Amour Provence (5 page)

I
t was imperative that Filou lie low for a few days like a fox in his den. He skirted the villages of Serret and Beaucastel in his white
camionnette
, and just before the wrought-iron gates of Domaine Petitjean he pulled the little truck onto a dirt track and parked where he wouldn't be seen. There was always a place at his friend Liliane Perra's that he could borrow in an emergency, though when he was a boy the hideout had been nothing more than a hut for a
troupeau
of goats. Filou had a key for the low door half blocked by the trunk of a gigantic fig tree that crawled its way over the roof. He remembered the taste of those figs in season when he would pluck them warm and meltingly honeyed right off the branch. But now, in early spring, the leaves were barely out.

The wooden door made a cracking noise as he pushed his way in, setting off eager howls from Clément Perra's hunting dogs penned at the back of the house. Filou carefully
eased the door closed behind him, hoping they'd settle down. The small space had been renovated to lodge a hired hand some years before, when Liliane and Clément had expanded the domaine's wine production. A cement floor had been poured, the walls shored up, and a few amenities added, including a small gas heater, a kitchenette, and the sole decor, a circular mirror in a plastic pearlized frame. The view from the single window looked over a bank of aloe plants that pointed their fleshy, knife-tipped leaves upward as if indicating the direction to the turreted pink château that dominated the upper village of Beaucastel. Filou sat down on the lumpy mattress of the old iron bedstead and pulled from his knapsack a set of rose-dotted sheets and a carmine towel that he'd taken from the closet at home where Pierrette kept the household linens. Then he put his head in his hands, ready to berate himself for everything that had happened.

At forty-three, Félix Rabaute, known to everyone as Filou, still had the physique of a young man. Though not particularly tall, he was perfectly proportioned with a pleasant face made interesting by a strong, slightly prognathous jaw. During the days of his youth, he'd worn his thick russet hair to his shoulders, a length that he felt expressed his iconoclastic nature. But now that his hairline was beginning to recede, not wanting to display any signs that might signal a diminution of virility, he regularly shaved his head. His eyebrows, dark and glossy as bird's wings, made his green-eyed gaze alternately unsettling or attractively magnetic depending on who was at the receiving end. Above all, Filou was a man who possessed uncanny
endurance, an attribute that had served him well in life. Many stories were told about Filou and his special abilities, especially in Beaucastel, where he'd been born, and where he still sometimes worked as a carpenter and jack-of-all-trades. A favorite was the tale of Filou's ski vacation when he'd carried a woman with a twisted ankle ten kilometers through the Alpine snow at night, delivering her to the local hospital and then staying out until dawn with three Swiss stewardesses he met at a chalet bar who invited him back to their hotel, where he further proved his legendary stamina.

In his youth, women behaved around Filou the way besotted honeybees might conduct themselves in a field of overblown roses. Perhaps it was the muscles that undulated just beneath the surface of his forearms that attracted them, or his legs, brawny enough to scale walls and jump from roof to roof, where he was often seen adjusting the red clay tiles that served to protect against what little rain was shed in Provence. If it wasn't his singular looks or his phenomenal strength, perhaps it was his love of adventure that did it—the camping trips through the wilds of Corsica, his enthusiasm for discovering isolated beaches in Slovenia, painted caves in Puglia, or white-water kayaking in the Ardèche. As soon as he scraped enough money to leave, he'd be off, and the girls would miraculously follow. That's how it had once been! But now there was Pierrette, whom he'd lived with for seven years and who had come to believe that, despite his nature, Filou should evolve into that most desirable of mates, a one-woman man.

A knocking brought him to his feet and his friend Liliane
pushed through the ill-fitting door, causing the dogs to recommence their howling.

“I thought that might be you,” she said. “What's going on?”

Filou sighed.

“Oh no,” said Liliane. “What have you been up to?”

“Just taking life as it comes.
Carpe diem!
” he exclaimed with a desperate gesture of his hands.

