Chapter 18: The Madman of Provence

“Looking for me?” Zoe blinked in surprise. Hadn’t they parted just that noon?

“Could you give me the contact information for the Apt car dealer?” Ronan asked politely.

At lunch, Ronan and Zoe had briefly discussed cars. Zoe mentioned she wanted to buy one and had visited the Apt car dealer several times. Ronan hadn’t yet decided on the priority between getting a car, installing heating, or repairing the windows, so they hadn’t gone into detail.

That afternoon, he gave it some serious thought.

Before March, he could count on a steady weekly income, and it wasn’t a small amount. He could tackle the biggest expense first: the vehicle. He was tired of borrowing things daily. Having his own car would let him set off hours earlier, no longer needing to wait for Louis’s family to wake before knocking on their door. That would increase his weekly earnings.

Even if he didn’t have enough money now, he could take a loan and then diligently dig truffles to repay it.

“I’ll get some paper and write it down for you,” Zoe said, turning away.

Soon she handed him a note with the address and phone number.

“It should be easy to find.”

Ronan took it gratefully. “Thanks, I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve helped me.”

Behind Zoe, dressed in casual homewear, Leah suddenly appeared.

“Trouble?” she asked.

Ronan greeted Mrs. Leah and explained he was there to ask Zoe about buying a car.

Leah glanced at Zoe with a complicated expression, then smiled and asked Ronan, “Want to come in for a bit? I’ve prepared afternoon tea.”

Leah had observed Ronan and Zoe several times at gatherings and noticed they rarely spoke. But her female intuition sensed something between them. She racked her brain to create opportunities for them to be seen together, hoping to catch a clue.

“No, thank you, Mrs. Leah, I have some things to do,” Ronan smiled and declined.

After the door closed, Zoe crossed her arms, frowning at her mother.

“Mom, you’ve been acting strange lately.”

Leah slipped into the kitchen.

“Darling, you must be overthinking. Want some cherry pie?”

God, please forgive a mother’s lie born of concern for her daughter!

…

Early the next morning, Ronan drove Louis’s old two-door Citroën toward Apt.

Apt was only 20 kilometers from Loulmarin village but was a beautiful small town with several thousand residents.

It boasted many famous restaurants, even Michelin-starred ones. Ronan had long wanted to visit, and today he finally had the chance.

Heading north along the D232 road, Ronan saw a “large number” of vehicles for the first time in days.

Living in Loulmarin, it was rare to see any cars on the road all day. During his half-month stay, he had only seen Louis’s, Freddy’s, and Pierre’s cars.

Moreover, truffle hunting took him to remote, seldom-traveled places, where cars were even scarcer.

Seeing so many cars on the road now felt novel.

But he soon noticed a strange phenomenon—the cars were all very old, as if the area was hosting a vintage car parade.

Their paint was peeling, rust covering their bodies. The engines wheezed like they had tuberculosis, the exhaust pipes dangling and roaring like monsters.

Ronan couldn’t help but voice their thoughts:

“Help me! Take me to the junkyard! I really can’t run anymore!”

His own old two-door Citroën looked vibrant beside them, like the morning sun at seven, but the odometer showed it had traveled 120,000 kilometers.

He swore never to mock Pierre’s noisy pickup truck again—the one louder than a tractor, with 180,000 kilometers on it and missing a turn signal.

“Is this even roadworthy?” Ronan muttered in disbelief.

Yet, despite their aged appearance, these cars moved swiftly.

An Opel, resembling Citroën’s ancestor, easily overtook Ronan. When passing, he noticed the driver was an elderly gentleman older than his own grandfather.

Another car, with a dented bumper, broken taillights, scratched body, and dragging exhaust, overtook him with both hands off the wheel, animatedly talking and gesturing to the passenger.

“Is this really allowed on the road?” Ronan exclaimed.

Provence was terrifying!

…

After so many surprises, Ronan abandoned the idea of exploring Apt and went straight to his destination.

He was greeted by a burly man named Olsen.

“Looking to buy a car?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll show you some good ones.”

Ronan followed Olsen to see a dozen cars, all secondhand. Perhaps the vintage car parade left a psychological shadow because Ronan asked:

“No new cars?”

Olsen stopped and stroked his beard.

“You want a new car?”

Ronan nodded.

“In Provence, hardly anyone buys new cars. For brand new ones, you have to go to Avignon or Marseille.” Olsen turned around and headed back the way they came.

Avignon was the capital of Vaucluse province.

Marseille was the capital of Bouches-du-Rhône.

Clearly, buying a new car in Provence was not easy.

Ronan felt a bit down but thanked Olsen for the introduction.

“Thanks. Since it’s still early, I’ll go check out Avignon.”

Driving from Apt to Avignon took over three hours, and Ronan didn’t even know where the dealerships were. Finding his ideal car today seemed difficult.

Olsen shook his head, puzzled.

“I just don’t get city folks’ thinking. Cars weren’t invented to impress strangers or make neighbors jealous. A car is just a four-wheeled metal box meant to move things from place to place. As long as it runs, it’s good.”

Ronan, with his yellow skin and non-local accent, was immediately pegged as an outsider.

His thoughts confirmed Olsen’s suspicion.

Olsen’s “car philosophy” stunned Ronan—it was an analogy he had never considered.

He hadn’t thought buying a new car was about vanity; he only worried that an old car would break down often, causing expensive repairs. Why not buy new instead?

Though no deal was made, Olsen accompanied Ronan to the parking lot.

Surprisingly, the lot was jammed.

Two cars were nose to nose, neither yielding, refusing to pull aside. The drivers glared at each other through their windshields, seeming ready to come to blows at any moment.

They each seemed justified and unjustified at the same time—probably the fault of the narrow road.

Ronan wanted to help them, as the standoff prevented him from leaving.

Suddenly, one car moved.

At that instant, the opposing car also moved.

If one had backed up, both could have passed, but instead, they chose to inch forward simultaneously, like walking a tightrope.

The distance between them never exceeded three centimeters, and other vehicles were parked tightly on both sides.

Several times, they nearly scraped the neighboring cars.

Ronan’s heart leapt into his throat, fearing the cars would collide.

Suddenly, one driver rolled down his window.

“What’s a bumper for? Isn’t it for bumping? Turn your wheel that way!”

The other driver also lowered his window, pulling off his side mirror and pointing at his opponent.

“How did you get your license? I left you plenty of space, and you still can’t get through?”

Ronan, grasping for a lifeline, grabbed Olsen, who was about to leave.

“Mr. Olsen, I’ve changed my mind—I need a used car!”

The people of Provence were too wild!

Help!