Promises to Keep (12 page)

Their plan was for Kat to choose two
santons
at this market, and then they would drive the short distance to the historic hillside village of Aubagne to check out its pottery shops.

Kat was overwhelmed at the selection in the stalls along La Canebière. The enormous variety of sizes, paint styles, and characters made choosing just two a challenge.

“I’m sorry, but I need to look at them all to make sure I’m not missing anything.”

“Choose as many as you want, then, Minou.”

Every once in a while they would look at each other, raise their eyebrows, and shake their heads. One or the other would say, “
Incroyable
” or “I don’t believe it.” But she did finally pick four, and soon they were on their way to Aubagne, a short drive from the city.

“Promise me we’ll have time to visit the house where Marcel Pagnol was born,” Kat asked as they drove through the countryside immortalized in his beloved stories
Jean de Florette
and
Manon des Sources
.

They visited a number of ceramics studios, where they admired the craftsmanship and bought a few more irresistible
santons
, then managed to tear themselves away in time for a quick visit to Pagnol’s birthplace. Several rooms in the townhouse where the writer was born had been furnished with original pieces.

“I’m so glad we had time for that,” Kat said afterward. “The video presentation was a nice touch.”

Philippe agreed. “And dinner will be even better.
J’ai faim!
”

He was true to his word, although they could not stop talking about Nick through the entire meal at a small bistro in the picturesque Place Joseph Rau.

As they drove home, Kat examined their ten new
santons
before her thoughts turned again to their unexpected meeting with Nick.

“This is unreal,” she said. “And I’m not talking about the
santons
.”

“Well, I am. I think we lost control,” Philippe laughed. “I might have to extend the mantle after all. But just in case we need more, the Foire aux Santons in Aix opens in two weeks.”

They looked at each other and grinned.

“I can’t believe we’re being so relaxed about this right now,” Kat said. “It’s bizarre.”

“We have our moments,” Philippe said. “I’m anxious to talk to this Inspecteur Thibideau. Maybe then we will begin to get somewhere.”

“I hope so. Now, about these
santons
—let’s set them up as soon as we get home,
chez nous
.” Kat yawned and snuggled into her seat for a nap. Philippe reached over to pull her closer, gently tousling her hair.

“Chez nous,”
he repeated softly. “Home. We are going to have a very
joyeux Noël
, I promise you that.”

“That’s a promise to keep,” Katherine whispered.

15

Calendale, the period of Christmas celebration, began in earnest on December 4, the feast day of Sainte-Barbe. In every home and shop window, on the counter at La Poste, on the bar at every one of the cafés Kat frequented, and even in the windows of the patisseries, saucers of sprouting lentils and wheat seeds were on display. Everywhere she looked, a mini wheat field was sprouting.

Joy had explained on the phone. “It’s a tradition that goes back to Roman times. The sprouts are carefully nurtured, and if they grow straight and green, there will be a bountiful harvest in the coming year. If they go yellow or droop over, then that’s bad news. Some of the wheat is used to decorate tables and
crèches
on Christmas Eve, but most bunches are wrapped with a red ribbon and cared for right through to la Chandeleur, la Fête de la Lumière, on February 2.”

Philippe insisted there was one more aspect to growing the Sainte-Barbe wheat that she needed to know. “Every day, you must hold the wheat between you and your lover and kiss passionately. This makes the wheat grow strong and healthy.”

Kat never refused.

On the morning of December 4, she phoned Simone to invite herself for tea that afternoon. She had been thinking about the woman a great deal, and she and Philippe had been by the gate a few times during the week, so she had no difficulty finding it now.

Since the
mistral
, the weather had remained chilly, and Kat was bundled up. It felt more like fall in Canada than the weather she associated with the Côte d’Azur, a feeling accentuated by the faint smell of a wood fire.

Simone had described how to find a hidden call button. Kat pressed it now and the gate slowly opened. As she walked down the driveway, Kat noticed a lane leading off it, away from the house, and made a mental note to tell Philippe that it appeared to be used. She also noticed fresh tire tracks on the driveway and thought perhaps the grocer had visited Simone.

Simone was beaming as she reached up, from a wheelchair, to
bise
Katherine at the door. “
Chérie
, I hoped I would hear from you again soon,” she said, tilting her head.

“
Et voilà!
Here I am!”

Kat handed her a small package that contained everything for Simone to start her own saucer of Sainte-Barbe wheat.

“Thank you. Shall I open it now? Please excuse my wheels. Some days when my arthritis is bad, I find this makes it easier to move around.”

“And why not? I think it’s a very wise idea.”

At the table, Simone unwrapped the gift while Kat plugged in the kettle. “How thoughtful. What memories this brings back. It’s been a long time since I celebrated la Sainte-Barbe.”

