“The rental company had it towed to Avignon. I don’t have Internet access at the château, and my phone is having trouble receiving messages, so I was on my way over to the Hound Dog Café to check my e-mail.” She patted the computer bag slung over her shoulder.
“I’ll go with you.”
“I hear he’s an Elvis fan.”
“You could say that.”
To Cady’s eyes the Hound Dog Café was more tavern than café. A well-stocked bar ran along one side, and a pool table crowded the opposite corner. The walls were studded with posters of Elvis Presley, from the early movies featuring him as a slim, handsome young man, to the jumpsuited version not long before his death.
Hubert, a paunchy, middle-aged man with long sideburns, looked a little like Elvis Presley in his Vegas years. He stood behind the bardrying glasses with a towel and greeted Jean-Paul by name when he entered. Two old men sat hunched over beers at the bar; a small mixed group of middle-aged men and women had pushed two tables together and were chatting; a young couple giggled and leaned toward each other over their table.
Cady ordered a coffee, Jean-Paul asked for a Fernet-Branca, and they took a seat by the window.
She tried the pastry. The layers were rich with butter, tender inside with a satisfying crunch at the edges. The filling of pistachio and chocolate was scrumptious. She glanced up to find Jean-Paul’s eyes on her.
“Good?” he asked.
“Mmmmmm,”was all she could manage. She brushed a few flakes off her lips. And then: “You’re right, I thank you.”
He smiled.
“I wanted to ask you something,” Cady said. “You mentioned your mother has copies of the old photos taken by Yves Clement. Do you think she would share them with me?”
“I’ll ask her, if you would like. Why don’t I bring them to the château—it would be interesting to see what Fabrice would make of them.”
“He’s a fascinating man.”
One corner of his mouth kicked up. “I suppose that’s one way to put it.”
“I was thinking, he must have been writing in Paris during the bohemian heyday, right after World War II. Imagine the people he might have known.”
“According to what I’ve heard, he thinks that was the last time Paris was interesting. Fabrice doesn’t have much time for Paris, much less my ‘fancy education.’”
“Well, I envy you. I never went to college.”
“No?”
She shook her head. “I barely made it out of high school, really. I wasn’t what you’d call a natural student.”
“You seem to have done well for yourself.”
“I read,” Cady said, then stopped herself. She had almost confessed to him. “Slowly, but I read a lot.”
He nodded. “Didn’t the writer Ray Bradbury say something about that? That he was ‘library-educated’?”
“I hadn’t heard that, but I like it.” She sipped her coffee and for a moment let silence fall over them. Finally, Cady added: “As I mentioned in Paris, I’m reading your cousin’sLe Châteauright now.”
“Yes, I’m impressed. That’s not an easy read.”
“Well, I’m making my way through the English translation. And I confess, I have no idea what’s going on. But he describes bits and pieces of the château, so it’s fun to track those down and see what he’s talking about. The man at the bookstore told me it was a roman à clef. Did you know that?”
Jean-Paul nodded.
“It would be much more intriguing if I had any idea what was going on. Do you know whether the carousel was completely destroyed in the fire?”
“Some say there were parts that remained, relatively unscathed. But it’s all conjecture; I think Fabrice is the only one who knows for sure.”
“Well, I’m working on him. In the novel, he refers to an ‘apprentice’ staying at the château, and working there for a period of time, but he’s referred to only as ‘Anon’ or ‘Anonymous.’ I wish I had the key that went along with the novel.”
