We were up early, and had breakfasted on fresh baguettes with salty butter and steaming hot black coffee. Light spilled across the sky and the day felt heated from the ground up. Did Vincent spend much time here? For some reason I could picture le savant fou waking with the sunrise, muttering to birds as they stole olives from the trees.
‘Did you spend summers here with your family?’
Sebastien nursed a cup of black coffee.
‘Occasionally,’ he said. ‘Papa would join us for a day or two. They were some of my best memories, working in the studio here with him.’
I smiled, remembering the sense of calm I’d felt in the studio the night before, almost the like old man was there.
As if reading my mind, Sebastien said, ‘When I work here, I get this strange feeling like he’s standing to the left of me, whispering in my ear. Crazy, non?’
I reached across the table and found his hand, giving it a supportive pat. Whatever stress he felt yesterday was slowly dissipating in the Provencal light. ‘Not at all. I feel that too with my nan. For me Nan was always there, just off in the distance.’
‘What does she say?’ he asked.
‘Usually she starts with, I didn’t teach you to…insert diatribe from be selfish, or be a quitter, to hide away like this. I spent all my time with her growing up and into adulthood, she was more than just my nan, she was also like a best friend, and it was hard to lose both. It’s easier to pretend she’s near me, dispensing advice, showing me the way.’
‘That makes me feel less crazy,’ he laughed. ‘On bad days when I feel the break in my heart, I pretend Papa is in his studio, just a few steps away from our apartment, that he’s lost in his perfumery and tinkering about. It does help, at least for a little while.’
The break in my heart. I just loved the way he described it and his honesty. ‘You’re not crazy, you’re just muddling through grief the best way you can. We’re lucky though, at least we have their perfumes, and they’ll always live on through those.’
He nodded. ‘I have a collection of my papa’s last formulas – perfumes that haven’t been made public and I often wonder what to do with them. Keep them for myself, or make the range, knowing they’ll become bestsellers but then they won’t be only mine?’
‘I can tell by your voice what you want to do.’
‘And?’
‘Keep them for yourself. Keep that one thing, after all, you can always design a new range and keep your famous clients happy.’
‘Maybe.’ He let the comment slide. ‘What about your parents, what do they think of your perfumery ambitions?’
Where to start? ‘To be honest, Sebastien, they wouldn’t really have a clue. Of course they know I love it, but they don’t know much else. They weren’t around much for me and Jen and Nan and Pop were more like parents.’
‘Why, what were they doing?’
‘Healing the world one tarot card at a time. They only came home when they ran out of money. It was tough, living in a small town when they blew back in, older but not wiser.’
‘Is that what gives you that drive, why you’re so determined?’
I nodded. ‘I guess so. I just always wished they were more normal, just your average suburban parents, but I guess we don’t get to choose and they’re sweet in their own way, they just live life on their own terms. But I want more. And I don’t have anyone to fall back on, if it doesn’t work out.’
The driver knocked at the door and offered to take us into town, but Sebastien took the keys and told him to take the day off. We wandered the Provençal streets of Saint-Rémy, the bright sunlight warming my face as I turned it toward the sun.
Already Sebastien had lost that tension in his face, he was quick to smile, and enjoyed sharing the history of the town. ‘Nostradamus was born here. And Vincent Van Gogh was treated in an asylum at the monastery Saint-Paul Mausole asylum in 1889 for two years. He painted a collection of works while he was in Saint-Rémy, one of the most well known is The Irises. You may know it?’
‘Yes!’ I said, amazement coloring my voice. We were walking in his footsteps, the legend that was Van Gogh, another Vincent ahead of his time. I knew the painting he spoke of, it was iconic, a patch of purple irises in a field with daubs of yellow, and green.
He continued: ‘The Irises is truly remarkable in that Van Gogh thought that it was saving him from insanity. He started it a week after being admitted to the asylum, and he fought valiantly to pull himself out of ill health. It’s nothing like his other paintings, it doesn’t have the same intensity, and I love it all the more for that.’
What had happened to the almost broody Sebastien? He was chatty, and animated. Could a change of place really have that much effect on a person?
‘What happened after he was discharged from the asylum?’ I asked.
Sebastien dipped his head. ‘He died a few months later.’
I’d always been fascinated by Van Gogh, and the loyal and inspiring relationship he had with his younger brother Theo who supported him through so many hard times. And I found it tragic that his extraordinary artwork was never appreciated while he was alive and he struggled financially until his death. If only he could have seen what a legacy he’d left behind. I couldn’t recall much about his passing though, and found it inordinately sad it had happened so soon after he left the asylum, supposedly cured.
