Caravan to Vaccares (13 page)

‘Your car's not here?' Lila asked.

‘Of course it's not here. Good God, girl, you don't expect my employees to sleep in the same hotel as I do? Be here in ten minutes.'

‘Ten minutes! I have to bath, breakfast, pack, pay my bill – '

‘Ten minutes.'

She was ready in ten minutes. So was Le Grand Duc. He was wearing a grey double-breasted flannel suit over a maroon shirt and a panama straw hat with a maroon band, but for once Lila's attention was centred elsewhere. She was gazing rather dazedy down at the forecourt.

‘Le Grand Duc,' she repeated mechanically, ‘always has some sort of transport or other.'

The transport in this case was a magnificent and enormous handmade cabriolet Rolls-Royce in lime and dark green. Beside it, holding the rear door-open, stood a chauffeuse dressed in a uniform of lime green, exactly the same shade as that of the car, piped in dark green, again exactly the same shade as the car. She was young, petite, auburn-haired and very pretty. She smiled as she ushered Le Grand Duc and Lila into the back seat, got behind the wheel and drove the car away in what, from inside the car, was a totally hushed silence.

Lila looked at Le Grand Duc who was lighting a large Havana with a lighter taken from a most impressively button-bestrewed console to his right.

‘Do you mean to tell me,' she demanded, ‘that you wouldn't let so deliciously pretty a creature stay in the same hotel as yourself?'

‘Certainly not. Not that I lack concern for my employees.' He selected a button in the console and the dividing window slid silently down into the back of the driver's seat. ‘And where did you spend the night, Carita, my dear?'

‘Well, Monsieur le Duc, the hotels were full and – '

‘Where did you spend the night?'

‘In the car.'

‘Tsk! Tsk!' The window slid up and he turned to Lila. ‘But it is, as you can see, a very comfortable car.'

By the time the blue Peugeot arrived in Arles a coolness had developed between Bowman and Cecile. They had been having a discussion about matters sartorial and weren't quite seeing eye to eye. Bowman pulled up in a relatively quiet sidestreet opposite a large if somewhat dingy clothing emporium, stopped the engine and looked at the girl. She didn't look at him.

‘Well?' he said.

‘I'm sorry.' She was examining some point in the far distance. ‘It's not on. I think you're quite mad.'

‘Like enough,' he nodded. He kissed her on the cheek, got out, took his case from the rear seat and walked across the pavement, where he stopped to examine some exotic costumes in the drapery window. He could clearly see the reflection of the car and, almost equally clearly, that of Cecile. Her lips were compressed and she was distinctly angry. She appeared to hesitate, then left the car and crossed to where he was standing.

‘I could hit you,' she announced.

‘I wouldn't like that,' he said. ‘You look a big strong girl to me.'

‘Oh, for heaven's sake, shut up and put that case back in the car.'

So he shut up and put the case back in the car, took her arm and led her reluctantly into the faded emporium.

Twenty minutes later he looked at himself in a full-length mirror and shuddered. He was clad now in a black, high-buttoned and very tightly fitting suit which gave him some idea how the overweight and heroically corseted operatic diva must feel when she was reaching for a high C, a floppy white shirt, black string tie and widebrimmed black hat. It was a relief when Cecile appeared from a dressing-room, accompanied by a plump, pleasant middle-aged woman dressed in black whom Bowman assumed to be the manageress. But he observed her only by courtesy of his peripheral vision, any man who didn't beam his entire ocular voltage directly at Cecile was either a psychiatric case or possessed of the visual acuity of a particularly myopic barnyard owl.

He had never thought of her as an eyesore but now he realized, for the first time but for keeps, that she was a stunningly lovely person. It wasn't because of the exquisite dress she wore, a beautiful, beautifully fitting, exotic and clearly very expensive gypsy costume that hadn't missed out on many of the colours of the rainbow, nor because of her white ruched mantilla head-dress affair, though he had heard tell that the awareness of wearing beautiful things gives women their inner glow that shows through. All he knew was that his heart did a couple of handsprings and it wasn't until he saw her sweet and ever so slightly amused smile that he called his heart to order and resumed what he hoped was his normally inscrutable expression. The manageress put his very thoughts in words.

