The Breakers

by Claudie Gallay

  Morgane came to sit beside me. She sent pebbles skipping over the water. The pebbles jumped from wave to wave.

  “At one point, I thought he was going to turn. When he was just there, in the pass.”

  She tossed another pebble.

  “D’you think he’ll get his shark?”

  “We have to trust him. It’s his dream, and there’s not much harm that can come to people who have dreams.”

  “And people who don’t have dreams, what harm can come to them?”

  “I don’t know … But it’s not as easy for them.”

  She threw another pebble even further than the first one. It did not skip. It slid on to the water and disappeared.

  She went on staring for a moment at the spot on the waves where her pebble had sunk.

  “In the end, Max hasn’t done so badly,” she said finally.

  I nodded. “Not badly at all, no.”

  Max came back at the end of the day, with small fish, the kind you could catch with a line.

  As for the porgie, he said he had struck, but the line had broken.

  Hermann took “The Seamstress” away. She was no longer in the studio, and yet it felt as if she were still there, you could wander round her.

  Raphaël got back to work, more determined than ever, a large plaster silhouette, still a rough shape. He was sculpting something that was unfamiliar to me, that I had never learned to see, and now it demanded that I look at it. A sculpture that did not plead.

  It was a tall man walking, his body in motion, leaning on a thin stick. He seemed to be climbing a slope, a mountain or a hill?

  The light poured through the window from outside. On the floor, at the feet of the walking man, a well of white light penetrated the shadow, inscribing the angular shape of the window. In contrast, the shadow looked blue.

  Cold.

  This sculpture, still just a rough shape, had been born from the departure of “The Seamstress.”

  From her absence.

  After a few hours’ truce, the wind began to blow again. The branches tapped against the windowpanes, came to add their lament to the already keening prayers of “The Pleading Women.” One of the windowpanes in the studio was cracked along its entire length, and the sea breeze found its way through, an icy wisp of wind that caused the dust to swirl.

  Raphaël was on his knees, looking at his walking man. The plaster’s shadow was crushed beneath him, on the floor.

  “It’s as if he were following his shadow.”

  He got to his feet, rubbed his hands on his trousers.

  “I’ll call him ‘The Follower.’”

  “The Follower” found his place, assertively, forcefully, as he joined the teeming crowd in the studio.

  Morgane came over. She put her arms around my neck and held me. She smelled of soap, perfume and the clay cream with which she coated her hair when she had just washed it.

  “What are you thinking about?” she murmured in my ear.

  “The passing of time.”

  “And?”

  “Time’s a bitch.”

  She gave a faint smile. She laid her head against my shoulder. She had a square of light fabric knotted around her wrist, a transparent silk that seem to be woven from her skin.

  “Don’t you get bored?” she said.

  She was not smiling any more.

  We talked about men. We talked about Lambert. And about life, also a bitch.

  We talked about the south and sunshine.

  I would have liked to have been able to talk about you. About your life, your death. About your life, above all.

  I ran my fingertip over the silk square.

  The walking man’s shadow still spread across the floor. Other shadows. Other hands. Everywhere, the powerful imprint of the bases.

  It still stood there majestically before us, in the middle of the space abruptly saturated with light, the remembered presence of “The Seamstress of the Dead.”

  The following night, I slept. Not much. Poorly. I thought I could hear footsteps in the corridor. I opened the door. The stairway was gray and cold. There was no one. I finished the night on my floor, against the radiator. Rolled up in a blanket.

  Looking at the bed.

  In the morning, I saw my face in the rust-speckled mirror. The reflection behind me, the shape of the empty bed.

  The sow had got out of her enclosure, she was in the car park sniffling with her snout through the rubbish bins of the auberge. She had found some potato peel, some old carrots. No one seemed surprised to see a sow on the quay, stuffing herself while she watched the boats head out.

  I spent the day on the cliffs.

  I saw right away that Morgane had been watching out for my return. When I got there, she threw herself into my arms. She kissed me. She was laughing, her lips against my neck, I could not figure out why she was so happy. I said as much, “What’s going on?”

  “I’m leaving!” she said.

  Amidst her laughter, those few words, I’m leaving.

  Well, well.

  “What do you mean, you’re leaving?”

  “I’m going to Paris! It just happened, we were talking, Hermann is looking for someone for the gallery.”

  “But … You don’t know how to do that!”

  “Who gives a damn, I’ll learn! He needs a girl … He’s been looking for two months. He said it’s the perfect job for me.”

  She reached for her handbag, and rummaged inside it. A single ticket, Cherbourg to Paris, she waved it under my nose.

  “Saint-Lazare, that’s the name of the station when you get there … Can you imagine, I’m going to live in Paris!”

  “But where are you going to live? Paris is a big place!”

  “A studio above the gallery. A shower, a bed, it’s got everything, it’s not big but it’s in a good area. The window looks out onto a little street with real Parisian cobblestones.”

