Background
Helen and Charles continue on their quest to unravel the mystery of Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin's letter. It seems that, in many ways, Helen is equally mysterious...
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Continued from Chapter 15:
"There's not much else to tell about our days there [in Karachi]. We spent much of the time in our room, watching videos and TV, except for when we went to Clifton Beach. It was quite a novelty for us to be near water. We enjoyed watching the sun sparkling on the sea, and appreciated the soothing tranquillity of gently lapping waves." Her face brightened a bit as she added, "We even went for a camel ride one afternoon!
"Of course, the cloud of past events still hung heavily over us during those few days, as the pain of our loss gradually sank in. Grief soon turned to anger at the unfairness of fate. Why us? What had we done to deserve this?
"However, it wasn't until we reached Thailand that the nightmare would truly begin."
Chapter 16
I waited for Helen to go on. She had dropped so many hints about what happened in Bangkok that I was now buzzing with curiosity. I felt sure that some of the questions lingering in the back of my mind were about to be answered, but she stopped her story there and said, "That's enough for one night, Charles. I really must try to get some beauty sleep if we are going to investigate this mysterious gardener tomorrow."
With that, she turned away from me and buried her head among the pillows. I wasn't sure if she was playing games, or whether she was too emotionally distraught to continue. I lay gazing at a gap in the curtains for a while. They had not quite been drawn together, and they let a slither of moonlight fall across the languorous curve of Helen's body. Eventually, I drifted off with an old joke, not all that inappropriately, in the back of my mind: "Confucius say... man with erection, who walk through airport door sideways, is going to Bangkok."
The following morning, after breakfast, we decided to walk back down the hill to Michel's garage. It was a glorious summer's day of the kind that makes one feel glad to be alive. I hailed a frumpy old lady in curlers and a mauve dressing gown. "Bonjour!" I shouted to her, with a broad grin.
She looked at me uncertainly and retreated up the garden path to her front door, grasping a bottle of milk and defensively thrusting her copy of Le Monde under one arm.
"Come on, Helen! No time to lose." I grabbed her by the hand and propelled her down the street in a whirlwind of enthusiasm.
"Come on, yourself," she said, pushing me into a hedge and running on ahead.
We arrived at the garage breathless, and saw two men standing outside, in deep conversation with Michel. Helen drew me in under the cover of a tree. "Aren't they the men who bumped into us in their rowing boat? You remember? Just before our picnic at Versailles the day before yesterday."
"Yes, you're right. What on earth are they doing here?"
We lurked in the shadows until they climbed back into their black Citroen - one of those old-fashioned ones with running boards. For a brief moment, I had a vision of white spats and spitting machine guns, before I shook myself back into the present.
"Who were those men?" Helen asked Michel.
"I don't know. They were here snooping around your car on the forecourt when I arrived this morning. I demanded to know what they were doing; they hesitated, then asked me if it was for sale."
"Fifi for sale? Definitely not!" Helen exclaimed.
"That's what I told them, but they came back again just now, and wanted to know who the car belonged to. I didn't like the look of them and I told them to mind their own business. They didn't look any too happy when they left." Michel shrugged, and spat in the gutter.
"Anyway, she's fixed now. Just a bit of dirt in the fuel line. I've flushed it all out and given the old girl a bit of a run. She'll be fine. Did Alphonse look after you all right last night?"
"Alphonse?"
"My brother, the chef."
"Oh, did he ever! He put on a magnificent meal for us. We had a wonderful evening." Helen gave Michel her sweetest smile and thanked him profusely.
He blushed a little under his Gallic tan. "I'm glad to hear it, mademoiselle. Anything for a pretty lady." It was Helen's turn to blush, but she did not. Instead, she leant forward and gave him a small peck on the cheek.
"How far is it to Giverny from here?" she asked.
"Only about 25 minutes. If you leave now, you will get there before the coachloads of tourists arrive from Paris. The gardens are at their best at this time of the year, with the water lilies in bloom."
We thanked him once again, and gave him a large tip on top of the modest amount he charged us for the repair. A smile creased his weathered face as he shook our hands and bid us farewell.
"What a very nice man," Helen said as we drove off.
"Lucky you! Two nice men in one morning."
"Mmmm... and two not so nice ones." Helen looked worried, perhaps even a little scared. Again, and not for the last time, I wondered if there was something she wasn't telling me.
It was a five-minute walk from the carpark to the admission gate, and by a quarter to ten there was already a small queue of people waiting to get in. Along with the others, we were ushered down some steps, and along a narrow path that led to the gardens in front of Monet's house. The herbaceous borders were drowsy with bees and heavy with the scent of roses and honeysuckle. A Babel of admiring voices surrounded us, interspersed with cameras clicking like the consonants of Kalahari bushmen.
Two or three of the paths were roped off, where gardeners were busy weeding and pruning, but we saw no sign of Alain among them. It took us an hour or more to follow the crowd as it drifted onto the paths surrounding the lily ponds, and to squeeze through narrow doorways as we went from room to room through the house.
We had almost finished the tour and given up hope of finding him when, from a window in one of the bedrooms, I saw a figure on a stepladder, pruning and tying back a climbing rose that was rampant, a shocking riot of yellow along the back wall of the garden. I nudged Helen and pointed. There was an unmistakable streak of white in the man's hair.
Author Notes
Cast of Main Characters
Charles Brandon: The narrator, a well-known travel writer
Helen Culverson: A woman of mystery, also purporting to be a travel writer
Kayla Culverson: Her older sister.
Madam Durand: A French magazine editor, who was involved in a serious accident
Dr. Laurent: A veterinary surgeon in Versailles
Father Pierre Lacroix, vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church
Madam Lefauvre: An old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip
Francoise Gaudin: An intellectually disabled woman living in Versailles
Alain Gaudin: brother of Francoise
Estelle Gaudin [deceased]: mother of Francoise
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased]: to whom the mysterious letter of 1903 was addressed.
Photograph by the author: July 2018
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