She put the cups on the saucers.
“You talked to Morgane, too.”
“Morgane, she’s the girl with the rat?”
“That’s her.”
He took the cup between his hands. He looked into the cup, at the coffee. His gestures were slow.
“People have been saying you’re here for Prévert?”
“Prévert …”
It made him smile. The spoon slipped in the cup. A light little clink.
“How long has it been since we’ve seen each other?”
“A long time.”
“A long time, must be forty years,” Lili said.
She brought out two small glasses from behind her, and put them next to the cups. She filled the glasses.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said.
I did not understand why she said that, whether it was because of all the time that had passed or the clear alcohol she was pouring.
It seemed to take them forever, talking and looking at each other. To see what time had done to them.
“Are you married?” Lili said.
“No.”
“Children?”
He smiled.
“No … And you?”
“I was married. Fisherman. He died at sea.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That he died? You shouldn’t be.”
She put the bottle back, and came over to him, her elbows on the bar.
“In the beginning, you think you’re going to die, and then you don’t die. You live. There are even times afterward when you feel you’ve got your life back.”
She swallowed her glassful.
“That might seem strange, but that’s the way it is.”
Lambert was staring in the mirror behind her.
“I’ve aged,” he said.
“And I’ve aged, too, and so what?”
“Would you have recognized me?”
She shrugged.
He looked away. He stayed like that for a few seconds, his eyes on the floor. “It doesn’t matter …”
“You didn’t say, what brings you here?”
“I wanted to see La Hague again. I’m selling the house.”
She nodded.
“I know, the notary is a customer. And will you stay?”
“Yes … for a day or two …”
He reached over to the peanut dispenser. He dropped in a coin, and turned the knob.
Lili followed him with her eyes.
“Where are you sleeping?”
“A room over in La Rogue.”
“The Irishwoman?”
“Yes.”
“She used to be a whore, did you know that?”
“It’s nothing to me.”
She pointed to the armchair with Old Mother in it. “That’s my mother.”
The old woman sat up. Her head was wobbling, she was like a broken top.
“She’s not living with your father any more?”
“Would you live with that old madman? I took her in over twenty years ago.”
He stared at Old Mother.
Lili looked outside.
I gathered up my things.
“We could have dinner together, if you like,” she said, turning to Lambert.
“Later …”
“Later—when’s that?”
“I don’t know.”
With his hand, he was caressing the smooth surface of the bar.
“I saw your father, when I went past his place. He was in the yard.”
“And so what? I’ve been seeing him for fifty years and more, every day.”
“You’re not speaking?”
Lili scoffed.
“Good morning, goodnight! It’s no secret. Why, is that what he said?”
“No, it was Morgane.”
He looked at her, abruptly, a gaze like a stumble.
“Are you angry?”
“Angry about what? That you accused my father of killing your parents? Rest assured, I’ve accused him of far worse.”
She had raised her voice. It was cold, brittle. “Do you still believe he put out the light? Is that why you’re here?”
“Perhaps.”
“That’s old history, forget it.”
“I can’t.”
“Then live with it! We’ve all lived with it, here!”
I was embarrassed to be there, to see them. To hear them. I got up and gently pushed in my chair. I wanted to leave without making any noise.
Lambert turned.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going …”
My jacket was still on the back of the chair. I took it, and put it on.
“It’s not for you to go.”
He looked at Lili.
That was when he saw the flowers.
“The buttercups, was that you?”
Lili did not understand.
“What are you talking about?”
He pointed to the bouquet.
She pursed her lips. She was three steps from the flowers. She took the three steps and lifted the bouquet from the vase. The stems were wet, water dribbled on to the floor.
“I don’t go round stealing from the dead, if that’s what you mean!”
Water was running down her hands. She shoved the bouquet into his arms.
“How was I supposed to know they were your flowers?”
He stood there with his hands round the bouquet.
“Now get out!” Lili said.
He took a step back.
He muttered something, something I did not understand. He opened the door.
There was a plastic table on the terrace. It stayed there all year round. Even in winter. Before, there were chairs too, but one night, someone took all of them away. Since then, Lili has not put any chairs outside.
Lambert stood for a moment next to the table, the bouquet pressed to his chest. His gaze somewhat disoriented.
Finally he put the flowers on the table.
Lili went over to the window. She followed him with her gaze, while he was there on the terrace and then afterward, when he crossed the street.
Old Mother moaned in her dead woman’s voice.
“Who was that?” The hole of her mouth, gaping. “Who was it, huh?”
Lili turned round.
“Nobody … It was nobody …”
She opened the door, went out, and tossed the bouquet of flowers into the big rubbish container.
