Invitation to Provence(39)
“Madame, I don’t need grandpères smoking,” Haigh objected. “I have no occasion to wear it.”
“You do now. Come on, Haigh, you can wear it to the celebration gala.” And she held the jacket against him approvingly. “Very comme il faut.”
AFTER A COUPLE of hours sorting clothes with Rafaella, Haigh went back to his kitchen to inspect his new jacket. He rather liked the pointed cut of the lapels. He would give it a good brush, hang it outdoors to get rid of the smell of mothballs. He thought it would look quite smart for the gala party.
Meanwhile, he had to keep track of the women cleaning the house and check on the young kitchen helpers. The larder was stocked, caterers hired, the menus prepared, the parties arranged. Haigh and Rafaella had chosen the wines, the dining room table already had its leaves pulled out, ready to be set with the finest china and silver. Later, the gardeners would cull the grounds for every perfect flower, which Rafaella would arrange in tall vases, and the chateau would be filled again with their sweet fresh scent.
Haigh inspected his kitchen one more time. The black-and-white tile floors gleamed, as did the big steel range and the dishes and crystal in the old-fashioned glass-fronted cupboards. Still nervous, he hurried back upstairs to check the guest rooms again, even though he’d already checked earlier that day.
And Rafaella, content at last, sat under the wisteria bower on the terrace with Mimi on her knee and Louis sprawled panting beside her. Their beloved chateau breathed again, and tomorrow life would once more flow through its veins.
PART III
The Family Reunion
Falling in love is the greatest
imaginative experience of which most
human beings are capable.
—A.N. WILSON
29
FRANNY AND CLARE EMERGED from the neutral cocoon of the plane into the vast mysteries of Charles de Gaulle airport, where they stood in line to show their passports, then waited a long time for their baggage. Of course Clare’s five suitcases came out last, just when they were thinking they’d been lost. Next, they stood wearily in line for a taxi, breathing in real French air—well, petrol fumes and cigarette smoke anyway, then hurtled down the Périphérique, the motorway that encircles Paris, shooting off at a charming neighborhood with open-air cafés and dozens of little restaurants, boutiques, perfumeries, and pastry shops. This, the cab driver told them, was Montparnasse.
“Montparnasse,” Franny repeated, thrilled. “Clare, we’re in the real Paris, the city where Picasso lived and girls dance naked at the Folies Bergères, and artists and writers drank absinthe at Le Sélect and too much wine at the Closerie des Lilas.” Thrilled, the two stared out of the windows, absorbing the Parisian atmosphere along with the petrol fumes and the cigarette smoke.
The Gare Montparnasse teemed with people who all looked as though they knew exactly where they were going, which was more than Clare and Franny could say for themselves. Bewildered, Clare pushed a cart loaded with her luggage while Franny clutched her only bag firmly in her hand. She’d been warned to beware of pickpockets and bag snatchers as well as French con men who were only using their Gallic charm to get hold of her traveler’s checks.
They hurried to the platform from which the superfast TGV train to Avignon would depart. Just as the train slid smoothly and quietly alongside the platform, a tall, chic young woman dressed all in black came rushing toward them, dragging a small reluctant Chinese girl by the hand.
“Which of you is Franny Marten?” she demanded in heavily accented English. “Oui? C’est vous?” She glared at Franny. “Eh bien, I am the Marten travel agent here in Paris. I am supposed to travel with this child to Avignon but I am sick with the flu. I cannot possibly go.” She paused to cough, fanning herself with her free hand. “You are in charge of this child now. She belongs to you.” And she pushed the child at Franny, then turned on her heel and walked away rapidly.
It all happened so quickly that Franny and Clare had no time even to question her. Stunned, they followed her with their eyes as she made her way rapidly through the diminishing crowd. They saw her hurry to the station café, make herself comfortable at an outside table, order coffee, and light a cigarette. There she sat reading a newspaper, her obligation and her flu over.
“Bitch!” Clare exclaimed, astounded. Then, “Ooops, sorry.” She bent to pat the little girl’s head. “I didn’t mean that.”
Shao Lan stared down at her new shoes, shiny black and very stiff. They hurt her feet. The plane journey had seemed endless, no one had talked to her, no one had even seemed to notice her. She’d sat bolt upright all the way, not daring to eat or drink, wondering how it all would end and if she would ever see Bao Chu again. She was frightened of the noise, frightened of being alone in a strange place, frightened of what would happen to her, a poor child nobody even noticed.
The woman who’d met her had grabbed her so firmly by the hand it hurt. “Come with me,” she’d said brusquely, whisking her past policemen and officials. They had looked for a long time at the papers she carried in the plastic envelope strung around her neck, and she’d hid her face, clutching the woolly lamb closer. Now the woman had left her with more strangers. She didn’t know where she was or who they were or what was to happen, but she was determined not to cry. She did not want to lose face.