There's Something About St. Tropez (17 page)

 

 

From his table in a shadowy corner of the dining room, half-hidden by a potted palm tree, Bertrand kept an eye on his fellow hotel guests. Not that there was anything particularly fascinating about any of them, except for the mysterious group from Chez La Violette, the Riders on the Storm, as he liked to call them. But anyway they were not here tonight.

Most of the hotel guests were family groups who kept to themselves, though their young children eyed Bertrand sneakily, giggling behind their hands, and people at neighboring tables glanced his way, talking softly to each other. Everybody knew Bertrand's story and he knew they were speculating about his mother.

He stared fixedly at the basket of bread on his table. He did not want their sympathy, nor their curiosity in the guise of friendship. By now he was used to being alone. He didn't care. He had his own secret world when he was free from their prying eyes and pitying looks, prowling the narrow daytime streets of St. Tropez and emerging at night from his bedroom window, fluttering like a bat in his dark cape.

On those nights, when he was alone, prowling, observing people through his binoculars, he found a kind of freedom. He was seeing how “real” people lived. What they were really like, those proper families, in houses they called “home,” with mothers and fathers who were there every night, and brothers and sisters who yelled at each other and played and who never had to worry about what their mother was up to and whether she would return to pay the hotel bill and collect him.

He was Bertrand the Observer. Sometimes though, he imagined he was
the Terminator, Arnold Schwarzenegger, or Harry Potter, or even Johnny Depp, Pirate Scourge of the Caribbean. But right now he was just hungry.

Bertrand wrote all his observations in his journal. A “Scientific Experiment” he called it. It made him feel special. Superior even. For once in his life he felt better than other boys.

“Bertrand?”

His head shot up.

The chef in his whites, tall hat perched on his lofty forehead, a smile hidden behind his fluffy black mustache, placed a dish in front of him. He beamed sympathetically at the lonely boy. “I made it specially for you.”

It was a whole spiny Mediterranean lobster, the kind without claws and whose meat, Bertrand knew, was the sweetest. He took a deep breath of pleasure. It was the best treat anyone could have given him.

“
Monsieur de la cuisine
, I am thanking you from my heart,” he said, speaking in French of course. Then, “And from my stomach,” he added with a grin that lit up his face so that for once he looked like the eleven-year-old he was.

“Enjoy, enjoy,” the chef said. Gossip amongst the staff was not good. Madame Olivier had not been in contact and the hotel bill was growing daily, but no one was prepared to see the boy starve and everyone looked out for him. Soon, however, something would have to be done, and that might involve calling the child safety authorities.

He patted Bertrand's head, frowning as he noticed the newly jagged fringe of blond hair, shaking his own head muttering about bad parents as he turned and walked away.

Bertrand tackled the lobster. The back was already cracked open and he scooped out the tender white meat with the special little fork, not even bothering to dip it in the melted butter or the garlic aioli. He liked it pure. Closing his eyes he let the flavor hit him.

In no time he'd finished the lobster and was thinking about ice cream for dessert, worrying a bit about the cost. As though reading his mind, a waiter scooped the empty plate from in front of him and replaced it with a bowl of his favorite mocha-hazelnut.

“Spoiled, that's what you are,” the waiter said with a grin.

Bertrand thanked him. He decided he would eat it very, very slowly, make it last as long as possible.

The perfect summer day was fading gently into night. It was that magical moment when the sea and the sky seemed to meld into a backlit neon blue and life was suddenly stilled. Even the birds had stopped their calling and were headed home, and the two white peacocks trailed silently across
the lawn, drooping tails sweeping behind them like the trains of wedding dresses. A lone sailboat, a seventy-footer, Bertrand estimated, rolled gently in the nearby cove and as he watched a man climbed into its dinghy and made for the shore, the harsh
phut phut
of its engine shattering the silence.

Bertrand wished he had his binoculars so he could read the name on the boat. He watched as the dinghy came alongside the hotel's small wooden jetty and the man climbed out, tied it up then headed up the path to the Hôtel des Rêves. A couple of minutes later, he strode into the hotel and into the dining room.

He looked to be in his forties, tall and handsome, dark hair tinged with silver, suntanned and outdoorsy. He nodded a pleasant
bonsoir
to the other guests, as was the French custom, then took a seat at a table in the courtyard, where Bertrand could still see him. A waiter hurried to him with a menu and the wine list. The man ordered something and the waiter went away, then came back a few minutes later carrying a drink on a small tray.

Caroline Cavalaire came into the dining room. She had finished her work shift and had on her dark blue jacket, though she had taken off her name badge. Bertrand watched her walk over to the man from the sailboat and shake his hand. She was smiling and obviously knew him well.

Bertrand wondered who he was. He was not French, probably Italian. He decided he would check out the sailboat and went back to his ice cream.

A couple of minutes later the normal dining room buzz of conversation suddenly ceased. Bertrand glanced up, puzzled.

The girl in the short orange tutu stood in the entrance, feet in fifth ballet position, the tiara that spelled out “Princess” perched on her head, a tiny Chihuahua clutched to her chest.

Bertrand remembered only too well how he had bumped into her and dropped his binoculars. He blushed at the memory. He had seen her a second time, though then she was with her father, who he'd heard call her Little Laureen. He thought she looked petulant and sulky and just knew she was spoiled rotten.
And oh my God she was heading toward his table!

Little Laureen stopped a couple of feet away. She looked directly at him. Bertrand looked silently back. He was definitely not going to say hello. He did not want to know her. He did not want to be her friend. In fact he never wanted to see her again.

