Chapter Ten

Ahealer? This was getting better and better—or worse and worse. For me, a medical career had never been on the cards. In the first aid course, I had delivered a kiss of death to the dummy; syringes and other pointy things made me quake in my socks, and if I stuck plasters on myself, they tended to cover the bits of my body that weren’t hurt.

The surprise triggered by his revelation must have shown on my face, for Arbadonaro snickered into his Armagnac. He took a sip and placed the glass on the table beside him. “Let me guess. There’s a traveler somewhere in your ancestry, and nobody else in your family ever shared your gift?”

“Close, but not the whole truth. We’re aware of the Romani interference with our family tree, and that, as a result, this aura-tasting stunt surfaces every two or three generations.”

“Fascinating. To be more than a blip, it required more than one Gitan. Can you also read the people you savor? What I mean is, do you get any character impressions of them?”

My stress level dropped to green. Blimey, the man was on the ball. I wished I’d found him earlier. It would have spared me a lot of grief. “Yes. If I let myself, of course. It doesn’t happen automatically, nor is it of any use, since I only see the good in people.”

He snorted. “Hah, not a full gift, then. Two or three Gitans perhaps, but no more. I would imagine a flawed vision can get annoying.”

“Oh, yes.”

Annoying wasn’t the best choice of words when it came to the trouble I experienced in my life. Excruciating fitted the bill more accurately, especially in the romance department. Tom was only the last and worst in a string of failures.

I sipped my tea. The brew tasted tangy and soothing; the verbena must have been fresh.

I cradled the mug in my hands. “I appreciate your candidness about...who I am. You seem to know the answers I’ve been searching for a lifetime. It’s just...”

His berry eyes twinkled. “You don’t want to hear them.”

“Yes. No. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting to find someone. To be even more honest, I was, but the Romani I talked to in Britain laughed in my face when I mentioned my affliction, so...”

“ Bof, ” he said. “Our British cousins command different skills. They never understood the gift of the taste. What else would you expect, given where they live? That wretched person shouldn’t have brushed you off. They were out of their depth and should have known better. Our gifts differ across the various clans.”

“You’re telling me those ancestors of mine came from France?”

He nodded. “Highly likely, yes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it also shows in your French. Your command of the language is excellent. I applaud you. You have only the faintest accent. I’m convinced it’s your genes calling. Santé .” He emptied his glass and once more grabbed the bottle.

Oops . As shrewd as the man might be, I needed to ask my questions about the Legrands before rising alcohol levels messed with Arbadonaro’s memories. “Thank you for sharing and for taking me seriously. I would love to learn more, but since I came for something else...”

“ Doucement. We’ll come to this later. Are you not intrigued by your unique talent?” His black eyes glittered with amusement.

“I am, yes. Only...”

“Mel, ma chère , there’s a time for everything. People always rush these days. Always run, run, run, and never stop to reflect, not once. It’s undignified. You lose yourself if you keep dashing around. What you need to do is contemplate your amazing gift. Even among the Gitans , such talents are rare, and they become rarer as time goes on. Sometimes, I fear this world is losing its magic. Such a shame yours isn’t complete. If you were a true healer, you could use your insights to help others balance their lives.”

Understanding dawned. “When you mention healers, you don’t mean this in the physical sense, like a doctor, correct? This sounds more like souped-up spiritual advice.”

Arbadonaro laughed out loud. Armagnac slopped from his glass onto the seat of the other armchair. “Wonderfully said. Great sense of humor, I like you. Think in terms of a mentor. You understand what a person needs, and you then help them find their way. If you are gifted with the full talent, you can also fix some of what is wrong. Not everything, by no means. It’s all about understanding your fellow human beings and nudging them in the right direction. The travelers have been using this gift for centuries.”

Yeah well, his comment explained a lot. And the bit with the nudging was news to me. I never experienced anything remotely like it. Instead, I got jerked around myself, especially by the males of the species.

Super. Never again.

I stared into my empty mug.

