Anything Considered (7 page)

He glanced at his watch as he passed the signs for Cannes and Antibes. Too late for lunch. Anyway, he was anxious to see his summer lodgings, to take in the rarefied air of the place that Brynford-Smith had always called, with a hint of envious resentment, Millionaires-sur-Mer, and to start living life according to Poe. He turned off the autoroute at Nice and took the road that curls along the coast, past Villefranche, Beaulieu, and Éze, remembering all the good times he had spent with various girls in various hotels in the days when the fitting end to a successful shoot in Paris had been a weekend on the Riviera. Scouting for locations, they’d called it, until the company accountant had put his foot down when Bennett tried to justify the purchase and consumption of a magnum of ’73 Margaux as refreshments for the crew.

He came into Monaco, feeling suddenly shabby in his small and dusty car, turned right to take the road down to the port, and then stopped to get his bearings.

Monaco is tiny. The entire principality would fit comfortably into New York’s Central Park, and so expansion and development over the years has been upward, with most of the twenty thousand or so residents living in scaled-down skyscrapers. The senior resident, being a prince and the current representative of the world’s oldest ruling family, has more spacious quarters—a palace, complete with a band, a palace guard, and a battery of antique cannons to repel any invaders prepared to drag themselves
away from the gambling tables. Police are faultlessly dressed and numerous. Crime is something one reads about in the foreign press. It is a place where a man can be at peace with his money.

Bennett drove slowly around the port, turned up the hill that lead to the casino, and found the ramp descending to the parking area beneath the Residence Grimaldi. He used his key to operate the security barrier, made his way cautiously past the protruding snout of a white Rolls-Royce, and pulled into the vacant space next to Poe’s Mercedes. It was all as Shimo had said it would be. He got out and eased his back, while he looked around what could have been an underground showroom for the better class of automobile. His Peugeot was by far the smallest and easily the dirtiest car to be seen. He wondered if they fined you in Monaco for being in possession of an unwashed vehicle.

The elevator was carpeted and mirrored, and it took him up to the penthouse with a resigned hydraulic sigh, as if unused to carrying such an elderly and travel-worn suitcase. Bennett crossed a small hallway, and unlocked the door, blank except for the round black eye of a peephole.

Poe was clearly a man who liked the grand view. Through the glass wall of the sitting room, beyond the terrace, with its tubs of geraniums and oleanders, Bennett could see the rippling shimmer of the Mediterranean in the afternoon sun. The room itself was cool and modern, glass and brushed steel and leather, impersonal except for a few books, a stack of CDs by the stereo, and a collection
of framed, signed travel posters from the thirties, promoting the winter delights of Cannes and Monte Carlo. In the far corner, a spiral staircase led to the lower level, where Bennett found that the entire floor had been gutted to make one enormous master suite of bedroom, dressing room, and bathroom, a supremely selfish and comfortable arrangement. There was no provision for any overnight guest who wasn’t prepared to share Poe’s bed. Bennett put down his suitcase, opened the sliding doors, and stepped out onto a second, slightly smaller terrace, facing due east. A sunrise terrace. The air was soft, a good ten degrees warmer than in the Vaucluse, and as he looked down at the small sailboats tacking their way across the sheen of the bay, Bennett felt that his luck had changed. Summer here was not going to be a hardship.

Unpacking could wait. There were errands to do, the Mercedes to be exercised, parking tickets to be gathered. He took the elevator down to the garage and spent a few minutes sitting in Poe’s car, adjusting the seat and mirrors, enjoying the scent of leather, the solid, bank vault sound of the door closing, the growling echo of the engine as he started her up. It was a different world from the baby Peugeot, and encouraged a different, more relaxed style of driving. A right-of-way seemed to come with the car, and Bennett noticed an unusual deference from other drivers. Or perhaps it was just that traffic squabbles, like crime, poverty, and income tax, were not permitted to disturb the orderly, agreeable rhythm of Monegasque life.

Bennett made several stops—for wine, bread, coffee, milk, and a celebratory pair of Armani sunglasses—but failed to pick up a ticket. Was a Mercedes immune? He decided to test the forbearance of the police, and left the car beside the steps to the casino while he went across the road to the Café de Paris, stopping at the entrance to buy a copy of Gault Millau’s restaurant bible. He chose a table on the terrace and ordered a beer from a waiter who was still displaying the early-season smile that would turn into an overworked scowl by August.

