Hotel Pastis (33 page)

“I’ve got a bit of a problem with succour and lodging, Uncle Willy. The hotel’s getting very booked up.”

“A detail, dear boy, a detail. You know me. My needs are few and simple.” He took a long draw at his Havana. “A truckle bed in a garret, soup and a crust, the noble purity of an ascetic life.”

Simon knew what that meant. “Are you okay for money?”

Uncle William tapped ash from his cigar and blew at the glowing tip. “Alas, I am not immune from the recession.”

“You’re broke.”

“I have a cash flow problem.”

“You’re broke.”

“I’m expecting a remittance.”

“Still? The same one?”

Uncle William, disdaining any further discussion of his finances, turned his attention to the beauties of the countryside. As they left the outskirts of Avignon and drove past the prostitute in the BMW, now in her summer ensemble of shorts and gold high heels, he raised his hat gallantly and muttered “Charming, charming.” Simon shook his head and wondered where he was going to put Uncle William for what had all the signs of an extended visit. He could stay at the hotel for a week, no longer. After that, all the rooms were taken.

“A penny for your thoughts, dear boy.”

“I was trying to think of somewhere we could put you up. How long do you plan to stay?”

Uncle William murmured with delight as they passed a field of sunflowers, precise rows of bright heads all facing the same direction as if they had been individually arranged. “Who knows? A month? A lifetime? Look at the years Cézanne spent painting Sainte-Victoire.” He waved his cigar at the view. “This splendid scenery—the crag, the olive, the verdant vine—this must be sipped slowly, like fine wine, not gulped. The change of the seasons, I’m quite sure, will provide endless inspiration.” He leaned over and patted Simon’s knee. “And there is the added pleasure of being close to a loved one.”

“I was afraid of that,” Simon muttered, half under his breath.

Uncle William was, predictably, enchanted by the hotel, and since he was no fool, he recognised almost instantly that Ernest would make an invaluable ally. Within an hour of arriving, he had suggested a portrait—“a head of classic proportions,” he said; “I am reminded of certain Roman emperors”—and when he insisted that Mrs. Gibbons should be included, reclining at Ernest’s feet, there was no doubt that he had established the beginnings of a rapport. The Goya of Norfolk was digging in for the summer.

T
he cyclists breathed easily, their legs pumping up and down with the smooth regularity of pistons. Watching them as they climbed the steep, curving road towards Gordes, it was difficult to imagine that first unsteady expedition, with its jelly muscles and cursing and coughing. The General was pleased. They looked like thousands of other serious club cyclists, good for one hundred kilometres on a sunny morning with nothing worse to show for it than a heavy sweat.

They had ridden a long loop, over to Isle-sur-Sorgue, up to Pernes and across to Venasque and Murs before dropping down to the D-2, and then one final hill, the back road into Gordes, to give them an appetite for the lunch that the General had laid on for them in the barn.

He had taken considerable trouble over lunch, setting up chairs and a trestle table and a barbecue for the
gambas
and the thick slices of gigot. There were bags of ice for the pastis and rosé, and a dozen of the Chateauneuf that he’d been saving for their last Sunday of training, their last Sunday as poor men.

He’d driven on ahead to start the barbecue, and stood over it, watching the shimmer of heat rise into the air as the coals turned from black to grey. He poured a pastis and took pleasure, as he always did, at the sight of the liquid turning cloudy when he added ice and water. He raised his glass in a silent toast to the patron saint of bank robbers. There must be one, he thought; there was a saint for everything and everyone in France. Give us luck, whoever you are, and this time next week we’ll be counting the loot.

He heard the sound of grunts and laughter from the road, and then they came down the track, wheeling their bikes to save the tyres from the stones, grinning and rubbing their backsides.

“
Bravo, mes enfants!
Who’s for water and who’s for pastis?”

They crowded round the trestle table, mopping the sweat from their faces with their cotton caps and jostling for glasses and ice.

“Today,” said the General, “we eat, we get drunk, and we sleep in the shade. But first, ten minutes of business.”

He waited until they all had drinks and were sitting round the table. Seven dark faces turned towards him.

