Chapter Nine
“What’s wrong?” Yvon stepped on the accelerator.
The horsepower lurking under the bonnet of his inconspicuous white van responded, and in a water spray, we thundered past a fleet of Dutch campers traveling south. The wipers squeak-whomped away the rain pelting the windscreen, barely coping with the wash. More water drummed against the underside of the vehicle when he switched back into the inside lane.
My blue funk had nothing to do with the clouds that scudded across the heavens, driven by a vicious wind. Nor was the precipitation to blame. No, Paulette’s insinuations had corroded my defenses and niggling doubts wormed their way through my mind. The woman was trying to use me to suit her agenda. Yvon, and even Raoul, might be doing the same.
I rotated my shoulders in the vague hope my worries would drop off the cliff and selected a light tone for my response. “Speed limits exist for a purpose. And we can speak French, you know?”
His lips twitched. “I wish to practice my English. With regard to speed limits, I’m not going fast at all. Don’t worry, you’re perfectly safe.”
That remained to be seen. “You’re almost twenty over. Plus, it’s a trifle damp.”
“Believe it or not, I noticed. Unfortunately, not only is Monsieur Arbadonaro not keen on visitors, but the later we arrive, the less welcome we’ll be.”
“Is that why he chucked you out the last time?”
“No need to chuck me out, I never got in. The man took one look at my face and slammed the door.”
Our gazes met in the rear mirror. He smiled, and I caught myself responding in kind. “You must be a glutton for punishment to try again.”
“Eh, I agree you’ll stand a much better chance,” he said.
“What would you have done if I hadn’t agreed to come?”
“Broke through the man’s door? Hmm, I’m not in the habit of harassing senior citizens. No idea. You shouldn’t be doing this, but I’m grateful you are since you’re uniquely qualified to take him on. Still, if we’re not there on time, it was all in vain.”
“Why didn’t you say something? We could have left earlier.”
His lips twitched again. “I tried.”
“Oh, right? Now it’s my fault. You never told me why you wanted to hit the road at the crack of dawn.”
“I ask you again. What’s wrong with you? You’re rather, how does one say? Crotchety?”
He was right, but the knowledge further soured my mood. Instead of saying something we would both regret, I wiped my clammy hands on the top of my jeans and tossed him a brittle smile. “Sorry. Paulette for breakfast is a bit much.”
“Ah.”
The French have a fantastic way of conveying a world of meaning with only one syllable and a head toss. “You don’t like her, do you?”
“ Non. ”
“May I ask why not?”
“You may, though I’m surprised you ever let her get close to you.”
Ouch. Batz versus Rosen one nil. “Come on, we’re not exactly bosom buddies. I met her at the library when I was researching historical references. There’s only so much you can lift from the internet. Once she knew I wanted to feature the war in my novel, she got excited and super helpful. She arranged interviews with a few lovely old ladies, most of them teens back then, every single one desperately lonely and glad to share their life story. They made me sad, more than anything.” My voice hitched, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“Sad?”
I hesitated before I spoke. “Behind each wrinkled face hides a young woman. They have vivid recollections of their earlier years, and it’s hard to watch them shuffle where they once skipped and hopped.”
I faced the window to hide the silly tears pricking my eyes. “Life is too bloody short. We should enjoy every moment. Instead, we get mired in the here and now, totally forgetting there might be no tomorrow. I don’t think haunting is a viable alternative, you know? In the end, all that remains of a life is a collection of junk and meaningless memories.” My breath clouded the window.
With my index finger, I drew a wobbly heart into the mist, which I then wiped away. Beads of moisture congealed and fell like tears
Yvon said nothing. An endless minute later, he squeezed my free hand.
When I raised my head and looked at him, he was staring through a steamy windscreen at the motorway stretching ahead until it was swallowed into the gloom summer had become. His face, finely chiseled, resembled a study in granite. His hand was heavy in mine and allowed my thumb to rest against the delicate skin of his wrist.
Even if he wasn’t telling the full truth, did it matter? I wasn’t exactly forthcoming when it came to my true nature either.
“Sorry,” I said.
He heaved a deep sigh. “Excuse me.” He let go of my hand and cranked up the aircon. Arctic gusts cleared away the condensation. “I don’t have the right to tell you who you can or cannot talk to.”
