The English Girl: A Novel

he said. In order to experience the real Lubéron, he wanted to rent a villa. And not just any villa. It had to be something substantial, in an area where tourists rarely ventured. Herr Klemp was not a tourist; he was a traveler. “There’s an important difference,” he insisted, though, if there was one, it seemed entirely lost on the woman.
    There was something in Herr Klemp’s demeanor that told her this was going to be a lengthy ordeal. Unfortunately, she had seen many others like him before. He would want to see every property but, in the end, find none to his satisfaction. Still, it was the only job she could find in this place that so enchanted the likes of Herr Klemp, so she offered him a café crème from the automated machine and opened her brochures with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.
    There was a lovely villa north of Apt, but he found it too pedestrian. And then there was a newly remodeled villa in Ménerbes, but its garden was much too small and its furnishings far too modern. And then there was the grand estate outside Lacoste, the one with its own clay tennis court and indoor lap pool, but this offended Herr Klemp’s social democratic sense of fairness. And on it went, villa by villa, town by town, setting by setting, until all that remained was a property south of Apt, in a small agricultural valley planted with vineyards and lavender.
    “It sounds perfect,” said Herr Klemp hopefully.
    “It’s a bit isolated.”
    “Isolated is good.”
    By this point, the woman felt exactly the same way. In fact, if she’d had the power, she would have locked Herr Klemp in the most isolated property in France and thrown away the key. Instead, she opened the brochure and walked him through every room in the house. For some reason, he seemed particularly interested in the entrance hall. There was nothing unusual about it. A heavy timbered door with iron studs. A small decorative table. Two flights of limestone steps. One flight rose to the second level of the house, the other sank into the basement.
    “Is there any other way down besides these stairs?”
    “No.”
    “And no outside entrance to the basement?”
    “No,” the woman repeated. “If you have guests using the bedroom on the lower level, they’ll have to use these stairs.”
    “Are there photos of the lower level?”
    “I’m afraid there’s not much to see. There’s only a spare bedroom and a laundry room.”
    “Is that all?”
    “There’s also a storage room, but it’s off-limits to renters. The owner keeps a padlock on that.”
    “Are there any outbuildings on the property?”
    “There were a long time ago,” she said, “but they were removed during the last renovation.”
    He smiled, closed the brochure, and pushed it across the desk toward the woman.
    “I think we’ve finally found the place,” he said.
    “When are you interested in taking it?”
    “Next spring. But if possible,” he added, “I’d love to have a look at it now.”
    “I’m afraid it’s occupied.”
    “Really? Until when?”
    “The renters are scheduled to depart in three days’ time.”
    “I’m afraid I’m leaving Provence before then.”
    “What a pity,” said the woman.
    G abriel spent the rest of the afternoon pretending to tour the countryside of the Lubéron by motorbike, and at sunset he was parked in a secluded spot along the rim of the valley with three villas. Keller was due to emerge at six o’clock sharp, but at ten minutes past there was still no sign of him. Then Gabriel felt a presence at his back. Turning abruptly, he saw the Englishman standing in the darkness, as still as a statue.
    “How long have you been there?” asked Gabriel.
    “Ten minutes,” replied Keller.
    Gabriel started the engine. And then they were gone.

18
    APT, FRANCE
    K eller told the concierge he had been trekking through the mountains, thus the smudges of dirt on his cheeks, the soiled rucksack over his sturdy shoulder, and the smell of the outdoors that clung to his clothing. Upstairs in his room, he shaved with great care, soaked his weary body in a tub of scalding water, and smoked his first cigarette in two days. Then he repaired to the dining room, where he ate an inordinately large meal and drank the most expensive bottle of Bordeaux in the cellar, courtesy of Marcel Lacroix. Satiated, he walked through the quiet streets of the old town to the basilica. The nave was in shadow and deserted except for Gabriel, who was seated before the