Shibumi by Trevanian Read Free Book Online Page B

imprecations and beating his fist against the steering wheel.
    Hannah Stern had no way to appreciate this scene’s iconographic representation of Franco-German relations in the Common Market, and at this moment the café owner reappeared, his triangular Basque face abeam with sudden comprehension.
    “You are seeking M. Hel!” he told her.
    “That’s what I said.”
    “Ah, if I had known it was M.
Hel
you were seeking…” He shrugged from the waist, lifting his palms in a gesture implying that a little more clarity on her part would have saved them both a lot of trouble.
    He then gave her directions to the Château d’Etchebar: first cross the
gave
from Tardets (the
r
rolled, both the
t
and the
s
pronounced), then pass through the village of Abense-de-Haut (five syllables, the
h
and
t
both pronounced) and on up through Lichans (no nasal,
s
pronounced), then take the right forking up into the hills of Etchebar; but not the left forking, which would carry you to Licq.
    “Is it far?”
    “No, not all that far. But you don’t want to go to Licq, anyway.”
    “I mean to Etchebar! Is it far to Etchebar!” In her fatigue and nervous tension, the formidable task of getting simple information out of a Basque was becoming too much for Hannah.
    “No, not far. Maybe two kilometers after Lichans.”
    “And how far is it to Lichans?”
    He shrugged. “Oh, it could be two kilometers after Abense-de-Haut. You can’t miss it. Unless you turn left at the forking.
Then
you’ll miss it all right! You’ll miss it because you’ll be in Licq, don’t you see.”
    The old
mousse
players had forsaken their game and were gathered behind the café owner, intrigued by all the confusion this foreign tourist was causing. They held a brief discussion in Basque, agreeing at last that if the girl took the left forking she would indeed end up in Licq. But then, Licq was not such a bad village. Was there not the famous story of the bridge at Licq built with the help of the Little People from the mountains who then…
    “Listen!” Hannah pled. “Is there someone who could drive me to the Château of Etchebar?”
    A quick conference was held between the café owner and the
mousse
players. There was some argument and a considerable amount of clarification and restatement of positions. Then the proprietor delivered the consensus opinion.
    “No.”
    It had been decided that this foreign girl wearing walking shorts and who had a rucksack was one of the young athletic tourists who were notorious for being friendly, but for tipping very little. Therefore, there was no one who would drive her to Etchebar, except for the oldest of the
mousse
players, who was willing to gamble on her generosity, but sadly he had no car. And anyway, he did not know how to drive.
    With a sigh, Hannah took up her rucksack. But when the café owner reminded her of the cup of coffee, she remembered she had no French money. She explained this with expressions of lighthearted contrition, trying to laugh off the ludicrousness of the situation. But he steadfastly stared at the cup of unpaid-for coffee, and remained dolefully silent. The
mousse
players discussed this new turn of events with animation. What? The tourist took coffee without the money to pay for it? It was not impossible that this was a matter for the law.
    Finally, the proprietor sighed a rippling sigh and looked up at her, tragedy in his moist eyes. Was she really telling him that she didn’t have two francs for the coffee—forget the tip—just two francs for the coffee? There was a matter of principle involved here. After all,
he
paid for his coffee;
he
paid for the gas to heat the water; and every couple of years
he
paid the tinker to mend the pot. He was a man who paid his debts. Unlike some others he could mention.
    Hannah was between anger and laughter. She could not believe that all these heavy theatrics were being produced for two francs. (She did not know that the price of a cup of coffee was, in