From his seat in the sun, Bennett enjoyed a view deluxe. To his left, the Rococo pile of the casino, once known to its less fortunate patrons as the cathedral of hell; to his right, the sculptures and meticulously clipped and watered casino gardens, a platoon of gardeners moving slowly through the palm trees in search of any weed foolish enough to try its luck in such exalted surroundings; directly opposite, the Hôtel de Paris, birthplace of the
crêpe Suzette
, and conveniently placed for any guests with an urge to invest in roulette and blackjack. Bennett watched the obsequious flurry at the hotel entrance as an extremely old man, accompanied by an extremely blond girl, emerged and frowned up at the sun before inching his way across to the casino, where willing hands massaged him up the steps and into the permanent twilight of the gaming rooms.

The beer arrived, and with it a ticket informing Bennett that it would cost him thirty francs, exactly three times what Léon charged him in the café at Saint-Martin. But
what the hell, Bennett thought. Tonight he’d be signing rather than paying, and he turned to the pages of his Gault Millau for inspiration. He studied the descriptions of the three restaurants that Poe had designated, and decided to start at the top, with the cooking of Alain Ducasse at Louis XV, one of the dozen restaurants in France to be given a rating of 19 out of 20, and almost certainly more expensive than anywhere he had eaten in years. He was glad he’d missed lunch.

The thought of dinner reminded him of his homework—a little light forgery, the training of his hand in the peaks and swoops of the Poe signature. He tipped the waiter, received a nod in return, walked over to the Mercedes—to find, at last, a parking ticket. He slipped it into his pocket with the sense of a mission accomplished, and drove around the corner to his new home.

The evening sun was still on the terrace, its residual glow gilding the walls of the living room. Bennett looked through Poe’s musical library, mostly opera—he wondered idly if his mother was anywhere to be heard in the chorus—and chose a selection of arias sung by Freni. Music to forge by, he thought. Did this constitute a crime, or did the permission of the signature’s owner excuse any wrongdoing? Well, it was academic. Here he was, and Poe he’d be. He settled on the couch in front of the coffee table with a pad of paper and the specimen signature, turning it upside down, as Poe had suggested, for the first few attempts. It reminded him of school punishments: write one hundred times
I must not chatter in class. A prolix boy is an
ignorant boy
. Copying a mere four letters was easier, and within an hour, his version of
J
.
Poe
resembled the real thing closely enough to pass the scrutiny of a bored waiter.

His eye was caught by one of the books on the table—a square black volume with a photograph of a rough, grimy hand holding a pockmarked black lump. The title, reversed out in white, read:
La Truffe: The Mysteries of the Black Diamond
. He flicked through it. There were photographs of dogs digging in the earth, of more grimy hands holding truffles, or wads of banknotes, of creased and weather-beaten faces. And at the beginning of a chapter headed “Truffle Swindles,” there were several sheets of paper covered with notes and figures in Poe’s bold black handwriting. Curious, Bennett took them out to read over dinner.

His own knowledge of truffles was not altogether limited to the occasional extravagant meal. It was impossible to live in France for any length of time without becoming aware of the importance—indeed, reverence—with which these pungent fungi were regarded; they were the black, misshapen jewels in the crown of
la France gastronomique
. Their prices were reported in newspapers. Their quality, which varied from year to year, was discussed in bars and restaurants all over the country. Their superiority over the white Italian truffle was proclaimed by patriot gourmets from Lille to Carcassonne, and God help anyone who disagreed. In Anglo-Saxon countries, cleanliness is said to rank next to
godliness; but the French give the stomach precedence over soap and water, and the truffle is an icon. In fact, it was not unknown for the village church at Saint-Martin to hold a truffle Mass in celebration of a particularly good season. In other words, truffles were very close to being sacred objects—with the added allure of being impossibly, riotously expensive. Or, with the right connections, free.