‘Madame,' she breathed, ‘looks beautiful.'

‘Madame,' he said, ‘
is
beautiful,' then reverted to his old self again. ‘How much? In Swiss francs. You take Swiss francs?'

‘Of course.' The manageress summoned an assistant who started adding figures while the manageress packed clothes.

‘She's packing up
my
clothes.' Cecile sounded dismayed. ‘I can't go out in the street like this.'

‘Of course you can.' Bowman had meant to be heartily reassuring but the words sounded mechanical, he still couldn't take his eyes off her. ‘This is fiesta time.'

‘Monsieur is quite correct,' the manageress said. ‘Hundreds of young Arlésiennes dress like this at this time of year. A pleasant change and very good for them it is, too.'

‘And it's not bad for business either.' Bowman looked at the bill the assistant had just handed him. ‘Two thousand, four hundred Swiss francs.' He peeled three thousand-franc notes from Czerda's roll and handed them to the manageress. ‘Keep the change.'

‘But monsieur is too kind.' From her flabbergasted expression he took it that the citizens of Arles were not notably open-handed when it came to the question of gratuities.

‘Easy come, easy go,' he said philosophically and led Cecile from the shop. They got into the Peugeot and he drove for a minute or two before pulling up in an almost deserted car-park. Cecile looked at him enquiringly.

‘My cosmetic case,' he explained. He reached into his case in the back seat and brought out a small black zipped leather bag. ‘Never travel without it.'

She looked at him rather peculiarly. ‘A man doesn't carry a cosmetic case.'

‘This one does. You'll see why.'

Twenty minutes later, when they stood before the reception desk of the grandest hotel in Arles, she understood why. They were clad as they had been when they had left the clothing emporium but were otherwise barely recognizable as the same people. Cecile's complexion was several shades darker, as was the colour of her neck, hands and wrists, she wore bright scarlet lipstick and far too much rouge, mascara and eyeshadow: Bowman's face was now the colour of well-seasoned mahogany, his newly acquired moustache dashing to a degree. The receptionist handed him back his passport.

‘Your room is ready, Mr Parker,' he said. ‘This is Mrs Parker?'

‘Don't be silly,' Bowman said, took Cecile's suddenly stiff arm and followed the bell-boy to the lift. When the bedroom door closed behind them, she looked at Bowman with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

‘Did you
have
to say that to the receptionist?'

‘Look at your hands.'

‘What's wrong with my hands – apart from the fact that that stuff of yours has made them filthy?'

‘No rings.'

‘Oh!'

‘Well might you “Oh!” The experienced receptionist notices those things automatically – that's why he asked. And
he
may be asked questions – any suspicious couples checked in today, that sort of thing. As far as the criminal stakes are concerned a man with his lady-love in tow is automatically above suspicion – it is assumed that he has other things in mind.'

‘There's no need to talk – '

‘I'll tell you about the birds and bees later. Meantime, what matters is that the man trusts me. I'm going out for a bit. Have your bath. Don't wash that stuff off your arms, face and neck. There's little enough left.'

She looked into a mirror, lifted up her hands and studied both them and her face. ‘But how in heaven's name am I going to have a bath without – '

‘I'll give you a hand if you like,' Bowman volunteered. She walked to the bathroom, closed and locked the door. Bowman went downstairs and paused for a moment outside a telephone kiosk in the lobby, rubbing his chin, a man deep in thought. The telephone had no dialling face which meant that outgoing calls were routed through the hotel switchboard. He walked out into the bright sunshine.