“She’s pushy, isn’t she? Told me she wants the treasure to boost tourism or words to that effect. I don’t buy it.”
He snorted. “I’m glad to hear she hasn’t bamboo...bamboozled you. She’s an expert in twisting the truth if it suits her purposes. If you ask me, the woman is a mini-Napoleon. She uses and manipulates people. Her goals I don’t want to know about.”
“Hmm. A slice of the glory? Librarians rarely get to hog the limelight.”
Yvon shrugged. “Madame Gingembre has missed her vocation. She would have been a great asset to the Spanish Inquisition.”
A sign overhead announced the exit and péage . He flipped the indicator and pulled the car onto the right lane.
“Raoul doesn’t like her either. And she hates him.” Sudden insight exploded in my mind, the flash so bright, I jerked in my seat. “Hey, that means he must have appeared to her. Why? Or does he manifest on principle?”
“No. He’s usually more selective with his conversation partners. He’s doing fine, but manifesting costs him. Unfortunately, your good friend can sense his presence where others can’t.”
How dare he? I straightened in my seat. “She’s not my friend. What’s that supposed to mean?”
“One moment.” He slowed the van and crept past the gate of the toll station. The token on the windscreen blipped, the light went green, and the bar rose.
The van accelerated onto the D 918. Above us, the heavens split in a sudden shift of the weather typical for the French Atlantic coast. Wisps of white hurtled across the skies at enormous speed, headed for the Pyrenees rising in the distance; greenish-brown slopes where the shadows thrown by the clouds raced patches of sunlight.
“Not everybody can see ghosts,” he said.
“Even if the ghost in question wants to be noticed?”
Yvon tapped a finger on the steering wheel. “Once they are more than a decade old, they can get through if they want to. You’ve seen him in action. But your pesky librarian sensed him even when he wished to stay hidden. Very few of the revenants last very long, since it’s hard to keep yourself together when you don’t have a body. Even Raoul will have to let go eventually. I much prefer he fulfills his mission before it’s too late.”
Unlike Paulette, who cared only for her petty ambitions, Yvon worried about his spectral pal, which revealed a lot about his character. Unlike her, he also seemed to mean what he said.
“That makes two of us. You’re telling me she’s special.”
We turned left and headed for Espelette. “Not more special than you. I wasn’t trying to say the gift to see specters is super rare, though it isn’t standard either, which is the reason why people don’t believe they exist. I would imagine only two percent of the population would sense an invisible presence.”
Unlike Paulette, Yvon was no librarian, which meant he must have other sources. “Let me guess, Raoul told you?”
His laughter blew away the remains of the odd mood filling the car like a stinky fugue. “Oh, we have enjoyed sophisticated discussions about things that would boggle your mind. Funny to think the first person I should meet in Capbreton when I arrived last year was someone who doesn’t exist, at least not as far as mainstream science is concerned.”
We blitzed past houses, their roofs flat, alpine style, their shutters displaying the red of the pimento peppers the village is famous for. “Whoa, cool it. What if there’s a radar trap?”
“There wasn’t the first time I came. If we want to make it, I need to take risks. We have fifteen minutes; hopefully it will be enough. Bloody weather. You are clear on what you have to say?” He tossed me a questioning glance.
The abrupt change of topic left me dizzied, and it took me a moment to rifle through my thoughts. “I research the story of the Legrands for my novel. Yes, I have talked to you, and you gave me the lead. But I don’t like you much, in case he asks.”
The road inclined through meadows dotted with soggy cattle and sheep. Ahead, a squat church tower appeared as we approached.
Yvon’s gaze slipped to the rear-view mirror. He shook his head. “Sorry, what did you say? Oh, yes, you need to make it clear you’re not my biggest fan. He doesn’t like me. One look and that was it. I didn’t even get to explain my case, let alone shove a foot through the door.”
Did I dare to ask? I better had. “You never told me what the chap’s problem is.”
Another glance at the rear mirror. “I didn’t want to come across as racist. Arbadonaro’s a Gitan . A Batz did them an injustice in the past, and they have never forgiven my family.” He bit his lip.
Gitan. Monsieur Arbadonaro was a traveler, a Romani.
