Using the gloves, he brought the mackerel out of the oven. He unwrapped them from the foil and poured the rest of the marinade over them. It smelled as I had imagined, sweet and hot and delicious. “I’ll leave you to enjoy your dinner in peace, heh.” He sighed theatrically. “I usually eat at my hotel, you know. I can choose any table I like, any dish from the menu. But my appetite—” He patted his stomach ruefully. “My appetite isn’t what it once was. Perhaps the sight of all those empty tables—”
I still don’t know why I asked him. Perhaps because no Devinnois ever refuses to offer hospitality. Perhaps because his words had struck a chord. “Why not eat with us?” I suggested impulsively. “There’s enough to go around.”
But Brismand laughed suddenly and hugely, his belly shaking with his giant mirth. I felt my cheeks redden, knowing I had been manipulated into showing sympathy where none was needed, and that my gesture had amused him.
“Thank you, Mado,” he said at last, wiping tears from his eyes with the corner of his handkerchief. “What a kind invitation. But I must be on my way, heh? Today I have other fish to fry.”
5
* * *
When I passed by the blockhaus the following morning, Flynn was nowhere to be seen. The shutters were closed, the generator was off, and there were none of the usual signs of his presence. Looking through the window, I could see no breakfast dishes in the sink, no coverlet on the bed, no clothes. A quick glance inside—few people lock their doors in Les Salants—revealed nothing but the unaired smell of an empty house. Worse still, the little boat that he kept at the top of the étier had gone.
“He’s probably gone fishing,” said Capucine, when I called at her trailer.
Alain agreed, saying he thought he’d seen Flynn’s boat going out early that morning. Angélo too seemed unworried. But Aristide looked concerned. “Accidents happen,” he told us dourly. “Remember Olivier—”
“Heh,” said Alain. “Olivier always was unlucky.”
Angélo nodded. “Rouget’s more likely to be making trouble than getting it. He’ll land on his feet, wherever he is.”
But as the day wore on and Flynn did not reappear, I began to feel a little anxious. Surely he would have told me if he’d been planning to be away for long?
When he had not returned by noon I went to check in La Houssinière, where the Brismand 1 was just about to set off. A line of tourists waited out of the sun beneath the awning of the Chat Noir; cases and rucksacks lined the gangplank. Automatically I found myself scanning the line for a man with red hair.
Of course Flynn was not among the departing tourists. But as I was about to turn back toward the esplanade I noticed a familiar figure waiting in line. Her long hair obscured her face, but there was no mistaking the tight jeans and the burnt orange halter top. A big rucksack lay at her feet like a dog.
“Mercédès?”
She turned at the sound of my voice. Her face was pale and clean of makeup. She looked as if she had been crying. “Leave me alone,” she said, and turned back toward the Brismand 1.
I looked at her, concerned. “Mercédès? Are you all right?”
Without looking at me, she shook her head. “This is nothing to do with you, La Poule. Don’t interfere.” I did not move, but stood silently at her side, waiting. Mercédès tossed her hair. “You’ve always hated me. You should be happy to see the back of me. Now just leave me alone, won’t you?” Her face was an unhappy blur beneath the curtain of hair.
I put my hand on her thin shoulder. “I never hated you. Come with me, and I’ll buy you a coffee, and we can talk. And after that, if you still want to go—”
Mercédès gave a furious sob under her hair. “I don’t want to go!”
I picked up her bag. “Then come with me.”
“Not the Chat Noir—” said Mercédès quickly, as I turned toward the café. “Some other place. Not there.”
I found a small snack bar at the back of the Clos du Phare, and ordered coffee and doughnuts for both of us. Mercédès still sounded brittle and close to tears, but the antagonism was gone.
“Why did you want to run away?” I asked at last. “I’m sure your parents are worried about you.”
“I’m not going back,” she told me stubbornly.
“Why not? Is this about that silly wedding dress?”
She looked startled. Then, reluctantly, she smiled. “That’s how it started, yes.”
