Hotel Pastis Read Online Free PDF Page B

BCBG have taken over—
Bon Chic Bon Genre
—and you get fined if you’re not wearing a Lacoste shirt.”
    “Suppose you haven’t got a Lacoste shirt? Where do you go?”
    Murat chased some sauce around the plate with his last scallop. “Have you ever been to the Lubéron? Between Avignon and Aix. It’s getting a little chichi, specially in August, but it’s beautiful—old villages, mountains, no crowds, fantastic light. I was there for a week in June with Nathalie. It was
très romantique
, until her husband arrived.”
    The waiter cleared the table. Simon had never been to the Lubéron. Like hundreds of thousands of others, he had gone straight to the Côte d’Azur, fried on the beach, and gone straight home again. The back country of Provence was unknown territory, a blur of names on the autoroute signs.
    “Where do you drive to?”
    “Leave the autoroute at Cavaillon, and go towards Apt. It’s nothing, twenty minutes. I can tell you where Nathalie and I stayed—a little place,
beaucoup de charme
, a private terrace where the two of you can sunbathe naked.…”
    “Philippe, I’m on my own.”
    “So? Sunbathe naked on your own. You might get lucky.” Murat leaned forward. “The maid comes in one morning to make your bed—one of those ripe little Provençal girls of seventeen with the olive skin and the big brown eyes—and she discovers the English
milor
. He is on the terrace
tout nu
. She cannot resist him.
Voilà!
It is a leg-over.”
    Murat’s version of a quiet and uncomplicated holiday was interrupted by the arrival of the gigantic roast pheasant that they were sharing, and a pyramid of crisp, finely cut
pommes frites
. There was audible consternation from the American table at the size of the chicken that one of the women had ordered. “All for
moi
? My God.”
    Murat poured the red wine and raised his glass. “
Bonnes vacances
, my friend. I’m serious about the Lubéron; it’s a little special. You should try it.”

3
    T he wiry little man they called Jojo was there early, leaning against the warm stone wall, watching the huge moss-skinned water wheel as it turned slowly, shiny green and dripping in the sun. He could see behind the wheel the ornate gingerbread bulk of the Caisse d’Epargne, a picture-postcard building with its elaborate architectural flourishes and fat tubs of geraniums on the entrance steps, more like a melon millionaire’s villa than a bank. People said it was the most picturesque bank in Provence, a fitting bank for the picturesque town of Isle-sur-Sorgue. According to Jojo’s information, it could be taken. There was a way in. He lit a cigarette and turned to look for a familiar face among the crowds drifting through the Sunday-morning market.
    It was getting on for the end of the season, late September, but the fine weather had tempted them out—the sturdy, suspicious housewives with their bulging baskets, the Arabs buying their lunch live from the chicken stalls, the tourists with their reddened skins and bright holiday clothes. They moved slowly, clogging the pavements, spilling out into the road. Cars attempting to drive through the town were reduced to an irate, honking crawl. That might be a problem, Jojo thought. He took a last drag on his cigarette, cupping the butt in the curve of his hand, an old prison habit.
    The man he’d been waiting for sauntered across the road, a half-eaten croissant in his hand, his belly bigger than ever. Life must have treated him well since the old days, although he’d never been thin.
    “Eh, General!”
    The other man waved his croissant.
“Salut, Jojo. Ça va?”
    They shook hands and stood back, smiling as they inspected each other.
    “How long has it been? Two years?”
    “More.” The big man laughed. “You haven’t grown much.” He took a bite from his croissant and wiped golden flakes of pastry from his moustache with the back of his hand—a hand, Jojo noticed, that hadn’t done any manual labour for years,