  “Well, in that case—real Parisian cobblestones!”

  I instantly regretted speaking like that. I said to her, “Forgive me.”

  She did not mind. She sprawled on the sofa. She could not sit still, she got up again.

  I looked at her.

  She was leaving.

  She was going to dare to do it.

  “And Raphaël, what did he say?”

  “Nothing. He’s happy for me. There’s a Métro station not far away. Hermann will take me for one month on a trial basis. If it works out, I’ll stay.”

  “And if it doesn’t work out?”

  “It will!”

  She took the rat out of its box and danced around with it. She was singing, snatches of hit songs, she hardly knew the words, I recognized “Les Filles de Pigalle,” “Revoir Paris” …

  Suddenly, she froze.

  “The rat!”

  She looked at her animal.

  “I’ll bet they don’t like rats in Paris … Besides, with my work, I won’t be in the studio all the time … And then he’s so used to being here …”

  She looked at me.

  “Oh no, don’t go getting ideas …”

  “I’m not getting ideas … It’s just that I wondered if maybe you could …”

  I waved no with my hand.

  “Ask Raphaël?”

  “Raphaël! These days, all that matters is his work. He’ll let it die …”

  She looked up, her big eyes imploring.

  I looked at the animal.

  “All you have to do is just let him go. Rats, after all, they’re used to living around boats.”

  She shrugged.

  The rat had sensed her stress, the heat of her skin no doubt, her sweat, too. He was scampering all over her, her arms, her neck. He was looking for a place to hide, he finally slid inside her shirt, his little pink paws clinging to the delicate fabric.

  “When are you leaving?” I said.

  “In three days.”

  “Monday!”

  “Yes, Monday. My train is in the morning. Can you come to th
e station with us? I told Raphaël I was sure you could.”

  She held me close, squeezed me.

  “You’ll come and see me in Paris, won’t you, promise?”

  She took my hands.

  She stepped back. She looked at me, from head to toe.

  “I’m going to give you some clothes.”

  “I don’t need any clothes!”

  She led me into the room right at the back, it was her bedroom.

  Just before we went in, “Will you think about the rat?”

  “I have thought about him.”

  She opened the door.

  In her haste, she made an awkward movement, and her necklace broke. The beads scattered in all directions across the floor. We had to pick them up on all fours, we put them in a box. After that, she opened her drawers, and went through her clothes. She got out for me everything she didn’t want.

  “I’m giving you this, it will look good on you!” It was a shirt with transparent sleeves that gave a glimpse of your skin. She shoved it into my hands.

  “You mustn’t close these two buttons,” she said, pointing to the two snaps at the top.

  She threw T-shirts on to the bed.

  “From the days when I was slim …”

  A jumper, a few scarves.

  She gave me her big striped jumper. “A jumper like this in Paris,” she said. “There’s no way!”

  She gave me some woolen tights, a few T-shirts. She made me promise to wear them.

  I promised. I had to swear. She piled everything she wanted to give me into my arms.

  “You are beautiful …” I said.

  “You like women?”

  I laughed.

  “No, only men.”

  It was her turn to laugh.

  I had her hair in my mouth.

  “So, what are you waiting for, to love him?”

  “I’m not waiting for anything.”

  “We’re all waiting!”

  “Not me.”

  She looked deep into my eyes.

  “When you stop waiting, you die.”

  That is what she said.

  She went over to another cupboard, and opened another door.

  “What sort of stuff does he eat, your rat?” I said in the end.

  Morgane filled two suitcases. The things she did not want she left in the bottom of the drawers.

  When Max found out that Morgane was leaving, he went to the very end of the breakwater and wept.

  She gave him the beads, all the beads from her broken necklace. With some string, he could repair it and send it to her in Paris, in an envelope, Raphaël had the address.

  She gave him her big scarf.

  And he was the one who agreed to take the rat. He held out his hand, I’ll take care of it. Morgane looked at his hand, and hesitated.

  He found a wooden crate and put an old woolen jumper at the bottom. He came back with it and he said, “Rats like to live on boats.”

  When she saw the crate, Morgane hesitated.

  She said, “Why not, after all? …”

  She explained to him about the food. After that, he went back out on the breakwater, but not as far as the first time, and he wept some more.

  Morgane gave him the shirt from her pajamas, which had her smell in it, her dreams too, her sweat. Max held the shirt against his chest. He looked at her, his temples were red.

  The horse was in the pasture. Morgane went to give him some water. Her hands held out in front of her, forming a bowl.

  She forced herself to smile. She slipped her fingers into his mane.

  Her hands, and his mouth.

  “I’ve never seen such a soft tongue …”

  This intimate mixture in her, laughter and tears.

  “Is she really leaving?” Max said.

  “Yes, she’s leaving.”

  “When is she coming back?”

  “I don’t know …”

  “When are you coming back?” he said, grabbing her arm.

