The Other Side of Silence

Just a few kilometers west of Cap Ferrat, Villefranche-sur-Mer is a curious old Riviera town full of tourists enjoying its hidden Escher stairways, high tenements, and dark, winding cobbled streets. It’s a little like being in a Gallic version of a Fritz Lang movie, shadowy, secret, and full of awkward, fish-eye angles, perfect for a deracinated wanted man living quietly and under a false name. So it was surprising to bump into Mrs. French outside a bar on-of all places-the Rue Obscure, which is entirely vaulted over, like a crypt, and most reminds me of a part of old Berlin, which is probably why I go there. Alone. The La Darse Bar is a crummy, sepulchral sort of place with sawdust on the floor and sticky wooden tables and looks like it’s been in existence since the time of Charles V, but the house rose they serve in earthenware pitchers is just about drinkable and I’m often to be found there, if anyone was ever inclined to look for me. Nobody ever had been inclined to look for me and so I couldn’t help but feel that Mrs. French finding me in the Rue Obscure wasn’t entirely the happy accident she claimed. She was wearing pink capri pants, a matching head scarf, a loose black sweater, and around her neck was a string of pearls and an even more expensive-looking Leica. Hers was the kind of carefree, casual look that women spend a lot of time in front of the mirror getting just right.

“Do you live around here, Mr. Wolf?” she asked.

“In a manner of speaking. I have a place on Quai de la Corderie. On the seafront.” I wondered who among my colleagues at the GHCF might have told her where I lived and, more to the point, my habits, and quickly arrived at the name of Ueli Leuthard, who was my boss and, I knew, a friend of Mrs. French.

“You realize we’re almost neighbors, don’t you? My house is on Avenue des Hesperides.”

I smiled. My house resembled the local jail. The houses on Avenue des Hesperides were large, well-appointed villas with several stories, sprawling gardens, and expensively uninterrupted views of the sea. Describing us as neighbors was like comparing a sea urchin with a giant octopus.

“I suppose we are,” I said. “But what brings you along this street, Mrs. French? It’s not called obscure for nothing.”

“Taking pictures, like everyone else. When I’m not writing, I take photographs. I’ve even sold a few. And call me Anne, please. We’re not at the Grand Hotel now.”

“That’s for sure. You know, I wouldn’t have thought there’s enough light for a picture in here.”

“This is the whole point of a good picture. To work with the available light and shade. To find definition and meaning in black and white where none seems obvious. And perhaps to illuminate a mystery.”

She made it sound like being a detective.

“Well, aren’t you going to buy me a drink?” she asked.

“In there?”

“Why not?”

“If you’d ever been through the door you’d know the answer to that question. No, let’s go somewhere else.” I dipped my head beside her ear for a second and sniffed loudly, for effect. “That’s Mystikum, and I’d prefer to enjoy it because you’re wearing it, not because it hides the smell of fish.”

“I’m impressed. That you know my perfume.”

“I’m a concierge. It’s my job to know these things. Besides, I saw the bottle in your handbag last night when you showed me your book.”

“You have keen eyes.”

“Not for very much, I’m afraid.”

She nodded. “I won’t argue about going somewhere else. It does smell of fish around here.”

“Good.”

“Where shall we go?”

“This is Villefranche. There are more bars in this town than there are mailboxes. Which probably explains why the post is so slow.”

“I’ve a better idea. Why don’t we go to your house and then you can give me that bridge book?”

“I think I may have misled you, Mrs. French. When I said it was a house what I actually meant was a lobster pot.”

“And you’re the lobster, is that it?”

“Certainly. There’s no room in there for much more than me and a local fisherman’s hand.”

“All right. Why don’t you go home, fetch the book, and then bring it to my house? Avenue des Hesperides, number eight. We can have a drink there if you like. There’s quite a substantial wine cellar I’ve hardly touched since I rented the place.”

“Didn’t the Garden of the Hesperides have some golden apples that were guarded by a never-sleeping, hundred-headed dragon named Ladon?”

“We had a guard dog, but he died. I do have a cat. His name is Robbie. I don’t think that you need to worry about him. But if you’d rather not-”