Little Laureen wished she could see the boy's eyes but those dumb glasses hid them. Why didn't his mother get him better ones so he didn't have to look so stupid? And he was sullen too. Just look how he avoided her eyes. And really
skinny
. Still, he was the only “interesting” kid there. All
the others were just the regular little monsters you met in school, always screaming and yelling and pulling faces and always wanting to know too much. She'd bet this boy wouldn't want to know too much. And she liked that.

“
Bonsoir. Je m'appelle
Laureen,” she said.

Bertrand swallowed the nervous lump in his throat that threatened to render him speechless. Head down, he nodded.
“Petite Laureen,”
he said finally.

Laureen took another step toward him, still clutching the Chihuahua, who tonight sported a brand-new jeweled red collar.

“How did you know that?” she said in English.

“I heard him talking to you.”

“Daddy?”

Bertrand nodded.

Laureen stepped closer. She was actually at his table now. Bertrand considered getting up and running but decided it would cause a commotion and he didn't want to draw attention to himself. Reluctantly, he allowed himself to look at her.

She wasn't pretty, but then nor was he. It was something they had in common. And there was something else about her that struck a familiar chord. An air of loneliness? But how could it be? She was here with her father, and now also that whole bunch of Riders on the Storm.

His eyes widened in shock as Laureen pulled out a chair and plumped down opposite him, settling the dog on her lap.

“Could I have a taste of your ice cream?”

Her smooth round face had that indifferent expression as if she did not care one way or the other.

Bertrand pushed the bowl over to her. The ice cream was melting rapidly and she dipped a pudgy finger in then licked it.

“Good,” she said.

She still did not smile and neither did he.

Then, “Why are you here alone?” she asked.

Bertrand shut his eyes, as though a great pain had run through his head. The worst had happened. She had gotten to the very core of his despair.

“No one ever asks me that,” he managed to say after a long silence during which Petite Laureen sat patiently stroking the little dog.

“No one ever asks me either.”

Bertrand opened his eyes again. He took a cautious look at her. “But you are not alone.”

“Yes I am.” Her china blue eyes looked straight into his. “Because my mother is dead you see.”

Bertrand saw the quick flash of pain in the blue eyes that he thought were the only pretty thing about her.

He said, “And
my
mother has gone away. I don't know if she'll come back.” He coughed loudly, wishing he had never admitted it. But
she
had admitted the truth, hadn't she? And he could tell she wasn't the kind who went around talking to everybody.

Laureen dipped another finger into the melted ice cream. She licked it off, thoughtfully.

“Where's your father?”

Bertrand explained quickly that he did not have one.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. They were both aware of the eyes of the diners at neighboring tables on them. Laureen turned her head and gave them her best intimidating stare. Then abruptly, she pushed back her chair and said, “
Eh bien
, Bertrand Olivier. You speak good English.”

Bertrand felt that awful blush again. “My mother is English,” he muttered.

Looking at him, Laureen recognized a fellow sufferer. He was as lonely as she was, and she knew it was because of that loneliness they had both chosen to be different. Both were hiding their sense of loss: she the mother who had died, and he the mother who had simply left him behind. They were alike.

“Au revoir,”
she said. And with a flutter of orange tulle and the little dog clasped to her chest, she stalked past the curious diners and out of the room.

A short while later, from the dining room window, Bertrand spotted her walking the Chihuahua slowly down the path that led to the beach. The tiny Chihuahua seemed to float ghostlike behind her in the blue dusk. She looked as lonely as he felt.

Bertrand got up and ran to the kennel to pick up Pirate. It was time to take him for that walk.

 

22.

 

 

First though, Bertrand had to go back to his room for the binoculars. He did not take the cape, simply tucked the binoculars under his arm as out of sight as possible.

The barman gave him a wave as he trotted across the hall and down the front steps with Pirate limping excitedly next to him. He headed along the same path Little Laureen had taken. It led to the beach which he knew would be deserted at this time of night and he quickened his pace.

When he got to where the path ran down the gentle incline to the sand, he put the binoculars round his neck, opened up their metal “lids” and focused on the dinghy. It was still tied to the jetty. He quickly scanned the horizon for the sailboat. It was lit up, flags flying, and its name was
Blue Picasso
. Next he scanned the beach. There was no sign of Laureen.

Pirate pulled on his lead, snuffling in the grass above the cove, and Bertrand followed, up the small incline, letting the dog take him where he wanted. The cool night air was pure, breathing it felt like drinking clear spring-water, and around the point the lights of St. Tropez town sparkled like Little Laureen's tiara.

Finding a pebble he dribbled it along, pretending it was a soccer ball and that he was David Beckham, the soccer “star” of Europe. But he was clumsy, his sneaker skimmed over the top and he lost the pebble in the darkness. Then he saw her.

She was sitting at the water's edge, staring into the dark blue night. She was hunched over, arms wrapped around her knees. As though she had a pain in her stomach, Bertrand thought.

He stood, watching her until Pirate spotted the Chihuahua, a small indistinct blob at Little Lauren's side. Pirate gave a low growl.

Laureen spun round, eyes wide with fright.

“Oh,” she said recognizing him. “It's you.”

Bertrand did not mention having seen her walking along the path to the beach and that he had followed her. “Why aren't you with your father?” he said instead.

She turned back to her contemplation of the sea. The waves shushed softly at her feet and the Chihuahua whined pitifully. Laureen scooped it up and held it close. “Daddy's gone into town with the others. I told him I wanted to stay here.”