Even at that early hour the Boulevard des Lices was crowded with people. Not sightseers, not tourists, but local tradesmen setting up literally hundreds of stalls on the broad pavements of the boulevard. The street itself was as crowded as the pavements with scores of vehicles ranging from heavy trucks to handcarts unloading a variety of goods that ran the gamut from heavy agricultural machinery, through every type of food, furniture and clothes imaginable, down to the gaudiest of souvenir trinkets and endless bunches of flowers.

Bowman turned into a post office, located an empty telephone booth, raised the exchange and asked for a Whitehall number in London. While he was waiting for the call to come through he fished out the garbled message he had found in Czerda's caravan and smoothed it out before him.

At least a hundred gypsies knelt on the ground in the grassy clearing while the black-robed priest delivered a benediction. When he lowered his arm, turned, and walked towards a small black tent pitched near by, the gypsies rose and began to disperse, some wandering aimlessly around, others drifting back to their caravans which were parked just off the road a few miles north-east of Arles: behind the caravans loomed the majestic outline of the ancient Abbey de Montmajour.

Among the parked vehicles, three were instantly identifiable: the green-and-white caravan where Alexandre's mother and the three young gypsy girls lived, Czerda's caravan which was now being towed by a garishly yellow-painted breakdown truck and Le Grand Duc's imposing green Rolls. The cabriolet hood of the Rolls was down for the sky was cloudless and the morning already hot. The chauffeuse, her auburn hair uncovered to show that she was temporarily off-duty, stood with Lila by the side of the car: Le Grand Duc, reclining in the rear seat, refreshed himself with some indeterminate liquid from the open cocktail cabinet before him and surveyed the scene with interest.

Lila said: ‘I never associated
this
with gypsies.'

‘Understandable, understandable,' Le Grand Duc conceded graciously. ‘But then, of course, you do not know your gypsies, my dear, while I am a European authority on them.' He paused, considered and corrected himself. ‘
The
European authority. Which means, of course, the world. The religious element can be very strong, and their sincerity and devotion never more apparent than when they travel to worship the relics of Sara, their patron saint. Every day, in the last period of their travel, a priest accompanies them to bless Sara and their – but enough! I must not bore you with my erudition.'

‘Boring, Charles? It's all quite fascinating. What on earth is that black tent for?'

‘A mobile confessional – little used, I fear. The gypsies have their own codes of right and wrong. Good God! There's Czerda going inside.' He glanced at his watch.

‘Nine-fifteen. He should be out by lunch-time.'

‘You don't like him?'Lila asked curiously. ‘You think that he – '

‘I know nothing about the fellow,' Le Grand Duc said. ‘I would merely observe that a face such as his has not been fashioned by a lifetime of good works and pious thoughts.'

There was certainly little enough indicative of either as Czerda, his bruised face at once apprehensive and grim, closed and secured the tent flap behind him. The tent itself was small and circular, not more than ten feet in diameter. Its sole furnishing consisted of a cloth-screen cubicle which served as a confessional booth.

‘You are welcome, my son.' The voice from the booth was deep and measured and authoritative.

‘Open up, Searl,' Czerda said savagely. There was a fumbling motion and a dark linen curtain dropped to reveal a seated priest, with rimless eyeglasses and a thin ascetic face, the epitome of the man of God whose devotion is tinged with fanaticism. He regarded Czerda's battered face briefly, impassively.

‘People may hear,' the priest said coldly. ‘I'm Monsieur le Curé, or “Father”.'

‘You're “Searl” to me and always will be,' Czerda said contemptuously. ‘Simon Searl, the unfrocked priest. Sounds like a nursery rhyme.'

‘I'm not here on nursery business,' Searl said sombrely. ‘I come from Gaiuse Strome.'

The belligerence slowly drained from Czerda's face: only the apprehension remained, deepening by the moment as he looked at the expressionless face of the priest.

‘I think,' Searl said quietly, ‘that an explanation of your unbelievably incompetent bungling is in order. I hope it's a very good explanation.'