Bennett had once spent a bitter January day on the slopes of Mont Ventoux in the company of Georgette’s uncle Bertrand, whose winter occupation was
braconnage
, or poaching, of truffles. The whole village knew about it but kept their silence, bribed by Bertrand’s judicious distribution of the spoils. He never sold them. The thrill of finding them, the joy of not paying for them, the delight of eating them, these were reward enough. Uncle Bertrand worked with a low-slung, muscular dachshund bitch, and Bennett could still picture the two of them, the man on all fours probing gently with his truffle pick, the dog, taut with excitement, looking on. It had been a good day, ending in Bertrand’s kitchen with the best omelet Bennett had ever eaten. The thought of it made him reach for the phone.

He made his reservation at Louis XV, and checked that the account had been opened.
“Bien sûr, Monsieur Poe, bien sûr. À très bientôt
,
”
said the professionally welcoming voice at the other end of the phone. How pleasant people were to the rich, Bennett thought, and went downstairs to shower, the sound of
La Traviata
greeting him
from speakers in the bedroom and the Olympic-sized bathroom.

Half an hour later, dressed in a lightweight gray flannel suit, a white shirt, and a loosely knotted polka-dot bow tie that he hoped would give his appearance a touch of insouciant prosperity, he took a glass of wine out on the terrace and looked at the floodlit palms and the glittering coastline of Monaco by night. Glamour, that elusive and indefinable sense of magic, was in the air. One of the best dinners in Europe was awaiting him. All he lacked was a playmate, someone to share in his new life as a subsidized boulevardier. Tomorrow he’d make a couple of calls and see if any of his old girlfriends had managed to avoid the Volvo, the cottage in the country, and the two children that had taken so many of them out of circulation.

He went inside to refill his glass, stopped at the sound of the phone, and looked at his watch. Eight o’clock.

“This is Shimo. Is everything in order?”

“Couldn’t be better. I even managed to get a parking ticket.”

“So there are no problems? Nobody’s called?”

“No. Why? Is someone supposed to?”

There was a brief pause. “No, probably not. You have the number here?”

“Of course.”

“Good.”

Bennett looked at the phone, now buzzing in his hand, and shrugged. Our Mr. Shimo, he thought, is not one for a chat. Or else he’s late for his karate practice.

——

Two hundred miles away, Shimo was reporting to Poe. “He’s there. He says there are no problems and nobody’s called.”

Poe reached for the dish of black olives in front of him, chose one, and looked at it thoughtfully. “I don’t imagine he’ll call. You know how nervous he is about the phone. When is he due to deliver?”

“Saturday evening. I’ll call Bennett nearer the time and tell him to stay in the apartment.”

“Fine.” Poe bit into the olive. “It’s been a long time, Shimo, hasn’t it?”

The Japanese almost smiled. “Worth the wait, Mr. Julian. Worth the wait.”

——

Bennett was shown to his table in the great golden room, allowed himself to be persuaded to accept a glass of champagne, and reflected on the pleasures of dinner for one. He remembered the story told to him about an eligible man highly placed in London social circles, the target of every mother with a marriageable daughter. One particularly ambitious and persistent dowager, frustrated by his lack of immediate availability but determined to snare him, invited him to a dinner party three months ahead. With polite deliberation, he took out his pocket diary,
turned to the date in question, and shook his head sadly. “What a pity,” he said. “I’m dining alone that night.”

It was a story that appealed to Bennett. There was a solitary side to his nature, probably inherited from his father, and he occasionally liked nothing better than to eat and drink slowly and well without the distraction of small talk, to observe and eavesdrop if the other diners were sufficiently interesting, or to read if they weren’t.

Tonight’s batch, he thought, as he looked around the room, wouldn’t occupy his time for long: subdued, well-to-do, and barely clinging on to middle age, for the most part, with one or two classic specimens of the Riviera Girl—lithe, overjeweled, permanently bronzed, laughing on cue at the conversation of elderly escorts. By July, the boutiques of Monaco would be crawling with similar girls, the yachts festooned with them, the nightclubs clattering with the sounds of little
bijoux
picked up at Cartier or Bulgari, the campaign medals of the Riviera Girl. Bennett caught the eye of one of them—a beautiful Eurasian, with skin of palest saffron, wearing dark-green silk, matching emeralds, and an expression of polite boredom—and winked. Her gaze flicked up to a point two feet above his head. He turned his attention to the menu.