Wild Lavender (23 page)

She was about to say something else when Bentley returned with the maid and a tray of drinks. François shuffled along behind them, now wearing a smoking jacket and a cravat. His amorous mood seemed to have passed and he smiled at me before reaching into his pocket and taking out a small bag. ‘Leave the tray,’ he told the maid after she had served the drinks.

When the maid had gone, François removed the bottles and wiped the tray dry with a serviette. He opened the bag and tipped a pile of cocaine onto the mirrored surface.

‘Ah, a deck of snow,’ laughed Bentley. ‘You’re a better host than I thought, François.’ He reached into his pocket and opened a silver case, took out a calling card and handed it to François.

‘Most appropriate,’ said François, using the card to divide the powder into four lines. When he was finished he reached back into his pocket and pulled out four straws, handing us each one.

Bentley pushed the tray towards me. ‘The first one to greet the dawn wins,’ he said.

‘You go first,’ said Camille, sliding the tray back towards Bentley. ‘I’m sure Simone hasn’t done this before.’

‘Is that right?’ said Bentley, bending his head to the tray. ‘Then she hasn’t lived.’

He put the straw to one of his nostrils and, sealing the other with his finger, snorted the powder like an anteater sucking up insects. He sat back in his chair and blinked his watering eyes. Camille inhaled next, followed by François. Camille started to laugh but clenched her fists so tightly that a trickle of blood threaded out from where her nails dug into her palms. François moaned and pushed the tray towards me, but all I could think of was the man outside Le Chat Espiègle screaming that he had cockroaches crawling under his skin. I slid from my chair and opened the door to the drawing room.

The maid helped me with my wrap and gloves in the foyer. ‘Would Mademoiselle like to leave a message for Monsieur Duvernoy?’ she asked. I shook my head.

Out on the avenue, the morning was already breaking. The sun glistened on the roofs of the buildings and the branches of the tallest trees. There wasn’t a taxi in sight so I set off on foot towards the Arc de Triomphe, looking for a
métro
station.

W
hen Monsieur Volterra began planning the next show, Monsieur Etienne negotiated a better singing and dancing part for me—modern rather than comic. Most of the theatres in Paris, including the Casino, closed in August with rehearsals for the new shows starting in September. I could have joined one of the troupes touring the provinces over summer or expanded my nights at the Café des Singes. I chose to do neither, and gave up my job with Madame Baquet’s nightclub. I wanted to make a trip back to the farm for summer. I was lonely. Because of my age and what I did, I was isolated from normal life and even the other performers around me. The chorus girls didn’t want to know me and I wasn’t a big enough name to hang around with the stars. As my night at François’s apartment had shown, Camille and I were worlds apart. Odette was my only true friend, but because of her work and art classes and my odd hours, we rarely saw each other. I loved Paris, but it was time for a trip home.

I caught the overnight train to Pays de Sault, splurging on a second-class sleeping compartment so that I wouldn’t have to endure the discomfort of sitting upright all night. Bernard met me at the station, not in a sports car but a motor truck.

‘
Bonjour
, Simone. Welcome home,’ he said, and smiled. Bernard lifted my luggage into the tray then opened the
passenger door for me before climbing into the driver’s seat and revving up the engine. The southern sun burned through the windscreen. It was dazzling after the anaemic light of Paris. The pines shimmered under the blue sky and larks sang. The road was so bumpy I imagined the glass of milk I had drunk on the train churning into butter in my stomach.

I told Bernard about Montparnasse, the Café des Singes, my spot at the Casino de Paris and my dinner at Fouquet’s.

‘We have swapped lives,’ he said, a grin breaking out on his sun-bronzed face. ‘You have become civilised and I have gone wild.’

My gaze travelled from his hobnail boots to his cap. A film of perspiration glowed on his cheeks and forehead. He was a farmer now but he was anything but wild. His work trousers were pressed with a crease down the front of each leg, and the reek of scorched leather in the cabin was lifted by the scent of cologne floating up from his shirt collar.

The lavender harvest was over. Bernard told me it had been a success and that they planned to buy another still the following year. They were also hoping to purchase the Rucarts’ abandoned farm from the only heir, who lived in Digne. The old house was beyond repair but they wanted to restore the orchard and prepare the other fields for lavender.

‘A contact in Grasse says their scientists are developing a hybrid that is hardier than wild lavender and yields ten times as much oil,’ Bernard explained, sounding like my father in one of his entrepreneurial moods. ‘If it works out, we will need more land.’

We arrived at the farm in the afternoon. The cypress trees cast shadows over the sizzling road. My mother was standing in the yard with her hand shading her eyes, Bonbon on guard at her feet. Even from that distance I could see the little dog had put on weight; no doubt spoiled by Aunt Yvette’s cooking. We cleared the grove and my mother called out. Aunt Yvette burst through the beaded curtain in the kitchen doorway, a pan in her hand. Chocolat and Olly scampered after her.

