Maestro (16 page)

At last, the moment came when the Maestro could find nothing else for her to do. All that was left to be done was for him to get on the Goddamn plane. 

Sara rushed to the airport to catch a flight for Geneva.  

"Bastard!" she thought, boarding the plane. "I told him I wasn't working late or doing overseas trips." 

Madame Colvin was waiting anxiously for her on the doorstep as the taxi drew up alongside the sprawling chalet. A chauffeur then drove them both on, to visit each of the shopkeepers whom Sara paid in advance. Madame Colvin babbled on incessantly about how she hoped everything would be to the Maestro's liking. She hoped. 

The two women returned to the chalet which Sara looked over. She praised the housekeeper warmly as she completed her tour. The supply of alcohol had been delivered. Sara took a copy of the inventory and left the original with Madame Colvin, instructing her to do a final count of what was left after six weeks. 

Afterwards, the two women dined together quickly in the kitchen before Sara caught a late plane home. 

She arrived back in London at midnight. Exhausted, she climbed into bed and fell asleep straight away. 

She woke up at ten o'clock the next morning, cursing as she opened her eyes at the late hour. 

Within half an hour, she was in the office and cheered by the sight of an A4 envelope addressed to her from Michael Twickenham. 

The Maestro surfaced at noon and promptly threw a temper tantrum. Sara ignored him, reminding him that his flight was in three hours and he should get a move on. She accompanied him to Heathrow Airport and checked his bags in while the bodyguards fought off a swarm of lissom nymphs. 

The bodyguards were accompanying the Maestro to Gstaad and should keep him out of trouble. They hustled the Maestro on to the waiting plane with seconds to spare. 

Relieved to see the back of him, Sara instructed the chauffeur to drive her home. 

******************** 

Michael Twickenham began his letter to Sara, by apologising profusely for the delay in sending her the coveted information about Angels Rest. The letter went on to explain in detail, the history of ownership of the property.  

Angels Rest, as the 2000 hectares were known, had been passed from the Guillani family to the Welsh Council in 1978. Certain conditions were to apply. No part of the 2000 hectares could be subdivided or sold. The cottage, also known as Angels Rest, could not be demolished or removed. The family had provided a trust fund to be administered by their lawyers, for the ongoing maintenance of the building. A caretaker would reside in the cottage and be paid a monthly stipend of one hundred pounds sterling. No other edifice was to be erected on the land. The terms of the bequeathal applied for fifty years until the year 2028. On expiry, complete ownership would revert to the Council whereupon, none of the above terms and conditions would apply. Until then Angels Rest would remain a "place of peace." 

A place of peace. Sara was struck by the wording. It was as if the place were to be preserved, albeit for only fifty years, as a shrine. 

Michael ended his letter by stating the obvious:  "The property cannot be sold." 

Sara examined a copy of the deed attached to the letter. Roberto and Sylvia Guillani of V. Milano, 50047 Prato, Florence, Italy and Les Mireilles, Chemin de Suzon, Pessac, Bordeaux 33000, France. 

"Gee-llany? G-wee-lany?" Sara said aloud, rolling the name over her tongue. 

Gillane had told her vaguely that his name was the anglicised version of the Italian. It could well be that Roberto and Sylvia Guillani were his parents. But that did not explain how Sarah Lunn's family had come to be living at Angels Rest. 

Sara reread the deed several times. The two addresses, one in France and one in Italy, intrigued her. If these were Gillane's parents, then he had told the truth about living in three countries: France, Italy and England. 

Sara telephoned the French and Italian operators. There was no corresponding number under Guillani at either address. 

Without a telephone number, she would be forced to go personally to both places. Instead of going to Wales.  

She now knew that Sarah's parents were living legitimately at Angels Rest as the resident caretakers. If indeed, Roberto and Sylvia Guillani were Gillane's parents, then, she decided, she would go to Wales. Any connection between Gillane and the Guillanis would re-enforce her suspicion. That Gillane and the Lunns had conspired to conceal a secret. 

Sara rang the travel agent who handled the Maestro's itinerant happenings. A flight to Bordeaux was possible. One to Florence was out of the question. It was Christmas, after all. Sara would have to decide quickly, the flight for Bordeaux, left in four hours.  

The decision made for her, Sara asked the travel agent to proceed and to get a confirmed reservation at the nearest hotel to Bordeaux Airport. The travel agent hung up, promising to ring her back in half an hour. 

Exactly half an hour later, the phone rang. Sara's bags were packed and ready to go. The Sofitel Hotel had just one room available and the agent had taken the liberty of passing on her credit card details to confirm the booking. Sara cringed at the thought of her unlimited American Express card number falling into the wrong hands. 

As she waited for the minicab, Sara checked her bag for the deed and the notes she had taken in Glymeer. She had not looked at them since her return but thought it might be useful to take them along. 

The doorbell rang. She went to tell the minicab driver to wait for a few minutes. She wanted to call her mother. She was not due to see her mother until New Year’s Day, which was still ten days away. But at least her mother should know where she was going. 

"Hello darling! Will we be seeing you over Christmas?"  

"No, Mother. I'm leaving for Bordeaux. On my way out the door actually. Write this down Mother. Hotel Sofitel, Bordeaux Airport. You can find the number later from the operator...." 

"Yes, dear but what's in Bordeaux?" Henrietta interrupted. 

"Just a last minute decision. Look I must go. Have a nice Christmas." 

"Sara....dear..." 

Sara did not wait for Henrietta to finish. She hung up the phone before a stream of regrets and recriminations sounded in her ear. Henrietta did not approve of her daughter abandoning Christmas dinner, despite the fact that it would not be the first time. 

Sara adjusted her watch one hour ahead as the plane touched down in Bordeaux. Summoning a taxi outside the airport, she felt faintly nostalgic. The last time she had been in Bordeaux was with Carl. 