  “I don’t know, Max …”

  Her voice cracked when she said it. She had never spoken to Max like that, and he stepped back.

  He looked over toward the breakwater, but he did not go.

  She looked all around her, she wanted to give him something more, in addition to the rat and the shirt.

  She went back into the house, and came out with the dictionary.

  “Here, this is for you.”

  She forced it on him, because he did not want to take it. He did not dare.

  “It’s yours, I’m giving it to you. It’s for rainy days, on your boat.”

  He touched the dictionary, and then he took it, and held it against his chest.

  “All the words of submersible language?” was all he managed to mumble.

  Morgane smiled.

  “When I come back, I’ll bring you another one, and it will have even more words.”

  “Will there always be more words?”

  She nodded.

  “Always, yes.”

  We left just before eight o’clock. Morgane sat in the back. That was the way she wanted it.

  We took the road along the sea, through Saint-Germain and Port-Racine. Raphaël was driving. The suitcases were in the boot. Morgane looked at the sea, her face up against the window. I could see her profile in the rearview mirror. Her lips slightly crushed, and that way she had of looking at the sea, as if she wanted to take it.

  I said to her, “You look as if you want to take it with you.”

  She nodded.

  That was why she wanted to sit all alone on the back seat. Raphaël was driving slowly. The train was at nine o’clock, we had time. I think he did not want to get to the station too early.

  He had to circle round for a while to find a parking space. He got some drinks in the station from a vending machine, and two sandwiches wrapped in plastic. Morgane had already gone to the platform. She was waving to us, arms spread wide, because the train was there and we were not walking fast enough.

  Raphaël looked at her the way she had looked at the sea. With the same infinite urgency. I think he wanted her to leave. To get it over with.

  “Will you be alright?” I said.

  “It’s going to kill me.”

  He tried to smile and he went up to her. Her suitcases were already on the steps of the train, a young man had helped her to carry them. A voice in the loudspeaker, the train was called, it would be stopping at the stations of Valognes, Carentan, Bayeux, Caen, Lisieux and finally Paris.

  Morgane was looking at us, the boy behind her tugged on her suitcases to put them into the compartment. She turned round and what she said to him made the boy laugh.

  She came back down on to the platform to kiss Raphaël and me. “I love you,” that is what she said, “I love you madly!” I smiled. I love you, that is what she had said to the horse. She had said it to the rat, too. She was laughing. She still had five minutes, but she had already left.

  She talked about Max and Lambert, and the crowns of pearls that she had left behind.

  “You can finish them if you want! The instructions are inside.”

  She said all the things you say when you leave.

  “Look after yourself, wear my T-shirts … Take care of the horse!”

  She made me promise.

  “And sleep with Lambert, too …”

  I did not promise.

  She kissed me again.

  Raphaël was devouring her with his eyes. She turned to him. She was frightened, frightened of the moment when they would have to part. His hands in her hair. Their eyes closed, suddenly.

  I stepped back.

  They were breathing each other.

  Her white tennis shoes, one lace undone. The hem of her trousers was torn, dragging on the ground, catching in the heel.

  They held each other, clung to each other.

  I do not know what they said.

  The station master walked by and Morgane pulled away, and stepped back. She was in the train, already
, and Raphaël was on the platform. They were still holding each other’s hands. Raphaël gave her the bag with the sandwiches and drinks.

  “There’s a telephone there, call when you arrive.”

  He said other words, Take care, look after yourself …

  The doors closed. On her, and between them. Morgane’s face, her lips twisted because she was crying, her white hands pressed up against the window.

  She murmured words that he could not hear. They stayed like that until the train lurched forward, staring into space, two disoriented creatures who were going to have to learn not to live together any more.

  I drove on the way back. It was raining. The windscreen-wipers creaked. Raphaël stared at the road.

  I parked in the yard at La Griffue. Morgane’s bowl had stayed on the table. Its round shadow on the tablecloth.

  Silence.

  The box of beads, an open packet of biscuits, all her presence gathered there. Her blanket by the television, rolled up, the rat’s spot. Her balls of wool, the needles, a few rows of a jumper she had only just begun. Her yellow leather boots in the corridor. As if she had gone away for an hour, or a day.

  Morgane would be arriving in Paris at noon. She was supposed to call as soon as she was with Hermann. We waited. Slightly before noon, we went to stand next to the telephone box. We waited some more. The sow was on the quay. When she was hungry, she behaved like a dog, eating whatever she found.

  When the telephone rang, Raphaël picked up. Morgane said, “Everything’s fine, I’ve arrived.”

  A few more words. Afterward, Raphaël went back to his studio and I went to hang about on the beach.

  The wind only whistles if it meets something in its path. An obstacle. It never whistles over the sea. The space leaves it silent.

  Lambert told me that, on the evening of the fête, when we were leaning against the dormer window. He talked to me about the wind, where he lived. A never-ending whistling in the trees, that woke him and made him think about the night.

  I went back to the cliffs.