Amuse Bouche (6 page)

(I inferred the last part from her tone.) The further we went the darker it seemed to get. 1 was glad her shoes made a click-clacking noise on the swarthy, wooden floors. Soon 1 would need the auditory clue to keep me from getting lost.

Sure enough we almost collided a moment later when she made an abrupt stop. She unlocked a door and threw it open, announcing,
"Une cham-59

Amuse Bouche

bre pour une personnel"
as if she had unveiled a magnificent piece of art. I nodded, she handed me the key and away she went.

Although I admit to sometimes (well, maybe always) packing more than I could possibly need, I had reason to believe my suitcase was of normal proportions. But once I'd deposited it in my suite, there was no remaining floor space on which to walk. The bed was cot-size but still too big for the room. It was wedged against the door of what was probably a closet. I'd never know. The only other piece of furniture in the room was a dresser that at home would be considered an antique. Here,
I
wasn't so sure. I could pull the drawers open only partway before they were blocked by the bed's head-board. Apparently if you wished to deposit items in the drawers they had to fit through a three-inch space. I could imagine getting everything in there, but how would I get it out?

Another door opened into a Barbie-sized bathroom. I've been in small hotel rooms before but this was the winner. I pushed my luggage into the bathroom so I could sit on the bed with my feet on the floor. I took a moment to console myself with the thought that at most I'd be here only one night.

I crawled over the bed and pulled aside the drapes. A street view was too much to hope for.

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Instead, I could see the wall of the neighbouring building across the alley. Unlike those in most modern hotels, this window had a latch that allowed me to open it. No temperature-controlled environment here. As the casement swung out I felt a rush of cool air wash over my jet-lagged face. It was glorious. I leaned out and looked down. Three floors below, halfway down the alley, a single table and two rickety chairs were perched on the cobblestones. A colourful tablecloth fluttered in the breeze. A young man cockily sat half-sprawled on one of the chairs. He wore a dark blue peacoat and a white scarf hung from his neck. His large, square hands looked odd as he raised a minus-cule cup from its saucer to his lips. The door in the building behind him opened. A beautiful young woman in a flimsy blouse came through it. He barely turned to look at her. She stood for a moment behind him and said something. He cocked his head but still did not look at her. I thought they might be having an argument.

Instead, she threw back her head in what I decided was a lusty laugh and leaped into his lap. They kissed, bringing beauty and life to a grey, deserted alley. I fell back onto my bed and stared at the ceiling with a smile on my face.

Suddenly the size of the room no longer mattered. 1 was a prairie boy in Paris! Yahoo!

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Amuse Bouche

I must stay awake. I must stay awake. This was my mantra as I strolled down the Champs-Elysees. A chilly temperature and occasional dollop of rain helped. I had to stay awake as long as I could. I wanted nothing more than to take a nap, but if I had a sleep in what was now die middle of the day, I knew I'd spend the rest of the trip awakening at 2:00 a.m. and reading until dawn. The Eiffel Tower beckoned from a distance, but I was certain my aching legs wouldn't take me that far. Shopping wasn't an option unless 1 was prepared to spend Chavell's retainer on a belt. Instead I chose one of numerous cafes, ordered an espresso and paid the extra fee, which allowed me to sit at a table rather than stand at a counter. I could wait here until it was time to visit Solonge Fontaine. She lived nearby and that, I guessed, was why Harold Chavell chose Residence la Concorde for me. I was certain
he
had never stayed there.

At 2:00 p.m. I presented myself at Madame Fontaine's door. She lived near the top of a high-rise apartment building. It looked run down from the outside but was neat and clean inside. I was let in by her assistant and shown into a room that she called the parlour. The apartment was moderate in size. Oddly enough,
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Anthony Bidulka

most of the furniture appeared larger than life as if meant for a giant's castle. Still, everything was so cleverly arranged it wasn't nearly as crowded as it might have been. I didn't wait long before my hostess presented herself. Solonge Fontaine was a striking woman in her sixties.

