Алистер Маклин - Caravan to Vaccares

‘I thought that fellow would never come.’ Le Grand Duc was loud and testy.

‘Charles.’ Lila shook her head. ‘You’ve just had an enormous breakfast.’

‘And now I’m having another one. Pass the rolls, ma chérie .’

‘Good God!’ At their table, Cecile laid a hand on Bowman’s arm. ‘The Duke – and Lila.’

‘What’s all the surprise about?’ Bowman watched Le Grand Duc industriously ladling marmalade from a large jar while Lila poured coffee. ‘Naturally he’d be here – where the gypsies are, there the famous gypsy folklorist will be. And, of course, in the best hotel. There’s the beginning of a beautiful friendship across there. Can she cook?’

‘Can she – funnily enough, she can. A very good one, too. Cordon Bleu.’

‘Good Lord! He’ll kidnap her.’

‘But what is she still doing with him?’

‘Easy. You told her about Saintes-Maries. She’ll want to go there. And she hasn’t a car, not since we borrowed it. He’ll definitely want to be going there. And he has a car – a pound to a penny that’s his Rolls. And they seem on pretty good terms, though heavens knows what she sees in our large friend. Look at his hands – they work like a conveyor belt. Heaven grant I’m never aboard a lifeboat with him when they’re sharing out the last of the rations.’

‘I think he’s good-looking. In his own way.’

‘So’s an orangutan.’

‘You don’t like him, do you?’ She seemed amused. ‘Just because he said you were–’

‘I don’t trust him. He’s a phoney. I’ll bet he’s not a gypsy folklorist, has never written a thing about them and never will. If he’s so famous and important a man why has neither of us heard of him? And why does he come to this part three years running to study their customs? Once would be enough for even a folklore ignoramus like me.’

‘Maybe he likes gypsies.’

‘Maybe. And maybe he likes them for all the wrong reasons.’

Cecile looked at him, paused and said in a lowered voice: ‘You think he’s this Gaiuse Strome?’

‘I didn’t say anything of the kind. And don’t mention that name in here – you still want to live, don’t you?’

‘I don’t see–’

‘How do you know there’s not a real gypsy among all the ones wearing fancy dress on this patio?’

‘I’m sorry. That was silly of me.’

‘Yes.’ He was looking at Le Grand Duc’s table. Lila had risen and was speaking. Le Grand Duc waved a lordly hand and she walked towards the hotel entrance. His face thoughtful, Bowman’s gaze followed her as she crossed the patio, mounted the steps, crossed the foyer and disappeared.

‘She is beautiful, isn’t she?’ Cecile murmured.

‘How’s that?’ Bowman looked at her. ‘Yes, yes of course. Unfortunately I can’t marry you both – there’s a law against it.’ Still thoughtfully, he looked across at Le Grand Duc, then back at Cecile. ‘Go talk to our well-built friend. Read his palm. Tell his fortune.’

‘What?’

‘The Duke there. Go–’

‘I don’t think that’s funny.’

‘Neither do I. Never occurred to me when your friend was there – she’d have recognized you. But the Duke won’t – he hardly knows you. And certainly wouldn’t in that disguise. Not that there’s the slightest chance of him lifting his eyes from his plate anyway.’

‘No!’

‘Please, Cecile.’

‘No!’

‘Remember the caverns. I haven’t a lead.’

‘Oh, God, don’t!’

‘Well then.’

‘But what can I do?’

‘Start off with the old mumbo-jumbo. Then say you see he has very important plans in the near future and if he is successful – then stop there. Refuse to read any more and come away. Give him the impression that he has no future. Observe his reactions.’

‘Then you really do suspect–’

‘I suspect nothing.’

Reluctantly she pushed back her chair and rose.

‘Pray to Sara for me.’

‘Sara?’

‘She’s the patron saint of the gypsies, isn’t she?’

Bowman watched her as she moved away. She side-stepped politely to avoid bumping into another customer who had just entered, an ascetic and otherworldly looking priest: it was impossible to imagine Simon Searl as anything other than a selfless and dedicated man of God in whose hands one would willingly place one’s life. They murmured apologies and Cecile carried on and stopped at the table of Le Grand Duc, who lowered his coffee cup and glanced up in properly ducal irritation.

‘Well, what is it?’

‘Good morning, sir.’

‘Yes, yes, yes, good morning.’ He picked up his coffee cup again. ‘What is it?’

‘Tell your fortune, sir?’

‘Can’t you see I’m busy? Go away.’

‘Only ten francs, sir.’

‘I haven’t got ten francs.’ He lowered his cup again and looked at her closely for the first time.

‘But by Jove, though, if only you’d blonde hair–’

Cecile smiled, took advantage of the temporary moment of admiration and picked up his left hand.

‘You have a long lifeline,’ she announced.

‘I’m as fit as a fiddle.’

‘And you come of noble blood.’

‘Any fool can see that.’

‘You have a very kind disposition–’

‘Not when I’m starving.’ He snatched away his hand, used it to pick up a roll, then glanced upwards as Lila came back to the table. He pointed his roll at Cecile. ‘Remove this young pest. She’s upsetting me.’

‘You don’t look upset, Charles.’

‘How can you see what’s happening to my digestion?’

Lila turned to Cecile with a smile that was half-friendly, half-apologetic, a smile that momentarily faded as she realized who it was. Lila put her smile back in place and said: ‘Perhaps you would like to read my hand?’ The tone was perfectly done, conciliatory without being patronizing, a gently implied rebuke to Le Grand Duc’s boorishness. Le Grand Duc remained wholly unaffected.

‘At a distance, if you please,’ he said firmly. ‘At a distance.’

They moved off and Le Grand Duc watched them go with an expression as thoughtful as possible for one whose jaws are moving with metronomic regularity. He looked away from the girls and across the table where Lila had been sitting. Bowman was looking directly at him but almost immediately looked away. Le Grand Duc tried to follow Bowman’s altered line of sight and it seemed to him that Bowman was looking fixedly at a tall thin priest who sat with a cup of coffee before him, the same priest, Le Grand Duc realized, as he’d seen blessing the gypsies by the Abbey de Montmajour .And there was no dispute as to where the object of Simon Searl’s interest lay: he was taking an inordinate interest in Le Grand Duc himself. Bowman watched as Lila and Cecile spoke together some little way off: at the moment Cecile was holding Lila’s hand and appearing to speak persuasively while Lila smiled in some embarrassment. He saw Lila press something into Cecile’s hand, then abruptly lost interest in both. From the corner of his eye he had caught sight of something of much more immediate importance: or he thought he had.

Beyond the patio was the gay and bustling fiesta scene in the Boulevard des Lices. Tradesmen were still setting up last-minute stalls but by this time they were far outnumbered by sightseers and shoppers. Together they made up a colourful and exotic spectacle. The rare person dressed in a sober business suit was strikingly out of place. Camera-behung tourists were in their scores, for the most part dressed with that excruciating careless abandon that appears to afflict most tourists the moment they leave their own borders, but even they formed a relatively drab backcloth for the three widely differing types of people who caught and held the eye in the splendid finery of their clothes – the Arlésienne girls so exquisitely gowned in their traditional fiesta costumes, the hundreds of gypsies from a dozen different countries and the gardiens, the cowboys of the Camargue.