The house was built around the central stairwell, which climbed up to a skylight several flights above. The stairs curved away from the middle, hugged the wall, then turned back to the center of the house. They were carpeted in deep emerald velvet with brass rods. The wooden balustrade was ancient oak. Smoothed by the passage of hands. Paintings of unsmiling people were set on the wall as the steps rose. It occurred to me that these might be my ancestors. The thought was ridiculous. I felt about as French as a Maine lobster roll or a Winchester Model Seventy.

Upstairs I figured there would be a series of bedrooms. I walked along the corridor. Looked left, looked right. Fancy bedrooms, a large bathroom suite. At the end of the corridor was a closed door. I listened. Heard murmuring within, like low conversation. I was trying to make out who or what, when loud footsteps approached the door from inside. I stepped back. The knob turned and there was Simone, surprised to see me for the third time that day.

She stood in the doorway in an exaggerated pose. “Tom. You are going to bed?”

“I was looking for the bathroom.”

She looked up into my face. Her eyes were searching, grasping for what she might hold on to. “This is your room, Tom.” She indicated the empty bedroom that she had just been preparing. “You like two pillows, yes?”

“Yes. Thank you, ma'am.” I figured that she must have been talking to herself in the room.

She took my arm. “Come. I will show you the toilet and the bathroom. These are not the same thing.”

As we walked, I concluded that she was very drunk, but surviving. She was that kind of hardened party survivor. A professional. Anything involving hospitality was a breeze for her, provided it fell within acceptable parameters. And within those, she was untouchable. Would never make an error. Madame Vaugeois guided me towards one of the bathroom suites.

She said, “When you come down I will introduce you to the mayor,” and pirouetted faultlessly on one of her high heels.

Chapter Thirteen

I walked back into the room while the mayor was shooting pool. But it wasn’t exactly pool, it was French billiards. There were only three balls and no pockets.

The mayor was a tall man in his sixties with a full head of casually cut white hair and a perma-tan that looked real. The man was tall and obese. It was the mayor’s shot. The stick looked puny in his hands, fleshy slabs that swallowed up the pale wood. His opponent stood with his back to me. The cue hit the white ball, which hit other balls, which rolled around and bounced off the banks and each other. It seemed pointless. I couldn’t see where the balls were trying to go.