Coastliners

by Joanne Harris

  Xavier shrugged. “Seems a bit much, just for a few jellyfish. It’s not as if the world was coming to an end.”

  Aristide gave him a dark look. “A few jellyfish, heh? You’ve no idea. The last time this happened—” He bit off the remark sharply and returned to his net.

  Xavier gave a nervous laugh. “At least Rouget’s going to be all right,” he said. “Jojo told me this morning. I sent a bottle of devinnoise.”

  “And I told you not to go blabbing to Jojo-le-Goëland,” said Aristide.

  “I wasn’t blabbing—”

  “You’d do better minding your own business. If you’d done that in the first place, you might still be in with a chance with the Prossage girl.”

  Xavier looked away, flushing beneath his glasses.

  Toinette lifted her eyes heavenward. “Leave the boy alone, heh, Aristide?” she said in a warning tone.

  “Well,” grunted Aristide. “I thought my son’s boy would have had more sense.”

  Xavier ignored them both. “You talked to her, didn’t you?” he said to me quietly as I turned to go. I nodded. “How did she look?”

  “What does it matter how she looks, heh?” demanded Aristide. “She’s made you look like a prize idiot, that’s for certain. And as for her grandmother—” Toinette stuck out her tongue at Aristide with such sudden petulance that I had to smile.

  Xavier ignored them both, his shyness gone in the face of his anxiety. “Was she all right? Will she see me? Toinette won’t say.”

  “She’s confused,” I said. “She doesn’t know what she wants. Give her time.”

  Aristide snorted. “Give her nothing!” he spat. “She’s had her chance, heh. There’ll be other girls better than that one. Decent girls.”

  Xavier said nothing, but I saw his expression.

  Toinette bridled. “Not decent, my Mercédès!”

  Quickly I put my arm around her shoulders. “Come on. This is pointless.”

  “Not until he takes that back!”

  “Please. Toinette. Come on.” I glanced again at the boat, an oddly threatening presence on the pale horizon. “Who are they?” I said, almost to myself. “What are they doing here?”

  Everyone in the village seemed uneasy that morning. Going into Prossage’s shop for bread I found the counter untended, and heard raised voices from the back room. I took what I needed, leaving the money beside the till. Behind me Omer and Charlotte continued to argue, their voices carrying eerily in the still air. Ghislain and Damien’s mother was scrubbing lobster pots by the vivarium, a rag tied around her head. Angélo’s was empty except for Matthias, sitting alone over café-devinnoise. There were few tourists to be seen, perhaps because of the fog. The air was oppressive and smelled of smoke and the coming rain. No one seemed to feel like talking.

  On the way back home with my provisions I passed Alain. Like his wife he looked drawn and colorless. His teeth were clamped on the stub of a Gitane. I greeted him with a nod. “No fishing today?”

  Alain shook his head. “I’m looking for my son,” he told me. “And when I find him I swear he’ll wish I hadn’t.” Apparently Damien hadn’t been home all night. Anger and worry had gouged deep lines between Alain’s eyebrows and around his mouth.

  “He can’t have gone far,” I said. “How far can he go on an island?”

  “Far enough,” replied Alain in a bleak voice. “He’s taken the Eleanore 2.”

  They had left her moored off La Goulue, he explained. Alain had planned to go to La Jetée with Ghislain in the morning to check for jellyfish.

  “I thought the boy might like to come too,” he said bitterly. “Thought it might take his mind off other things.”

  But when they had arrived at the beach the Eleanore 2 had already gone. There was no sign of her at all, and the little platt that they used for access at high tide was moored alongside the marker buoy.

  “What’s he think he’s doing?” demanded Alain. “That boat’s too big for him to handle alone. He’ll wreck her. And where the hell’s he taken her on a day like this?”

  I realized I must have seen the Eleanore 2 from my vantage point outside the blockhaus that morning. What time had that been? Three? Four? Cécilia had been out too, though only to check the lobster pots out in the bay; even then the fog had been closing in, and the Bastonnets knew better than to risk the sandbanks in such conditions.

