Lisette's List by Susan Vreeland Page B

said.
    Several men stood quietly at the bar. Others sat at the tables having lively conversations, drinking the rosé produced here or the milky pastis in tall slim glasses. Group by group, I realized, they were scowling at us. André tugged at my elbow, and I stepped away from the door. He turned me toward home.
    “Men only,” said Pascal. “Women don’t go to the café.”
    “Ever?”
    “On rare nights with their husbands when Monsieur Voisin shows a movie, or in the afternoon to refill a wine bottle for supper.”
    “Is there some law?”
    “Tradition.”
    “Well, it’s provincial. Primitive!” I cried in the most disgusted tone I could utter. All my earlier elation vanished.
    André looked stricken. “I’m sorry, Lisette. That’s the way it is here.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
    PASCAL’S LIST
1937, 1885
    I WOKE UP VIOLENTLY SCRATCHING A SPIDER BITE ON MY ANKLE .
    “Don’t scratch. It will only make it worse,” André murmured.
    Five minutes later I was sitting up and digging at it again. I shook out the sheets and quilt to try to find the culprit and pulverize it in retribution, but no luck. That black beastie was sly and would live to bite again.
    It was a Monday, so André was going in Maurice’s bus to scour Avignon again for any carved furniture repair work he could do at home. Except for a few rainy Mondays, he had been going every week throughout the summer, convinced that he would find something.
    Pascal had kept to his bed the day before, but he came downstairs when we heard Maurice call, “Adieu, mes chers amis!”
    I opened the door wide. “Adieu, Maurice.” I giggled self-consciously at what seemed so strange coming out of my mouth.
    Pascal said, “Come in. André has something to show you.”
    “Do you like our village, madame?”
    “It’s very quaint.”
    “Oui. C’est la Provence profonde.”
    I was amused. He had adapted the expression la France profonde , which referred to rural central France as the soul of the nation, to his own province, naming Roussillon as its soul and center.
    They all went out to the courtyard, and I followed, not wanting to miss the lift of Maurice’s exuberant eyebrows.
    “Merveilleux!” he cried.
    Pascal gave him a little push. “Look inside.”
    “ Oh là là! Such a thing in Roussillon. A window too! A room with a view! And the symbol of France.”
    “With my Lise’s symbol,” André said.
    “Provence will have the last laugh over Paris. A stream of people will come to see. But madame my wife. Non, non, non. ” He shook his head, his hands, his jowls. “We must not tell Louise.”
    In this gossipy village, she would find out sooner or later.
    He held up a chubby index finger. “Me, I must christen it, non ? It is a long ride to Avignon. Ha-ha. As we say in Provence, madame, I had better change the water of the olives.” Nimbly, he stepped inside and pulled the door closed. “ Quel trône! Fit for a king.”
    Pascal chuckled. “A throne. He called it a throne, André. The pope in Avignon would have been jealous.”
    Outside once again, Maurice let out a long, breathy “Ah.”
    Laughing, Maurice and André started downhill to the bus stop, smugly whistling.
    I EMBARKED ON A thorough housecleaning to get rid of any nests or hiding places for wicked little creatures. I swept up mouse droppings and grit from the last mistral. I carted buckets of water from the faucet in place de la Mairie and set to work scrubbing the red tile floor. On my hands and knees, I discovered a black widow spider’s thick web and her white egg sack within it on the underside of the kneading table. Furious, I chased the ugly little devil around theedge of the floor until I had smashed her flat, thinking of the she-devil with a good eye who had taken my position at Galerie Laforgue.
    I stood up in victory and found Pascal writing what appeared to be a list with annotations. With his brows knitted together in concentration, he worked on it for an hour, using both sides of a