“But you can’t run away because a dress didn’t fit,” I said, trying not to laugh.
Mercédès shook her head. “That’s not why,” she said.
“Why then?”
“Because I’m pregnant.”
I managed to get the story from her, with some coaxing and another pot of coffee. She was a strange mixture of arrogance and little-girl naïveté, appearing by turns much older, and at the same time much younger, than her years. I imagine this was what attracted Joël Lacroix to her in the first place, that flirtatious show of confidence. But in spite of her short skirts and sexual bravado, she remained an island girl at heart, touchingly, alarmingly ignorant.
Apparently she had trusted to the Saint for contraception. “Besides,” she said, “I thought it couldn’t happen the first time.” It had only happened once, I gathered. He’d made her feel as if it were her fault. Before, there had been nothing but kisses, secret rides on his motorbike, a feeling of delicious rebellion.
“He was so nice at first,” she said wistfully. “Everyone else assumed I was going to marry Xavier and be just a fisherman’s wife, and get fat, and wear a scarf around my head like my mother.” She wiped at her eyes with the corner of the napkin. “Everything’s ruined now. I said we could run away, to Paris maybe. We could get a flat together. I could get a job. And he just—” She pushed back her hair listlessly. “He just laughed.”
She had told her parents straightaway, on the advice of Père Alban. Surprisingly it had been quiet, fussy Charlotte who had raged the most; Omer La Patate had simply sat down at his table like a man in shock. Xavier would have to be told, Charlotte had said; there had been a contract that could now no longer be honored. Mercédès sobbed quietly and hopelessly as she told me about it. “I don’t want to go to the mainland. But I’ll have to now. No one will want me here, after what’s happened.”
“Omer could talk to Joël’s father,” I suggested.
She shook her head. “I don’t want Joël. I never did.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “And I’m not going back home,” she said tearfully. “They’ll make me see Xavier if I go back. And I’d rather die.”
In the distance came the sound of the ferry’s whistle. Brismand 1 was leaving.
“Well, you’re here until tomorrow, at least,” I said crisply. “Let’s try and find you somewhere to stay.”
6
* * *
I found Toinette Prossage in her garden, hoeing bulbs of wild garlic out of the sandy soil. She nodded to me in a friendly fashion as she straightened up, her face shaded not by the quichenotte this morning, but by a wide straw hat tied at the side of her head with a red ribbon. On the turf roof of her cottage, a goat was cropping grass.
“So, what do you want?”
“Do I need an ulterior motive?” I brought out the big bag of pastries I had bought in La Houssinière and held it out to her. “I thought you might like some pain au chocolat.”
Toinette took the bag and inspected the contents greedily. “You’re a good girl,” she declared. “It’s a bribe, of course. Go on, you’ve got my attention. At least for as long as it takes me to finish this.”
I grinned as she started on the first pain au chocolat, and as she ate I told her about Mercédès. “I thought you might be able to look after her here for a while,” I said. “Till the dust settles.”
Toinette considered a cinammon-sugar roll. Her black eyes shone keenly under the brim of her hat. “Such a tiresome girl, my granddaughter,” she said, with a sigh. “I knew she’d be trouble from the day she
was born. I’m too old for all that now. These cakes are very nice, though,” she added, biting into the roll with gusto.
“You can have them all,” I told her.
“Heh.”
“Omer wouldn’t have told you about Mercédès,” I ventured.
“Because of the money, heh?”
“Maybe.” Toinette lives frugally, but there are rumors of hidden wealth. The old woman does nothing to confirm or deny these, but her silence is generally taken as a kind of admission. Omer loves his mother dearly, but is secretly dismayed at her longevity. Toinette is aware of this, and plans to live forever. She cackled gleefuly. “Thinks I’ll disinherit him if there’s a scandal, heh? Poor Omer. There’s more of me in that girl than there is of anyone else, I’ll tell you. I was the bane of my parents.”
“You’ve not changed much, then.”
“Heh!” She inspected the paper bag again. “Nut bread. I always liked nut bread. Good thing I’ve got all my teeth, heh? It’s better with honey, though. Or a little goat’s cheese.”
