading their way, but then his eye is caught by a familiar face hovering in the mid-distance.
“Excusez-moi,” he says to Jacques, tosses a handful of coins on the table, and takes off.
She’s gone by the time he gets there; Marcia, he’s certain, was standing alone looking thoughtfully in his direction, but she has been swept into the wash of latenight promenaders, leaving him perplexed.
chapter two
Bliss wakes to another postcard day and wanders, coffee in hand, onto the balcony. Short flecks of cloud, like fleece, turn puce in the first rays of the sun, then shift through red to pink before evaporating in the day’s gathering warmth. Ahead, the blue waters of the Mediterranean sparkle with sun diamonds as the gentlest of breezes tickles the surface, and the mistral, foretold so forcefully by Jacques, is stillborn in the mountains.
“This isn’t real,” he breathes, taking in the sweep of the bay, thinking: It’s a setting for a movie, a scene of perfection even Hollywood would have difficulty matching. All that’s missing is some mood music, he thinks, and, putting on his Walkman headphones, he flips through the small stack of Brubeck CDs he’s picked up at a second-hand mart and stretches out on the padded lounger with “Summer Song” tinkling in his ears.
The top-floor apartment, arranged by Commander Richards, was found for him by Daisy, a bouncy real estate agent with a smile almost as broad as her hips.
“C’est pas donné,” she explained, expressively rubbing forefinger and thumb together under her nose as she ushered him in. But he didn’t expect it to be cheap; didn’t want it to be cheap. If this was an olive branch, he intended to squeeze it for all it was worth.
“It would be less expensive in winter,” she added, making him wonder what she had been told about his visit.
“It is very comfortable, n’est-ce pas?” she gushed, bouncing enthusiastically from room to room as she presented the stainless steel kitchen, pink marble bathroom, and beige leather study complete with computer. Then, with more than a twinkle in her eye, she led him from the lounge to the bedroom and trampolined her ample bottom on the king-size bed, giving him the distinct impression that, with very little encouragement, she could probably be induced to be included in the comforts.
“Very comfortable,” he parroted, leaving her testing the bed as he opened the shutters with a touch of a button. “A room with a view” was an understatement, he realized, as he stepped onto the balcony and found a scene culled from South Pacific — blue waters, palm trees, white sand beaches, and a cluster of verdant islands in the hazy distance.
Now, two weeks later, the beauty of the vista still stops him every time he gazes out from the balcony. This really could be Hollywood, he thinks, watching yachts in full sail glide silently across the horizon as if pulled on tracks, and he picks up his journal and makes an earnest start.
The shiny facade of the Côte d’Azur is painted gaily across the skyline, and the set is finished with a spectacular backdrop of snow-capped peaks. Across the bay, a cluster of green islands swim in the perfectly blue sea. Sardines and snorkellers dance together in underwater ballet, seagulls share sandwiches with sunbathers, and —
However, the veneer of respectability is thinly spread. Behind the front of Provençal knick-knack stores, pricey fish restaurants, and snotty perfumeries, the stockaded villas of gangland thugs, corporate raiders, stock market fraudsters, smugglers, tax evaders, and tax exiles take cover in the wooded hillsides. The sun, so sharp and welcoming on the beach, barely penetrates the thick cover of eucalyptus and pineapple palms. Heavy-set men loiter in the deep shade near fortified gateways, their bulky jackets singling them out from tourists and tradesmen alike. Powerful cars with deeply tinted windows glide almost soundlessly around contorted laneways, and spiked gates whirr open in recognition of electronic commands. The cars, and their equally shady occupants, slip out of sight as if they had never existed.
Putting down his pen, Bliss picks up his binoculars at the sight of an interloper in the peaceful bay. “It’s huge,” he breathes, scanning the length of the five-decked yacht, guessing it to be at least forty metres. Must be worth a fortune, he is thinking, when the throaty sound of diesels bobbles across the water as the captain kicks up the power. The sleek vessel lifts her bow and takes off. “Wow!” he murmurs, guessing the mini-cruise liner capable of twenty knots or more as the bow wave rips a white scar across the blue silk sea.
With his concentration broken, he checks his watch and decides on another visit to the beach — maybe Marcia will resurface.
The elevator hums to a halt on the ground floor, and as he steps out the click of the door lock reminds him of the lemon. Damn — I forgot to check if it’s still there, he is thinking, when he has an
