It is a crystal-clear, sunny autumn morning. Yesterday it rained for the first time in over two months. Today the air has a nip to it which foretells the changing seasons and reminds me that these long dry summers are not truly endless. Only a few days more, and we must close up the house. Michel and I are flying to Australia to shoot a film based on a story I have written and in which I am to play the main role. The prospects are exciting. Even so, it’s going to be a wrench to tear myself away from here. Australia, the other side of the world; there will be no popping home for the weekends.
“If my story had been set here…” I mumble, folding away linen which I am storing with lavender bags in a cupboard inside the front hall.
In spite of all that is left to do—I have my work and papers to pack up yet, luggage to prepare and we are still trying to nail down a most elusive notaire to a date for the final exchange—Michel announces: “Leave everything, we’re going hunting.”
“What?” I laugh.
“We’re taking a ferry to the islands. To look for treasure.”
I agree readily, for the prospect of any boat ride always excites child-like joy in me, and the notion of a mystery tour is too irresistible. Besides, I have never visited the Îles de Lérins. “What kind of treasure are we seeking?”
“You’ll see. We will visit the farthest island first, return to the nearer where we can lunch, then cruise home on the late-afternoon boat.”
We purchase our tickets from a booth nestled alongside the harbormaster and customs quay in the old port of Cannes. Awaiting our departure, we stroll the length of a neighboring jetty and, from that prominent aspect, peer back toward the lofty tour du Suquet, the weathered tower that crowns the very pinnacle of the rock known as the Suquet, upon which the old town of Cannes stands. Here was the original fishing village initially christened Canois, meaning cane harbor, after the canes that grew profusely so many centuries ago along what was then nothing more than a marshy seafront. Cannes as wild nature barely seems conceivable in this day and age.
Returning our gaze seaward along the quay, we are back in the twentieth century; a breeze whispers, and a curved necklace of pearly white yachts stir noiselessly at the water’s edge.
“Who owns all these?” I ask. A private musing spoken aloud. I cannot envisage how many millions one has to accrue to be able to cough up for one of these swanky numbers. Several of the cruisers are the length of a train carriage and surely would have cost more than the lifetime’s earnings of the average working person.
“There is a lot of foreign money here. And a great deal of corruption. One of the former mayors of Nice, for example, fled to Uruguay.”
“Why?”
“If he had stayed in France, he would have been imprisoned for corruption and tax evasion. Apparently, he embezzled considerable sums from the city of Nice and shifted the money to South America, in readiness for his retirement.”
“That’s right! Jacques Médecin, of course!” I laugh, more out of incredulity than merriment at the breadth and panache of such Riviera skulduggery.
“They got him, though, eventually.”
“Yes, they did.”
I remember that Graham Greene, who lived in Antibes and whom I met on several occasions, published a book in 1982 entitled J’accuse, about corruption in Nice and the close involvement of Monsieur Médecin with the Italian mafia. There was a casino scandal. Greene believed that a worrying percentage of the police force and justice system was engaged in nefarious dealings with the milieu, the criminal underworld. Later, Médecin fled the country to avoid charges of corruption.
“Do you suppose,” I ask Michel, “all Riviera vice and turpitude ended with his flight and subsequent imprisonment?”
“Somehow I doubt it.”
“Might there be zillions of mafia francs, never smuggled out, buried somewhere on these islands?”
“Who knows?”
“So are we going to dig them up and pay off Madame B.?”
“No.” He smiles at my joking. “That’s not the treasure we’re after.”
“What, then?”
“You’ll see.”
I smile, enjoying his game of secrecy. Looking all around us, I notice hosts of bronzed, barefoot young men, clad becomingly in shorts, at work on the string of yachts. Several are shinnying aluminium masts like monkeys climbing for bananas, while others are scrubbing teak decks, washing, hosing or treating the impressive fiberglass hulls. Varnishing the varnished. All busy as ants, lost in dreams of prospective seafaring adventures.
“We better get moving,” says Michel, taking my hand.
The clock tower up in the Suquet strikes ten, and the ferry prepares to depart. Or rather not. A straggle of latecomers is steaming along the jetty, all calling and waving. The captain grins. The boat waits. Everyone shakes his hand amicably and lumbers aboard.