While the tea steeped, Kat talked about her visit to the Foire aux Santons and how much she was loving the holiday traditions in France. Simone listened with the same wistful expression on her face that Kat had seen during her first visit.

“Do you have a collection of
santons
?” she asked.

“
Hélas
, my
crèche
and
santons
have not seen the light of day since Jean-Luc died.”

She looked past Katherine and began to speak in a soft voice. “For two years after the war, I remained in Normandy. There was much work to be done. Much healing—for the people, for the country, for our hearts . . .” Her voice drifted off and she sat quietly in thought.

Kat waited for her to speak again.

“Many of us had spent years together in the Resistance. Some could not wait to leave when the battle was over, but others of us could not bear to leave. I had a lover, and we remained together until we were strong enough to go our separate ways. He had a life to return to, and I was not part of it.”

Simone’s words were passionate but tempered with wisdom.

“I finally returned to Paris in 1949 and moved in with my mother. I was twenty-nine. My mother was alone after my father had died of a heart attack during the Occupation. They had a rambling apartment in the Sixth, which had been in her family since the
Revolution
. Later, after Jean-Luc was an adult, we made it into two—but I digress. Those postwar years were a struggle for many. We mourned the ravages of the war years. But by the time I arrived, it was also a magical time to live in Paris, and the Sixth was alive with the arts. Writers, artists, and thinkers, the intellectuals of the day, endlessly debated the philosophies of the time. Le Café de Flore and Les Deux Magots were just down the street from us and they were constantly abuzz—electric, really.”

As Simone spoke of the excitement of those heady years in Paris, Kat was reminded of that sense of a new dawn in her own life.

“I read so much about those postwar years,” she said, “and studied them at university. I wrote many papers on Jean-Paul Sartre and his revival of existentialist thinking. I found his writing intellectually intoxicating, and yet I married someone who didn’t get it and frowned upon the entire movement. I know now I should never have been with him. But I had led a relatively sheltered childhood and chose to study when others my age were partying.”

Speaking in generalities at first, Kat was soon baring her soul. She felt a trusting intimacy with Simone and found herself expressing thoughts she had never voiced before.

The teapot was replenished.

“I feel now that I have control of my life. I’m open to change and to opportunities, and it is so liberating.”

“Don’t lose it now that you have found it.”

Kat could see Simone was starting to get tired.

“I should be going. Please tell me if there is anything I can do for you.”

“You are right,
chérie
. I do lie down in the afternoon. It’s another of the joys of aging.”

During their chat, Kat had worked out that Simone was ninety-one and she was stunned. Now another thought came to her. “The next time I come, would you like me to help you set up your
crèche
?”

Simone paused and then nodded. “Come again when you can, Katherine. I had forgotten how pleasurable it is to chat with another woman you like. I will tell you the next chapter then.”

Kat had hoped Simone would continue her story, but did not want to ask in case it appeared rude. She was captivated by this woman and the stories she had told so far, and couldn’t wait to hear what happened next.

But she had another reason to come back. She was feeling concerned about her new friend now that she was aware that drug smuggling was going on so close to her house.

16

The following day, Philippe said, “Pack for two days, Minou. You will need warm clothes and good walking shoes. The day after tomorrow we will go to Lyon. We’ll take the train.

“I knew it was on your list of places you wish to visit,” he grinned.

She threw her arms around him and whispered, “Wish list.”

“This isn’t exactly the best reason to take a trip, but we’ll manage,” she said after Philippe explained the plan. He had told his cousins they were coming so that they could meet Kat and show her their beautiful city.

“We will be enthusiastic tourists for two days,” he said. “During that time I have to attempt to get as much information—casually—from Denise about Idelle’s whereabouts. Apparently, she and Dimitri moved from Normandy two years ago, and the police have not been able to trace them. They suspect they are running things from Russia.”

“I can play along, no problem. Still can’t believe all this, though.”

Kat settled into her comfortable seat on the TGV, glad to be back on the train for the first time since her trip from Avignon to Paris at the end of her first exchange. Philippe had booked first-class seats on the upper deck so they could have the best view.

After an unimpressive departure between blocks of fairly modern apartments in the upper part of Antibes, the train hugged the narrow sandy beaches that lined the coast from Juan-les-Pins west to Cannes. The early-morning rays reflecting off the sea made them squint as they took in the lovely coastal views.

“I’m surprised that people still come to sit on the beach at this time of year. Some of them are even swimming. And the fishermen just bundle up and keep setting their lines,” Kat said.

Philippe laughed. “
Bien sûr!
Fishing never stops. Some of the locals are diehards and take a dip no matter what. The Germans and Scandinavians don’t seem to care how cold it is.”

Not long after the stop in Cannes, the scenery changed dramatically as they passed through rock cuts and tunnels in the Massif de l’Esterel. Kat noticed that the morning sun was coaxing a startling range of shades from the distinctive red, craggy hills.

