What if he’s dead? The thought struck her as she drove by splashes of red poppies in the orchards and olive groves, and the yellow fields of wheat. He was very pale and hadn’t moved. He looked as if he was sleeping, and there were no signs of blood. Better try the garage when she reached Marseille and call the police if there’s no reply.

“I found Walter dead yesterday,” Camille said.

Juliette was sitting at her dressing table, studying an old photograph of herself in a silver frame. It was one of many pre-war photographs in silver frames on the walls and small tables around the room, all taken thirty years ago when the media was at her feet; newspapers, magazines, radio. Even television, and Pathé News. She was tall, slim and stylish, and her silk, eau-de-nil peignoir went perfectly with the soft oyster-grey of the walls.

As Camille waited, she watched the dust float lazily in the sunlight streaming through the windows and eyed her mother sourly. She lowered her gaze for a moment, then looked up at her mother again. Juliette put down the silver frame and sighed; one of her normal, everyday, leave-me-alone sighs.

Without turning around, she said: “Yes, Camille, what is it? What do you want? I am very busy.”

Camille sighed too, though her sigh was deeper and less audible. 

“I said, I found Walter dead yesterday.”

“Who’s Walter?”

“Walter. Walter Clément, you know, the owner of the village garage. I found him dead.”

“Goodness. Where did you find him?” said Juliette, her back to Camille.

“Sitting in a car at his garage.”

“It was bound to happen one day. He was a heavy drinker,” said Juliette indifferently. 

“I thought you should know.”

Juliette glanced up at her daughter’s reflection in the mirror and thanked her.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Nadia, Juliette’s best friend and companion, was preparing lunch as Camille came through the door.

“Shouldn’t you be at work, sweetheart? Not working today?”

“No work today,” said Camille. “I called at the garage on my way to work yesterday and found Walter Clément asleep in a car. At least I thought he was asleep, but I couldn’t wake him up. So, I called the police when I got to work. They phoned me this morning and told me he was dead—and they want to talk to me.”

“Oh, for goodness sake. Walter dead? That’s awful, but why do the police want to talk to you?”

“I have no idea. I hope they don’t think I did it. I didn’t even know he was dead till they called me.”

“Of course, they don’t think you did it! But that’s so sad, though he did drink like a fish, poor old man, and never seemed happy. Maybe he drank his heart out.” Nadia looked up sympathetically at Camille.

“Could be. All I know is that I got there at eight to fill my car and there he was, sitting in a car. Not moving.”

“Did you try and wake him?”

“Of course, I did. I shouted and banged on the window.”

“Perhaps he had a heart attack?”

“Maybe,” said Camille as someone knocked at the door. 

“Good morning, Mademoiselle,” said an overweight man in his fifties who was wearing a light-coloured suit and a flat cap. “I am Chief Inspector Paquet of the local brigade of intelligence and criminal investigations of the Bouches-du-Rhône.”

The inspector took off his cap.

“Mademoiselle Dumont?”

“Yes, please come in Chief Inspector.” Camille showed the policeman into the hall. “I presume this is about Monsieur Clément. We can talk in the kitchen if you like. I don’t have much to tell you.”

Camille pulled out a chair for the inspector. 

“I went to the garage to fill up my car and couldn’t wake him. That’s all there is to it. I didn’t know he was dead.”

“Don’t worry, Mademoiselle,” said Paquet smiling as he sat down, “my visit is only a formality. In every case of unexplained death, we have to go through this. Witness statements, autopsy, you know how it is. All I need is for you to fill in this form and write in your words what you saw to the best of your knowledge and belief. A paragraph will do unless you noticed something out of place.”

“So,” Camille asked as she filled out the form, “do you know what he died of? A heart attack do you think?”

“It’s too early to tell, but it’s an unexplained death. He was sixty-nine and had worked at the garage for twenty-seven years. It could have been a natural death; it could have been suicide; it could even have been murder. We don’t know yet. Did you notice anything unusual?”

“Nothing. I just knocked on the car window and tried to wake him up. I thought he was asleep. I only called you when I got to work in case he wasn’t well.”

“You were right there. He wasn’t well, not at all well. Do you remember if the car windows were up?”

“I’m sure of it. And the driver’s door was locked. I know because I tried it.”

“Did you touch anything else?” Paquet opened his notebook.

“No, just the driver’s window and the door handle.”

“Did you check inside the car at all? Did you see anything inside?”

“I couldn’t open the door, and I couldn’t see much through the windows. Only Monsieur Clément. I thought he was sleeping. His face was very pale.”

“That, Mademoiselle, is known as pallor mortis. We think Monsieur Clément had been dead for a while when you saw him, possibly several hours. Did you notice if the car engine was running?”