“You didn’t always benefit from your talent, yes?” The voice was a soft murmur in a quiet room. As if in agreement, the clock chimed in with one measured gong.

“No, but I learned my lesson. I don’t try to ‘read’ people anymore. Or, if I do, I know I’m only getting bits of the truth. It’s not worth the hassle.”

I lifted my head and caught the old man’s gaze, intense but not unfriendly. He fumbled in a drawer, removed a writing pad, and scribbled a number on the top sheet of paper, which he then ripped off. He leaned forward and pushed the note at me.

“My mobile number. If you ever have questions concerning this gift of yours, give me a call. This phone, I will answer. The other,” he raised his bristly chin at the handheld gathering dust on the shelf, “not so much.”

Touched, I took the scrap of paper. “That’s very kind of you.”

“I’m too old to do such things myself. But I can explain.” He sagged in his armchair and sighed. “Now, let’s come to the Legrands, though I’m afraid I’ll be even less helpful.”

“We...there’s a witness who claims they disappeared one night. That’s where the trail goes cold.”

“Pah. They didn’t disappear. They were ill before they even set out. A cold developed into pneumonia almost overnight. There was no way they could make it across the mountains. I called in help, and we escorted the three of them back. We hid them in the attic of a friendly farmer close by.”

He fell silent and stared at the wall as if it held the memories of his past. The grandfather clock ticked on in sympathy.

Before my inner eye images rose and pushed aside the room and time I was in.

I saw flushed faces glistening with perspiration, makeshift bedding on wooden planks, and figures flitting to and fro. A man carrying a black bag and a stethoscope shook his head. A wide-eyed girl cowered in one corner, biting her knuckles, tears in her eyes.

I heard voices that weren’t there, words and noises that perhaps never happened and only lived in my head, a rushed prayer, a strangled sob. I sensed the rough floorboards under my feet and breathed in the rank sweat of desperation. Under my fingers, a pulse weakened and bled away.

They had come so far. Freedom had been within their grasp, but at the last moment, it slipped from their lifeless hands. With their death happening in the distant past, the trail had truly gone cold. Raoul would never find relief.

I shook myself and the images flickering, vanished. “They died, didn’t they?”

The old man stared at his bookshelf.

“Monsieur Arbadonaro?”

He swept the heel of his hand over his forehead, covered in liver spots. “Jacques, please.”

“Pardon. Jacques, what happened?”

“The doctor risked his life treating them. So did the farmer who offered them shelter. We all did. Antibiotics might have helped, but there were none to be had, only aspirin. They fought for their lives, oh yes, they did. For a while, it was touch and go. They might have made it. But they’d been on the run for too long, the illness was too fierce. The parents died within hours of each other. Only the daughter was left, fighting her lonely battle.”

The images returned, clearer now. Two huddled shapes, covered by blankets. Still, so still. The girl in the corner, her big brown eyes huge in a haggard face. Her feet scuffing on the floorboards. A hand stretched out, but the girl shook her head.

“She survived?” The vision splintered. Once more, I was sitting at the edge of the armchair, this time for a different reason.

Jacques looked up, his black eyes sad. “Yes. The Résistance placed her with a family of supporters in France, blessed people willing to take the risk.”

“To sum it up, the Legrands never crossed the Pyrenees, never left the country, and the freedom fighters hid the girl.” This explained why nobody ever traced her. “Do you remember the name of the people who sheltered her? And where she went?”

“Unfortunately not. Back then, I was only sixteen. The other freedom fighters kept me at the fringe of things. It was for my protection and the girl’s, they said. What I know is she was given false papers and a new identity. I only ever knew her new first name, Louise, and that only because she kept mumbling to herself, to make sure she would react when someone addressed her. She was an amazing person; I hope she made it.” There was a strange expression on his face. Longing?

That couldn’t be the end. It just couldn’t. “You have no idea where she was taken?”

