When I opened them again a man stood looking at me. He was on the other side of the iron balustrade. The man wore gardening clothes and frayed leather gloves. A wheelbarrow at his feet, filled with stones. A rake balanced over the top of the wheelbarrow. The gardener must have already spoken because he wore the impatient look of someone forced to repeat themselves.

“Bonjour Monsieur.”

I acknowledged him politely, “Bonjour Monsieur.”

The guy was compact and muscular, in his mid-forties with a full head of brown hair, falling like a mop over a wide forehead. Around five foot eight with ropey and thick muscle on his arms.

“Are you looking for Madame Vaugeois?”

I said I was. The man nodded. He had the wary look of someone who doesn’t often run into strangers. He said, “Madame is aware of your visit.” It wasn’t really a question.

I said, “No.”

He blinked. “You are waiting for her?”

“That’s right.”

“But she is unaware that you are waiting.”

“Correct. I haven’t met Madame Vaugeois yet.” The guy just looked at me, didn’t understand. I said, “Madame Vaugeois doesn’t know me. I don’t know her. And I’m going to wait for her until she gets here.”

The gardener hesitated for a moment. He was sizing up the situation. I could almost hear the wheels turning over in his head. Like a mechanical clock.

Tick.

I didn’t look or sound like a salesman.

Tock.

I had no car.

Tick.

I spoke with an American accent.

Tock.

Was I a thief?

Tick.

Unlikely.

Tock.

He did the right thing. Took his eyes off me, picked up the wheelbarrow and rolled it down towards the garden. I appreciate that kind of thinking. Run through the options, make a decision. I watched the gardener move down towards the gatekeeper’s house. His back was ramrod straight, even accounting for the weight he carried. He guided the wheelbarrow carefully along the edge of the drive, keeping the fat front tire aligned.

A big black Mercedes cruised up the drive, sweeping past the wheelbarrow. The car was a huge S-class, at least a few decades old. I made it an S-600 V12 with six liter engine. The tires clipped the lawn, spraying gravel. Brakes creaked to a halt.

Eventually the door opened and a suede slipper emerged. The toe stretched out tentatively searching for the gravel surface and, finding it, settled. Heel followed. Once the foot was stable, the rest of her was ready to get off the seat and contemplate standing up. When that had been accomplished she eased herself out of the Mercedes.

Simone Vaugeois was an elegantly dressed woman in her seventies. She had expensively dyed brown hair with red highlights. Large opaque sunglasses clipped to her face. She wore a silver pant suit.

“Ahhh,” she breathed. It meant, back home. Finally.