  Alain paled when I told him. “What’s the boy playing at, heh?” he moaned. “Oh, when I find him—you don’t think he’s done something really stupid, do you? Like trying to get to the mainland?”

  Surely not. It takes nearly three hours for Brismand 1 to reach us from Fromentine, and there are some rough places between there and us. “I don’t know. Why should he?”

  Alain looked uncomfortable. “I told him a few truths. You know boys.” He studied his knuckle for a moment. “I may have gone a bit far. And he’s taken some of his things with him.”

  “Oh.” That sounded more serious.

  “How was I to know he’d be such a fool?” Alain exploded. “I tell you, when I get my hands on him—” He broke off, sounding tired and old. “If something happened to him, Mado. If something happened to Damien. You’ll tell me if you see him, heh?” He looked at me sharply from eyes pinched by worry. “He trusts you. Tell him I won’t be angry. I just want him to be safe.”

  “I will,” I promised. “I’m sure he won’t have gone far.”

  7

  * * *

  By midday the fog had lifted a little. The sky had veered to stonewashed gray, the wind had risen, and the tide had turned again. I walked slowly to La Goulue, feeling more anxious than my optimistic farewell to Alain had let show. Since the day of the jellyfish, it seemed that everything was on the verge of coming apart, even the weather and the tides conspiring against us. As if Flynn were the Pied Piper, going away and taking our luck with him.

  When I reached La Goulue the beach was almost deserted. For a moment that surprised me, then I recalled the jellyfish warnings and saw the frill of white at the water’s edge, too thick to be foam. The tide had left dozens of them there, opaquing as they died. Later we would have to organize a clean-up operation with rakes and nets. Knowing how dangerous the things were, the sooner it was done the better.

  Just above the tide line I could see somebody watching the water in almost exactly the same spot as Damien had the night before. It might have been anyone—faded vareuse, the face shielded beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat—an islander, in any case. But I knew who it was.

  “Hello, Jean-Claude. Or do we call you Brismand 2 now?”

  He must have heard me coming, because he was ready. “Mado. Marin told me you knew.” He picked up a piece of driftwood from the beach and poked at one of the dying creatures with it. I noticed that his arm was bandaged under the vareuse. “It’s not as bad as you think,” he said. “No one’s going to be left out in the cold. Believe me, everyone in Les Salants will come out of this better off than they were before. Do you really think I’d let anything terrible happen to you?”

  “I don’t know what you’d do,” I said bleakly. “I don’t even know what to call you anymore.”

  He looked hurt at that. “You can call me Flynn,” he said. “It was my mother’s name. Nothing’s changed, Mado.”

  There was enough gentleness in his voice to bring me close to tears. I closed my eyes and let the coldness take me again, feeling glad that he hadn’t tried to touch me.

  “Everything’s changed!” I heard my voice rise and was powerless to stop it. “You lied to us! You lied to me!”

  His expression hardened. I thought he looked sick, his face pale and pinched. There was a graze of sunburn across his left cheekbone. His mouth was slightly downturned. “I told you what you wanted to hear,” he said. “I did what you wanted. You were happy enough with the result at the time.”

  “But you weren’t doing it for us, were you?” I couldn’t believe he was trying to justify his betrayal. “You were lo
oking after number one. And it’s paid off, hasn’t it? A Brismand partnership, with a bank balance to match?”

  Flynn kicked at one of the faded creatures at his feet with sudden viciousness. “You have no idea what it was like,” he said. “How could you? You’ve never wanted anything but this place. It never bothered you that you were living in someone else’s house where nobody cared about you, that you had no money of your own, no proper job, no future. I wanted more than that. If I’d wanted to live like that I’d have stayed in Kerry.” He looked down at the stranded jellyfish and kicked it again. “Filthy things.” He looked up at me suddenly, and I saw a challenge in his expression. “Tell me the truth, Mado. Didn’t you ever ask yourself what you’d do if things were different? Weren’t you ever tempted, just a bit?”

  I ignored the question. “Why Les Salants? Why not just stay quietly in La Houssinière and mind your own business?”

