Provence - To Die For Read Online Free PDF Page B

said, blinking. Behind his thick glasses, he had one eye that turned in, giving his face an off-balance appearance, but his friendly expression was ingratiating. “It’s true,” he continued in English. “I attended university in your country for one year. This makes me an expert. If you have any questions, I will be happy to assist you.” Guy was taller and thinner than the master chef, with straight brown hair streaked with gray and a bushy mustache, his easy manner in contrast to the palpable magnetism of the chef. I was sure his was the voice I’d heard talking with Claire, warning her “the old bull” wasn’t good enough for her.
    “Bon!” boomed out Bertrand. “Claire, ma petite, tell me, do we have other Americans in Madame Fletcher’s class?”
    Claire reviewed the list of students again, and I detected the slightest tremor in her fingers as she moved them down the page. “I don’t think so, but you have a British couple, the Thomases,” she told Bertrand. “And Monsieur Bonassé will be back, as will Madame Poutine. You also have a student from the Institut de Cuisine but I don’t have the name yet, and Madame Fletcher. There will be six, no more, as you prefer.”
    “Parfait! You have done well,” he said in a soft growl, tipping his head and gazing at her until her face was suffused with high color again. He turned to me. “You must excuse me, madame. I have to inspect this morning’s purchases from the market to see what we will cook today.” He looked quizzically at his assistant, who was frowning at Claire. “Guy!” The younger man jumped. “Why don’t you give Madame Fletcher a tour of the classroom? That is, if you have the time, madame. We have a very beautiful kitchen to teach in. It is located in an old part of the building that dates back many centuries. I’m sure you will enjoy to see it.”
    I glanced at my watch. It was a quarter to ten. “I would like to see it very much,” I said, “as long as I’m back here in time to check out and meet my driver.”
    Guy came around the desk and poked out his elbow for me to take. The sleeves of his jacket were too short for his long arms, stopping well short of his bony wrists and hands that were red and chapped. “I can give you the short tour or the long tour.” He was smiling again. “I will keep my good eye on the time, and you will tell me when I have bored you enough.”
    Laughing, I took his arm. I thanked Claire and Chef Bertrand, and Guy and I crossed the stone entry to a small vestibule to the right of a beautifully curved staircase that led to the upper floors. We took the elevator down, and when the door opened I stepped out into a low-ceilinged corridor with stone walls. The air was cool and damp and musty-smelling. Down the hall to the left was an open doorway. From it, fluorescent light flooded across the dark passage and painted a bright rectangle on the facing wall. Sounds of running water and the clunk of metal hitting metal emanated from the room.
    “That’s the hotel kitchen,” Guy informed me. “You can see this another time. But first you must see ours.”
    Ahead of us was a wide stone arch. Guy guided me through it, down a step, and into a cold and dark room. Two wall sconces were insufficient to illuminate all the comers. Beneath our feet were huge blocks of dusty stone, scarred and uneven from the many feet that had trodden over them through the years. I shivered from the chill.
    “This part of the building is very old,” Guy said in a low voice. “Can you perhaps feel the spirits of the past?”
    “Do you have ghosts here?” I replied playfully, trying to shake off an odd feeling that the room aroused in me.
    Guy shrugged. “When you have old buildings, there are always unexplained things. This building dates from the time the city became official home to the popes. Did you know Avignon was the capital of Christendom in the fourteenth century?”
    “Yes. I read about it. The Palace of the Popes