Bernard pulled to a stop in the yard. I didn’t wait for him to open the door for me; I jumped out and ran to my mother. She rushed forward and clasped my head in her hands, punching kisses onto my cheeks. Her eyes brimmed with tenderness—and a hint of surprise, as if I were an apparition that had appeared out of the forest.

‘It is good to see you, Simone. But you won’t be staying long, will you? Not yet,’ she said, giving me one of her mysterious smiles.

‘Simone! Is that you?’ Aunt Yvette cried, leaving the pan on the windowsill and fiddling in her pocket for her glasses. She slipped them on and squinted at me. ‘Look at your hair!’ she said. ‘What have you done to it?’

I had forgotten that she might be shocked. The women in my village kept their hair long from childhood to death, and wore it tied up.

‘So the lavender harvest went well again?’ I asked, trying to deflect the attention away from my hair.

‘Even better than last year,’ beamed Aunt Yvette.

‘Where is Gerome?’ asked Bernard, lifting my suitcases from the truck and carrying them to the doorstep. ‘He would probably like to see Simone.’

‘He is sleeping just now,’ said Aunt Yvette. Turning to me, she explained, ‘We have converted the front parlour into a room for him. That way he can join in at mealtimes and watch the farm work without us having to drag him up and down the stairs.’

‘He’s better then?’ I asked, taking the glass of chilled wine my mother handed to me and sitting next to her on a bench in the yard. The trellis sagged with the weight of the wisteria blooms which dangled above me like bunches of grapes. The sugary scent attracted swarms of bees. One landed on my skirt, drunk with the sweetness of the nectar. It floundered on the material for a few moments, wings and legs flailing, before soaring off again.

‘He is improved,’ said Aunt Yvette, pulling up a chair. ‘He can sit up by himself and even says a few words now
and then. We didn’t need to get extra help in the end. Your mother and I can cope with him.’

My mother passed me a slice of melon and looked into my eyes. ‘Go and lie down before dinner,’ she said. ‘You look tired. We can talk more after you have rested.’

I lay down in one of the bedrooms in Aunt Yvette’s house, so exhausted by the journey that I didn’t bother to take off my dress. Bonbon jumped up on the bed and nestled next to me. I ran my fingers through her fur. She gazed at me before stretching her mouth into a yawn. She was my mother’s companion now, but I was pleased to see her again. I napped restlessly, the heat inducing a string of disjointed dreams about dancing at the Casino de Paris to the sound of a train’s squealing brakes.

‘Simone!’ my mother’s voice called from downstairs. I jolted upright, my heart thumping in my chest and my back damp with sweat. Bonbon had disappeared. Outside, the sun had set and a blue tinge glimmered in the early evening sky. I must have been asleep for hours.

I made my way downstairs, towards the sound of plates being set on the table and the scent of rosemary chicken. When I opened the kitchen door the flame in the hurricane lamp made me blink. Uncle Gerome sat at the head of the table. His expression was less contorted than the last time I had seen him, but one of his eyes was still clamped shut and his hair, always salt and pepper, was a shock of white.

My mother carved the chicken on the bench. Aunt Yvette, who was serving soup into bowls, paused the ladle mid-air and stared at me. ‘Simone, are you all right? You are so pale.’

‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘It’s the heat. I had forgotten what it was like.’

Bernard poured a glass of wine and held it up to Uncle Gerome’s lips so he could drink. I cleared my throat. ‘Hello,’ I said. I had spent most of my life fearing or hating Uncle Gerome but the sight of his twisted body threw me into confusion. I wanted to cry.

Uncle Gerome tilted his head. Rivulets of wine dribbled down his chin. His expression was glassy and it was impossible to tell if he had understood me or not.

‘Why is his arm in a sling?’ I asked Bernard as I took my place at the table.

‘He can’t feel it,’ Bernard said, wiping Uncle Gerome’s chin with a serviette. ‘He forgets sometimes that it is there so we have to bind it to prevent him catching it on something and wrenching it out of its socket.’

Uncle Gerome emitted a groan then muttered, ‘Pierre?’

‘No, it is Simone,’ Bernard corrected him. ‘Your niece.’

‘Pierre?’ Uncle Gerome repeated. ‘Pierre?’ He began to sob. The plea in his voice wrenched my insides. I glanced at my mother and Aunt Yvette. They sliced tomatoes and garlic cloves as if nothing were wrong. How could they not be unhinged by that pitiful sound?

‘Don’t be upset, Simone,’ Bernard whispered. ‘He is not unhappy. The doctor said it is normal for stroke victims to cry for no reason.’

I winced. Bernard and I both knew that wasn’t true. We were listening to the sounds of a man buried alive, trapped in the coffin of his body. What Uncle Gerome was suffering was worse than death. He didn’t have the peace of unconsciousness. He was aware of all his regrets; they paraded before him each day and he was impotent to do anything about them.