During this short delay, I glance about. I have to admit that there is still great charm in this old port. The Hotel Splendid ahead, for example, with its colorful array of international flags and simple white facade; and then my attention lights on a sign in large black lettering, Jimmy’z Club, above the dull beige of the palais block and the plastic blue lettering that reads Casino. It is hard to find an uglier sight.
The boat is wheeling, and we are exiting the port. I incline against the rail, allowing a rush of excitement. A water baby by nature, I am at my happiest on or by the sea. Gulls circling overhead, the misty ambrosial hills of the Esterel and the foamy bubbling spray, as white as the yachts, rise up to cool us as the ferry plows through an otherwise calm sea. We pass an anchored five-mast luxury liner with Club Med 2 painted on its hull and a glass-bottom pleasure boat packed with retirees.
As I look back toward Cannes, the bay gives off an illusion of gentility, but on closer inspection, this luxury resort puts me in mind of a beautiful woman past her prime. Suddenly, I recall a long-forgotten group of transvestites I spent time with while working in Brazil. Even at forty or forty-five, with some kind lighting and some distance, they managed to pull off looking good. I smile recalling their coked-up energy, some of the wild places they dragged me and the outrageous stories they recounted. Silently, I concede that Cannes probably also has many faces.
The Carlton Hotel, situated smack in the center of the Croisette, dominates the bay. It draws the eye instantly to its crisp white elegance. None of its meretricious marketplace mentality shows from this gathering distance.
Feeling the sun’s mounting heat penetrating my flesh, I shade my eyes to pick out the observatory tower high above the town. I scan the fin de siècle villas, their windows winking in the light like pirates signaling the all-clear to sailors marking time on the open sea. Splashes of autumnal color—red, yellow, gold—patch the palmy hills, while dozens of umber bodies in richly hued itsy-bitsy swimwear rest on the ever-busy golden beaches.
This boat ride is delicious. There are barely a handful of passengers aboard, and those present appear to be locals who have crossed at dawn to the mainland to shop. Mostly, they are weather-worn old ladies clutching woven shopping bags that bulge with brilliantly colored fruits and vegetables. Two toothless old women, arms wrapped tightly around their trophies, huddle close and gossip contentedly. Their flesh may be creased, tamped olive and leathery by the sun, but their eyes glisten wickedly.
“How many people live on these islands?” I inquire of Michel.
“Île Ste. Marguerite is inhabited. I don’t know by how many. Twenty households, maybe. St. Honorat is unoccupied. Well, no it isn’t. There is a community of Cistercian monks living there. And one very overpriced restaurant at the water’s edge, looking out over the canal that separates the two islands.”
“Who frequents it?”
“The restaurant? The yachting fraternity. It’s a fashionable weekend haunt. During the season, boats rendezvous here from as far as Monte Carlo or St. Tropez. They drop anchor in between the two islands and motor, by dinghy, from one yacht to another, rounding up their parties, and then disembark for a grilled lobster lunch.”
“That doesn’t sound too terrible.”
Michel laughs. “The canal gets so crowded you can barely move.”
We are approaching Ste. Marguerite.
“Pour St. Honorat, la deuxieme île, vous restez abord,” hails a voice from a loudspeaker. My eye is drawn to a bastillion atop a cliff at what appears to be the eastern tip of the island. “Is that a fortress?”
Michel grins mischievously. “The Fort Royal. I knew it would fire your imagination. Built by Richelieu to protect the island from the Spanish who invaded anyway, but I’ll tell you all about it later.”
“There lies our trove? Or there, in that building on the beach? What is that, a deserted hotel?”
“All are for later. After lunch.”
Every passenger, apart from ourselves and the crew, prepares to disembark onto the planked-wood jetty which rises out of the shallow crystalline water where shoals of tiny silver fish are darting to and fro. Handfuls of tourists, with their laden bags at their feet, clot the jetty, impatient to come aboard. They must be bound for Cannes. So we have the boat to ourselves. It reverses, heels about and scoots out to sea, negotiating the rocky bed beneath us. Dinghies bask like seals in the sun, and a series of small yellow buoys bob like discarded mustard pots. Parasol pine trees and a few lookout bunkers, abandoned since the Second World War, border the island’s western beaches.
The air is clear and fragrant.
In between the two islands, a scattering of yachts is moored in the narrow strait. Slender, shark-toothed yachts with equally slender women aboard, lying topless and oiled, soaking up the sun. Paunchy men regard our passing ferry, brandishing goblets of whiskey and ice. I glance at my watch. It is half past ten! We pass the “posh” restaurant. It appears deserted. Perhaps it has already closed for the season or is immersed in preparations for another lunchtime.