  His mouth twisted. “Brismand isn’t easy. He likes to have control. He didn’t just welcome me with open arms, you know. All that took time. Planning. Work. He could have kept me hanging on for years. That would have suited him just fine.”

  “So you let us look after you while you used us to bring him around.”

  “I paid my way!” He sounded angry now. “I worked. I don’t owe you people anything.” He made an abrupt gesture with his uninjured arm, driving a burst of gulls yarking into the air. “You don’t know what it’s like,” he repeated in a softer voice. “I spent half my life being poor. My mother—”

  “But Brismand sent you money,” I protested.

  “Money for—” He bit off the end of the phrase. “Not enough,” he finished in a flat voice. “Not nearly enough.” He met my look of contempt with defiance.

  Silence, like clouds.

  “So.” I made my voice expressionless. “When is it going to happen? How soon are your people going to dismantle the Bouch’ou?”

  That caught him unawares. “Who told you that was going to happen?”

  I shrugged. “It’s the obvious thing to do. Everyone owes Brismand money. Everyone’s counting on a healthy profit this season. Plenty of money to pay him back. But without the reef, people are forced to sell out at rock-bottom prices to pay their debts; a year later Brismand moves in. Then all he has to do is wait for the tides to reassert themselves, and start building his new ferry port. Am I close?”

  “Close enough,” he admitted.

  “You bastard,” I said. “Was it your idea or his?”

  “Mine. Well, yours, actually.” He shrugged. “If you can steal a beach, then why not a village? Why not a whole island? Brismand owns half of it already. He virtually runs the rest. He’s already making me a partner. And now—” He saw my expression and frowned. “Don’t look at me like that, Mado,” he said. “It’s not as bad as you think. There’s a choice, for anyone who wants to take it.”

  “What choice is there?”

  Flynn turned to face me, his eyes gleaming. “Ah, Mado, do you really think we’re monsters?” he said. “He needs workers,” he continued. “Think what a ferry port might mean to the island. Jobs. Money. Life. There’ll be jobs for everyone in Les Salants. Better than anything they have now.”

  “For a price, I suppose.” We both knew Brismand’s terms.

  “So?” At last I thought I could hear defensiveness in his voice. “What’s the problem there? Everyone at work—good money, good trade. Everything’s disorganized here, everyone pulling in different directions. There’s land here not being used because no one has the enterprise or the financing to use it. Brismand could change all that. You all know it; only pride and stubbornness keep you from admitting it.”

  I stared at him. I couldn’t help it; he sounded as if he really believed in what he was saying. For a second he almost convinced me. And it was appealing—order out of chaos. It’s a cheap trick, that casual charm, like the brief gleam of sunlight on water that catches the eye—just for an instant, but long enough to distract, sometimes fatally—from the rocks ahead.

  “What about the old people?” I’d spotted the flaw in his reasoning. “What about those who can’t contribute—or who won’t?”

  He shrugged. “There’s always Les Immortelles.”

  “They won’t accept it. They’re Salannais. I know they won’t.”

  “Do you think they’ll have the choice?” Flynn saw my expression and smiled. “We’ll find out soon enough, anyway,” he told me gently. “There’s going to be a meeting at Angélo’s tonight.”

  “Better do it soon, while the coastal inspectors are still here.”

  He gave me an appreciative glance. “Oh, you saw the ship, then.”

  “You’re hardly going to take out the Bouch’ou without it,” I said scornfully. “But as you once said to me, it’s an illegal construct. It’s unplanned. It’s done damage. All you have to do is drop a word in the right ear, sit back and let the bureaucrats do your work for you.” I had to admit that it was elegant. Salannais are fearful of bureaucrats, overawed by authority. A clipboard succeeds where dynamite would fail.

  “We hadn’t planned on acting straightaway, but we would have had to find a reason to call them in eventually,” Flynn told me. “Jellyfish warnings seemed like a good enough excuse. I only wish I hadn’t been the victim.” He winced and indicated his bandaged arm.

  “Will you be at this meeting tonight?” I asked, ignoring this.

  Flynn smiled. “I don’t think so. I might go back to the mainland; run my side of the business from there. I don’t think my presence will go down too well in Les Salants when Brismand tells them who I am.”

