Crime of Privilege

“I went to the school library, examined yearbooks from twenty years ago, around the time a college classmate of Ned’s would have been there, and was rewarded with a picture of Jason Stockover, a list of his school activities, and his home address in Cos Cob, Co

“And let me guess, that’s where you went next.”

“Yep.”

Sure, of course. Barbara Belbo

“I got there,” she said, “only to find the Stockovers no longer live at that address. The family had some sort of falling out, the current owners said, and there was a divorce. They couldn’t tell me where any of them went.”

“Do you think the school would have a—”

She was way ahead of me. “So I drove back to Deerfield and visited the alumni office. They were so sorry, but they were not at liberty to give out addresses.” She lilted the words “at liberty” as if she were imitating the Queen.

“But that didn’t stop you, I assume.”

“No,” she agreed, “it didn’t. I went back to the library, back to Jason’s yearbook. I had the idea that maybe he was on the sailing team and I could find a picture of the team, see if I recognized any of his teammates, people I could contact about him. It was a long shot, I know, but there are only so many races in the northeast, and, hey, I was at plenty of them.”

“Except you’re older.”

Barbara’s recitation came to a standstill. “I’m thirty-seven, George.”

“Oh.”

“You’re what, thirty-four? You think that’s such a big difference?”

“No.”

“You do, don’t you?” Her chin moved, her hand moved, her leg moved, the corner of her mouth squeezed shut, and I realized that I had actually hurt her. It seemed like such a small thing. I wanted to tell her that. I wanted to tell her that I hadn’t really noticed a difference, that it was one of a thousand things I hadn’t noticed, that I hadn’t noticed because my own life was so screwed up, such a mess, such a total disappointment, that I wasn’t even aware of things that were right in front of me.

But Barbara was not waiting for my explanations. “Ned’s at least two years older than I am,” she said. “Which means, since Jason was in his class, he’s about two years older as well.”

“Thirty-nine,” I said u

Was there a wince? It was hard to tell in the midst of my own embarrassment.

“The only problem with my idea was that the school didn’t have a sailing team.”

I told myself there could have been a lot of reasons for her new tone of voice. She could have been commenting on the incomprehensibility of a landlocked school not having a sailing team.

“What I found instead,” she continued, “in the listing of activities beneath his yearbook picture, was that Jason had been a member of the cross-country team, the Outdoor Club, and the French Club. I asked the librarian about those things, not expecting they were going to get me anywhere, except, it turns out, Monsieur Weber, the faculty member responsible for the French Club, is still at the school.”

“Great. That’s great, Barbara.” I may have gone overboard in my enthusiasm.

“That wasn’t the end of my good luck, George. Monsieur Weber is still in touch with Jason because, it turns out, Jason is actually living in France. In a bastide.” She got a shot in on me. “Do you know what a bastide is?”

I knew, but I didn’t tell her.

“It’s one of those fortified towns built during the Hundred Years’ War, when France and England only fought when the soldiers weren’t needed in the fields.”

“Ah.”

“They’re all over the Bordeaux region, and what Monsieur Weber said was, the one where Jason lives is the most beautiful bastide of all.”

A slow smile crept over her lips, enough to make me question whether my punishment was over. It was a smile of promise, one that invited me to smile along with her. “So,” she said, as I watched her lips part, her teeth sparkle, her tongue flash, “I guess it’s no wonder that a guy like Jason Stockover would own a bed-and-breakfast there. Don’t you think?”

1

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MONFLANQUIN, FRANCE,

September 2008

CARTE BLANCHE TO MONFLANQUIN.

I still did not know about Barbara. My heart told me to believe everything she said. My head told me I had to watch out, because she didn’t need me; if Josh David Powell could employ a woman to stay married to me, the Gregorys could certainly insert a woman into my office. I was clearly susceptible. The cost of doing something like that meant nothing to these people. Years meant nothing. I certainly meant nothing, except as a tool. A pawn.

A denizen of the fourth circle.

Get out of town, George. Go to France.

I didn’t go for any of the reasons she gave me. I went because I had Mitch’s $100,000 to spend. And because I had the time to do it. That is what I told myself.

2

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IFLEW INTO CHARLES DE GAULLE, TOOK A LONG AND EXPENSIVE taxi ride into Paris, and boarded a train south to the city of Bour-deaux, where I rented a Renault with a stick shift and drove east. It was a su

From there on, however, the drive seemed even prettier and more interesting than it had before.

I arrived at Monflanquin late in the day. “At” because one gets to the town well before one gets into the town. It is a walled city built on top of a hill overlooking a broad valley. I had to find the motor vehicle entrance and then wend my way around and around until I got to the top, where there was a large open square flanked by homes and shops and restaurants. For all that, it was surprisingly easy to find my destination on a side street leading off the square, and, miracle of miracles, a place to park directly in front of it.

My surprises only grew from there. The address Barbara had given me was a gray stone building sharing common walls with the buildings on either side of it and housing not just a bed-and-breakfast but a gift shop on the ground floor. Inside the gift shop was a large man wearing an apron and shorts. The apron I could accept. The exposed knees, shins, calves, and ankles were a shock. Then the man greeted me and I realized he was not French but English, which made the sight a little less shocking because it is a well-known fact that the English tend to do strange things when they see the sun.

I must have been dressed peculiarly for the region as well, because the first thing the bare-legged man did was greet me in my own language. He wanted to know how I was doing.

I told him I was fine and that I was interested in renting a room for the evening. He said that I appeared to be an acceptable lodger and it took me a moment to realize he had made a joke. It took another moment after that to laugh.

Barbara Belbo