To celebrate her 21st birthday, they had planned a cycling trip around Aquitaine. Young and idealistic. A long time ago. Experience had taught her otherwise. She had paid her debt to her youth. 

Reminiscing about Carl had cost her fifty francs in a taxi ride that would have taken five minutes to walk. She had forgotten that she was staying in a hotel at the Airport. 

Sara checked in at the reception desk. A perfectly coiffed receptionist greeted her. 

"Bienvenue Meez or Madame Perrins?" 

"Sara Perrins." Sara replied, a tad sarcastically. 

"Thank you. Meez Perrins, how long...may I....you will be staying with us?" 

"Maybe a couple of days. Maybe more. Can I let you know later?" 

The receptionist shook her head disapprovingly. 

"Ah Meez Perreens, Chreezmas, Noël, is a Bordeaux spécialité. Dinde aux marrons, huîtres, vacherin. You should try them. Stay for the veille de Noël..."  

Sara could not stop herself from smiling. In true French fashion, the receptionist was waxing on about food. 

"Please, that's enough," she interrupted, smiling, "I know all about French food. It’s the best in the world. Is my room ready?" 

"Of course. Of course." replied the receptionist, her lips in a Bardot-esque pout as she turned the large leather-bound register for Sara to sign. 

"Perhaps you can help me with something." Sara pulled the deed out of her bag and pointed to the address. "Is it far, Pessac?" 

"Pessac is next to Bordeaux. How do you say...a banlieue?" 

Sara guessed she meant "suburb". 

"Will a taxi be available to take me there tomorrow, say, ten o'clock?" 

"Yes. Yes. There are always taxis outside. There will be one for you," replied the receptionist waving to a porter, whom she instructed to show "Mademoiselle" to her room.  

The following morning, Sara ordered breakfast from room service. She picked her way through the brioche, croissants, jam and hot chocolate, which had been expedited swiftly to her room. Again, she was thinking of Carl and how together, they had made a big joke about the French idea of breakfast. 

At ten sharp, she was in the lobby, handing in her key. A different receptionist from the one the night before greeted her, gushing "Merry Chreezmas" exuberantly. 

Sara climbed into the taxi, announcing to the driver that she was not prepared to be ripped off and could he please give her an estimate of how much the ride to Pessac would cost. 

A hundred francs lighter, Sara was deposited outside "Les Mireilles." She got out of the taxi and ordered the driver to wait while she found out if she was in the right place. 

True enough, the sign said this was "Les Mireilles" but what she saw was not the grand residence she had expected. Sara hesitated before going any further then decided she might as well take her chances. She walked back to the taxi and told the driver to leave.  

Sara pushed open the wrought iron pedestrian gate. From what she could see, "Les Mireilles" was not a single residence but rather a series of apartments built around a main courtyard. Confronted by twenty doors to choose from, Sara began knocking on each one. The only one to answer was number twenty-two. 

A harmless-looking, diminutive elderly woman answered the door. 

"Oui?" she asked, her blue eyes twinkling. 

"Excusez-moi Madame. I'm looking for the Guillani family." 

Sara struggled in her rudimentary French, well aware that she sounded like an idiot. She kicked herself for not having asked the taxi driver to stay. 

Her French and her accent needed no introduction. The woman smiled gaily and banged on the door. 

"Maîté! Maîté! Come and see! An English!"  

She grabbed Sara by the arm, ensuring that she stayed where she was. Another elderly woman emerged from the doorway. 

"An English," said the first one triumphantly, still holding on to Sara's arm tightly. Both women looked Sara up and down, smiling cheerfully. 

Sara repeated her question nervously.  The women appeared surprised, looked at each other, then back at Sara. 

"Come in. Come and have some coffee." 

Four arms instead of two pulled Sara into a tiny room. They led her to a wooden dining table, too grand for such a small space, and made her sit down. 

Dominique, the woman who had opened the door, went off to make the coffee. The other, Maîté, sat next to Sara, the lines on her face, stretched into a wide smile. 

Sara smelled the coffee making its way from the kitchen. Dominique arrived at the table, three cups of the fresh brew and a plate of almond macaroons on a plastic tray.  

Sara opened the conversation by thanking the women for offering her coffee. They were very, very kind to do so. 

Maîté spoke first, asking Sara who she was and how she knew the Guillani family. 

"I'm....an old friend...my parents met them once on holiday..." 

"Ah but they don't live here anymore. They used to live in the house but the house was torn down ten years ago. To build these apartments for old people like us."  

"Can you tell me where they've gone?" Sara asked biting into a crisp macaroon. 

"They died," Dominique replied, somewhat impatiently, "ten years ago. That's why the house was pulled down. It was sold to a private contractor who built these." 

Maîté went on to explain that both husband and wife had died within three months of each other. She had known them for many years; the Guillanis used to own the charcuterie (pork shop) in the village.  

"And children? Did they have any children?"

Sara looked at both women, an innocent expression on her face. 

Dominique patted her chest loudly and Maîté let out a weak groan. 

"Oooh là là! A son, a terrible son!" Maîté lamented, her coffee quivering in her hands, "Didn't you know that they had a son?" 

"No. I can't remember…" Sara replied weakly, "What was his name again?" 

"Guillaume! Guillaume!" Maîté exclaimed vociferously, her blue eyes flashing at Sara, "What a tragic story. The mother and father died without seeing their son." 

Too stunned by the thought, Maîté looked at Dominique imploringly.  

"No one knows what happened," continued Dominique, "One day they had a son, the next, pouf! they never spoke of him again. After a while, everyone understood, not to mention his name around them. It made them sad to even hear his name."  

"Did he...live here, Guillaume, with his parents?"