The passage to this second island has taken no time at all. We negotiate a serious of large, rather dangerously jagged rocks, then land safely at the harbor. Michel takes my hand and leads me ashore. The instant I step foot on the bank I am greeted by—no, swathed in—a pine-scented silence, soft as a human pulse. I breathe deeply and turn about. There is nothing in sight, in any direction, save pine forest, littoral and clear Mediterranean, a patchwork of blue, milky turquoise. Salt water laps the sandy beach, licks the bleached skeletons of driftwood.
Save for the departing ferry, we could be marooned on a desert island. Hard to believe that we are so close to home and that this paradise of eucalyptus and Aleppo pines is visible from our terrace. I spy a statue of the Virgin Mary. Built high among the treetops, she holds her arms outstretched, looking out over and blessing the canal.
“Come on, we’ll visit the monastery, the Abbaye des Lérins, buy lavender oil at the abbey shop, skirt the island and take the boat back to Ste. Marguerite for lunch.”
We turn inland, flanked by vineyards, and walk toward the abbey, the epicenter of the island—five minutes away!—where we will find a church and an arched stone walkway which leads to the shop and gardens. Stone benches have been placed at strategic points along the route to allow for reflection, pause and prayer. I want to dally a second, commune with the natural beauty, imbibe the scents of the pines and eucalyptus, but Michel hurries me along.
As we approach, he delivers me a swift, potted history. The two islands were once the most powerful religious centers in the south of France. This one was first occupied in the fifth century by the hermit Ste. Honorat—hence its name—when the bishop of Fréjus encouraged him here, to create a site for holy retreat. A monastery was built, and under the auspices of St. Honorat, it became a training center for novice priests as well as a school for the study of Christian philosophy. St. Honorat, later bishop of Arles, died in 429A.D., but the traditions of the monastery have been continued even to this day, except for a short period during the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century when the island was snatched by the State, put up for auction and bought by an actress from the Comédie Française.
I chuckle with delight at the notion of ownership by an actress, the exotically named Mademoiselle Alziary de Roquefort, who, according to Michel, was a great friend of the painter Fragonard. I long to learn more. Was she as bewitching as her name suggests?
In 1869—Michel does not know why—the island was returned to the Cistercians, who have occupied, farmed and labored for it and for the renovation of its fortified monastery ever since.
“But see, we’ve arrived.”
The Cistercians are an order of silence. As we approach, we discover discreet signs requesting us to speak in whispers, dress appropriately and respect the ethos of the island’s inhabitants. An incongruous spectacle in this historical setting is a public telephone booth situated at a crossroads of dusty paths lined with pine trees.
On the exterior side of the abbey walls, tall palms shade and decorate the approach. During this season, the trees are laden with bunches of dark ruby fruit more reminiscent of fulsome berries than dates. Agapanthas, past their blooming season, line the pathways, as well as ficus-indica cacti growing as tall as trees and crowding the flowerbeds. These, too, are fruiting their terra-cotta-colored, ripe prickly pears.
Entrance to the abbey and its church are by iron gates ablaze with lustrous skeins of flowering bougainvillea. I read an engraved cornerstone that tells me St. Patrick studied here under the guidance of St. Honorat before traveling north to Ireland. As an Irish Catholic, I am tickled by this information. Patrick landed up in Ireland, and I here!
The shop is managed by two middle-aged ladies, one of whom sells us lavender oil as well as a kilo jar of rosemary honey which she earnestly recommends. Gregorian chants are playing softly in the background and can be purchased on compact disc.
Situated on the far reach of the island, on the windward shore, is the fortified monastery—dilapidated, solitary, awesome. We approach. A high, austere monument, it has been hewn from hefty chunks of stone. Constructed on a site at the very tip of a minuscule but windy cap, it faces out across the sea toward, I estimate, Calvi, a town on the northwest coast of Corsica. Everything about its location is windswept, which makes the soft peach tone of the stone even more enrapturing. I notice samphyre sprouting out of the walls flanking the water’s edge and unknown purple flowers pushing through like tomboyish daisies. On this open coast, the slap of the waves against the rocks has a relentless, overpowering brutality.
We pay fifteen francs apiece to a lone student girl who sits peacefully on a rusting iron chair close to the water’s edge, reading a book whose pages are blowing to and fro. This gives us entry to the ruin.
