Twenty-Three

Tireless rain flung itself on tiny Saint-Paul de Vence, along with the rest of Provence, turning roads into rivers, washing wildly over windows, and soaking every living thing that ventured out underneath the sky. Shopping, visiting, and games of boules were left for another day. Steady streams ran off the colourful tile roof of La Colombe d’Or and into the empty courtyard onto tables and between cracks in the concrete, sending wayward leaves rushing over soaked walkways, past bowing bushes in drenched winter gardens. Rain rolled into doorways, seeking any tiny opening. It dripped from trees and lampposts, drummed on car roofs, and danced in fountains.

Blag came into the bar of La Colombe d’Or and shook himself off like a bull terrier with a bad attitude. He looked at Dizzy and shook his head. Dizzy peered out of a drenched window and heaved a mighty sigh.

“But where would she go?” he said. Around the table his fellow Partypoppers sat subdued and silent. Across the room the Marauders chewed on their coffee, playing a half-hearted game of Belotte. Margot looked up when Blag entered, a stormy expression on her face. Behind the bar, DeFaux fired up the espresso machine once more and turned to the grumpy patrons.

“Do you mean the American girl with the ponytail?” he asked innocently.

All eyes from the Partypoppers table swung towards him. “Mac,” said Blag, “her name is Mac. What about her?”

DeFaux swallowed audibly and worked up a feeble smile. “Oui, Mac, of course. She was with the young man with the curly hair; I believe he was carrying a guitar.”

Margot pushed her table aside, sending croissants airborne. “Leo. His name is Leo. What about him?”

She approached the bar alongside Blag, and DeFaux visibly trembled. With good reason. It was like having an angry brick wall walking toward you.

“Leo, bien sûr, Leo. Well, I saw them this morning, earlier, while I was setting up.”

Margot and Blag, shoulder to shoulder, pressed against the bar as DeFaux shrank.

“They took one of the hotel umbrellas and headed into the street. Perhaps they were going up the hill to the magnificent Maeght gallery to view the splendid outdoor Miro sculpture garden.” He shrugged.

Blag’s eyes bore into DeFaux. “Are you sure?” he growled.

DeFaux’s upper lip revealed a fine layer of sweat and quivered slightly.

“Sculpture?” spat Margot. “In a rainstorm?” Her eyes widened and her brow developed a furrow you could hide a roast chicken in. “With a rally to win?”

DeFaux’s mouth smacked drily as he cleared his throat. “They were ... holding hands.”

Blag’s eyes closed momentarily and he shook his head slowly before turning back to the Partypoppers with an expression of bemused disgust. Margot snorted and shook.

“I’m going to turn my little Casanova’s guitar into toothpicks for this.”

A much-relieved DeFaux, with the focus off of him, let out a long breath and shrugged modestly.

At this moment, two local taxi rally officials entered the bar, drenched and shivering. DeFaux slithered over with a pair of espressos, which were gratefully accepted. Drivers on both teams eagerly awaited a rally update. A tall, pompous judge removed his raincoat and hat, downed his coffee, and cleared his throat.

“With all due respect for the time-honoured traditions of the taxi rally, it has been concluded by the local members of the Federation, after considerable deliberation …” he paused dramatically, allowing time for the second official, a sharp-nosed young woman with a permanently arched brow, to interject.

“We decided over coffee.”

A miffed expression accompanied the first judge’s next pronouncement. “That this year’s rally must, in light of the unforeseen, and may I stress, unfortunate meteorological conditions and their impact on the planned route …” He paused again.

“It’s raining,” his partner interjected, and when he showed his displeasure, added, “a lot.”

“That the rally should be adjusted to embody but a single leg, reducing the final portion of this legendary event to its most practical configuration.” He paused to allow time for full appreciation of his vocabulary, mistakenly, since the drivers seemed perplexed.

“You’re going straight to Marseille, dudes,” his partner jumped in.

The room exploded with questions, complaints, outrage, and confusion.

In the tiny apartment below the hotel, there was no evidence of rain, no talk of rallies or splendid outdoor sculpture.

“How long have we been here?” I yawned as I adjusted my position on DeFaux’s tiny, perfect sofa one more time and looked over at Leo, who was strumming his guitar quietly with his hair hanging over the strings. He really is very cute, I thought as he looked up sleepily.