?How stupid of me. There was no need for the queasiness closing my throat. If I made it past Arbadonaro’s doorstep, we would discuss events that happened ages ago, not my whacky skills. Even if he noticed something odd, I should be delighted, not afraid—better understanding of my paranormal skills was the reason for getting involved with Yvon and Raoul in the first place, right?
That was the theory.
By the time I was halfway convinced fretting myself into knots would get me nowhere, we had reached Itxassou. Yvon turned into a narrow, cobbled street.
His gaze segued back to the mirror.
“What’s your problem?” I asked. “You’re more jittery than Louis the mop when I open his can of goo.”
“Don’t you ever mention canned food in my presence. I’m not sure, but there’s been a lime-green Citro?n behind us ever since the motorway exit. When I slowed, they did, and when I accelerated, they did too.”
“You’re telling me we’re being followed. Isn’t lime green a bit too obvious if you want to tail someone?”
“Sure. Unless they chose the color to stand out. It might also be pure coincidence.” He checked the rear-view mirror once more. I twisted in my seat and scanned the entrance to the alley we were in.
No Citro?n of any sort, let alone one in lime green.
“Must have been my imagination.” He rolled on and came to a standstill in a small courtyard framed by houses on three sides. “Better, if I don’t get any closer. If Monsieur Arbadonaro recognizes my van, he’ll never open the door.”
I scrambled from my seat, stretched the kinks from my back, and breathed in the fresh mountain air. It didn’t fool me. As I trotted along the narrow alleyway, the walls of the houses radiated warmth from the recent heatwave.
Dread pooled at the pit of my stomach. My steps slowed.
Gitan or not, Arbadonaro might be a perfectly harmless old man. Not to forget, the chances of him sussing my supernatural gift were slim. It had taken me ages to get hold of Madame Astra.
Another step, even slower than the previous one. Maybe my parents were mistaken about the Romani heritage being responsible for my talents.
Unlikely.
I came to a halt. Only two days ago, on the beach, the path ahead had seemed clear. How come a woman who didn’t flinch at the idea of ghosts would shy away from confronting her true nature? That was a good question, one I didn’t have an answer to.
Could it be a premonition? Rubbish, it would mean having second sight, which I didn’t.
Did I even want to continue?
Not really, but if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be happy with myself either. Sometimes, you can’t win.
I checked the house numbers. Fifty-three was my destination. Not plastered white like its neighbor, the narrow cottage was built of rough stones. It sported a roof and shutters in the ubiquitous red but jaded by the elements. A wooden bench snuggled against one wall, its slatted seat bathed in sunlight and streaming with moisture.
I climbed the steep steps and, when I found no bell, rapped on the door panel decorated with a bundle of dried pimento peppers.
At first, there was no reaction, but the moment I raised my hand to rap again, something shuffled around inside, accompanied by a tap, tap, tap.
The door creaked open. Black eyes in a wizened face, crowned by a shock of white hair, peeked at me.
“Monsieur Arbadonaro?” I said in French. “I’m Mel Rosen, a journalist, food critic, and novelist. It’s the reason I’m here. Or rather, it’s the Legrands I’m after.”
He didn’t respond, let his gaze trail my body. Then he smacked his lips and nodded to himself. When he spoke, his voice belied his years. Tainted by the faintest wobble of old age, his warm bass should have belonged to a much younger man. “Good solid aura. Some people taste downright funny these days.”
People did what?
My stomach lurched. Of course, I’d suffered a premonition after all. After endless years filled with futile searches I had hit upon a fellow aura taster. No sooner did the thought blip in my brain, than his aroma flushed my taste buds in a flood of spices and cream.
The black gaze drilled into mine. “You don’t like what I say, no? Between you and me, I believe you know what I’m talking about, hmm?” He winked. “Come inside, Mel Rosen. Food critic? Yes, yes, you shredded Monsieur Batz, didn’t you? What a laugh. If you’re one of us, it explains why you don’t like him. Come inside.”
“Actually—”
The crack between the frame and the door panel widened. Arbadonaro shuffled backward with an impatient tap of his cane. “What are you waiting for? We shall not discuss such topics in the street.”
Yeah, sure. Who started this?
I followed my host’s stooped back along a cramped corridor crowded on both sides by rows of bookshelves. An aroma composed of dust, vanilla, and beeswax polish hit my nose, but otherwise, the place appeared to be in a much better nick than my inglorious rental.