As we mount the stone stairs, I, compulsively curious, steal a quick glance at the abbey living quarters. There is not a monk in sight. What had I expected, to see them peering out like nosy neighbors? I am taken aback by the filth of their windows, until I realize that the distance has fooled me and their cells are protected by the same mosquito netting we found at our farmhouse. The place exudes stillness, almost a forsaken air. I picture solitary monks on their knees in their cells. I am intrigued by the weight of thought, the depth of spiritual reflection cultivated beyond those walls. These are mysteries forever closed to me. I will never know what such a life, the life of an oblate, claims, nor the courage and sacrifice such a vocation must demand, the unstinting dedication. The Cistercian order was founded at the end of the eleventh century in an attempt to return to a stricter, more disciplined obedience to God. The rule of St. Benedict, the founder of this particular order, is Ora et Labora, pray and work. Spoken, it sounds pleasingly achievable.
I return my attention to the fortified monastery. How different the energy on this island must have been when this edifice was built to protect its inhabitants against marauding Saracens. Within—should I say this when the roof is merely a space open to the blue skies?—there is little to see, save for the ancient walls which date back to the eleventh and twelfth centuries and the pockets of restoration work. The salle du chapitre is a dark, dank room cluttered with broken wooden chairs and a discarded wooden icon of Madonna and child. There are some fine marble stairs and stone pillars and arches, but all in all, the fort’s stately majesty lies in its breathtaking views. Unfortunately, these cannot really be appreciated, because the apertures have been closed, fitted with metal-framed glass like frightful, second-rate double glazing. This addition is so hideously out of keeping with the restored masonry work that it bemuses me. Why have the openings been sealed off? Are they to prevent broken-hearted tourists from leaping to their death on the treacherous rocks? Or to discourage monks who can no longer stand the solitude of their life?
I wander from the salle du chapitre to the cloître du travail. There, in the center of this work cloister, is what I take to be a baptismal font until I peer into it and discover a deep well. At first, I assume the water lying so far beneath us is seawater, although the building is constructed pieds dans l’eau, this seems doubtful because it is too still. From this distance, it looks impenetrable and stagnant. Midges or mosquitoes skate its surface, circumventing a dozen or so jettisoned Coke cans.
I look about for Michel and find him perusing a few historical facts, mainly dates, posted on one of the inner cloister walls. Work began on this fortified monastery in 1073. In 1635, the islands were occupied by the Spanish, and—“Look at this!”—in 1791, the island was sold at public auction to an actress, Marie-Blanche Sainval, who owned it until 1810! So who is Alziary de la Roquefort? Might that exotic creation have been her stage name? I fancy the sound of Alziary better. The deeds of sale might be written in the name of Marie-Blanche Sainval, but I shall continue to think of this actress as Alziary. In my mind’s eye, she is a tempestuous, flaming redhead, une femme d’un certain âge. Lord knows why.
Nearing the top floor, we enter the prayer cloister, le cloître de la prière, where, we are told, the walls date from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. A hundred years, it took then, to erect another story. Oh, that modern property developers could be so stayed! On the same level, we cross to the Chapelle Saint Croix, which was consecrated in 1088. This confuses my sense of logic.
Here there are wooden benches placed at angles, facing a stone altar where a painting of Christ on the cross hangs. Once again the environment, as well as the strategically positioned seats, invites contemplation. So I settle on one of the benches and, from this elevated tranquility, listen to the waves crashing against the rocks three stories beneath me. I crane my head toward the open sky. The blueness is cool and airy, a visual balm.
Our footsteps echo back at us as we climb one last flight of ever-narrowing, winding marble stairs to the summit of the keep where elegant metal railings girdle the surround—against accident or suicide? There, from that top terrace with its stone bell tower, we behold a 360-degree view which is nothing short of divine.
The Lord often had his prophets climb mountains to converse with him. I often wondered why he did that, and now I know the answer; when we are on high, we can see everything else as small. These are the words of the writer Paulo Coelho, who spent his early years in a seminary and with whom I once had the pleasure of dining in Rio. Everything else as small, yes, including self. How could you not be close to God here?
The light breeze at this altitude is very welcome. I walk to the metal railing and look around me. Far beneath, the clear yet rock-infested water draws me. Although I am not usually afraid of heights, a frisson of fear sends an icy shiver down my spine. Still, I long to plunge the hundreds of feet into the sea and swim and frolic like a carefree porpoise.