“Bon.”
The General laid out on the table seven pairs of thin latex gloves and two keys. “We all had our prints taken when we were in the
pissoir
, so on the night you wear gloves. Don’t even take them off to scratch your ass. Now here—” he placed a packet of cigarettes on
the table—“is the back door, the way you get out.” He put his glass next to the cigarettes. “Here, immediately on the left outside the door, I’ll park the van—I’ll have all day to get the spot, so you know it’s going to be there. The bikes will be inside. During the night, I’ll get them out and chain them to the railing right behind the van. One long chain, one padlock. Keep the gloves on for the chain, okay?” Seven heads nodded. The General picked up the keys. “These open the padlock. If you lose one, there’s a duplicate. If you lose both of them, you’re
foutu
. Jojo, Bachir, you take one each—tie it round your neck, stick it up your nose, do what you like with it, but don’t lose it.”

The General picked up his glass, took a drink, wiped his moustache. “I’ve got trousers and sweatshirts for you to wear over your cycling kit. They’re old and untraceable. Just dump them. You’re going to get wet breaking in, but you’ll have all night to dry off.” He looked around and grinned. “
Voilà, c’est tout
. All we have to do then is count the money. Any questions?”

There was silence as the men stared at the pile of latex gloves and the padlock keys. All these months, and now it was nearly time to do it. The General knew what they were thinking: what if it didn’t work? Another session in the dock, another
salaud
of a judge looking down his long nose, another stretch in that shithole.

“My friends,” he said, “nothing’s going to go wrong. Trust me.” He slapped the nearest shoulder. “What’s the matter with you? Nobody’s asked me what’s for lunch.”

Uncle William, manoeuvring with the charm and cunning of the practised freeloader, had solved his accommodation problem and was packing his suitcases for the
move to Ernest’s little rented house in the village, where he was going to occupy the spare bedroom as artist in residence. It was essential, so he had explained, to absorb Ernest’s persona, the very essence of the man, before attempting to capture him on canvas. He could probably string that out for several pleasant weeks before getting down to work, and after that there was the statuesque Madame Pons. She had been by no means unreceptive to the idea of a portrait after Uncle William had softened her up with several flattering comparisons to the Odalisque. Why should the Louvre have all the treasures? he had said, and he had detected a definite twinkle in her eye as she looked at him over her glass of white wine. Yes, Provence was very much to Uncle William’s liking, and he was in no hurry to go back to the draughty cottage and irate widow waiting for him in Norfolk. There was a slight problem of liquidity, of course, but Simon might be persuaded to offer him the facility of an advance against the mysteriously delayed remittance. Meanwhile, the living was free. Uncle William closed his suitcase, adjusted the ancient silk handkerchief that concealed two stolen cigars in his top pocket, and went downstairs to look for someone to buy him a drink.

Simon and his guest sat down at the quiet table in the corner. Enrico from Marseille removed his sunglasses and nodded with appreciation as he looked out towards the terrace.

“It pleases me to see how well your hotel goes,” he said. “You must be a very busy man. I’m grateful that you could spare the time for our little lunch.”

Simon had been trying to duck it for days, but there had been increasingly ominous hints from Jean-Louis
that it would be a mistake to disappoint Enrico, who had taken a personal interest in the hotel’s success. “I’ve been looking forward to it,” Simon said. “What would you like to drink? A glass of champagne?”

Enrico folded his hands on the table, stubby fingers with nails that gleamed from a recent manicure. His thin gold watch, buried in the black hairs on his wrist, was half covered by the cuff of his cream silk shirt. The suit, also of silk, was dark, businessman blue. “Oh, I’m just a boy from Marseille,” he said. “I’ll have a
pastaga
. Ricard.”

Simon ordered two pastis and wondered what kind of small talk would be suitable for the occasion of lunch with a gangster. New extortion techniques? The outrageous rise in the price of cocaine? The effects of inflation on the bribery market? “Well,” he said, “it’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

Enrico’s mouth smiled. His eyes were busy, flickering from Simon to the tables on the terrace, which were filling up with casually dressed guests taking a break from the pool. “Very profitable weather,” he said. “The sun opens wallets.”

The drinks arrived, and Enrico toasted the future prosperity of the hotel. The scar on his neck rippled as he took his first swallow, and Simon had to make an effort not to stare at it, so close to the vein.