Her steel-grey hair was pulled back from her face into a tidy bun. She was in excellent shape, wearing one of those tight pants and floppy sweater outfits Mary Tyler Moore used to wear on the
Dick Van Dyke Show.
Sixty-year-old women in Canada rarely dressed like this. But on her, it worked.

"You'll have coffee? A small drink, perhaps?" Finally some French I could understand.

Her voice was deep and smoky. I'm not quite sure what that means, but I know it applied.

"My, you are a lovely-looking man."

I blushed. "Thank you. Coffee would be wonderful." More caffeine was good. Not surprisingly I was beginning to feel quite awake and confident in my ability to speak and understand French.

After instructing her assistant to fetch drinks, Solonge Fontaine settled down on a thinly padded armchair, tucking her slender legs underneath herself. She gave me a quizzical look. "I'm not quite certain, Mr. Quant, why you are here? Please, sit with me."

Amuse Bouche

I hoisted myself into the chair opposite hers.

I was horrified to see my feet barely touching the ground. Should I also tuck them under me?

Should I let them swing? "Didn't Harold Chavell call and explain the purpose for my visit?"

"Of course, of course, but I didn't really pay attention. Once I'd heard he was sending you 1

thought I'd wait until you arrived and understand from you in person." Interesting thought process.

"You were aware Harold and his friend, Tom Osborn, were to be vacationing in France?" As I struggled with sentence structure I remembered Chavell had told me Solonge knew how to speak English. It was too late to switch now.

Besides, I needed the practice.

"Yes of course. Harold is one of my oldest and dearest friends. He and his lover were most welcome in my home." The way she said lover,
amant,
made it sound both mysterious and naughty at the same time. "I looked forward to entertaining them."

"But only Tom arrived," I pushed her along.

She had the irritating habit of saying each sentence as if it were the conclusion of the story.

"Yes. Strange that."

"Harold thought so too. That is why I'm here. To find Tom."

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Anthony Bidulka

"Oh my, my, my. Then you've made a long voyage for nothing, I'm afraid."

I hoped the translation in my head wasn't accurate.

"Tom Osborn is no longer here," she told me.

"He stayed only an hour or so."

Instant relief. I was worried she was about to tell me Tom had booked passage on a freighter sailing for Tunisia. "Yes, I know that. You see Harold had hoped you could give us some information about Tom. Anything you might have learned during your visit with him would be helpful. Any idea where he might be heading next." I had the itinerary but no guarantee Tom would follow it.

"Well as you know, it was my first time meeting Mr. Osborn. We had much to discuss."

I crossed my legs but quickly uncrossed them when I realized how silly it must look with me in the impossibly huge armchair. "Did he explain to you why he arrived without Harold?"

"Yes. Of course he did."

Prod. Prod. Prod. "What did he say?"

"I'm uncertain whether I should divulge such information to you, a total stranger."

"But your friend, Harold Chavell, has sent me here especially for that reason," I said, probably sounding a little exasperated.

Amuse Bouche

She chuckled at that as if glad to have been reminded of the fact. "Yes, yes, of course, you're right. He did."

"What did Mr. Osborn tell you, Madame?"

"He told me his heart was troubled and that he and Harold needed time apart."

I doubted this was an exact quote from a Canadian computer geek. And perhaps my translation of Solonge's French wasn't one hundred per cent accurate.

She continued. "I was, of course, very surprised to receive him alone. But it was obvious he was a young man in pain. Poor Mr. Osborn seemed nervous and distracted and very sad. He asked me not to contact Harold, but of course I did. After all, Harold is one of my oldest and dearest friends. Well, actually Harold telephoned me, but I was certainly considering it."

"Did he seem afraid?" It was a guess. "Tom, I mean."

She considered this for a moment. "No. No, I did not feel he was afraid."

"Did he explain why he decided to leave Harold at the altar? Why was he troubled? Did he and Harold have a fight or did something else happen to make him run away?"

"No, no, nothing like that. It wasn't something that happened between the two of them. It came from within."

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Anthony Bidulka

Huh? I gave her a blank look.

"I can only guess at this, but based on my experience in matters of the heart, which is not inconsequential, I'd say it was more a case of Mr. Osborn looking within himself and being unsure of what his heart was telling him."