Arbadonaro must have been a tall muscular man once. His broad shoulders bore witness of former physical strength. Age might have spared his voice, but a navy-blue pullover dangled from his skeletal frame, and gray trousers wrinkled at his hips. He leaned on his cane, his feet in their worn leather moccasins never leaving the ground while he shambled along.
He pushed a door at the end of the corridor open and limped into a parlor filled with more bookshelves and racks upon racks stuffed with vinyl LPs. Only one corner of the room remained uncluttered. There, a grandfather clock ticked away the time.
The two leather armchairs were almost an afterthought; together with a beautiful Aubusson carpet they guarded the fireplace, swept and empty now, awaiting winter. Dark beams supported the ceiling, appearing solid rather than oppressive.
Arbadonaro pointed at the armchair closer to the window. It recessed into walls so thick they kept the heat at bay better than any modern air-con unit could have done. “Take a seat, Mademoiselle Rosen. Or may I call you Mel? That’s short for Melanie, correct?”
“Thank you.” I sagged into the cracked leather of the armchair, slippery under the seat of my jeans. “I’m called Melody, but Mel is fine.”
He smiled. His teeth, impossibly white and even, reminded me of piano keys.
“A beautiful name. I’d be delighted if you called me Jacques. Would you like some herbal infusion, Mel? I can offer you rosehip, verbena, or peppermint?”
The last thing I needed was tea. We had stopped on the motorway, but whenever I was nervous, my bladder acted up. However, not accepting the offer would be impolite. “Verbena, please.”
The old man nodded and pushed off into his kitchen
The time my host took to prepare the brew would give me the reprieve I needed to gather my wits.
I let my gaze roam through the parlor. Stuffed it might be, but as in the corridor, everything was meticulously clean and well-kept. The Hi-Fi system was state-of-the art, complete with wall-mounted speakers. Someone had money.
In the kitchen, water splashed into a sink and crockery clattered.
My heartbeat gathered speed. “One of us,” Arbadonaro had said. I had been fine on my own. I didn’t need to be part of anything. Okay, that wasn’t quite correct, we all want to belong. Apart from that give me a close circle of true friends, and I’d weather most storms.
Everything comes at a price. The old man’s comment made the adage all too clear. Now that the answers I had been searching for dangled within reach, I wasn’t sure I wanted to pay what it might cost to hear them.
A kettle beeped.
I could run away. Leave the chair and escape from the house and its eerie occupant.
But I had promised Yvon to help him find the Legrands. I wouldn’t fail Raoul, or myself.
Shuffle. Tap.
The old man returned, bending under the lintel, too low even for his stooped form. He held a floral mug in one hand; the other gripped the cane. Tea sloshed from the mug.
I jumped up. “Let me help you.”
He smiled wryly and passed the mug. “You better take it. By the time I’ve reached you there won’t be any tea left.”
“You’re not drinking?”
Monsieur Arbadonaro—somehow I couldn’t think of him as Jacques—wriggled the bushy brows shading his berry-black eyes. “I will, in a moment. A little Armagnac works wonders for old bones. I figured you’d be driving and wouldn’t want anything. If you do, then say so.” He lifted the brown bottle standing on the octagonal side table and waggled it suggestively.
I couldn’t help the smile. “No, thanks, you’re right. I’ll stick to tea.”
I breathed in the rich herby aroma rising from the mug on a thin wisp of steam. Something else rose with it, something sweetish I couldn’t identify. Honey, perhaps?
The tea warmed fingers turned cold and clammy.
With a plop , Arbadonaro pulled the cork from his bottle, reached for a bell-shaped glass that tapered at the top, and let a golden-brown fluid glug inside. His hands were pale and slim, the veins knotted, the finger joints swollen with age.
He breathed in. “Ahh. Almost as good as your aura.”
My heart skipped a beat. This was getting ridiculous. Here was my chance to better understand my weird gift, and what did I do? Instead of asking pertinent questions, I perched on the edge of my armchair like a panicky chicken about to drop an egg.
I leaned against the backrest and blew on the brew. “What made you so sure I’d understand your meaning?”
“You’ve got the particular peppery taste every healer has. If that’s the case, you can also sense auras.”