  For a moment I was sure he was about to ask me to come with him. My heart flip-flopped like a dying fish; but Flynn had already turned away. I was conscious of a dim feeling of relief that he hadn’t asked; at least he’d ended it cleanly, without any further pretense.

  The silence was between us like an ocean. Far across the flats I could hear the hishh of the waves. I was amazed that I felt so little; I was as hollow as a piece of dried driftwood, light as foam. The hazy clouds made a bright band across the sun. Squinting into that deceptive light I thought I saw a boat, far out on La Jetée; I thought of Eleanore 2 and looked closer, but already there was nothing to see.

  “It’s going to be all right, you know,” said Flynn. His voice jolted me back into myself. “There’ll always be work for you. Brismand’s talking about setting up a gallery for you in La Houssinière, or even on the mainland. I’ll make sure he finds you a nice house. You’ll be better off than you ever were in Les Salants.”

  “What do you care?” I spat. “You’re all right, aren’t you?”

  He looked at me then, and his face closed. “Yes,” he said at last in a hard, bright voice. “I’m fine.”

  8

  * * *

  I turned up late at the meeting. At nine o’ clock it was all over but the shouting, of which there had already been plenty. I could hear raised voices and the sounds of stamping and table slamming from as far as the Rue de l’Atlantique. When I looked through the window I could see Brismand standing at the bar with a devinnoise in his hand, looking like an indulgent schoolteacher with a group of turbulent pupils.

  Flynn wasn’t there. I hadn’t expected him to be—his presence would no doubt have turned an already chaotic gathering into a riot or a massacre—but I was aware of a strange pang at his absence. I shook it away, angry at myself.

  There were a few other faces I didn’t see; the Guénolés and the Prossages were missing—probably still searching the island for Damien—as well as Xavier, GrosJean. Otherwise, most of Les Salants seemed to be present, even the wives and the children. People were standing cramped against one another; the door was wedged open to make more room; tables wobbled against a tide of legs; the bar was six deep. No wonder Angélo looked dazed; this evening’s takings would surely be a record.

  Outside, the tide was almost high; a squally scribble of purple cloud obscured the horizon. The wind had
changed slightly too; veering south as it often does before a storm. There was a chill in the air.

  Even so, I lingered at the window, trying to make out individual voices, reluctant to go in. I could see Aristide close by with Désirée holding his hand; beside them I noticed Philippe Bastonnet and his family—even Laetitia and the dog Pétrole. Though I did not see Aristide actually speak to Philippe, I thought there was something less aggressive in his posture, a kind of slackening, as if a vital support had been removed. Since the news about Mercédès, much of the old man’s assurance had gone, and he looked bewildered and pitiful beneath his gruffness.

  Suddenly I heard a sound at the creek behind me. I turned and saw Xavier Bastonnet and Ghislain Guénolé coming down the dune together at top speed, their faces set. They did not see me but made at once for the étier, now swollen with high-tide seawater, where the Cécilia was moored.

  “You’re surely not taking her out tonight?” I called, seeing Xavier beginning to take in the moorings. Ghislain joined him, looking grim. “There’s been a boat seen off La Jetée,” he told me shortly. “Can’t be sure with this mist till we go out there.”

  “Don’t tell my grandfather,” said Xavier, struggling with the Cécilia’s engine. “He’d go mad if he thought I was going out there with Ghislain on a night like this. He’s always saying it was a Guénolé’s recklessness that killed my father. But if Damien’s out there and can’t get back—”

  “What about Alain?” I asked. “Shouldn’t there be someone else with you, at least?”

  Ghislain shrugged. “Gone to La Houssinière with Matthias. Time’s short. And if we can get the Cécilia out there before the wind rises too far—”

  I nodded. “Good luck, then. Be careful.”

  Xavier gave me a shy smile. “Maybe someone could give the message that we’re on the way to Alain and Matthias in La Houssinière.”

  The little engine growled and came to life. While Ghislain held the Cécilia’s boom, Xavier steered the little boat between the wood-shored banks and carefully out toward La Goulue and the open sea.