“No, the engine wasn’t running, I am sure of that.”

“And you didn’t notice a hose attached to the exhaust pipe?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Because there was one. It was sticking through a rear window of the car, the ignition was on, and the tank was empty.”

“Oh no! That’s awful. That does sound like suicide, doesn’t it?”

“It would seem so, except the first reports suggest he didn’t die of carbon monoxide poisoning, which is strange. We arrived soon after you called, and the car engine was still warm. Our engineers think it had only stopped an hour earlier.”

Nadia and Camille looked at the inspector.

“So, what did he die of?” They said in unison.

“It’s too early to reach a conclusion. We are certain he absorbed some carbon-monoxide, but not enough to kill him. So, something else, a heart condition or alcohol must have caused his death.”

Two months later, August 10, 1967

“I’m sorry, Maman, but my car is… I was wondering if…” 

“If what? If you could borrow my car? You know perfectly well Camille, I don’t like anybody driving my car.” Juliette replied sharply, visibly irritated.

Camille smiled ruefully to herself, or at least she thought she smiled, but her reflection in the mirror on her mother’s dressing table confirmed that her eyes were not smiling, and her mouth and lips had not moved. 

Why won’t she lend me her car? It wasn’t much to ask.

Yes, the scarlet Alfa Romeo Giulietta convertible had been an anniversary present from Bernard, but that was ten years ago, for God’s sake.

“No, Maman, I shall be going into Aix this morning, and I was wondering if you need me to pick up anything while I am there. That’s all.” 

That was not all, nor was it what she had planned to say. She frowned and bit her lip. For a moment she hesitated, as if about to add something else, and then the cicadas began their noisy symphony, promising another blistering summer’s day. Through the tall windows behind her mother, the morning sun had reached the line of stately linden trees that swept up the drive, past the cottage and the pool. 

She would ask Nadia.

The wicker basket bounced over the front wheel of the old Raleigh bicycle, and the worn leather seat was small and hard as Camille set out on the eight miles to Aix-en-Provence. Nadia had needed her car. She rang the small bell on the handlebar, wobbled as she turned right out of the chateau gates, and cycled along the tree-lined Avenue de Victor Hugo before reaching the Route de Berre, the D10 road to Aix. 

In the distance to the north, beyond the mottled greens of the vineyards and the dark, imperious cypress trees, the violet tips of the Alps were clearly visible, a sure sign that the Mistral was starting to blow. It would blow for three days, six, or even nine. It always did. It was a maddening wind. It was said that if a man killed his woman when the Mistral was blowing, a judge would have mercy on him. Nobody said what would happen if a woman killed her man.

Pedalling was hard work. And though there were few inclines and the road was tarred and smooth, Camille’s legs ached, and the perspiration stung her eyes. Yet the thought of the man she was going to meet pushed her forward. It was disquieting and a little exciting: she had made a spontaneous decision that she hoped she would not regret. It would not be her first bad decision. She winced as an image of Leo came to mind and slowed in the shade of a canopy of plane trees alongside the road.

It was Saturday, and there was less traffic than usual. Mostly small trucks, some laden, some empty, toiling their way to and from the market, plus a few cars scuttling by with thin beeps and the metallic clatter of stressed engines. An occasional cyclist, hunched over drop handlebars, pressed by in the heat, but no-one was a match for the motorised Solex two-wheelers of the women of Aix. In black print dresses and flashes of petticoats, they whizzed by with baguettes and courgettes protruding from baskets at the front and the back of their bikes. 

Close to an hour later, she rode unsteadily into the ancient capital of Provence, bouncing along the cobblestones of the Boulevard de la République and on to the Avenue Napoléon Bonaparte. She stopped by the old Casino Municipal, a stone’s throw from the Place de la Rotonde at the bottom of the Cours Mirabeau. Flushed and out of breath, Camille propped her bicycle against the casino wall and checked her watch. She was early. 

Breathing deeply, she gazed at the grand fountain in the Place de la Rotonde guarded by the three imposing statues incarnating Justice, Agriculture and the Arts. For a while, she watched the cool water gushing and tumbling from the water jets, then turned and studied her reflection in the dark window of the casino. She shook her head, ran her fingers through her hair, and brushed down the wrinkles in her dress before she wheeled her bike across to the Bar de la Paix on the Place Jeanne d’Arc.

Camille pushed open the heavy bar doors and was blinded for a moment by the change in light. She shaded her eyes and scanned the room to see old men playing cards by the windows, wreathed in cigarette smoke, and framed by sunlight spilling through the dusty glass. They paused, lifted their heads, looked her up and down, and turned back to their cards.