A fabulous two-mast cutter plows across the distant horizon, making for where? St. Tropez, Marseilles? Constructed in the monks’ vegetable gardens are two large banks of solar paneling.
The abbey clock on the terra-cotta-tiled tower chimes noon. “We should move on,” Michel says, and we begin the descent.
Our promenade around the island is crazily romantic. Water licks our feet and soaks our shoes, which we remove. Fish the size of salmon slip beneath rocks, playing hide-and-seek with our shadows. We clamber from eucalyptus-perfumed bay to lavender-scented shade, kicking our toes in the sand, racing miniature crabs, grabbing hands, touching backs, necks, hair, crunching our sodden sandy feet on the spongelike cushion of beached and dehydrated seaweed, dragging our wet swimming towels like lazy kites as salt dries on our pinched, damp flesh. We dally, kiss, linger, taste the salt, lick it clean, then keep pace in blissful silence, or hurry, chattering like euphoric monkeys, toppling over each other. Falling in love: such a free expansive fall. There’s no knowing where, if ever, we’ll land, but today it’s in paradise.
All in all, the circumference of the island is approximately three kilometers and takes us, strolling and with a pause to swim, little less than an hour and a half. We had been intending to swim naked, at least I had. Whenever it’s appropriate, we do. Here, even though there has not been a single sighting of a monk, I cannot rid myself of the feeling that they see us wherever we are on the island. Their spiritual presence is omnipresent.
“When we return from Australia, I want to come back here and picnic on that grass bank overlooking the turquoise water,” I say.
My thoughts return to our treasure hunt as our chugging ferry delivers us back to Ste. Marguerite in time for lunch. We are famished and don’t dawdle along the jetty.
“The restaurant is right over there.” Michel points to a white-painted veranda several hundred yards along the coast. Behind it, a half a dozen or so houses with light turquoise or pale lilac shutters, hidden between trees, peer out toward Cannes from their watery aeries. Early clots of autumn-yellow mimosa blossom. Once again, my gaze is drawn up to the hilly incline and the Royal Fort, which I had completely forgotten until now.
“Lunch first.” Michel grins.
Approaching the restaurant, we realize that it is closed and pause in the lane while we consider what to do next. “There is another, I’ve forgotten its name, on the beach down behind the fort. We have to climb and then descend the other side of the cliff. It’s not far, but we should hurry. It’s getting late. We’ll see it from the clifftop, so, if it’s closed as well, we won’t bother going down there. It tends to be seasonal.”
We break into a jog and come abreast of the ramshackle building I spotted from the ferry. A scruffy sign, cobbled out of broken bits of ceramic, reads: Hôtel du Masque de Fer. The Iron Mask Hotel. An intriguing name. I approach the tall glass-paned doors and peer in, believing the place to be empty, but then I see a stooped woman with bleached hair tottering across a poorly lit, high-ceilinged dining room.
“There’s someone in there.”
Michel is intent on getting to the restaurant. He holds out his arm as if to encourage me away. “We can look later.”
“I think it’s open. Maybe they serve lunch.”
He returns to my side and looks in. “Do you really want to eat here?”
“Let’s ask.” And with that, we open the door and an old man materializes from behind what looks like an exceedingly outdated pizza oven. At first he is reluctant to take us, making the excuse that lunch is over and there is nothing available. We accept his refusal graciously and start to go, but he calls us back with “Still, if you are not in need of anything too fancy, I can offer you—”
The surroundings are deeply shabby, yet the setting is so picturesque and I have such a fanatical attraction to buildings in ruin that we agree to order his suggested pizzas, along with salad and a local rosé wine which, according to our host, has come from the vineyard on the adjacent island of St. Honorat. Perfect. We seat ourselves at a table by the window and stare out at an abandoned landing bay. The water is rippling like corrugated iron across to the bay of Cannes. The view is stupendous. Our wine arrives.
“If we hadn’t found Appassionata, this place would set us a challenge. Not a farm, but… Why is it called the Iron Mask Hotel?” I ask.
“Because the fort on the clifftop has dungeons dug deep into the rock, and it was in one of those cells that the man in the iron mask was imprisoned.”
My eyes widen to the size of our approaching pizzas. “The Alexandre Dumas character?”
