The Accident by Paula Bernstein

An old-fashioned hotel proprietor in a picturesque French town observes intrigue among his guests.

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We still speak about the day the American woman and her lover were killed. They died in full view of some half dozen people, including myself, who were peacefully pursuing their business at the very moment the bright red Ferrari went out of control and plunged two hundred meters to its final resting place.

The man was thought to have been a reckless driver, no doubt the byproduct of his somewhat eccentric taste in cars. As a result of the fire, the police were unable to retrieve either the auto or the two mangled bodies, all of which had melted into one shapeless mass. About the woman, whose relationship with the driver had been a matter of some interest in the village, the gendarmes maintained a discrete silence. It seemed most sensible to attribute the entire accident to the young man’s carelessness, and there let the matter lie.

I myself was not so sure, but then, I had observed developments from the very beginning. It seemed to me, in retrospect, that the accident was inevitable, but let me tell you the story and you can judge for yourself.

My name is Etienne Beaucaire and I am the proprietor of L’Auberge de Trois Reines in the village of Le Briey. I have lived here all of my life. My wife Marie presides over our kitchen, which is reputed to be the finest in the valley. Our village is small, a mere fifty families, but we are prosperous out of proportion to our size. I should explain that the village is a great tourist attraction, for its picturesque location and religious and historic significance. Le Briey, from a distance, is a restoration of our medieval past, a small stone town that clings precariously to the sides of a cliff. At its very top is perched the chateau with the church immediately below it.

The chateau dates to the fourteenth century. It was given to Pope Clement VI in 1349, and he established the famous monastery of Briey, which continues to exist to this very day. The church is of a somewhat later date and boasts a remarkable statue of the Virgin and some exquisite stained glass. During the summer months, we are quite overwhelmed by visitors who are charmed by our natural beauty, and during the winter we supplement our income by serving as the social center of three neighboring communities.

I am, by disposition, a quiet and contemplative man. It is my habit of an evening to sit on the terrace of my hotel, smoke my pipe, and observe the follies and foibles of human nature. It was on just such an evening, late in September, that I first encountered the American couple.

They arrived as the sun set, driving a silver Renault, with a great deal of luggage, looking hot and weary. The man was about fifty, tall and angular. He wore a short-sleeved white sports shirt and gray trousers, which appeared too large. His skin was white and pasty, with freckles on the top of a sunburned, balding head. What remained of his hair was that nondescript color which results when light brown begins to gray. His face had an ascetic look, with a hint of slackness about the mouth and a prominent nose. His eyes were pale blue and covered with wire-rimmed glasses.

The woman was something else entirely. She would have looked quite at home strolling the Rue St Honore. She was fine-boned and slim, with an even tan and straight dark hair cut fashionably to her shoulders. She wore jeans, which clung firmly to her derriere, and an expensive, well-cut silk shirt. I judged her to be in her early thirties. Her face was lovely, with huge dark eyes and a full mouth, spoiled only by a petulant and rather irritated expression as if the couple had been arguing.

The man approached and asked if I was Monsieur Beaucaire.

“Most certainly,” I assured him.

“My name is Earnst Bradford, and this is my wife Elaine. Father Dordune suggested that I speak with you. I am a professor of history,” he continued. “My wife and I shall be staying here for some months. I have made arrangements to consult the monastery archives and will be working here until my research is complete. I require two rooms, preferably adjacent, one of which can be fitted with a large desk or table so that I can work in the evenings.”

“No problem, Monsieur.” I was delighted. A long-term paying guest at this season of the year is a rarity for us. I took them up to the corner room on the first floor. All of the rooms are furnished similarly, with an antique oak double bed on one wall, opposite a large mirrored armoire. A full-length French window opposite the door leads out onto a narrow railed balcony, which runs the length of the building and has a beautiful view of the valley.

Around the corner is a wide terrace that boasts an equally magnificent view and holds my collection of plants. The terrace can be reached by a separate door at the end of the corridor. During the summer I keep it locked to ensure its exclusive use by the occupants of my most expensive room, but at this time of year there is no need. The terrace, I assured them, was theirs alone to enjoy. The adjacent room, which I showed them next, was smaller but equally comfortable.

“Is this alright, darling?” he asked, somewhat anxiously.