Max smoked too at a small table at the back on the left of the long zinc bar. He wore jeans, a white shirt and a leather jacket, and was better dressed than the first time she had seen him at the village garage a week ago when he had said her pretty eyes reminded him of a cat. Nobody had ever said that before. He had been wearing overalls then, as he was three days later when she called at the garage to ask about a noise her car was making. And they had talked a while before he playfully asked her if she would be offended if a working man like him offered to buy her a drink. Would she accept? That had put her on the spot and made her laugh and, not wishing to be rude, she had heard herself reply: “Of course, why not?”

Max stood up, put down his cigarette, smiled broadly, and stretched out his hand as she approached. 

“Ah bonjour, Mademoiselle, how are you?” Max spoke affably and Camille was pleased when he pulled out the other chair from the table for her to sit. “I’m surprised to see you. I wasn’t sure you’d come. So, now that you are here, may I buy you something to drink?”

Camille seated herself confidently and laughed as she replied. “I need something strong after cycling all this way and I don’t normally drink alcohol before lunch. But I’ll have a Scotch, please, a Ballantine’s and soda. Fifty-fifty with a little ice.” 

“You cycled here?” said Max astonished. “That’s quite a ride.” 

He turned to attract the waiter’s attention and she had her first good chance to study him. He was certainly attractive, and strikingly masculine in a rugged country way, with sunburnt skin and deep lines around his black eyes. He was clean-shaven and his dark hair was long and lank, and his teeth were straight and white. He looks Italian, she decided. I wonder how old he is. Late thirties, early forties at most. One thing was certain: her mother would not like him.

“Yes, Max, I cycled. You have my car, remember?” 

Max snorted with laughter and exhaled a wreath of smoke that curled and danced in a shaft of sunlight reflecting off the glass behind the bar.

“Oh no, your car, Mademoiselle de Vaucluse. I’m so sorry. I forgot I still have your Renault Dauphine. But it’s nearly ready. There was nothing much wrong with it, just a loose engine mounting. That’s what that noise you kept hearing was. Kerbang, kerbang, kerbang. The engine was trying to get out of the car!”

Max grinned good-naturedly.

“Come around this afternoon. I’ll make sure it’s all set—or I can leave it on the forecourt for you to collect if you wish.”

The status and respect accorded to her parents in the region made Camille ill at ease. She was unused to, and uncomfortable with being addressed as Mademoiselle de Vaucluse. Since childhood, she had witnessed her parents’ constant and unremitting social life but had never wanted to be part of it. She did not share their values and had always preferred the company of simpler, less-conventional people.

“Please don’t call me Mademoiselle de Vaucluse. Call me Camille. And for that matter, my family name is not de Vaucluse.”

Max leaned forward, as if he didn’t understand.

“But I thought you were… Don’t you live at the chateau with Monsieur Bernard and Madame Juliette de Vaucluse?”

“Yes, I do, but de Vaucluse is not my family name. Juliette de Vaucluse is my mother, but Bernard de Vaucluse is not my father.” Her voice died away; she wished he had been.

Why did she have to blurt that out straightaway? It was true, though. She had been to a private Catholic school and tutored by nuns before going to the girls only Lycée of Aix-en-Provence at sixteen, where she had mixed with less-fortunate people for the first time. She had been proud to carry her mother’s maiden name, Dumont. Everybody had heard of Juliette Dumont. But only then did she realise her parents used a different name. 

“But your mother, Juliette de Vaucluse, is Juliette Dumont, is she not? The famous swimmer?” Max stared intently at her, as if inspecting her. “At least let me introduce myself. I am Max Berger, son of Michel and Chantal Berger from the Auvergne. My parents are farmers, and we have nobody famous in my family as far as I know,” he added gracefully.

So, he is not Italian. There are no Italians in the Auvergne, just low mountains and forests, cattle, dried sausage and cheese.

“The Auvergne? You surprise me. So why are you called Max?” Camille asked, keeping her voice light. “Max is a Provençal name. Wouldn’t Gaspard be more typical of the Auvergne?”

“Hey, wait a minute! Gaspard? I am pleased they didn’t call me Gaspard! No, it was my father’s idea to call me Max. He had a soft spot for Provence, something to do with an old girlfriend.” Max chuckled. “So, Camille, what’s your story? Who are you?”

Camille may not have been as stunningly beautiful as her mother, but she had learned her lessons and knew a little mystery would not be amiss.

“You already know my name is Camille, and my mother is the famous swimmer. And that, for now, is all I am going to tell you.” Camille teased.