At times, the train wound out of the hills to present them with spectacular views of sparkling coves—some filled with moored boats, others solitary and inviting. Here the Med was a deep azure where the water met the jagged shoreline.

“The change from the turquoise of Antibes and Nice is so dramatic,” Kat exclaimed. “It’s a very different kind of beauty.”

Philippe nodded. “There are many who prefer one area to the other. Often with great vehemence.”

A brief stop in Saint-Raphaël signaled a change of scene as the train moved away from the sea for a while until it neared Toulon. They sped past quiet hamlets and farms with low outbuildings, surrounded by seemingly endless rows of grapevines, some still showing their autumn colors. They passed olive groves and fields green with winter wheat, and spotted here and there the last of the season’s figs still stubbornly clinging to branches.

Kat was enchanted to see several villages perched on outcroppings or huddled in wide valleys and was reminded of the strict regulations in France that control the colors of walls, shutters, and roofs. There were isolated, vine-covered, stone farmhouses and rambling barns that led her to wonder about the histories forever captured in their thick walls. A glimpse of the particular blue of a swimming pool at times made it clear the ancient and the new coexisted, if not always happily.

“As they should,” Philippe said when Kat remarked on the contrast. “Ancient plumbing is not romantic, in spite of how you see it.”

Rocky outcroppings came into view occasionally, and forested hills appeared as they neared Toulon and moved well into the Var region. Philippe pointed to some good hiking areas they might try one day.

He explained that their timing for this trip to Lyon was perfect, as they would be there during the renowned Fête des Lumières, when much of the city and many of its most beautiful buildings were lit with spectacular displays of colorful lights, many of them animated and set to music. “It’s going to be crowded. People come from all around the world to see the lights. Millions of them. The
fête
lasts four days and there’s a massive party throughout the city. You have to make restaurant reservations months in advance—unless you know my cousin Armand.

“The legend is that the Virgin Mary saved the city from the plague and, to thank her, a statue was built in 1852. On the day it was erected, the whole city was lit by candles that its citizens had put in their windows.”

After leaving Marseille, the train turned north, its engine kicked into high gear, and Le Train à Grande Vitesse lived up to its name.

Philippe dug into his backpack and pulled out a gift-wrapped package. “You’ll like this.”

“Forgive me if I don’t talk much for the rest of the trip,” Kat said after she had unwrapped a guidebook to Lyon, and she spent much of the rest of the journey reading about the history of the city.

The first time she looked up was when the train stopped in Aix-en-Provence. Katherine was surprised by how soon they had reached the town.

“Only ten minutes! But I didn’t see Sainte-Victoire,” she said. “We always see it on the drive.”

The barren, imposing Montagne Sainte-Victoire near Aix—painted more than two hundred times by Cézanne—commanded their attention whenever they went there by car but was nowhere to be seen from the train.

“Instead I’m looking at a nuclear reactor. It’s not the same,” she said, and she buried herself back in the book. From time to time, Philippe nudged her to enjoy the scenery.

Fields of dried sunflowers reminded Kat of the golden vistas of Provence in June. Most of the fields were brown or yellow and looked dry, including vast vineyards at rest for the winter.

“Fields of solar panels aren’t on my wish list of things to see,” she muttered as they passed a huge installation.

“But they are part of modern life,” Philippe said. “Just like those windmills over there, providing electricity with today’s technology.”

“No-o-o-o,” Katherine cried. “I only want to see the Don Quixote type of windmills,
merci beaucoup
.”

Philippe shook his head. “
Une vraie romantique.
”

The hills of the Luberon, still green in spite of winter’s approach, appeared in the distance as the train approached Valence. Soon they were traveling through a vast patchwork of fields that were mute testimony to the agricultural importance of the area. Tractors and other heavy machinery were at work, turning the fields and preparing furrows for spring planting. Katherine set her book aside and, undeterred by the windows, took several photos.

“The shutter in my eye never stops when I’m in a landscape like this,” she said. “Let’s come back in the spring by car so we can stop at these old farms and explore the roads.”

“
Avec plaisir.
”

When the view again became unremarkable, Kat continued reading.

Some minutes later, she rested the open book in her lap. “I just read that Lyon was the heart of the Resistance during the Second World War. That movement fascinates me. One of the first places I want to visit is the Resistance Museum.”

“I’m putting it on the list.”

Suddenly the countryside vanished, and the train slowed down as it passed through the industrial areas on the outskirts of Lyon. Finally, the train stopped, and they stepped into one of the biggest and most crowded stations she had ever seen.

Philippe hailed a taxi outside the vast station for the final leg of their journey to Denise and Armand’s apartment on the edge of the old town. Soon they were climbing the four flights of stairs to their front door.