Arbadonaro pursed his lips. “Not quite, since I overheard something, and I tried to find her. I shouldn’t have, but I did. Not during the war—it would’ve been too dangerous, but afterward. She was such a dainty little thing, but full of spunk despite losing both her parents. I wanted to be sure she was okay. No matter how hard I tried, I never found her. Perhaps it was better that way.” There was sadness in his eyes that belied his words.

“Sorry for being a pest, but I need to know where she started her new life.”

An impish expression crept into his features. “I might tell you. Not today, though. I’m tired. It’s hard to recall the past, what has been and isn’t there anymore. Though at my age, I fear the past is the only thing left. Come back another day, Mel, and I’ll help you. Don’t wait too long. I might not have many days left. Now, I need to rest. I need my beauty sleep. See yourself out, will you?”

He closed his eyes. A faint smile hovered on his lips. Tic, toc said the grandfather clock as if to mock me.

?~ * ~

Y von’s minivan was empty when I returned, and he was nowhere in sight. My conversation with Monsieur Arbadonaro was an endless loop in my mind. I left the alleyway and entered the main road—still no Yvon.

We had entered the village from the right, which meant I would soon run out of houses. After turning the other way, a short hike took me to the village’s central square, shaded by poplars and filled with vintage automobiles, their drivers, and their multinational fan community.

Good. Let there be people, tons of them, anything to chase away the remnants of a tragic past.

I let my gaze flit to the car enthusiasts, but he was not among them.

Where had the wretched man disappeared to now? I shaded my eyes and pivoted on my espadrilles.

The restaurant at the far end, named after the poplars, was serving lunch and making a roaring trade. A snack to wash away the lingering aroma of verbena would be more than welcome.

No way. If I stuck to my recent calorie intake, I would soon roll down the dunes.

A cute young server in shorts hugging her ample curves bounced across with a big smile on her freckled face. “Madame Rosen? Monsieur Batz told you would come. ’E’s in the kitchen.”

“Kitchen?”

Her giggle was infectious. “Monsieur Batz is very kind. Chef had an accident when she cut the fish.” The smile segued into a grimace of pain. “Poor Chef sliced the top of three fingers off. Monsieur Batz, had a drink with le patron when she started yelling. Monsieur offered to ’elp. He’s done the sauces and la Bouillabaisse . And monsieur makes the others cook quick and very good.” Her eyes shone.

A star chef in their kitchen, and a handsome one as well, would provide her with a juicy tale to trot out for years to come. I could only hope Yvon would keep his digits intact and the orange zest away from the sauce.

“If you would like to wait while he does things? Some lemonade, perhaps? And I can offer you our special salad.”

What I said next wasn’t clever, but sometimes, I really can’t help myself. “Do you need me to do something?”

Her pixie eyes widened. “Oh, you’re a colleague?”

“I’m more like the opposition. I’m a food critic. But I can cook if that’s what you’re asking.”

A pensive expression sneaked onto her face. “ Le patron, he is stressé .” She made a sweeping gesture that included the eating guests, and the crowds milling around the cars, though probably not the vehicles themselves.

Well, if I was the boss of an establishment bursting with diners and my head chef had suffered from such a calamity, I would also be freaking.

“Perhaps you could ’elp with le dessert ? Monsieur Batz doesn’t seem to be keen on the sweet things.”

Nor was I. “You don’t have a pastry chef?”

“Normally, yes. Yesterday, he also had an accident.”

“Ah, he burned his fingers when fetching the chocolate cake from the oven?”

When she grinned, dimples showed in her cheeks. “ Non . A fall with a mountain bike.”

Itxassou was a dangerous place for catering professionals. The quicker we got away from here, the better.

She shot me a hopeful glance. “We ’ave what Jean prepared before he left for the trip with the bike, and our chef made the cakes this morning. People are on the starters now, but soon they will want La Poire Belle Héléne . It’s our speciality, and the assistant is in tears because of the ice cream.”

A restaurant that bothered to make its ice cream deserved help. “In this case, let’s go.”

?~ * ~

T he chef’s whites Yvon wore crumpled at his shoulders, and the sleeves ended halfway between elbow and wrist. He had left the jacket open, allowing the black tee he wore underneath to peek from the gap.