“You didn’t put the stone …”
Raphaël was holding a small iron figure in his hands. He was looking at it. It was a tightrope walker. He wanted to make it balance on a plaster wire. One of its feet was already supported, but the tightrope walker would not stay on the wire. Raphaël pulled one of the arms off the body.
“Balance depends on so little …” With his thumb, he accentuated the curve of the back. “If I can get this one to stay, I’ll do a life-size one.”
With a movement of his arm, he encompassed the entire studio.
“A tightrope walker two meters high, walking straight!”
The figure’s toes barely touched the wire. It seemed very light, very delicate.
“It will never stay,” I said.
“It might. We manage!”
He stepped back to see how it looked.
“We don’t live on a wire …”
He wedged a Gitane between his lips. “How can you be so sure?”
No, I was not sure. I looked at his drawings. He had not started the series yet. A few sketches, some forced, rough features.
He took a puff, then blew out a long stream of smoke in front of him.
“Hermann is waiting. He shouts at me, and says I do it on purpose! Hardly likely, that I would do it on purpose …”
I looked out of the window.
Morgane was in the garden, lying on a bench in the sunlight.
I went to join her.
She had the rat against her belly, curled up in a ball, asleep.
She opened her eyes b
ecause I was standing in her sunlight.
She lifted a floppy hand and pointed toward the boats.
“He’s still there,” she said.
I already knew. I had seen him.
A smile came over her lips.
“His name’s Lambert Perack, born in 1955 in Paris in the 6th arrondissement. Lives in Empury, in the Le Morvan region.”
“How do you know all that?”
She let her arm fall along the bench. With her fingertips she scratched the soil, plucked up the few blades of grass growing there.
“It’s not my fault if he left his jacket hanging on the coat rack with his wallet inside.”
She lifted herself up on her elbow, her eyes still closed.
“I helped with the service at noon … he had the menu.”
“You go through your customers’ things now, do you?”
“I didn’t take anything, just his name … Lambert, it’s a rather strange name, don’t you think? … Other than Lambert Wilson … Do you fancy him?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“I’m not lying.”
She lay down again.
“Do you think the sun will last?”
I looked at her, I did not understand.
“The thing shining up there that heats up our skin when we’re cold?”
“It will last,” I said.
The sun dropped slowly behind the house, and the bench was in the shadow.
She got up. She went into the house and came back out with a bath towel. The rat was clinging to her shoulder.
“This morning, I saw the notary from Beaumont, he was parked in front of the house across from Lili’s place.”
She twirled the towel from the tips of her fingers, a perfect imitation of Charlie Chaplin, the towel in place of the cane, her feet sticking out.
“Your Lambert, maybe he’s buying …”
“He’s not my Lambert,” I murmured.
She went off toward the rocks. She was whistling.
“He’s not buying, he’s selling,” I said, but she was already too far away to hear me.
The sun didn’t last, the rain came down on the sea all of a sudden, and then the winds brought it lashing against the windowpanes. A cold little drizzle.
Morgane came back at a run, the towel around her head. I was in my room, I saw her across the courtyard. I banged on the window, and she looked up. It was a lovely sight, this girl running in the rain.
I sat down on the bed.
I had to clear up the apartment and use the time it was raining to paint my walls. In Hopper green, the same green as in the painting. That was what I had decided on. The card was pinned to the door. I could have gone to buy the paint, but it was raining too hard to go to Cherbourg.
I opened a bottle of Entre-deux-mers. A wine from the south, white, dry. I drank a glass. I listened to the rain. I heard the voice of Maria Callas from below. Raphaël was working. He said he always worked really well when it was raining.
There were other glasses on the shelves. Empty biscuit packets. There was a time when I used to be tidy. I would make the bed. I would put black pencil around my eyes.
There was a time, yes.
The next day, it was still raining. I had lunch at the auberge, sitting across from a family, a couple with children. At another table, there was also a couple. They were holding hands above the tablecloth. Their feet underneath the table, touching. This need they had for each other’s skin. Each other’s gaze. I envied them. At one point, the girl spoke to her boyfriend, and they turned and smiled at me. I had been like them, with you, so full of desire. Right to the end, even when your body became that shadow, I still desired you.
The Cogema bachelors were at the tables in the back. They worked at the nearby nuclear reprocessing plant. From the village you could see the tall chimneys, the lurking monster.
Two of Raphaël’s drawings were hanging on the wall. Silhouettes, in gray-black tones. There was also a plaster sculpture in a little niche above the bar. Morgane was not working that day, it was the patron who brought me my meal.
“That still hasn’t healed!” he said, pointing to my cheek.
“No, still hasn’t.”
He nodded.
I looked outside. The sheet of metal was still there, wedged between the wall and a rubbish container.
In the afternoon, I went to the cliffs. I counted seventeen egrets just in that very short time. I did not see any falcons or ravens, but there was a pair of very young gulls, fighting over a female.