Enrico lit a cigarette, letting the smoke drift up from his mouth to disappear into his nostrils, and leaned forward. “Monsieur Shaw, I come to you as a friend, as someone who wants to see your hard work rewarded, to see your investment grow.” He nodded and took another slow sip of his drink. “A large investment, I’m sure.”

Simon did his best to look relaxed, and shrugged. “Nothing good is cheap these days.”

“Exactly. And as a businessman, you understand that investments have to be protected.”

Here we go, thought Simon, and looked away from the smiling mouth and the hard, unblinking eyes with relief as a waiter came with the menus. “I can recommend the ravioli stuffed with cheese and spinach. Madame Pons makes her own pasta.”

Enrico studied the menu line by line, as though he were going over a contract. “Yes,” he said, “the ravioli, and then the rabbit with olives. And you permit me to buy the wine, I hope? I have a weakness for Côte Rôtie.”

At 540 francs a bottle, Simon thought, I’m not going to argue.

In fact, the thought of arguing with Enrico about anything was not pleasant. There was an air of brutality about the man, for all his manicured hands and quiet voice; and Simon wondered what form the proposition would take when it finally came. Bloody hell. You come looking for a peaceful life in the country and end up having ravioli with a hit man in a suit.

Enrico ate fastidiously, taking his time, dabbing his lips frequently with his napkin. While they were waiting for the main course, he returned to his thoughts on investment protection. Had Simon, by chance, heard about the affair not long ago at the Deux Garçons in Aix? Enough dynamite to blow the café and half the Cours Mirabeau to fragments had been discovered in the
toilettes
. It was complications such as this that made running a business in Provence so unpredictable. Imagine—all that work, all those millions of francs invested, and then … Enrico shook his head sadly at the depths to which human behaviour could sink, but brightened up to greet the arrival of his rabbit, bowing his head to inhale the steam rising from the plate. Ah yes, he said, a correct sauce, a sauce thickened with blood.

Simon found his appetite diminishing as Enrico continued to speak calmly of robbings and maimings and unsolved disappearances, interspersed with compliments about the cuisine and the wine, his voice not changing its emphasis from one subject to the other. Murder and the pleasures of the table were discussed in the same genial, confidential tone.

Eventually, Simon tried to steer the gruesome conversation round to the point where Enrico could be more explicit about the true purpose of lunch. It was no different from advertising, he thought. Nobody gets down to the real business before coffee.

“Enrico, these things you tell me—they happen in cities, not in villages like this, surely.”

“Times are changing, my friend. It’s a very competitive market now, and too many amateurs are coming into it.” He shook his head. “Amateurs are impatient and greedy. They don’t understand the most important principle of organised business.” The smoke curled up from his cigarette, and he sat very still.

Simon wondered what that might be in Enrico’s line of work. Go easy on the dynamite and don’t kill too many customers, probably. “You mean …?”

“Everybody must profit.”

“Yes, of course. But I’m not sure where the hotel comes into this.”

“Ah.” Enrico stubbed out his cigarette, and his immaculate hands resumed the folded position. “It arranges itself very simply. You use a laundry. You need supplies for your bar. Your rooms, from time to time, will need repainting. You buy meat and fish. Your splendid swimming pool must be maintained. You understand?”

Simon understood.

“I have colleagues,” Enrico continued, “in all of these businesses, people of the highest quality. They will be
delighted to assist you. I can promise it.” He smiled across the table, a man confident of his ability to get other men to do exactly what he told them. “I personally guarantee that you will be satisfied. I use these people myself, at my home in Marseille. They are trained.”

And as a bonus, Simon thought, this month’s special offer, I won’t get blown up, kidnapped, kneecapped, or robbed. Sounds like the opportunity of a lifetime. Simon felt as though he were being interviewed by a bank manager from hell.

“I think I’m going to have a
digestif
, Enrico. How about you?”

“A
vieux marc
. The Réserve des Legats, if you have it, from Châteauneuf. You see? I am a local businessman. I support local business.” The smile on Enrico’s face widened by two or three millimetres. “And I will pay for lunch. I insist.”