“I’ll bring some over.”
Toinette looked at me for a moment with cynical amusement. “Bring the girl over here with you, while you’re at it. I expect she’ll wear me to a splinter. At my age I need all the rest I can get. The young don’t understand that. All they think about is their own affairs.”
I wasn’t fooled by this pretense at frailty. Within ten minutes of her arrival I imagined that Mercédès would be put to work cleaning, cooking, and tidying the house. It would probably do her good.
Toinette read my thoughts. “I’ll soon take her mind off things,” she announced imperiously. “And if that boy comes sniffing round—heh!” She made an airy gesture with the nut loaf, looking like the world’s oldest fairy godmother. “I’ll give him what for. I’ll show him what a Salannaise is made of.”
I left Mercédès with her grandmother. It was past one o’clock, and the sun was at its hottest. Les Salants was deserted in its glassy glare: shutters closed, only the tiniest sliver of shadow at the foot of the whitewashed walls. I would have liked to lie down quietly in the shade of a parasol, perhaps with a long drink, but the boys would be home—at least until the games arcade opened again—and after Brismand’s visit, I did not trust myself near my father. So instead I turned toward the dunes. It would be cooler above La Goulue, and at this time of day, free of tourists. The tide was high; the sea brilliantly clear. The wind would clear my head.
I could not help looking in at the blockhaus on my way. It was deserted as before. But La Goulue was not entirely deserted. A single figure stood by the water, a cigarette clamped between his teeth.
He ignored my greeting, and when I came to stand beside him he turned his face away, though not quickly enough to hide his reddened eyes. The news about Mercédès had traveled fast.
“I wish they were dead,” said Damien in a low voice. “I wish the sea would just come in and swallow the whole island. Wash everything clean again. No people at all.” He picked up a stone from between his feet and pegged it as hard as he could at the oncoming waves.
“It may feel like that now—” I began, but he interrupted me.
“They should never have built that reef. They should have left the sea to it. They thought they were being so clever. Making money. Laughing at the Houssins. All of them too wrapped up in thinking about money to see what was going on right under their noses.” He kicked at the sand with the toe of his boot. “Lacroix would never have looked at her twice if it hadn’t been for all this, would he? He’d have been gone by the end of the summer. There wouldn’t have been anything to keep him here. But he thought he could make money out of us.” I put my hand on his shoulder, but he shook it off. “He pretended to be my friend. Both of them did. Using me to send messages. Spying for them in the village. I thought if I could do something for her—then maybe she—”
“Damien. It isn’t your fault. You weren’t to know.”
“But it is—” Damien broke off suddenly and picked up another stone. “Oh, what do you know, heh? You’re not even a proper Salannaise. You’ll do all right, whatever happens. Your sister’s a Brismand, isn’t she?”
“I don’t see what—”
“Just leave me alone, okay? It isn’t your concern.”
“Yes it is.” I took his arm. “Damien, I thought we were friends.”
“That’s what I thought about Joël,” said Damien sullenly. “Rouget tried to warn me. I should have listened to him, heh?” He picked up another stone and threw it at the oncoming surf. “I tried to tell myself it was my father’s fault. I mean, that business with the lobsters and everything. Taking up with the Bastonnets. After everything they’d done to our family. Pretending things were all right again, just because of a good catch or two.”
“And then there was Mercédès,” I said gently.
Damien nodded.
“The motorcycle gang,” I said. “Was that you? Did you tell them about the money? To hit back at the Bastonnets? Because you were jealous of Xavier?”
Damien nodded miserably. “Xavier wasn’t supposed to get hurt, though. I thought he’d just hand over the cash. But after what happened, Joël said I might as well throw in with his gang; I had nothing left to lose.”
No wonder he’d looked so unhappy. “And you’ve kept this to yourself all this time? You didn’t tell anyone?”