‘How did he die?’
‘Gunshot wound,’ Sebastien said, he was as morose as if he knew Vincent personally, and I warmed toward him because of it.
‘Suicide?’
He gave a small shrug. ‘It’s believed to be that way, but there’s always those conspiracy theories that he was shot by an enemy of some sort.’
‘People believe what they want to believe. I remember reading that his brother died not long after.’
Sebastien nodded. ‘They say he had a disease of the brain but it was not so. He died of a broken heart at only thirty-three years of age.’
Goosebumps raced the length of me. Those poor brothers, both so young.
After a couple hours of walking around the beautiful town, we got back in the car and went to visit our first lavender field. Sebastien was testing me. Out of the five fields we were to visit, he wanted me to tell him which one Leclére Parfumerie used for their lavender. Just how the heck I’d know was beyond me, but I was up for the challenge, and secretly relishing spending time with him when he was this carefree, this happy.
‘So,’ I said. ‘This first field, how long has it been operational?’
He gave me a quick as if glance.
‘Too obvious?’
‘Oui.’
We exchanged grins. ‘I wonder if I’ll get a sense, you know, or if after a while all I’ll see is a purple-blue blur.’
‘I think you’ll surprise yourself.’
‘Shucks, what faith you have in me.’ We shared a meaningful look, and I quickly turned way. Focus. I told myself not to read into a feeling that wasn’t there.
We turned down a pebbled drive, with sprawling fields of lavender as far as the eye could see. As we got close you could make out the blue sprigs dancing on the wind, a burlesque just for us. ‘Gosh, it’s absolutely breathtaking.’ Lavender was distinctive and with such abundant fields of it, I wondered if I’d be able to really mark those few variations in scent.
Sebastien parked the car in front of a stone villa and a couple came out to greet us.
‘Welcome,’ the man said. ‘We’re the Miliots. Let us show you around.’
We did a tour of the property, and they showed us how they harvested the crops, and some of the products made from the oils extracted from lavender.
I picked a bud, sniffing it, then broke it to release the oils. I wasn’t sure this was the right place, it didn’t ring true for some inexplicable reason. We thanked the couple and moved on, and I crossed that farm off the list.
When we reached the fifth field, home of the Lillettes, I’d made up my mind. This was the place. The mistral, when it came, would blow hard from the north, but the fields were protected by a mountain range nearby. The flowers wouldn’t suffer the wooly weather as much as they would in the other fields, here they’d keep their spikes and buds intact.
This farm gave off a certain vibe, almost cocooning the blue dream.
Another couple came to greet us, rugged types dressed in old jeans and tees, and plastic boots, their smiles as certain as I was.
Still, I questioned them about their processes and did a tour out of genuine interest.
After effusive thanks we left them and headed back to the villa.
We sat across from each other at the kitchen table. ‘It was the last farm.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
I explained about the mistral winds and the damage they could wreak, and how the mountain range protected the lavender.
With his poker face, it was impossible to tell, but I pressed my lips together and waited. Which lasted exactly half a second before I burst out with, ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’
He bit down on a smile. ‘Far too much to be healthy. And you’re correct, we chose that place because of the protection the mountains offer. The mistral is fierce and can damage the buds or ruin crops completely.’ His eyes shone with a sort of pride. ‘It’s organically farmed and the property has been in the Lillette family for three generations.’
‘Yay! Who knew I’d have farmer material written all over me!’
He raised a brow.
‘OK maybe farmer is a stretch.’
We laughed. ‘I can see why you love it here.’
‘It’s not just the quiet,’ he said. ‘It’s a sense of belonging,’
‘Lavender fields, olive groves, sunshine and friendly locals. I can see the appeal.’
He uncorked a bottle of wine and poured us two glasses of rosé. ‘But you only have eyes for the bright lights of the city?’
In the fading light of Provence I felt relaxed, dozy as a cat in sunshine. Time moved slower here, there was no rush, people meandered, unlike Paris where everything was a desperate rush. Don’t even get me started on catching the Metro at peak hour. That was a mistake I would never make again. You could really think in a place like this. ‘I thought I knew what I wanted, that my plan was foolproof, but doesn’t life just surprise you when you least expect it?’
We locked eyes and the air grew heavy. ‘It certainly does.’