The Breakers

by Claudie Gallay

  I sat down on the top of a huge rock overlooking the sea.

  A longclaw had taken up its position a few meters away. I drew it. I made note of its colors. Afterward I lay down, my back against the rock, and closed my eyes. I had been looking at the sun too much. Spots of color danced behind my eyelids, like fiery little sea horses.

  Raphaël had been there for eight years. Morgane a bit less. Their parents lived over near Rennes. They were shopkeepers. Morgane told me that they sold bags, briefcases. They saw each other from time to time. Not often.

  In the studio, the walls, the brick, everything was crumbling. Because of the salt. It was rising. It ate into the stone the way it ate into the trees, and the bones inside bodies.

  I opened the door. “May I?”

  Raphaël was working on a sculpture. A woman with long hair of stone, a Madonna’s face. The pallor of plaster imposed a closed silence upon her face. For weeks he had been working on it. Every one of his sculptures had a history. This one had greatly moved me.

  The day he told me the story, he said, Listen carefully, because I’ll never talk to you about it again.

  The story was from the time when he was living in Kolkata. One morning he left his place and came upon a woman in the street, a very beautiful woman. She was walking, one arm folded over her belly, she was carrying a dead child in her arms. A baby, a few days old, wrapped in rags. She was singing and rocking it the way she would have rocked a living child. She was begging, too. When she saw Raphaël, she pulled a breast out of her dress, went over to him and held out her hand. She was laughing. Her laugh as loud as she was beautiful. Raphaël gave her a few coins. She went into a shop and came back out with some milk. She sat down on the curb and fed the infant the milk. It was an unbearable sight. In the evening, when she had fallen asleep, women took her child away. When they tugged at it, the child’s arm came away from its body.

  I stepped back and looked at the emaciated figure of the woman who seemed to be laughing, yet unsteady on her feet.

  What had become of her?

  Raphaël told me that in the days which followed he saw her wandering through the streets looking for her child. She tried to steal someone else’s, and the neighborhood women beat her. For a long time she walked around with a rag pressed up against her breasts, a sort of doll soaked in milk. One day he looked for her and she had disappeared.

  I turned away. I looked at Raphaël’s hands, the bags of plaster against the walls. All that mysterious work. It is said that a sculpture already exists in the block of marble, before the sculptor carves into it. What future sculptures were still held prisoner in all those bags?

  “That woman’s eyes haunt me …” He said this in a muffled voice.

  I heard the rustling of the thick cloth of his shirt when it rubbed against the table top. The sound of a match scraping on the side of the box.

  He never mentioned that story again. Ever. Even when he was able to cast “The Wandering Woman of the Slums” in bronze.

  The weather was clear, then suddenly the fog came in, heavy slabs of it. Compact. You could no longer see the island of Alderney or even the village of La Roche, not a thing. Even the coastguard station had vanished. Along with the pebbles on the beach, the trees along the path. There was not a sound. The birds had flocked together.

  The lighthouse was lit, a long blue beam piercing the fog, lighting in turn the shore, the rocks, the open sea.

  I went back to La Griffue.

  Raphaël had put the red stone outside his door. A stone wrapped in a thick hemp rope. When the stone was there, no one was allowed in the studio. Not even Morgane.

  Raphaël could stay shut in for days with that stone, without seeing anyone.

  The bouquet of buttercups was on the bar. In a vase. I saw it the moment I came in. I knew that Max was in the habit of taking flowers from the graves, but never entire bouquets. They were lovely buttercups, he must have really wanted them. More than usual. Besides, it was a grave where no one ever went. Lili must have scolded, she always scolded when he brought flowers, but she would accept them all the same.

  When he found roses, Max removed the thorns and gave them to Morgane. Morgane did not want his flowers. She did not even look at them. Max placed them in the hall, outside her door. The roses would stay there for a day or two. They wilted. Over time they ended up rotting, or else they dried and the wind carried them away.

  Lambert’s Audi was parked a bit further down the street. Everyone had noticed his car, as well as the fact that the shutters of the house were open. No one spoke about it, or if they did, it was in a low voice.

  Morgane was smoking, her elbows on the bar. Her trousers low on her hips and her rat on her shoulder. Next to her were two employees from the public works in fluorescent green overalls. Old Mother was dozing, slumped in her armchair, her hands folded over her lap. Her chin was in her neck. Woolen slippers and very thick stockings. You could hear her grinding her jaw. Apparently it was the medication that made her do that.

  In the room there was a stink of stale tobacco. Lili emptied the ashtrays but the smell clung to the walls.

  Lili was complaining.

  The fishermen rolled their cigarettes in corn paper. Over time it made the ceiling go black. It burned their lungs and turned their teeth yellow.

  It was the afternoon lull, Lili was wiping tables when Max arrived.

  “The stained glass windows at the church are clean and it’s not yet sow-time,” he said, shaking my hand.

  He sat down across from me. He had managed to repair the rudder on his boat.

  “It’s gestation,” he explained, making a drawing to show me how he would go about doing the soldering. He scratched his head to give weight to his explanations. His boat was recycled. Rescued from the scrap yard. Two years he had been working on it.