François the waiter, arrived with the Scotch and a glass of pastis for Max, who gave him a crumpled banknote that disappeared into a black waistcoat pocket that already bulged with notes. The cuffs on his white shirt were frayed and there were stains on his lapels. He fumbled in the pocket that sagged with coins. 

Camille was pleased when Max said: “Forget it, François. Keep the change.”

Max slowly, deliberately, stubbed out his filter-less cigarette and ground it into the ashtray before looking at Camille.

“It’s a strange thing, but I thought you would be standoffish, more aloof; yet you seem quite normal to me. I have to say, I am enjoying spending time with you. As a rule, I don’t like rich girls very much—which is probably just as well because they don’t like me either.” 

Max contemplated his glass of pastis.

Camille was unsure what to make of him. His directness was disconcerting. 

“Oh really? So, I am a rich girl, but I seem normal to you? Am I supposed to take that as a compliment?”

Without waiting for a reply, she continued. “Don’t judge me, Max; I am who I am, and I don’t like labels. And it may surprise you to know that I don’t usually accept random invitations from men I hardly know. Believe it or not, I don’t need people very much, and normally I choose people I spend time with more carefully. I prefer my own company and quite enjoy being alone.”

Max leaned back and smiled. “Well, that’s good, isn’t it? If you’re lonely when you’re alone, you’re in bad company.”

“Clever, but not original,” said Camille, impressed and surprised. “Jean-Paul Sartre said that before you.”

“I know. I thought you’d like that.” Max said as he pulled a soft blue and white pack of Gitanes cigarettes from his shirt pocket.

Camille had not expected this verbal sparring but found it disarming and oddly refreshing. It was unsettling to feel drawn to a man she could not measure. Though neither polished nor presumably well educated, he came across as confident and knowledgeable, and exuded a rough charm.

“So how do you like our village, Ventabren? You heard what happened to your predecessor?”

“Old Monsieur Clément?” Max looked down at his drink. “Yes, I heard. He committed suicide, didn’t he? Poor old codger.”

“It was either suicide or murder. Or natural causes. The police can’t decide.”

“Oh, I’m sure it was suicide. I met his wife and she told me they were married for thirty years. I’m sure he decided thirty years with her were enough.”

Camille laughed. “Oh, come on, she’s not that bad. But you never met him, did you? He was a grumpy old sod but very sweet once you got to know him. She was lucky to find you so quickly.”

“Yes, I suppose so. I read about his death in the newspaper and applied for the job immediately. I’ve always wanted to live in this part of Provence.”

“So, where were you before Ventabren?” Camille asked. 

“West of here, in the Languedoc,” Max continued. “But that’s a long story. I came to get away and start a new life.” 

“Get away from what?”

“My wife died.” Max said quietly lowering his eyes, “I lost my wife to breast cancer. It happened very quickly, only six months after being diagnosed.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” Camille reached over and touched his arm. “Please forgive me.”

“Don’t feel sorry for me,” said Max, “that was a year ago. We had ten great years together. And we didn’t have children, which made things easier. Still, it’s hard to lose your best friend.”

“I know,” said Camille. “I lost my best friend too, a year ago.”

There was a moment’s silence, before she continued. 

“To change the subject, tell me about life on a farm. I am more of a city girl. I lived in London for six years.”

“Then you speak English?” said Max with interest. “I’ve always wanted to learn another language, but I never had a chance where I came from.”

“Yes, I can speak English. In fact, I teach English at a school near Marseille. But you were telling me what it’s like to live on a farm?”

Max inhaled deeply on his cigarette. “You know, I don’t think you’d find it very interesting. That was many years ago, and I don’t think about it very much. The past is only interesting in that it explains why people become who they become. I only find my past interesting for what it taught me.”

“All right, so what did your past teach you?” Camille put her Scotch down.

“About nature, about life,” Max said, thoughtfully. “For one thing, living in the past is futile, whether your memories are good or bad. Good memories tend to make you nostalgic and complacent. Bad memories are painful, though they can—or at least they should—serve as lessons and make you stronger. I’ve known good times, and I’ve known bad.”

“That’s true for everybody,” Camille thinking back to London.

“Yes, but there are degrees of good and bad. And with your upbringing, I’m betting your good memories are better than mine, and my bad memories are worse than yours.”

“Possibly, but Max, it’s all relative. Life isn’t a competition. I’ve had some bad times too. Everybody has. But I’ll say this for you: most people in this part of the world would jump at an opportunity to talk about themselves, even if they’ve never done anything.” 

Max grinned. “All the same, I’m sure you would have found growing up on a farm boring; I spent most of my time alone and only had my cows to talk to.”