“For three hundred years, writers have been inspired by his story.”
“He was a real person? I didn’t know that!”
Monsieur serves us our plates and retreats.
“He spent eleven years incarcerated here, and never once was his face revealed.”
“Tell me about him. Bon appétit.”
“Legend has it that he was the twin brother of Louis XIV, or his bastard half brother, but there are many theories. Some have suggested that the masked man was Molière. Others claim that it was a woman disguised as a man. What does seem to be certain is that whomever he was, he was famous.”
“Why?”
“It’s logical. Why go to such lengths to keep his face hidden if he wasn’t easily recognized? Not even his doctor, when he was imprisoned in the Bastille, was allowed to look upon his naked features.”
“How did he shave?” I ask. Our carafe of water arrives.
“Il vous plaît, le déjeuner, Monsieur, Madame?”
“Delicious, thank you.” We nod enthusiastically, although it is so-so. But we don’t really care. We are having a wonderful day.
“Has the hotel closed?” I ask our host.
“It is sold, and is to be turned into a new Carlton with a small marina for private yachts,” Monsieur tells us, while staring longingly across to the mainland at the outline of the real McCoy. My heart sinks as I picture the vision. “There is only one small problem,” he adds.
“What’s that?”
“The inhabitants of the island have signed a petition. They intend to block the permit I hope to acquire for the construction of a helicopter landing base.”
At that moment, the door opens and a tall, dark-haired gentleman in his early forties enters, dressed in what must be a Cerruti suit and leather Italian shoes polished to a mirrored shine. He is accompanied by eight or nine others, running after his every need. The proprietor abandons us instantly, legs it across the dining room and all but genuflects at the feet of the new arrival. Then comes Madame, welcoming them with the same attention. We are riveted. Tables are dragged together, chairs drawn from here and there. Paper tablecloths are pressed in place and ironed flat by desperate hands. The new arrivals are seated. Bottles of wine begin to arrive. Rosé, red, white, followed, moments later, by heaped saucers of local olives and sliced saucissons. Dishes of marinated eggplant swilling in oil and herbs land splashing onto the table. Carafes of water and glasses all but jump of their own accord from the dingy kitchen. Nothing is too much trouble for this bunch, who eat and drink with gusto. We have been entirely forgotten. In fact, we do not exist for anyone in the room save each other. Everything centers on the sleek-haired man.
“Might he be local mafia?” I whisper to Michel, hoping that he is and that I can eavesdrop on hideous tales of local corruption. I watch him vigilantly, attempting to be discreet but failing hopelessly, spellbound by mannerisms that I might put to fruitful use later: he constantly slicks back his immaculately groomed hair or adjusts the cuffs of his shirtsleeves; he never touches his wine, even when a toast is made. He raises his glass, allows the rim to brush his lips, then sets it back on the table. “Always on the alert,” I conclude, and as I do, he glances in our direction, allowing a discreet nod. Oh, he is aware that we are watching him and appears to bask in any, all, attention. Michel is ready to leave, keen to begin exploring the fort and visit the dungeons, but I cannot drag myself away from the commedia that is playing out before us. In fact, we have no choice in the matter. The guests at the other table have finished lunch and are preparing to depart while we are obliged to sit it out, hoping for our bill.
The proprietor and wife, tea towels in hand—or, in his case, tossed over one shoulder—are poised patiently like dogs awaiting some titbit or expression of what, gratitude? Acknowledgment? A tip? The padrone shakes their hands and thanks them. The proprietors bow and thank their esteemed guest for the time and trouble he has taken to visit them. This is followed by every other member of the group shaking hands with the old man and his wife. This extended “Merci, merci beaucoup. Non, non, merci à vous” ceremony is followed by the eventual departure of the group. Gratified, our hosts set about clearing away the debris. Michel is now able to attract their attention and requests l’addition. Monsieur nods and goes away to calculate it.
“Did you see that?”
“What?”
“Those guys didn’t pay for a thing.”
Michel grins at me. “You’re right. Maybe they have an account here.” This makes us giggle. My curiosity cannot resist; when the restaurateur returns, I ask him the identity of the tall, well-groomed gentleman. Our host’s rheumy eyes swim with pride as he inform us, “Mais, c’est Michel Mouillot.”
In chorus we reply, “Qui?”
“He is to be the new mayor of Cannes and has promised us the construction permits we need. We will achieve a far better price for the hôtel with permits.”