  At the table behind us, four old fellows were playing cards, some sort of belote with a card turned over. They called it “the turnover” or “the cow.” One of them went out, every ten minutes. Some problem with his prostate. He went outside to piss against a wall. The neighbors complained. Lili scattered soda crystals. You’ll see, when you’re his age! That was what she would shout, brandishing her bucket.

  Morgane went to press her belly against the pinball machine. Her eyes were riveted on the ball. She thrust her hips against the machine. The rat clinging to her shoulder. The old men eased up on their cards to watch her moving hips.

  Max was drooling at the sight.

  “Keep your mouth shut,” I said, in a low voice.

  I put my hand on his, “Your mouth …”

  He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. Max never touched Morgane. He knew it was not possible. But look at her, that he could do.

  He chewed on a few peanuts, mechanically. The peanuts absorbed his drool, obliged him to swallow. He sniffed his fingers, he did that a lot. He finally forgot about Morgane and talked to me again about his boat. With his pencil he drew another diagram on the corner of the newspaper. An outline of the mast and the hull. He added a few arrows.

  “This is the exact positioning for each part, to ensure the proper launch of the vessel.”

  He said that, then got up. It was more than he could bear, he had to go near her.

  “You stink, Creature!” Morgane said, pushing him away with her hand.

  He began to giggle. The smell was because of the sow. He touched it, caressed it.

  Lili saw him. “Out you go, cousin …”

  Max grumbled.

  Lili did not care, she was used to it.

  “At the end of the month, he’ll be forty,” she said, going up to Morgane.

  “So what?”

  “We’ll have a little party. You’ll join us?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It would make Max happy.”

  “It’s not my business to make him happy.”

  Lili ran her hand through Morgane’s hair.

  “Don’t be mean …” She made a fa
ce, because of the rat. “You know I don’t like you coming round here with that thing!”

  Morgane shrugged. She had found the rat under the sheets of metal near the boat shed. It was being attacked by three other beasts that were just as thin, but there were three of them. She put it in a box, it was not hurt but it was in bad shape. The rat would not eat or drink for two days. Morgane thought it was going to die, but one evening she heard a noise. She got up. The rat had got out of his box and was drinking from the sink, drop by drop.

  Lili went back to the bar. She opened the drawer of the till. She pulled out a note, and placed it on the table in front of Morgane.

  “You should go to the hairdresser’s,” she said. “And then you should come and live here, at least for the winter. It’s too cold on your island.”

  “It’s not an island.”

  The village was built at the very top of the hill. Between the village and the harbor there was a little over a kilometer, a road without houses, and yet that distance seemed like a wilderness separating two worlds.

  Lili turned away.

  “La Griffue is no place for a girl.”

  “What do you know?”

  She shrugged.

  Old Mother tried to sit up straight. Against her waist she clutched the little fake crocodile handbag she always kept within reach.

  She was waiting for the old man. It was his time. The handbag was just in case he came for her.

  Lili knew, and she tried not to pay any attention. She picked up the glasses left here and there on the tables.

  “And how’s your brother doing?”

  “He’s doing.”

  “We haven’t seen him much these days.”

  “… working.”

  “You’ll tell him about Max’s birthday, in case he’d like to come.”

  Morgane held the rat close.

  “You bet he’ll want to come.”

  She came back to lean against the bar.

  “There’s this bloke hanging about,” she said.

  “There have always been blokes hanging about,” said Lili.

  “He was at the harbor. He spoke to me.”

  “What did he want?”

  Morgane shrugged. She fed a peanut to the rat.

  “I don’t know. He was looking at the sea.”

  With one finger she caressed the rat, the smooth fur between his eyes. “I asked him what he was doing here. I talked to him about your father.”

  “Why did you talk about him?”

  “Because he was looking at his house.”

  “You just said he was looking at the sea!”

  “Yes, but at one point he turned round and looked at his house. He wanted to know if the lighthouse keeper still lived there.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I told him he did.”

  Lili began drying her glasses.

  “If he’s a drifter, you’d best not go walking alone on the moor.”

  “He’s not a drifter.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “I don’t know … He’s looking round, that’s all.”

  “They’re all looking round, it’s like some disease in these parts.” She turned her head. She did not want to talk about it any more.

  Morgane insisted. “He’s not the same … The things he looks at, it’s as if it’s not the first time he’s seen them.”

  The old men had stopped playing, and were listening.

  “It’s as if he were from here in some way,” Morgane said.

  “You’re either from here or you’re not.”

  “His name’s Lambert.”

  Lili stood still for a moment, staring at the bar.

  “You know his name already … ?” She paused for a moment, then said, “Maybe he’s here for Prévert? You ought to tell Anselme.”

  “Monsieur Anselme.”

  We all turned our heads because M. Anselme had just come in.

  “Well, talk of the devil …” said Lili.

  M. Anselme made his way through the tables. With his little blue silk pocket handkerchief and his bow tie, he looked like a doctor on a house call.