My mother and Aunt Yvette served the food. Aunt Yvette spooned the soup into Uncle Gerome’s mouth and he quietened down. After dinner he stared at his hands and didn’t say anything else for the rest of the evening. Bernard tried to lift the mood by asking why I had brought three suitcases from Paris. ‘Did you think we would be going dancing at Zelli’s each evening?’

I laughed. ‘When we clear the table I will show you what is inside those suitcases.’

My mother and Aunt Yvette refused to let me help clean up after dinner. But once they were done, I unpacked the gifts I had chosen before leaving Paris. ‘It is the latest thing,’ I said, holding out the black and white packets for my mother and aunt.

My mother opened the box of perfume and examined the square bottle and the bold print on the label: Chanel No 5. The design was everything that was chic in Paris: sleek, unfussy and modern. She unscrewed the lid and took a sniff of the amber liquid then recoiled. Her nose wrinkled and her eyes watered as if she had smelt an acerbic onion. She sneezed so hard that the empty box flew off the table.

Aunt Yvette dabbed some of the perfume on her wrist and trailed it past her nostrils. ‘Yes, it is unique, isn’t it?’

Bernard, with his ability to pull scents apart, was the most appreciative of my choice of fragrance. ‘Neroli and ylang-ylang,’ he said, dabbing some of the fragrance onto the back of his hand. ‘Jasmine and rose.’ He waited a few minutes before sniffing his skin again. ‘Sandalwood, vetiver and vanilla.’

‘It contains some synthetics too. They make the fragrance last longer,’ I said.

I thought of the gifts of single flower perfume Bernard had brought from Grasse over the years, with their ribbed glass bottles, tapered necks and stoppers decorated with porcelain flowers or birds; and also of the herbal sachets and candles my mother anointed with lavender or rosemary oil for special days of the year. Chanel No 5 might be the fashion in Paris but I realised how things that were sophisticated there could be incongruous with the south. Bernard suited the emerald necktie I had bought for him, but the mustard-yellow waistcoat I had given Uncle Gerome was too bright against his muted clothes and made him look like a ghastly clown.

Aunt Yvette wrapped the kimono I had bought at Galeries Lafayette over her farm dress and served the coffee in it. The crimson silk billowing about her as she moved
from the bench to the table gave her the appearance of a harlot pacing the Rue Pigalle. But it was my mother who I managed to make the most foolish. I had spent a week’s wages on the silver fox fur which, despite the heat, she now wore around her neck. Against her tanned complexion and fuzzy hair the accessory lost all its sleekness and looked exactly what it was: a dead animal wrapped around a woman’s throat. My misjudgment showed me how different our lives had become, and it made me sad. Was this the result of going out into the world and carving a life of my own? Since my father’s death I had felt a new closeness with my mother, but now we were going our separate ways. I wondered if we would even recognise each other in a few years.

My two weeks in Pays de Sault passed slowly at first, but when the fortnight came to an end I felt as though the time had flown by too quickly. At first, with none of the bustle and distractions of Paris, I had to relearn the habit of doing things slowly and with purpose. Water needed to be fetched from the well each day, vegetables plucked from the garden, distances covered by foot or by bicycle rather than taxi. My body had to get used to the rhythm of farm life again: rising early and going to bed after dark. I helped in the kitchen and with the animals, but whenever I offered to help with the farm work everybody laughed.

‘You were bad at it before,’ Bernard said, patting my back. ‘I can’t imagine you have improved at all in Paris.’ Considering his miraculous adaptation to rural life, how could I argue?

Each day, I visited my father’s grave in the late afternoon. Bonbon came along with me, the only time she would leave my mother’s side. One day, as I was planting some lavender near his tombstone, the words to ‘
La bouteille est vide
’ drifted into my mind. It was true that the more we got, the more we wanted. If someone had told me
that one day I would be wearing department-store clothes instead of homemade hand-me-downs, that I would be living in Paris and making my living by singing, I would have thought that was the grandest life imaginable. Suddenly I found that I wanted more. I wanted
haute couture
clothes like Camille; I wanted an apartment like François’s; and I didn’t just want to be a singer any more—I wanted to be a star. More: I wanted all of those things on my own terms.

I decided that I was going to take risks and stand or fall on my own. I would not rely on men as Camille did. André Blanchard’s face came to mind. If I was going to be with a man, it would be because I loved him.

When the morning came for Bernard to take me back to Carpentras for the return trip to Paris, I realised that my visit had been more than a rest from the demands of my life in the capital. It had allowed me to take a breath before ascending the mountain of success.

Aunt Yvette and my mother propped Uncle Gerome in a chair near the door so he could watch the drama of me and Bernard running up and down the stairs with my suitcases, and me flying back up to my room for things I had overlooked in my packing. When everything was loaded into the truck, I kissed Uncle Gerome’s cheeks.

‘Good,’ he said, fixing his eye on me before lapsing back into his own thoughts.

Aunt Yvette threw her arm around my shoulder, kissed me and guided me towards the truck. ‘Hurry along,’ she said, ‘or you will miss your train. I don’t want Bernard negotiating that road like a racing driver.’