“This is another good reason to pack lightly when traveling in France.” Kat said, stopping to catch her breath even though Philippe was carrying her bag. “And I thought I was in good shape!”

“Stair climbing requires a special breathing technique,” Philippe teased.

The apartment door was ajar and, when she heard them arrive, Denise dashed out to greet them, while Armand held the door open wide.

“Pas juste!”
Denise exclaimed when Philippe told her they would only be staying for two days. “We want more time to get to know
cette charmante femme
who has captured your heart. You must promise to come again, and soon.”

“We will,” Philippe said. “We can’t possibly see everything in this short a time.”

Denise was as exuberant as her pixie-like appearance suggested. She was petite, with closely cropped dark hair that was streaked with pink and plum. Her violet eyes sparkled as she spoke, while her hands motioned nonstop.

Armand was short and sturdily built, with a quiet expression that belied a sense of humor as robust as his appetite. His closely shaven head and wire-rimmed glasses enhanced his academic appearance. He had studied in California, and his English was excellent.

After Philippe and Kat put their bags in the office-cum-guest-room and freshened up, the foursome headed out.

“Katherine, next year you and Philippe must come in November for le Beaujol’ympiades. It’s when we celebrate the arrival of the year’s Beaujolais Nouveau. The parties are
très amusantes
,” Denise said. They were walking through the old town and had stopped to look at one of the many posters announcing the previous month’s festivities.

Armand nodded, “No one welcomes le Beaujolais Nouveau better than the Lyonnais.”

Katherine smiled at this display of the love the French have for their wines, and the warmth of the cousins’ welcome allayed the slight anxiety she’d been feeling at the prospect of meeting Philippe’s wife’s family.

First on their hosts’ agenda as tour guides was a bus tour, to give them a sense of the city’s layout and an opportunity to see some of its enormous
trompe l’oeil
wall murals.

“We have a history of wall painting here, dating back to the Romans,” Armand said. “There are over two hundred outdoor murals, and some of our modern fresco painters are known throughout the world. Did you know we are a UNESCO World Heritage Site?”

He was obviously proud of his city. And he had good reason to be, Kat thought. It was a lovely place, and the nineteenth-century architecture at its heart reminded her a little of Paris. “The main difference that I can see,” she said, “is all the avant-garde installations.”

“There’s some cutting-edge art here,
bien sûr
,” Denise said. “A good example is what’s happening in the new area of Confluence in the Presqu’île district, where the Rhône and the Saône rivers join together. There used to be only slaughterhouses and prisons there, but it’s being redeveloped and promises to be a showcase of modern architecture. There’s an eclectic mix of style in Lyon.”

Armand pointed out the imposing Basilica of Notre Dame de Fourvière, which overlooked the city from atop a hill in the old quarter.

“It makes me think of Sacré Coeur, except it is all towers instead of domes,” Kat said.

“We lovingly refer to it as
l’éléphant renversé
, the upside-down elephant!”

“Some of us do,” corrected Denise, poking him in the ribs. “Personally, I love its look.”

The bus drove on through narrow streets lined with five-story buildings to La Place des Terreaux. The openness of the square tempted them off the bus for an espresso break in a café near the impressive fountain of a woman driving four charging horses.

“Here’s what you should know about this square,” Armand said once they were settled inside the café. “It was originally the site of the pig market—because, you know, Lyon is famous for its pork—and also of public executions. The two weren’t held on the same day, I don’t think. We don’t hold either of them any more, for which the pigs thank us, I’m sure.”

He grinned, and Denise snorted. “Ask me how many times I’ve heard these stories.”

“So, to continue, the intricate sculpture in the fountain is the work of Bartholdi, creator of the Statue of Liberty, and it represents the Garonne River and its four tributaries rushing to the sea. But you must see it lit up at night.”

“He’s right,” Denise agreed.
“C’est incroyable.”

“Merci à mon assistante,”
Armand said, raising his cup in a toast. Denise stood and curtsied.

Armand cleared his voice and went on. “The Hôtel de Ville, that exquisite edifice you see at the end of the square, which is our city hall, was first constructed in the mid 1600s. Twenty-five years later, a fire destroyed most of it, but it was rebuilt shortly afterward. In 1792, during the sitting of the Revolutionary Court, our national anthem, the Marseillaise, was sung in public here for the first time. Lots of towns—and Paris, of course—like to claim to be the first . . . and so do we!”

He proceeded to sing a few bars, and Philippe joined in to give Kat a rousing rendition while Denise buried her face in her hands. Their laughter prompted people at several other tables to join in.

Fully re-caffeinated, they waited at the bus stop to continue the tour.

As they left the square, Denise said, “He didn’t mention that the
carillon
in
l’hôtel
is one of the largest in Europe, with sixty-five bells. It plays on Sunday evenings in the summer and once a week the rest of the year. It will play during the
fête
, so you will hear it.”