Cal and Frank exited Wine House and walked the neighborhood, called Le Carré d’Or, or the Golden Square—according to Frank. He explained that it was the premier location in downtown Nice, easily walkable and close to everything they might desire. Their sidewalk tour took them past dozens of business offices, retail shops, and international restaurants, and that was all before they turned into a long pedestrian street, Le Rue de France, which Frank said went on for half a mile. The eclectic mix of people was impressive, locals or tourists Cal couldn't tell, but all of them were shopping and dining under a warm winter sun.
"This place is way more touristy than where I usually settled down," Frank explained as they plunged into the pedestrian lane and took in the sights. "But I expect there will be fewer car bombs, so that's a plus! This place will be easy. Maybe too easy."
Whatever that meant.
It didn't seem easy to Cal. Most of the shop signs were still in French and he swore he heard every language around him except for English. Still, what stood out to Cal as the most foreign was all the walking.
Never in his life had he been able to walk out his front door and moments later be at a restaurant, or a pharmacy or a grocery store. Every day of his old life held the same ritual: exit the house, lock the door, and hop in the Chevy.
Cal spent his entire life driving back and forth across his small, rural community; the drive to work in the morning, the drive home, the drive to Publix for groceries, to the movie theater, the soccer field for MJ's youth games, the corner store for what could be a six-pack one evening and emergency tampons the next. He drove across town for a date night at Gator's or Tuesday's trivia night at The Lagoon. His last Silverado had two-hundred-and-forty-thousand miles on it when he traded it in, enough mileage to have driven around the equator ten times.
Cal was an American and Americans fucking drive.
But not anymore.
Now it looked like he'd spend the rest of his life on his feet. His tired, sore feet. There was no doubt that Nice was a beautiful city, and now he could see it up close. And really, the whole city was like a museum. Sure, there was some modern construction, but even the newest buildings were built atop centuries of culture and history, like mushrooms sprouting from the spine of a book.
There was a lot to see.
But this wasn't a vacation and that meant tradeoffs. Next week he might see a three-hundred-year-old sculpture sitting, ignored, in a plaza—but it was doubtful he'd ever drive past a deer again and see it lift its head to watch him pass.
But he could get used to it.
It was the tapas that settled it.
Frank brought him to a corner bistro and ordered a few plates and a pair of French beers. The beers were okay, but the little plates that followed were exactly what he needed: coastal favorites, both savory and sweet, and cheaper than a deep-fried onion back home. And the kicker was that they were just a few blocks from the apartment, so he could just walk down and have a beer and a tapa any time he wanted. No traffic. No parking. No lines.
It was surreal.
Cal had a sudden urge to get out of Le Carré d’Or and explore the rest of the city. They'd already seen the Port of Nice from the tram window, but now he wanted to get back for a real look around. He'd keep an eye out for a charter boat that would take him diving in the spring—Frank could translate. And there was that green bluff overlooking the port, which Cal's phone told him was called Castle Hill.
He shoved his phone across the table for Frank to see the picture. "Let's go."
"Slow down, there, Sundance! We're not on vacation, we're retired, so we have to pace ourselves. What's the point of living here if we see it all in a week?"
Cal tipped his beer mug in salute that wisdom.
Then his phone buzzed with a message and a quick glance showed it was Arthur Cohen.
"Shit."
"What's up?" Frank asked from across the table, not looking up.
"It's just Art with more legal paperwork."
Now Frank did look up with one eyebrow raised.
Shit again.
"It never ends," Cal deflected as best he could. "So, you're probably used to all this, aren't you? A new city—a new country—every couple of years."
They were leaving the bistro when Frank answered.
"It gets easier," he said as they plunged back into the pedestrian traffic. "You're just a dumbass American right now, no offense, but before you know it, you'll be speaking the language and dodging local girls looking for an easy green card."
"If you say so," Cal said, trying to keep up with Frank amidst the crowded sidewalk. Damn, he walked fast.
Frank laughed. "There's a thing they make us do every few years—those of us in the community—they make us come home for a tour. You know? To keep us American."
"What do you mean?"
"Something happens when you spend your life overseas," Frank said. "You notice that every place has their own way of living, their own beat of the drum. Some are a little slower, others a little faster, but there's a rhythm to life that's different from the States."
Cal felt that already.
Frank flowed with the crowd like a salmon swimming a familiar stream. Then he turned into an alley between two shops that only he seemed to know.
"It's tricky at first" Frank continued, "like learning the tango—but once you find your feet—"
"What?"
Frank stopped and watched a shop window—or maybe a reflection in it—then turned down yet another road.
"Anyway—we go home until we start dancing American again."
They walked in silence until they were back on the streets with car traffic and stop lights, the low rumble of their engines not much different than the multi-lingual chatter from the shops behind them. They crossed the street side by side.
"People go to Paris for the romance," Frank said, "but they come to Nice for the beach. Are you up for another walk?"
Paris. Frank said it like it was nothing. Maybe for him it was just a happy memory and a funny story about falling into a canal. Never mind that Frank had jumped.
"Tomorrow," Cal said. "Let's start back home. You're going to take us the long way to check for tails—so we might as well start now."
"You're learning!"
Cal liked to think so, but the truth was that his old baseball injury was flaring up. It had just been a slide into second at the time, but a knee surgery, thirty years, and a walking tour of Nice later, old boy needed a break.
Frank stopped him cold with a hand across his chest and a nod towards the busy intersection up the street. There was a white van stopped at the light with a red logo: Livraisons de Mercure.
It was the delivery van from the pictures Frank had shown him of the bad actors. Hoodie and Goggles had climbed inside and been driven away after they'd lost Eeva and Cal in the garden. And there was Hoodie, now, in the driver's seat with a cigarette hanging out the window. He swiveled his head from side to side as he waited for the light to turn.
Scanning.