Théo was leaning against the bar. On Thursdays, he always came earlier because there was a girl from the social services doing the housekeeping at his place.
Lili prepared him a coffee. That was the only time when Théo would look at her, he could see her like that, from the back. She looked at him too, her father’s reflection in the mirror. Their eyes did not meet.
Théo never sat down. He could have played cards with the other old men. Chatted for a while. He could have gone to Beaumont on the coach.
He stayed there, leaning against the bar.
He drank his coffee.
Before going out, he stopped at my table. He looked at my papers.
“Are you interested in plovers?” he said.
“Plovers? I don’t know … I haven’t got any in my sector. Why do you ask?”
He turned away. His left hand was trembling slightly.
“Plovers are very fine birds, they’re waders.”
“I know.”
“And do you know what they do when other birds come near and threaten their eggs?”
He squinted at me, I got the impression he was judging me, judging me on my ability to know what plovers did in the case of attack.
“There’s a little colony on the rocks beyond the coastguard station. You should go and see them …”
He opened the door.
“Even if it’s not in your sector,” he said, before going out.
One of the old men whistled.
“He’s in fine form, old Théo, this morning!”
Lili came up to my table, with a bottle in her hand. She poured me a drop of her liqueur in a stem glass.
“On the house …”
She watched me drink.
“From round here!”
I did not know what she was referring to, Théo or her liqueur. I emptied the glass without batting an eyelid. I pulled the curtain aside, but Théo was gone.
Morgane had gone off to Cherbourg, leaving the rat in its cardboard box. The rat had got out and had disappeared. Raphaël and I looked everywhere. We eventually found it on a shelf at the back of the studio. Standing on its hind paws, looking at us. I held out my hand, and it came up to sniff my fingers. It seemed intrigued. I do not know whether it could recognize the smell of the cats that I had stroked at Théo’s place.
“They carry all kinds of diseases, those animals,” Raphaël said, when he saw me pick up the rat and hold it.
“So do we.”
“Then don’t touch me.”
“I never touch you.”
He went to look for his cigarette packet. He finally found it, but it was empty. He went into the kitchen.
“The Seamstress of the Dead” cast her gray shadow on the floor. The shadow of the shroud she was stitching. Raphaël had used Nan for the sculpture, it was her, her body, her hands.
He came back.
“Théo was in love with her once,” I said, pointing to the statue.
“How do you know?”
“The way he looks at her, says her name … Do you know her well?”
“Not so well, no … I sculpted her, that’s all.”
He tore open the carton, pulled out a packet. He threw the rest on the table.
He looked at me.
“Well, he went and married someone else, your lover boy!”
“Yes, I know. Still, it was Nan that he loved.”
I walked around “The Seamstress.”
“Ho
w do you explain the fact that Old Mother lives in the village with Lili and that he is up there all alone in his huge place?”
“I’m not explaining anything. The day I heard that there was an old woman in the village who sewed the shrouds of the dead, I knew I had a subject. As for the rest … she doesn’t even know that I sculpted her.”
He ran his hand over the plaster shoulder.
“If I die, I want to be left here, all alone, to rot in the middle of my sculptures. No shroud, nothing.”
He went over to the door.
It was nice out. We went outside.
The cows had all gathered in the pasture near the path. They were stamping their hooves in the mud. We smoked cigarettes, watching them ruminate. A car went by.
“They shouldn’t walk in their shit like that,” I said.
“’Course they shouldn’t.”
Morgane got out of the car. She went to collect her rat and then came back to join us.
“What are you two on about?”
“We were talking about the cows …”
“And what did you have to say?”
“That they walk in their own shit and that they shouldn’t.”
She nodded. A cricket was singing by our feet. Morgane bent down and looked for it in the grass.
“It’s a good job Max isn’t here …”
She looked up at me.
“Max thinks that the crickets that sing when the sun is still up are bastards … and that bastards are supposed to be bad breeders, so he squashes them.”
She got up and took Raphaël’s cigarette in her fingers. She cuddled up against him. It was strange for me to see this close connection they had. It was almost embarrassing at times. Was it the fact they had been born of the same womb that made them so close?
“And you, did you know that Théo had been old Nan’s lover?” asked Raphaël.
Morgane shrugged. She didn’t care.
She held her hand out for my binoculars.
“Can I borrow them?”
They were powerful binoculars, a gift from my colleagues when I left the university. She adjusted the lens. She scoured the space, from the coastguard station to the village and from there as far as the houses in La Roche. Then she pointed high up, in the direction of the road above La Valette.
“Open jacket, crewneck jumper … unshaven … he’s still there.”
She lowered the binoculars, just a touch, hardly at all.
“What is it you fancy about him?”
The Breakers Page 6