IN THE DISTANCE, the smoky blue hills. Intent on the continuation of our little adventure, we saunter, hand in hand, up the verdant incline in the afternoon sunshine, our minds refocusing on the masked mystery.
“Victor Hugo said of him: ‘This prisoner whose name nobody knows, whose face no one has ever seen, remains a living mystery, shadowy, enigmatic and problematic.’”
We reach the walls of the fortress. A rickety wooden sentry box bears a sign—Billets—but it is closed up, season over, and we walk on. Cobbled stones, vast spaces and a garrison enclave greet us. Rows of two-story salt-weathered stone buildings, all with identical burgundy shutters, line the cobbled lanes and lead to open squares where nothing more lively than a lizard’s retreat is taking place. The site appears to be ours alone. Seagulls and terns wheel overhead. There is nothing of today’s world about this settlement, and to all intents and purposes it is deserted, yet there seems to be life here. I sense basic habitation. “What is the place used for now?”
Our footsteps echo all around us. The air is clean and scented, the light sharp. The wind murmurs, carrying sounds of the sea, bird cries. Michel does not know. We come across a painted sign that points us toward an oceanography museum. We make for that. Inside, behind a desk littered with pamphlets, a bespectacled woman sits on a chair knitting. “I am sorry, we are closed.”
“A quick peek?” I beg, but she shakes her gray head adamantly.
“Then can you please direct us to the dungeons?”
“They are not open, either. They are very rarely open to the public. Usually only to guests.”
“Guests?”
Stony-faced, she returns to her knitting needles and balls of wool, revealing nothing else. I recall that character who is always knitting—in which story, The Scarlet Pimpernel? We retreat out into the late-afternoon sun, where we suddenly become aware of music, the drum of distant rock music. I am grateful for its normality.
We decide to go in search of it. This leads us across an immense courtyard where the cobbled cracks at our sandaled feet are sprinkled with yellow-flowering rockery plants and fragrant arrays of mildly sweet herbs. In this arid environment, they are soft and pleasing; but I sense an unsettling presence here, a hazy, indiscernible danger which is closing in around me and I cannot shake off.
“The music must be coming from a radio or cassette player.”
The guitar strumming leads us to an alley, a dusty cul-de-sac, at the end of which is a crumbling stone wall and grassy banks. We turn, confused. The notes waft across the bleating afternoon heat, but from where? Retracing our steps and then branching off, still within the fortress environs, we wander down a widish avenue, parallel to the museum, and come upon an aging wooden door that looks to be as old as the foundations of the fort. I push against it. It is locked. On it, written in tired flaking white paint, we read Plongée.
“There must be a diving base here. But where is that music coming from?” It is still audible but remains tantalizingly, inexplicably remote. We plod from one empty space to the next, drawn by the ghostly melody, but without luck. The place is deserted, yet, I have a notion that we are being watched, spied upon in a very different way from the other island. The fort is empty but not tranquil; a troubled nagging power beckons me. Suddenly, clouds of small dark birds, starlings I think, rise up from nowhere and disperse like smoke into the penetrating blue sky. The unexpectedness of their movement has alarmed me, and I find myself trembling.
I mention my discomfort, and Michel squeezes his arm tight around me and smiles. He is growing used to my dramatic interpretations, or my sixth sense, whichever it is.
Somewhere to our left, I see a bronze cannon, a great brute of a weapon. It is trained out over the fortress walls upon the open sea. No doubt in its heyday it would have had the capacity to blow any unwelcome visitors clean out of the water, dissecting limbs from torso with its solid cannon balls the size of modern beach balls. I lean my body way out over the bastille wall and regard glinting wavelets glistening in the axis of the sun. Where the water breaks against the island, the waves are crashing relentlessly. It is as though we are in a storm. They smash against the mighty rocks rising up out of the sea upon which this place has been constructed.
“It looks as though there are some very dangerous currents down there.”
There are straggly-branched, wind-torn trees and scrub plants growing everywhere on the cliffsides, but the elevated terrain is bleak. Wriggling farther out on my stomach, feeling both the blood and the rosé rush to my head, I notice an opening cut into the rocky wall beneath me. “Look, that must be one of the dungeon windows.” Certainly, it is too narrow for any man or even a child to pass through. It offers no escape. I am feeling giddy and shimmy my body back to cobbled terra firma.
“How many years did you say the mystery man was imprisoned here?”