"Meaning he had doubts about marrying Harold?"

"Yes and no. He had doubts about getting married. But no doubts about Harold. He needed to run away. To think. Sometimes that is the only intelligent thing left to do. There were moments when he spoke of darling Harold when I sensed they had almost become complete strangers. Shame, that."

"Okay." Chavell was right about Solonge.

She was vague. It seemed he had also been telling the truth about his relationship with Tom. He told me there had been nothing amiss between the two of them. No big fight. Nothing readily apparent to suggest the relationship was doomed. If what I thought Solonge was saying was correct, this could simply be a major case of cold feet. "Did he tell you where he was going?"

"He asked about renting a vehicle and about maps. I don't know much about such things. I wasn't much help to him, I'm afraid."

I was about to conclude Solonge Fontaine wouldn't be much help to me either. I didn't get Amuse Bouche

the sense she was hiding anything. She just didn't know anything more and I was starting to suspect the whole subject was beginning to bore her.

I thanked her and hopped off my chair. I landed safely. She followed me to the front door where her assistant materialized to open it for me. Solonge and I shook hands and as I was about to leave she Stopped me with a soft touch on my shoulder. "One thing. One thing I heard."

1 turned to face her. "Yes?"

"He asked me one more thing. He asked me if 1 knew if the weather was better in the south this time of year. Which it is. There was a strong rain in the city the day he arrived, it was very cold. He may be going south? No?"

I smiled at her. It wasn't much, but it did jive with the itinerary Chavell had given me. They had planned to head south after their stop in Paris. "Thank you, Madame. That is very helpful."

She smiled back, convinced her bit of information had conclusively solved the mystery of Tom Osborn's whereabouts.

If only it were that easy.

Back in my cubicle at Residence la Concorde, chomping on a ham and cheese sandwich I'd 68

Anthony Bidulka

picked up from a corner
supermarche,
I studied the itinerary for the aborted honeymoon. Would Tom really follow the route exactly as Chavell had planned it? The answer might be yes, but only if he truly wanted to be found. I tried to put myself in Tom's shoes and reconstruct his actions in my head. First he'd have to conclude he did not want to marry Harold Chavell. Maybe he still wanted the relationship but not the wedding? So when did he make that decision? The week before? The night before, at the rehearsal party?

The morning of the wedding? I didn't know the answer. But certainly if he'd come to his decision before the Saturday morning of the ceremony he would have told Chavell, wouldn't he? If for no other reason but to save the man he supposedly loved from the humiliation of standing alone at the altar in front of sixty friends and family members. Or was that exactly what he wanted to happen? And, if Tom didn't decide to run until Saturday morning, when did he have the opportunity to snatch his plane ticket from Chavell's desk? I couldn't figure that one out either. I'd have to remember to ask Chavell when he'd last seen Tom's plane ticket before he'd found it missing on Monday morning. Was this a spur of the moment decision or something Tom had planned for some time? I was beginning to really look forward to finding Tom Osborn and getting A m u s e B o u c h e

answers to my questions.

Since the night before the wedding, Tom had successfully avoided speaking to or seeing anyone (according to Chavell) until Sunday morning when he boarded the plane for Paris. By the time he arrived in Europe on Monday, he would have had several hours to think about what he'd done. Was he remorseful? Regretful?

Shamefaced? Or was he still in a running mood?

At that point he could simply have disappeared. Instead he chose to stick to the itinerary and visit Chavell's best friend, Solonge Fontaine. Chavell thought Tom sought out Solonge because she could speak English and he'd been in need of a friendly face. But there were plenty of English-speaking people at the airport And, Tom had never met Solonge before. How could he be certain she wouldn't be furious with him for leaving her "oldest and dearest friend" standing at the altar? He took a risk. But maybe it was all part of his plan. He'd show up at her doorstep, the picture of a tortured soul, begging her not to contact Chavell but knowing full well she'd do exactly that.

Chavell, hearing his groom was in France, would hop the next flight and come after him.

And as the musical score rises to a dramatic crescendo the two lovers are reunited in the middle of a vineyard toasting each other with
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