“Yes,” agreed Camille, “I can see that could get old very quickly, talking to cows all day.”

“Talking to the cows wasn’t so bad.” Max took a sip of his drink. “The bad thing was they didn’t listen—though the good thing was they didn’t interrupt.”

It was Camille’s turn to laugh.

He’s anchored and intelligent, thought Camille. What Bernard would call without malice, one of nature’s gentlemen—someone without education but level-headed and with a good grasp on life. Anyway, he is refreshingly different from all the other emotionally stunted men around here.

Camille later scolded herself for prejudging him. He was deeper, and more interesting than she had expected. It’s true: you can’t judge people by their appearances. She had not sought the attention of any man since returning to Provence, and she didn’t take herself to task; Max was an unusual man and surprisingly attractive. And the pleasure of the clandestine rendezvous was made all the sweeter by the cast-iron certainty of her mother’s disapproval.

The following morning Camille woke early and lay listening to the Mistral sighing as it ruffled the leaves on the linden trees. For once, the cicadas were silent, and the splashing of her mother doing laps in the pool and the fresh smell of Colombian coffee ready on the terrace drifted through the open window. Camille loved Sundays, especially in the summer. But there was something special, something almost exquisite about today. And then she remembered Max.

Dumont. Ever since school, Camille had wanted to change her name from Dumont to de Vaucluse, Bernard’s family name. At fourteen, Camille had understood that Bernard was not her biological father and asked who her real father was, and Juliette had told her that he had been a professor at the famous Sorbonne University on the Left Bank in Paris. And then she had done the math and understood that her mother had been very young, only eighteen when Camille was born; hardly a year after winning her gold medal for swimming in the Berlin Olympics of 1936.

Camille had no memories of those early years, though from photographs she knew that her father had been around for the first few years of her life. Somehow, they had never married, and Camille had been brought up by her mother and her best friend, Nadia Beausoleil. And with Bernard’s help after he married Juliette in 1943. But being called Dumont was a constant reminder that Camille was illegitimate. She would have so much preferred the name de Vaucluse, like her parents. But it was Juliette, not Bernard, who had objected virulently. What difference would it make to her?

She slipped out of bed, stretched, and walked across to the window. Much of her childhood, she had lived in this cottage separated from the big house by the terrace and the pool. And if it was true that she had been sad when Nadia—Bobo as she called her affectionately—left to live in the big house, she liked living here by herself now. For as long as she could remember, she had watched her mother’s weekend guests through this window and thrilled to see Nadia coming with a tray of canapés the moment the guests went inside. Camille was not interested, nor ever had been, in her mother’s socialite friends. Nor, she suspected, was Nadia.

She leaned through the window and called to her mother, who was towelling herself dry by the pool.

“Bonjour Maman, looks like the Mistral will be back today!”

“Good morning, little one. Yes, it looks like it. Come and have some coffee with me.”

As Camille turned to dress, she paused before a large black-and-white photo that Leo had taken of her when they first met, a bittersweet souvenir of London. She slipped on a cotton dress and padded barefoot across to where Juliette sat in a grey towelling robe with her hair slicked back, tilting her head to the right. She shook the water from her ear and clipped on a pearl earring.

Camille pulled up a deck chair beside her mother, conscious of how different they were. Juliette, nearly forty-nine, still looked every inch the athlete she was: tall, trim and slightly tanned, like a model from the pages of French Vogue or a German catalogue of Aryan women. She had hardly changed since the photograph of her receiving her gold medal in 1936 had swept the world. All of France went wild for her that year and the adulation still echoed, albeit more faintly, to this day. 

Camille lowered her gaze and studied her own tanned hands and slender fingers. 

“What are you thinking about, chérie?” asked Juliette.

“Oh nothing, Maman, nothing important.” Camille hesitated before she continued. “It’s ridiculous, I know, but sometimes I wish my hair was blonde and that I had taken more after you.” 

Camille half-smiled as she watched her mother expectantly, unsure how she would take the compliment. The thought had crossed her mind frequently.

Juliette took a sip of coffee. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, Camille; in two weeks, Bernard and I are going to Switzerland for a seminar organised by the International Olympics Committee. We shall be gone for a week, so make sure you have everything you need. Nadia will be here as usual, of course.”

For a moment, Camille felt herself flush with resentment, censured like a child. Why was her mother so cold and brittle? Could she not be kinder and gentle? In the same instant, she rebuked herself for being oversensitive and vowed not to confide in her again. It had always been like this, so why expect anything different? And why did it matter so much?

After Juliette left, Camille slipped off her dress and dived naked into the pool. Like her mother, she was a good swimmer, but had never pursued it as a sport.