Nina had invited me to lunch. At the little café thirty steps from the front of her house. She had said, “I know you are busy from dawn to dusk over there, particularly now that you’re in rehearsal for The Red Mill, but I need a little advice. Can you squeeze in a quick lunch?” And we agreed to meet the next day at noon. I could do that if I could get the chance to be out of there by one, or thirteen hundred hours, as they say in France. The time goes from one in the morning around to twenty-four hundred hours at midnight. I wonder why they say hundred? It’s not as though they divided the hour up into a hundred tiny minutes, as they have everything else. The meter, the kilo, etc. I wonder why they did that? It’s not Napoleonic. Much more recent. The petty concern is very French.
Nina looked pretty as she sat waiting at a table under the handful of trees that stood in front of the café. I wondered how much older she was than Graham. I knew she was older, though a difference of age is not something that would have ever occurred to one when you saw them together. Where was Graham? Probably keeping an eye on Theo.
“You’re looking pretty,” I said as I sat down.
“Thank you, Hugo,” she said. “It’s the pale blue.” She was wearing a light blue cotton dress with matching espadrilles. She’d probably made a big effort to find the light blue cotton shoes to match her dress, but it all looked very throwaway. It wasn’t that kind of “Ooh . . . matching” look.
“Pale blue is very good for blondes with blue eyes. You’re looking kind of dashing yourself,” she said.
“I wonder what the natives make of all these Americans dressing as though they are in St. Tropez. And here we are in the far-flung fields of the Touraine,” I said. I was wearing a navy blue tee-shirt and white pants. You can hardly go wrong wearing that.
“You’re getting very tan, too,” Nina said.
“Just my face and arms,” I said. “The rest of me looks a little oystery.”
“Graham is tan all over,” Nina said. “He throws himself down in the garden with nothing on.”
“It sounds quite sexy,” I said.
“It is. I can hardly get my housework done. And I’m already pregnant.”
A woman in a short white dress walked by switching the pleated skirt. The dress had been designed for a woman at least twenty years her junior. I said, “The French sense of fashion gets completely lost in hot weather, doesn’t it.”
“Perhaps you should be a fashion editor,” Nina said. “It’s true. Even the designers get lost. The Italians less so, but they’re not much better. The idea of less is more seems to evaporate when the thermometer climbs. They tend to want to put on long skirts or children’s clothing. And you can’t really be wearing a lot of makeup in climates where you perspire, which really throws them. One can be shocked walking down the Rue de Rivoli at all the bad hairdos, overheated faces, and weird outfits. The idea seems to be that your body should feel cool and any kind of strange garments inspired by the 1920s or the hippie period are quite acceptable.”
“Good. I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t the only one who felt that way,” I said.
“It’s hard for an American to take a fashion position in France, but you’re not wrong,” Nina said.
We ordered. I had a croque-monsieur. One of these days I’m going to be sorry I ate all these grilled-cheese sandwiches with a slice of ham in them. But they’re so delicious.
“So,” I said and looked at my watch, “now I have fifty minutes. What’s cooking?”
Nina said, “You know I believe that if there’s no solution it isn’t a problem; it’s just a fact. And I guess I need an intelligent lad like you to tell me if there is a problem here, or if it’s just a fact. And if it is a problem, what are your ideas about solutions.”
“Check,” I said. I liked her idea that if there was no solution it’s not a problem, so stop worrying about it.
“Cass Brewster,” she said. She had ordered a salad with a bit of smoked salmon on it. Probably what I should have ordered.
I said nothing. Who knew where this conversation was going? If she was going to tell me she was leaving Graham for Cass Brewster I was planning to be very surprised.
“Cass Brewster seems to be doing a kind of blackmailing thing with these women he’s slept with,” Nina said. “They bump uglies. He takes pictures. And then he not only walks out on them knowing they won’t complain, but he asks them to help him find work.”
“How do you know this?” I asked. The croque-monsieur was great. I looked down. I wasn’t bulging yet.
“I’d rather not say,” Nina said.
“You can tell me. I don’t gossip,” I said.
“We are becoming good friends, aren’t we? But this is a confidence I’ll keep to myself. It’s from a source you know nothing about, and somehow, even if you reveal a confidence to someone you know won’t discuss it, once out in the air it seems to fly about everywhere. So you have to let me keep this one close to my chest,” Nina said.
“Close to your rather nice chest,” I said.
“I didn’t think gay men noticed such things,” Nina said.
“Beauty is beauty, Madame,” I said. “Okay, is this a problem or just a thing, this Cass situation?” I glanced at my watch again. “At first glance, it seems to just be a thing as long as these women seem to find him so irresistible. But perhaps something will occur to me. Okay. I’ve got ten minutes. Let’s share a slice of apple tart, and I’m out of here.” Nina told me about the polaroids Cass took of his lady friends.
As I was finishing my part of the apple tart I had an idea as to what to do with Mr. Cass Brewster. It seemed kind of cheap and dreadful, but then again, so was Cass Brewster, so perhaps it would be appropriate. I would have to discuss it with Steve. I leaped up, threw down my napkin after wiping my mouth, kissed Nina good-bye, and said, “I have an idea, but I’m going to leave you out of the loop. You’ve kept your confidence, and if I’m effective, you won’t have a moment’s guilt because you will know nothing about it. Arrivederci.” And I sprinted for the Abbey gate.