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Authors: Deborah Lawrenson
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happened if we had never decided to replace the pool at all. With hindsight, would we have gone ahead if we had known all we would uncover, and what effect it would have?
W e made an appointment and drove down to the industrial zone at Apt to talk to the owner of a company that built swimming pools. M. Jallon had been highly recommended, and we liked him from the start. Avuncular and practical, he assured us that anything was possible. Like almost everyone we met in Provence, he seemed to combine professionalism with a laid-back manner so effortlessly that by the end of the meeting we were firm friends, partners in a glorious endeavor that would enhance not only our personal surroundings but the landscape and history of the entire region.
The first step would be for him to come and look at the old pool to see if it could be salvaged. We might then decide that we wanted a more efficient, modern version, but the correct course would have been followed. He knew the property, of course—as did everyone, apparently—and was particularly concerned that, given the openness of our land, we might want to consider a high-tech, reassuringly expensive, retractable cover for the pool.
We should also be aware that a lining of ice green–gray was in vogue for new swimming pools: it tinted water the color of glacier melt, inducing the brain to lower the body’s temperature just by seeing it, he said. M. Jallon was a wonderful salesman.
On the way home, I turned to Dom and tried to sound as light and teasing as possible. “I hope this isn’t all because you need to get your laps in.”
He gave a short laugh, letting me know he’d gotten the point. “This is the last situation I would ever want to escape,” he said.
N ow that high tourist season was over, the streets were quiet. We discovered anew the enchanted villages of the great valley: Bonnieux, topped with a church, not a castle, opposite the bleak ruined fortress of Lacoste; Ménerbes, shiplike on its low outcrop at the foot of the range; Roussillon, perched on the edge of surging cliffs of red ochre amid green pines; Gordes, majestic in its autumn emptiness, incomparable views framed to artistic perfection by its own limestone ridges planted with candles of cypress.
Hand-in-hand, up the winding cobbles we climbed. I claimed kisses in the shadows of stone buildings and against the rough stucco of golden-baked walls. The steely purity of the midday sun, shutters closing. Lunch with wine. Always talking and talking.
Only one subject we did not talk about.
So, in the absence of being able to ask Dom or, rather, not wanting to provoke one of his black moods when everything was so lovely, I had two leads: the name of the house that the woman at the party seemed to associate with him, and the Durands, who might be able to put me in touch with the woman herself.
Yet even then, part of me was wondering what exactly I was concerned about. It was such a tiny, unimportant incident, after all. I tried to push the information to the back of my mind, but I couldn’t help myself. I was curious.
I asked Marie-Claude at the post office about the Mauger house.
O ne morning, when Dom was visiting another swimming pool company to get a second quote—he wanted to prove, I think, that he had not entirely lost his business sense to the Provençal spell—I followed her directions and headed down the hill.
It was a pleasant walk in bright sunshine down to the ruined chapel. My footsteps crunched loudly on the gravelly, stony path. The warmer air released a scent of pine; it could have been summer but for the silence of the cicadas.
The autumn huntsmen were out, though. A red plastic sign was tied to an oak branch: ATTENTION: BATTUE DE GRANDE GIBIER EN COURS . I assumed the “big game” it referred to were wild boar, but possibly it meant deer, too. The guns released occasional splatters of sound farther down into the valley. I remembered what Fernand had told me at the start of the
W e made an appointment and drove down to the industrial zone at Apt to talk to the owner of a company that built swimming pools. M. Jallon had been highly recommended, and we liked him from the start. Avuncular and practical, he assured us that anything was possible. Like almost everyone we met in Provence, he seemed to combine professionalism with a laid-back manner so effortlessly that by the end of the meeting we were firm friends, partners in a glorious endeavor that would enhance not only our personal surroundings but the landscape and history of the entire region.
The first step would be for him to come and look at the old pool to see if it could be salvaged. We might then decide that we wanted a more efficient, modern version, but the correct course would have been followed. He knew the property, of course—as did everyone, apparently—and was particularly concerned that, given the openness of our land, we might want to consider a high-tech, reassuringly expensive, retractable cover for the pool.
We should also be aware that a lining of ice green–gray was in vogue for new swimming pools: it tinted water the color of glacier melt, inducing the brain to lower the body’s temperature just by seeing it, he said. M. Jallon was a wonderful salesman.
On the way home, I turned to Dom and tried to sound as light and teasing as possible. “I hope this isn’t all because you need to get your laps in.”
He gave a short laugh, letting me know he’d gotten the point. “This is the last situation I would ever want to escape,” he said.
N ow that high tourist season was over, the streets were quiet. We discovered anew the enchanted villages of the great valley: Bonnieux, topped with a church, not a castle, opposite the bleak ruined fortress of Lacoste; Ménerbes, shiplike on its low outcrop at the foot of the range; Roussillon, perched on the edge of surging cliffs of red ochre amid green pines; Gordes, majestic in its autumn emptiness, incomparable views framed to artistic perfection by its own limestone ridges planted with candles of cypress.
Hand-in-hand, up the winding cobbles we climbed. I claimed kisses in the shadows of stone buildings and against the rough stucco of golden-baked walls. The steely purity of the midday sun, shutters closing. Lunch with wine. Always talking and talking.
Only one subject we did not talk about.
So, in the absence of being able to ask Dom or, rather, not wanting to provoke one of his black moods when everything was so lovely, I had two leads: the name of the house that the woman at the party seemed to associate with him, and the Durands, who might be able to put me in touch with the woman herself.
Yet even then, part of me was wondering what exactly I was concerned about. It was such a tiny, unimportant incident, after all. I tried to push the information to the back of my mind, but I couldn’t help myself. I was curious.
I asked Marie-Claude at the post office about the Mauger house.
O ne morning, when Dom was visiting another swimming pool company to get a second quote—he wanted to prove, I think, that he had not entirely lost his business sense to the Provençal spell—I followed her directions and headed down the hill.
It was a pleasant walk in bright sunshine down to the ruined chapel. My footsteps crunched loudly on the gravelly, stony path. The warmer air released a scent of pine; it could have been summer but for the silence of the cicadas.
The autumn huntsmen were out, though. A red plastic sign was tied to an oak branch: ATTENTION: BATTUE DE GRANDE GIBIER EN COURS . I assumed the “big game” it referred to were wild boar, but possibly it meant deer, too. The guns released occasional splatters of sound farther down into the valley. I remembered what Fernand had told me at the start of the
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