“I don’t care,” she said. Her voice was half pique, half resignation. She threw her bag onto the bed and walked to the window.

“Well, I guess we’ll take it,” he said. “Thank you.”

I saw them next at dinner. The woman had changed to a soft blue dress of some silky material that clung to her hips and revealed the outline of her breasts. She was silent throughout most of dinner, and drank, I thought, far too much wine for an American. I caught a few snatches of conversation, mostly anxious murmurings on his part and irritation on hers. I wondered how she would occupy herself with the limited resources of our village.

Their days together settled into an unvarying routine. They breakfasted early, after which the professor took the car to the monastery, where he remained until 1:00 in the afternoon. Once he was gone, his wife usually lingered over her coffee, read English novels, or wrote in a large black notebook, which she kept in her purse. When he was gone, her face seemed to relax, as if tiny lines of tension were disappearing from about her mouth and eyes. Her face became, in fact, quite serene and lovely. Occasionally she would take walks up into the nearby hills or accompany my wife Marie as she shopped for her groceries in the village.

At 1:00, the professor would return and they would lunch together. After lunch, they retired to the study, from which the sound of a typewriter and occasional voices could be heard.

One morning, after the professor had left, I asked Elaine if she would like to accompany me and my wife to Bordeaux the following day. I had some business to transact, and thought perhaps she might like to take the opportunity to do some sightseeing.

“You must,” I said, “be becoming somewhat bored here.”

For just a moment a smile lit her face, but immediately it was replaced by a look that I can only describe as fear. She thanked me and promised to let me know later. That afternoon I heard the sound of angry voices from upstairs. Shortly before dinner, she came down and told me she was sorry, but her husband could not spare her tomorrow. That night she did not come down for dinner. The professor finished his meal alone and motioned me to his table.

“Monsieur Beaucaire,” he said, “I thank you for the interest that you and Marie have shown in my wife, but I feel I must tell you that, despite outward appearances, she is not a well woman. I cannot permit her to travel without me.”

I assured him I understood and left his table feeling vaguely disturbed.

A few days after this the man with the sports car arrived at the hotel. His name was Frank Loughlin, and as he told me later, he was a producer of films. At the moment, he was on vacation and would be in Briey for several days. Mr. Loughlin was an attractive young man with curly brown hair and a well-trimmed beard. His body was lean and well-kept, and his smile radiated openness and charm. I liked him immediately.

At dinner that night he made the acquaintance of the Bradfords, and the professor soon asked him to join their table. It was the first time I had heard the woman laugh at dinner, or indeed, had seen her smile in the presence of her husband. She called me over for a second cup of espresso, and at that moment, the professor rose to retire. She was about to join him when he stopped her.

“Don’t bother, my dear, I’m just tired. Why not finish your second cup? I’m sure Mr. Loughlin would be happy to keep you company.”

At the time, it seemed reasonable. In retrospect I wondered if he hadn’t deliberately thrown them together.

The next day, as the woman lingered as usual over her breakfast, the young man came down and joined her. I overheard him ask her if she would show him the village.

A new routine was soon established, with Mr. Loughlin joining her for breakfast after her husband had left, and the two going out together for the rest of the morning. In the afternoon, while she worked, he would explore the countryside by himself. I often watched him driving away from the village, taking the curves of the cliff road in smooth even sweeps of his Ferrari. I wondered idly how long it would be before an affair developed. Not surprisingly, the young man showed no inclination to terminate his increasingly lengthy stay.

One morning, instead of his usual walk, Frank returned to his room. Elaine remained at the table absorbed in her reading. After about ten minutes, she went upstairs as well. I thought nothing of it at the time, but the next day, as I observed them eating together, it was clear to me that something had changed. Two people who have tasted one another’s mouths are not fastidious about sharing food. I watched him helping himself to the remains of her half-eaten croissant and sipping her coffee. I knew at that moment that they had become lovers.

It was then that a feeling of uneasiness crept over me; a portent perhaps of impending events. It is unclear. My only thought was to hope that they would be discreet.

The same charade of leaving the table separately was enacted the next morning, and again on the following day. Shortly after they had both retired, I was surprised to note the professor’s car pulling up outside. He walked briskly into the lobby and took the staircase up without acknowledging me. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. It seemed to me that he must somehow have found out and gone up to confront his adulterous wife. I detest scenes, especially in my hotel, and I listened anxiously for the sound of angry voices, but there were none. About twenty minutes later, the professor, looking quite unperturbed, and with a satisfied smile, left the hotel.