“My dear Filou, when are you going to grow up!?” Liliane put her fists on her hips and gazed at him, a disappointed look on her face. “You're not a youngster anymore. It's 1980! Besides, Pierrette's an independent woman who doesn't have to put up with this kind of behavior. You're going to lose her!”

Liliane was still a handsome woman with a pleasing figure despite having had five children. Her fine chestnut hair that showed no gray was pulled back in a chignon. Of course, as Filou well knew, she wasn't what she'd been as an adolescent when she had whiled away summer days lying on a chaise longue in a miasma of perfumed suntan oil that had made her splendid body gleam like expensive quartz. Filou had been a mere boy then and the lovely Liliane the object of his devotion. He would drift over to Domaine Petitjean each day, deserting his classmates, who he felt frittered away their summers playing pointless games in Beaucastel's dusty square. Instead, he was eager to fulfill Liliane's every wish, mostly having to do with running to the town's
épicerie
in order to purchase cellophane bags of potato chips and select the frostiest bottles of Fanta from the rusty electric ice chest that stood out front. He and Liliane
had shared this bounty together and talked until the sun descended behind the cypress trees, at which point Liliane would wrap a towel around her glorious form and bid him good-bye. “You're the most intelligent and interesting boy I know,” she often told her adoring slave, and Filou had hoped she would feel that way forever.

By the time he was thirteen and she was eighteen, Liliane represented much more than the pleasure of a snack of salty chips and fizzy orange drink imbibed in female company. The daughter of vintners with a large landholding, Liliane came from quite a different background than Filou, whose own father had disappeared years before, leaving his mother to eke out a living selling produce in the nearby town of Saint-Maxence. For Filou, Liliane was the forbidden fruit, within reach, but never to be touched. And to his chagrin there were others who began to come around, older boys who seemed to have more of a claim on Liliane than he ever would. Finally, when Clément appeared on the scene, all was lost. Filou realized in his young heart that his love for Liliane had been hopeless, and he determined that this would be the last time that he would ever allow an unrequited passion to overtake him. His philosophy became to pursue and conquer, and if things didn't quickly work themselves out in the way he desired, he'd be off to something new before the undecided female could say, “Don't go!”

“Who was it this time?” Liliane asked him. “You haven't had to move into our little room for quite a while now. She must have been a bombshell!” Filou noticed that an amused smile flickered across his friend's face despite her accusing tone.

He shrugged. “I was working in Serret yesterday replacing some joists on Madame de Laubry's roof when
tiens
! I thought I recognized someone going into the place across the street. When a light came on in the upstairs window, I saw that it was her, Victorine Duruy! Someone I'd known years ago. I felt that I must at least say hello. She immediately recognized me and was more charming than ever, in fact, even better-looking than she'd been as a girl.” Filou made a motion with his hands to show Liliane what he meant. “Then Victorine invited me in for a drink.”

“And that was that,” said Liliane.

“Well yes,” said Filou. “I got home a bit later than usual. I don't know how Pierrette could possibly have guessed, but this morning before she left for work she told me to pack my things and get out!”

“
Ma foi
, Filou, what's going to happen now between you and Pierrette? And little Françoise and Gaspard! What's to become of them? Those children need you, Filou. You can't desert them!”

Filou rubbed his face with his callused hands and said, “I know, I know. I really am not sure what I'm going to do.”

“Well, I can't advise you.” Liliane shook her head. “But I do know that Pierrette deserves better than a man who can't resist any woman who happens to walk by with a friendly look on her face.”

Filou's forehead creased and his lips turned down in a clownlike grimace. Liliane patted him on the shoulder. “Why don't you come into the house and we'll have a coffee. I'm busy making a cake for Berti to take on a picnic with her friends.”