Since the whites were also too short, he had wrapped a waiter’s knee-length white apron around his midriff. Or rather, once the fabric must have been snowy. Now, it was covered in stains.

He zipped through the kitchen, thrashing his arms into a blur as if he featured too many of them. When he spotted me, the arms came to a screeching halt.

“What are you doing here? Didn’t the wretched girl find you?” His face was flushed and his forehead shone with perspiration, dark tendrils of hair sticking to the skin.

“She did. I’m here to help with the dessert.”

“Oh no, you don’t.”

“Try stopping me.”

“Madame?”

I turned on my heels and faced a pudgy man of middle years whose most remarkable feature was a luxuriant black mustache, reminding me of Hercule Poirot taking shape in a French kitchen. The server stood next to him, eyes streaming with gaiety.

“Are you le patron ?” I asked.

“ Oui, Madame.” He wrung his hands. “It’s a catastrophe.”

The French catering trade suffered from a distinct overdose of the histrionics. “I haven’t started cooking yet. Okay, I can see Yvon—Monsieur Batz is busy. If you want, I can help you with your dessert.”

Hope dawned on the patron’s brow. “You can?”

Yvon pounced, swinging a soup ladle. “If you dare to feature my friend’s troubles in your blog...”

“Cool it. I thought we were a team?”

Having lowered the ladle, he raked his fingers through his hair. “Not in the kitchen.”

The patron edged closer, eyes wide with panic. He grabbed the sleeve of Yvon’s white jacket. “She can do this, you think? She can try, yes?”

He sighed. “No idea. Haven’t seen her prepare food yet. Only eat. That doesn’t always work out so well. And there’s no time for what Raoul would call a kaffeeklatsch.” A glower rounded off his missive.

Indignation swept through me in a red-hot rush. Who did that man think he was? These top chefs were too full of themselves and considered themselves to be God with a spice box. “For the records, I’m supposed to be helping you, right? What do you think I’ve been doing the last hour?”

“Ah. Any results?”

Yvon seemed to have forgotten we were surrounded by people and an auditory potpourri of ovens bleeping, mixers whirring away, knives clattering on cutting boards, and sous-chefs screaming abuse. Every single noise blended into an effective screen. The patron , however, kept hovering nearby like a distressed specter, his mustache drooping in misery.

“I’ll tell you later,” I said. “Arbadonaro acted a bit cagey at the end. Held back the last clue because he wanted to make me come again. But otherwise, it worked.”

“ Merde alors ,” Yvon said.

“What is Jacques doing now?” The patron asked, his mustache quivering in a way that reminded me strongly of the rodent star in Ratatouille, one of my favorite classics.

Yvon swung around, and the ladle banged into a metal rack. The apprentice chopping garlic on the other side jumped, a wild expression on his face.

“You know Arbadonaro?” Yvon asked.

The patron threw an anxious look into his kitchen, filled with steam, fragrant aromas, and white figures blurring about. He must have liked what he saw, for his mustache perked up.

“ Mais oui. He sits under the trees and drinks his pastis. Come to think of it, he hasn’t been around a lot recently. I hear he’s into his old pastime again, searching for his love. Long-lost love, I should say.” He chuckled. “A Jewish girl who got stranded here during the war. The fighters hid her from the Germans, and he lost her in the process. Been pining ever since. Ah, to be young again.” Le patron smacked his fleshy lips. “Seems like the old rascal’s been back to Lupiac a lot recently, searching. His granddaughter drives him.”

Yvon’s gaze met mine. There was no need to threaten me with the ladle. I understood only too well the patron just handed us a vital clue. However, this wasn’t the right moment to ask questions.

“Righty-oh, as Yvon pointed out already, we don’t have time for a chat. Where’s the chap with the ice cream? Has anybody bothered to poach the pears? How’s the chocolate sauce coming along? Oh, and I’ll need an apron.” With that, I turned my back on the two men and waded into the fray.

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