“Rouget. You can tell him stuff, sometimes.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me to come clean with my dad and the Bastonnets. Said things would just get worse if I didn’t. I said he was crazy; my dad would have kicked the crap out of me if I’d told him the half of what I’d done.”
I smiled. “I think maybe he was right, you know.”
Damien shrugged listlessly. “Maybe. It’s too late now.”
I left him on the beach and returned the way I came. When I looked back, the lone figure was kicking sand into the sea with a furious energy, as if by so doing he might force all of the beach back onto La Jetée, where it belonged.
7
* * *
When I got home, Adrienne was there with Marin and the boys, just finishing lunch. They looked up as I came in. GrosJean did not; instead he kept his head lowered over his plate, finishing his salad with slow, methodical movements.
I made coffee, feeling like an intruder. There was silence as I drank it, as if my presence had killed the conversation. Was this what it was going to be like from now on? My sister and her family, GrosJean and his boys, and myself, the outsider, the unwanted guest whom no one quite dared eject? I could feel my sister watching me, her blue island eyes narrowed. From time to time, one of the boys whispered something too low for me to make out.
“Uncle Claude said he’d spoken to you,” said Marin at last.
“I’m glad he did,” I said. “Or were you planning to tell me in your own time?”
Adrienne glanced at GrosJean. “It’s up to Papa to decide what he does with his own land.”
“We’d discussed it before,” said Marin. “GrosJean knew he couldn’t afford to develop the property. He thought it would make more sense to let us do that.”
“Us?”
“Claude and I. We’ve been discussing a joint venture.”
I looked at my father, seemingly absorbed in mopping oil from the bottom of the salad bowl. “Did you know about this, Father?”
Silence. GrosJean gave no sign of even having heard.
“You’re just upsetting him, Mado,” murmured Adrienne.
“What about me?” My voice was rising. “Didn’t anyone think to consult me? Or was that what Brismand meant when he said he wanted me on his side? Is that what he wanted? To make sure I turned a blind eye when you signed away the land for nothing?”
Marin gave me a meaningful look. “Maybe we could discuss this some other—”
“Was it for the boys, is that it?” Anger fluttered inside me like a bird in a cage. “Is that what you bribed him with? GrosJean and
P’titJean, back from the dead?” I glanced at my father, but he had gone away inside himself, staring placidly into space, as if none of us were there.
Adrienne looked at me reproachfully. “Oh Mado. You’ve seen him with the boys. They’re therapy for him. They’ve done him so much good already.”
“And the land was no use,” said Marin. “We all thought it would make more sense to concentrate on the house, to make it into a proper family summer home, for all of us to enjoy.”
“Think of what it would mean to Franck and Loïc,” said Adrienne. “A lovely holiday home by the seaside—”
“And a sound investment,” added Marin, “for when—you know.”
“An inheritance,” explained Adrienne. “For the children.”
“But it isn’t a holiday home,” I protested, feeling a little sick.
My sister leaned toward me, her face shining. “We hope it will be, Mado,” she said. “The fact is, we’ve asked Papa to come home with us in September. We want him to live with us all year round.”
I left as I had come, with my case and my art folder, but this time I did not make for the village. Instead I took the other path, the one that led to the blockhaus above La Goulue.
Flynn still wasn’t there. I let myself into the house and lay down on the old cot, feeling suddenly very isolated, very far from home. At that moment I would have given almost anything to be back in the Paris flat with the brasserie outside and the noise from the Boulevard Saint-Michel drifting up on the hot gray air. Perhaps Flynn had been right, I thought. Perhaps it was time to think of moving on.
I could see quite clearly now how my father had been manipulated. But he had made his choice; I would not stop him. If he wanted to live with Adrienne, he could. The house in Les Salants would become a holiday home. I would be welcome to stay whenever I liked, of course, and Adrienne would feign surprise when I stayed away. She and Marin would spend every holiday there. Maybe they would rent it out-of-season. I had a sudden image of myself and Adrienne as children, quarreling over some toy, breaking its limbs between us, its stuffing shedding unheeded as we fought each other for possession. No, I told myself. I didn’t need the house.
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