As they walked through Liliane's garden everything was the yellow-green of spring. Easter had been celebrated the Sunday before. Filou made a bonfire that day because the mistral was blowing, bringing a cold snap from the north, and he and his children had played horseshoes in the garden, Françoise in her red wool jacket and Gaspard, who was now a big boy of six, refusing to put on a coat because Filou never did. But that morning at Liliane's, it seemed that the warm days had finally arrived, even though Filou felt a particular chill that wasn't relieved by the glow of sunshine. He knew difficult days lay ahead and that he had brought them upon himself.

As the two drew close to the house, Liliane's daughter Berti appeared on the kitchen steps. “
Bonjour
, Filou,” she said. The sight of the teenager broke Filou's somber mood. Berti was in her last year at lycée and looked like her mother when Liliane had been in her prime. They were both petite and voluptuous, but instead of Liliane's straight hair, Berti had a tousle of wild jet curls and she'd inherited the olive complexion of her father. If Berti hadn't been the Perras' daughter and if Filou had been just a bit younger . . . But these things didn't bear thinking about. He would never touch Berti Perra!

The sudden noise of a growling engine made them all turn, and Clément Perra's green Peugeot sped through the gate. As he braked, the car swerved, almost mowing the two of them down. Instead of apologizing, Clément shook his fist through the cranked-down window of the car and shouted, “Damn it, Liliane! Max Boyer says he's been telephoning the house all morning and getting no response. He
finally got Bonfils to come get me. It's your job to answer the damned phone!” He threw open the car door, his gray hair a mass of tight waves close as a sheep's hide, and stomped toward them.

Filou was well aware that Clément Perra had a temper. He'd once seen him throw a punch at a fellow vintner at a village fête, and even in public Clément never hesitated to reach out and cuff his children if one of them displeased him. But Filou had never seen him behave this way with Liliane. After all, it was she who had inherited Domaine Petitjean from her parents, and she who had been in large part responsible for the improved fortunes of the family's business. Everyone knew that despite his skill as a winemaker, Clément could be irrational and difficult. It was Liliane's charm and savoir faire in dealing with distributors, wine experts, and the public that had been the real key to their success. So it didn't surprise Filou when Liliane drew herself up and said, “Clément
chéri
, Berti and I have been here all morning and the phone hasn't rung once!”

“That's true,” said Berti. Her hands clenched the stair banister as she stared at her father, wide-eyed as a frightened doe.

“Ah bon?”
Clément leaned toward the women like a lizard about to bite. “It happens that the prefect of police in Marseille has arranged a wine tasting for his top-echelon people and he was given the name of Domaine Petitjean. Luckily I was able to contact the
préfecture
in time! The group arrives at five o'clock. I'll need you both here to receive them!” He pointed at Berti. “And not in those filthy blue jeans!”

“Berti's leaving for a picnic,” said Liliane.

“Oh no she's not!” said Clément. Then he turned to Filou. “What the hell are you doing lurking around here?”

Filou smiled and replied, “And good morning to you too, Clément.”

Without responding, Clément stormed into the house.

“As soon as I have my
bac
I'm leaving just like my sisters did!” Berti said, her voice quavering. “He drove them away and it will be the same for me!” When she began to cry quietly, Filou's heart flew out to her. He remembered that Berti's eldest sister, Marguerite, had left for Canada before she'd even finished lycée. The word was that except for a single letter to Liliane, Marguerite had never again been in touch with the family. The next daughter, Pati, hadn't let grass grow under her feet either and immediately found a job at a bank in Belgium after graduation.

Everyone wondered why Clément Perra was so strict and inflexible with his children, especially his daughters. Over the years, the same facts and conjectures about him had been endlessly repeated by his neighbors in an effort to figure him out. He'd come from a French family who, for generations, had owned a farm in Algeria, so long in fact that not one among them had ever visited mainland France. When the war for Algeria's independence ended, the family was forced to emigrate and begin all over again in Provence. Some said that Clément was not really rooted in the French way of life the way they were because he remained faithful to the antiquated customs of the Algerian countryside, where women were chained to the home, dominated first by their fathers, then their husbands, never free to do as they wished. But Clément was nearly as strict with his sons and
his aggressive behavior remained a conundrum.