  “And what is it you ought to tell M. Anselme?” he said, allowing his gaze to slide over Morgane’s generous curves.

  “There’s a tourist for you.”

  “The bloke with the Audi.”

  “Yes.”

  He took off his jacket and hung it carefully on the back of a chair.

  “He’s not a tourist and he’s not here for Prévert,” Morgane said.

  “How can you tell?”

  “An impression … He stares at the sea.”

  Lili shrugged. “Everyone stares at the sea.”

  “Everyone, maybe … but he’s not everyone. May I?” he asked, pointing to the empty chair across from me.

  I nodded.

  The church bell began to ring. Max pulled out his watch and said it was time for him to go and look after his sow.

  Morgane emptied the saucer of peanuts. She licked the salt, and put the banknote Lili had given her into her pocket. As she turned round, she bumped into Max.

  “What, you still here, Creature?”

  Max said nothing.

  He was looking at her throat, the damp line of sweat trickling between her breasts.

  At that time of day, it was tea with milk for M. Anselme. Lili knew. She took down a cup.

  “Could it be the Perack boy?” M. Anselme said, his elbow against the chair.

  She did not reply.

  “Who’s the Perack boy?” I said.

  “A boy who lost his parents, and he blames the sea.”

  He pulled open the curtain. He pointed to the house on the other side of the street. The gate was open.

  “He was there, this morning, and he’s still there. The shutter is open… But maybe it’s not him.”

  He leaned over to get a better view.

  “His parents drowned. Have you seen the state the garden’s in? Before, the road-mender used to take care of it, and he heated up the house. He died last year. A house, when there’s no one to look after it …”

  He let the curtain fall back in place.

  I told him that I had seen Lambert at the grave. I pointed to the bouquet of buttercups on the bar. He turned around, and acknowledged the fact with a nod.

  “If you saw him at the grave, then it’s him. His parents are buried there. I wonder what he’s doing here. No one’s seen him round here for years. Perhaps the house is for sale … People from Paris are always looking for these tumbledown seaside places, they’ll pay a fortune for them, even when they’re in ruins. Have to ask Lili …”

  He turned toward the bar. Lili was finishing his tea. M. Anselme changed his mind.

  “I don’t think this is the right day …”

  He took a plastic envelope from his pocket.

  “I brought you some photographs of Prévert …”

  He had been talking to me about them for days. He set them on the table. The photographs were black and white, with old-fashioned crinkled edges. One of them had been taken in the harbor, back when La Griffue was still a hotel. The other showed Prévert with friends, sitting on the terrace of the restaurant that overlooked the harbor at Port-Racine.

  “Prévert loved to have his picture taken, but here, there weren’t many photographers in those days, so from time to time my father would get his camera out … Look how elegantly he’s dressed.”

  I looked at the photographs.

  Lili came back with the milk and the tea and set everything down on the table.

  “You’ll never get tired of that one, will you!” she said, shrugging.

  M. Anselme replied with a smile. He drank a sip of tea and carefully put the cup back on the saucer. He talked to me about the house at Le Val, the house Prévert had bought at the end of his life and where he had chosen to die.

  “It’s very near, in Omonville-la-Petite. From my house you can get there on foot along a charming little path.” He
leaned closer, as if to tell me a secret. “We could go and visit it together, I could be your guide.”

  I smiled.

  I do not know whether M. Anselme annoyed me, but each time we met, that is how it was, he had to talk to me about Prévert. Ordinarily, Lili thought it was funny. Today, she was not in a laughing mood. She was wiping her glasses, looking out at the street.

  M. Anselme picked up his photographs.

  “The minute he knew he was sick, Janine didn’t want people to see him any more. We’d ask for news, from the kitchen, and then when we couldn’t go in the kitchen, we’d ask from the garden and in the end we had to stay behind the fence.”

  He pulled a brown paper envelope from his pocket.

  “He’s the one who gave me this collage.”

  He pushed the envelope over to me. Inside there was a postcard, with a little white boat stuck to it.

  “When he made this collage he was already very sick. He couldn’t sign it. He asked me to come back later, when he felt better.” He leaned closer. “He had started to sign, though, you see, that little line with the pen … It’s the J from Jacques.”

  There was indeed a little line, that could have been the J from Jacques, but it could have been anything else, too.

  I did not say anything.

  He blushed.

  “His friends, that was his whole life, you understand …”

  I said that I understood, and I looked outside. He went on talking.

  At one point, I felt his hand on mine.

  “You’re not listening …”

  Lili was still behind the bar. She had no glasses left to wipe. She was waiting, leaning against the bar, her arms folded across her waist, her gaze somewhat vacant. It was rare to see her like that, motionless.

  “One morning, I saw a car go by that I didn’t recognize. It was the notary, he had come from Cherbourg. It was February. Prévert died in April. The idea of death saddened him above all because of Minette. Minette, his daughter … If we go and visit his house at Le Val, you’ll be able to see some very fine photographs of her in the garden, and also of Prévert in Paris …”

  M. Anselme sipped his tea. I looked at his hands. They were white, his nails perfectly groomed. A little gold chain was fastened round his wrist.