“Eleven.”
I reflect upon it. While an order of monks is freely incarcerated at work and prayer on the neighboring island less than half a mile away, another is forcibly imprisoned here, stripped even of his identity. Locked in a dank underground cell with only a slit of an opening for fresh sea air and a view of the world beyond this fortress. I am wracked with pity for this unknown human being who for three centuries has been an inspiration to writers and filmmakers. His existence must have been barbaric. How did he bear the loneliness, keep madness at bay? Might this prisoner have requested his confession to be heard by a monk from the order across the water, the opportunity to unburden his heart to one trained in compassion? Did he beg the fathers to remember him in their prayers, to help him carry the burden his life must have become to him as he paced his cell, manacled at the feet by ball and chain, masked in iron? And then I remind myself that there are parts of the world even today, where such barbarism exists. Where liberty is snatched for no good reason. Internment against faith, color, political conviction or, as it seems in the case of this pitiable being, birthright.
“It is also possible that the poor fellow was cursed with some hideous affliction. Locked away because he was judged too repulsive to behold, you know, like the Elephant Man.”
“Why don’t you write a story set here?”
I laugh at Michel’s suggestion. “I think many, far more talented than I, have already achieved it.”
“No, a modern story. Set it partially here, research locally and you can work from home. Write a role for yourself as well, and then you can work from home twice!”
There is the carrot that draws me. I consider our olive farm and the work and time it is about to demand. One of us will need to remain here on a regular basis once we begin the business of restoration.
“Set the story in Germany, England and France. Thirteen episodes, please.”
I smile at him, considering. “So, we have been story hunting?”
“Yes, if you are inspired. But even if you are not, I thought the islands would appeal to you.”
They have. But this island in particular has captivated me. And troubled me. And yes, inspired.
THE LAST FERRY DEPARTS from the island at six P.M. We are on it. During the short trip across the bay, the faintly descending light grows opalescent beneath a Wedgwood-blue sky. The clouds are the white patterns on the teacups. The lovely Italian tones of the properties along the coast toward the Cap d’Antibes… My musings are interrupted by what I take to be a small girl’s scream, followed instantly by an excited male calling from somewhere behind us, “Regardez, là-bas!”
“Où?”
“Dans la mer!”
I fear a child has gone overboard, though I have no memory of any children boarding the vessel. We swing around to find the crew and the handful of passengers leaning over the leeward side of the boat, pointing and squealing.
What is it? We cross swiftly, my stomach clenching with fear at the prospect of a helpless drowning child, and there in the water, not twenty yards from the ferry, is a sleek gray creature leaping in the calm, limpid sea. And then another. “Dauphins! Oui, ce sont les dauphins. Regardez comme ils jouent!” A pod of dolphins are leaping and flipping, rising, as they do, four, even five, feet above the water’s surface. Stubby-nosed athletes with shiny midnight fins, somersaulting, they change course and stream on ahead of the prow, as though leading us to shore. Then one of them breaks away from his party, circles, tacks and speeds in close alongside us, riding the wave created by our ship cutting through the sea. He spins over playfully, revealing a plump whitish belly, and back over again. I can almost read his mischievous grin. What a sight! What sheer joy!
As I watch these mythical creatures, I recount to Michel the story of an extraordinary American, Charlie Smithline, whom I met years ago in the Caribbean. He trained me for my PADI open-water-diving certificates. On several occasions, we dove together with bottle-nosed dolphins—which I believe is relatively unusual, for they will not often allow humans close—but they knew and trusted Charlie, a regular visitor. I learned from him that dolphins emit and perceive sound at frequencies higher than those at which we humans are able to hear. In fact, the human ear is not equipped to hear in the water.
Our dolphin companion speeds off and turns back, bobbing his head above sea level. He is looking our way, then, almost without any preparation, he soars into the air and arcs back into the water.
“Look at him!”
“You know, they can leap out of the water at a speed of thirty or forty miles an hour!” the captain tells us.
The fading light is playing on Michel’s face. He looks animated and relaxed, his head thrown back in laughter. I laugh too. Around us, others are applauding and snapping photographs. Even the crew and our salty old ferry captain, who has a Gitanes glued to his partially parted lips, are transfixed. It is impossible not to be charged by the sight of these creatures. What a finale! What a curtain call nature has provided, to bring to a close the most perfect of days. The most perfect of summers.