Anything Considered Read Online Free PDF Page A

house. Beyond the rows of lavender and groups of olive trees, Bennett could see the post-and-rail fencing of a paddock, with a chestnut horse contemplating the sunset. The scene might have been arranged for a photographer, he thought, and turned to look at the equally photogenic interior.
    The flames of a log fire danced and sputtered in a cut-stone fireplace with a mantel the height of a standing man. Arranged on the putty-colored plaster walls around the room were dozens of paintings and vintage black-and-white photographs in a variety of frames and styles, Sisley next to Hockney, Hopper next to Lartigue. The furniture was large, soft, and covered in those artfully faded materials that make interior decorators giddy with delight. It was a comfortable, stylish room, and standing with his back to it, silhouetted against the plate glass with a portable phone held to his ear, was the figure of a man who Bennett assumed was Julian Poe.
    “Monsieur?
”
    Bennett turned abruptly, and would have knocked the glass of champagne off the tray if the Japanese hadn’t swayed backward, smooth as a boxer avoiding a punch. He nodded at Bennett. “Perhaps you would like to sit.”
    Bennett took the champagne and smiled at him. “Thanks. No, I think I’ll stand, actually. Stretch the legs.”
    The Japanese inclined his head again, and retired on noiseless feet as Bennett went over to the fireplace for a closer look at the paintings. One or two of them, he was sure, he’d seen in museums in Paris. Had Poe lent them? Could they be fakes? They certainly didn’t look it, although you never knew nowadays. He was wondering if the subject was too delicate to raise, when he heard footsteps behind him, and turned to see the smiling face and outstretched hand of his host.
    “Box Eighty-four, I presume?”

3
    BENNETT’S first impression was that he was meeting someone who had strayed from the pages of a magazine article about men of distinction. Julian Poe was glossy, from the top of his immaculately barbered graying head to the radiant toe caps of his dark-brown shoes, which had the deep, well-established glow that can only be achieved by years of diligent polishing. A black cashmere cardigan was slung around his shoulders, over a heavy silk shirt the color of clotted cream. The trousers were light-tan gabardine. Bennett was glad he’d dressed up for the occasion, and made a mental note to pay his tailor’s bill as soon as he was in funds again.
    “I see Shimo’s already given you a drink. I wonder if he’s got one for me.” Poe looked around as the Japanese glided toward him. “Ah, splendid.” He took the glass and handed his phone to Shimo. “Your health, Mr. Bennett.”
    Bennett raised his glass, watching as Poe took his first, reflective sip. Bennett put his age at a well-preserved fifty, the tanned face barely lined, the body upright and trim, the stomach flat.
    “That’s better.” Poe smiled at Bennett. “I find if I drink at lunchtime, the afternoon’s a blur; if I don’t, I’m gasping by six. I hope you had no trouble finding us?”
    Bennett shook his head. “I must say, you have a wonderful place here. I know the Lubéron pretty well, but I’ve never seen anything like it.”
    “There isn’t anything like it. I spent five years looking for it, and almost as long licking it into shape.” He turned toward the window. “Why don’t we pop outside and see the last of the sun.” He took a small black wafer the size of a credit card from his pocket and aimed it at the plate glass, which slid back into the wall. The two men walked across the terrace and down toward the paddock.
    “On the way up the drive,” said Bennett, “I was wondering what you do about all those practical things—electricity, the odd loaf of bread. You’re not exactly next door to the supermarket.”
    “Oh, we muddle along,” said Poe. “There are two generators in that barn, half a dozen live-in staff, and we stock up once a week in Nice.