That evening, he approached me and asked if I had a set of tools he might borrow. He was, he explained, having some difficulty with his car, and needed to make a few minor adjustments. I was surprised. I had not thought of him as mechanically inclined and told him so.

“I learned in the army,” he answered. “I’m quite a capable mechanic.”

I loaned him my kit and noticed him tinkering with the Renault.

The next day was Sunday and Marie and I, as usual, attended Church. I go to Mass with great regularity and consider myself not so much a deeply religious man, as one who believes in and lives by the Church’s principles: charity, marital fidelity, honesty, and the sanctity of the family.

When we returned from Church, I busied myself with chores about the grounds. I was on the terrace watering my plants when I glanced at the window of the corner room. It was a warm morning. The window was slightly open, and a faint breeze stirred the sheer white curtains. There was a small space between the curtain and the window frame, and through it, I could see the mirror of the armoire and the woman reflected in it. She lay on the bed, smoking a cigarette, and wearing only a brassiere and the briefest of panties. Embarrassed, I was about to turn away, when the door opened and the young man entered.

She rose from the bed, and they embraced. I watched as their hands explored urgently. The woman’s hands were on his buttocks, inside his pants, and she strained her body to his. Then, they were undressing one another. He lifted her nude body and placed her gently on the bed. From where I was standing, I could see her, reflected in the mirror, lean and tan, the nipples erect on her breasts. He spread her thighs, and I watched as his fingers entwined the mass of black pubic hair. She was moaning now, small high-pitched sounds that wafted through the open window, arching her hips against his hand.

I wanted to leave but I was rooted to the spot. I felt myself go hard, and my breath came in quick little gasps. I was fascinated and repelled at the same time. My cheeks were hot, and I flushed with shame, but I could not keep my eyes away.

His mouth was on her now. I kept hearing her moan. Finally, he rose to his knees. I could see the reflection of his buttocks with her legs wrapped around him.

I felt wetness in my pants, knew that I too had wanted her, and my face flushed with sweat and humiliation. I took a deep breath, trying to control the nausea and revulsion that overcame me. Was this what the professor had seen?

When I could breathe normally once again, I returned to my apartment. I felt that I could not face either of them again. I showered for a long time in hot water, as if, in some way, I could purify myself from the sin I had witnessed and shared. I did not yet know how to expiate what I had done. That night, I had an upset stomach and did not preside over dinner. I slept fitfully, if at all.

Just before noon, the next day, Mr. Loughlin announced that he was leaving. He thanked me for my hospitality, settled his bill, and loaded the Ferrari with his luggage. With relief, I watched out the window as he started his car. At the very last minute, Elaine joined him. With a growing sense of misgiving, I watched them drive off.

I had observed him many times driving away from the village. This time he appeared to be going faster than usual. Was he celebrating making his escape? He took the first turn with a squeal of tires audible even to me. On the second switchback, he lost control. The rest, you know.

I was present later that afternoon when the police broke the news to the professor. I watched his face. It seemed to me that there was no shock, no surprise, no grief, only a kind of recognition.

For a long time, I thought about whether justice had been done. Should the woman have been killed as well, or would it have been enough if the young man, her seducer, had died? She had seemed so lovely and at times so vulnerable and so afraid. Could she be excused for breaking the sacred vow of marriage for a man who might have freed her from her husband’s elusive, yet ironclad hold? It was Frank whose actions could not be excused, even by the most tenderhearted of moral men.

After the funeral and the inquest, the professor packed and left. We have not heard from him again.

I suppose the idea first occurred to me when I saw Dr. Bradford working on his car. A car is such a vulnerable instrument, and for one skilled in mechanics it is so easy to tamper with a brake lining or to readjust a steering mechanism. Is murder justified in the sight of God if the victim has sinned against God and Man? Is it justified if, by committing murder, the killer prevents sin from being committed over and over?

That is why I had to do it, although I did not intend for the woman to die as well. I decided that night in my sleeplessness that he had to die. Otherwise, I would have been there again in the morning, by the window, imagining myself in his place, and watching them doing it, again and again.