“No idea, Mac,” he said. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Not really, you?”

“Not much. I guess we should reconsider the idea that we’re going to be rescued from here.”

“What’s the alternative?” I asked, wandering over to look again in wonder at Van Gogh’s Bedroom in Arles. “Do you think those are family members on the wall in his room?” Leo seemed to be deep in thought. “I wonder what he saw when he looked out the window.” Still no response. “I wonder if he wore a watch.” He looked like he was far away. I couldn’t blame him; that was where I would have liked to be. “Hard to imagine Van Gogh with jewellery, even if they had invented ...”

Leo stood up suddenly. “What’s that on your wrist?”

“Penelope, my best friend, thinks I’m stylistically challenged —”

“Yes, of course, but what is it?”

I ignored the “yes, of course” but might have replied a little sarcastically when I said, “In America we call it a bracelet, why?”

“Does it come apart?”

“Not if I want to still have a best friend when I get home, assuming we’re not spending the rest of our natural lives in an apartment in a wine cellar.”

“Let me see.” He practically wrenched it off my wrist. “Sorry, I have an inspiration,” he said. I figured it wasn’t a new song idea. To my horror he rapidly undid the elaborate pattern of safety pins and began to straighten them out and bind them together into something weird ... that almost resembled ... a key!

“Nice work, Leo!” I said minutes later, so happy to be feeling my way in the darkness of the wine cellar once again. “Any chance you could put that back together once we take care of solving France’s greatest art theft?”

“I don’t think so.” He smiled as we emerged blinking into the grey Provence morning.

It took me a minute to realize that it was far too quiet. There was no one around, no one in the hotel bar, no one in the street outside La Colombe d’Or. The rain had washed away everything in its path and the whole town looked soggy. Just outside the gate to the town, we saw one person, a mailman with an umbrella and huge rubber boots.

“They all went to the start of the rally in the square but probably ducked into the bars and cafés when it started pouring again.”

“But what about the people from the hotel?” I asked.

He looked at his watch. “Siesta time, I think.” He gave a small-town shrug. “Oh, except for the new man, the bartender who looks after the art.” Leo and I were about to continue on into town but paused. “I saw him getting into a silver car with bubbles painted on the side. You don’t see that every day in Saint-Paul.”

We both must have looked mystified. “What direction did he go, did you notice?” I asked, trying to conceal the urgency in my voice.

“I’m a mailman, of course I noticed. They took the road toward Nice, not twenty minutes ago. Of course, you’d take the same route if you were going to Antibes or Juan-les-Pins, for that matter, or even Marseille, eventually. Now, there are alternatives where Marseille —”

“Thanks.” Leo and I looked at each other and started back toward La Colombe d’Or.

“What are you two doing outside anyway? You’ll catch your death.” I guess every adult in the world is required at some point to say that to a kid who is willingly walking in the rain.

As we passed the Café de la Place, Leo spotted an ancient motorcycle with a sidecar parked outside. It was rusted and looked like it was held together with Scotch tape. Inside, the town gendarme sat at the bar with his head resting on his hands, snoring so loudly we could hear him in the square. The other patrons ignored him. Leo smiled devilishly at me and began to quietly roll the motorcycle away from the café. I looked back nervously as he said, “I think I’ve just figured out how we’re going to track down DeFaux.”

“Can you drive this thing?” I asked, not unreasonably.

“Maybe. But you’re definitely the superior navigator,” he said, handing me an equally ancient helmet from inside the sidecar that reminded me of my grandpa’s football team pictures.

“This is going to play havoc with my hair,” I said jokingly, putting on the bulky helmet.

“Pas de problème, Mac. You look merveilleuse!”

I like the sound of merveilleuse, I thought.

He kicked it into gear and the old bucket of bolts responded admirably. I looked back at the gendarme sleeping at the bar. He raised his head briefly but then went back to sleep as if this happened every day.

“I think we better head straight for Marseille,” I shouted over the engine noise. “And I’m going to text Rudee so he can alert Inspector Magritte about DeFaux’s plan.” Leo nodded and we shot out of Saint-Paul de Vence toward Nice.