by John Brooke
Distracted by a classic car, she hadn’t thought of a simple plane. Assistant Inspector Patrice Lebeau had called to say that a very old man travelling under papers for one Michel Nobletz flew to Nantes with a connection to Quimper the very afternoon Manon Larivière was buried. Monsieur Nobletz had checked a good-sized box through freight before boarding. Thanks to Maman’s research, the Nouvelle family now knows Michel Nobletz was the Jesuit missionary who came across to Sein in 1613 to teach the Holy Word and found people still practising the Cult of the Sun... Aliette can see Flossie Orain smiling at the symmetry in the choice of an alias for Marcel Cyr. No one at Quimper airport has any notion where the man and the box were headed. Yes, they remember him; that box reeked terribly, like rotting apples. A man with a truck had met him at the gate.
Doesn’t matter; this must be the place.
Their boatman is called Yvon. Yvon Nicolazic. He steers through a cut and into the harbour, slows, shunts them into a space along the quay between two trawlers.
Disembarking, Anne says, “Yvon knows this Angélique Ménou. He’ll take us to see her.”
“I’ll go alone.” What has she been telling him? To Yvon: “That would be good of you.”
Maman intercedes. “After our lunch.”
Yvon waves this off. “Angélique would be delighted. Come for an aperitif...all of you.” Brash, he takes both sisters by an arm.
“Excellent idea,” gushes Anne.
Maman won’t have it. She tells Anne, “Your father has gone to a lot of trouble preparing our picnic.” Taking her girls back from the presumptuous boatman, she tells him, “We’ll eat first and explore your lovely island later. We will meet you here at four o’clock as stated in our contract.”
“It’s not my island,” says Yvon.
Hamper under one arm, blankets under the other, Papa leads his family away.
Anne is telling Maman, “He’s nice!...you don’t even know him.”
“Neither do you, dear — and that’s the point.”
Anne and Maman clash often, especially where it concerns Anne’s taste in men. Aliette plays both sides, depending. Right now she can see Anne’s: Yvon the boatman has a flinty-eyed beauty that fits the day.
2.
Ondine Duguay’s bleak description of Sein was somewhat out of date; the islanders had since discovered that serving lunch was better business than catching it, and today the crescent-shaped quay is bustling with visitors off two large tourist boats out of Audierne, noisy, perusing menus posted on the colourful facades of a dozen cafés, or gawking and pointing as they wander in and out of the tiny lanes leading to the homes and the rest of the island. The Nouvelles, eschewing the crowd, leave the quay directly. They head past the church and onto the path toward the big light at the northernmost tip.
Once past the village, however, Sein is indeed a flat and barren rock. There are no animals grazing or vegetables growing in the patchy yards bordering the gravel path. Nor is there a single tree to be seen. Anne asks a woman carrying a basket full of seaweed, “Where’s the beach?” The woman gestures behind her with a disdainful shrug for the tourist. There’s no beach, only the embankment, a ribbon of slime-laden shelf...and the bouldery formations, many of them tiny islets in their own right in low tide, forming a protective line along the edge of the sea. The only suitable place for a picnic is the grassy ground surrounding the hut-sized, long abandoned Chapel de St. Corentin. At least there’s a wall to let them get out of the wind. “And we do have a lovely view of the turtle,” comments Maman, folding her coat and sitting on it.
“What turtle?” asks Aliette
“That turtle.” Pointing toward a formation studding the waters below the base of the light.
“Oh yes!” exclaims Anne.
“Isn’t that intriguing?” Papa is unrolling the blankets, commencing to lay his picnic spread.
The inspector squints. “Where?” Feeling left out. She’s supposed to be the leader here.
“Those rocks...just there...” says Anne, making an arrow with her arm.
“A dolmen?”
“A turtle.”
Aliette can’t see it.
For lunch everyone receives a paper plate containing crudités — a selection of broccoli, carrot, celery, green and red pepper — with a dollop of ravigote mayonnaise on the side, and one pain bagnat stuffed with a tuna, basil and tomato spread. This is supplemented with jars of spiced olives, green and black; four cheeses, the pepper grinder and a baguette. They sip a silky Nuits-St-Georges with their sandwiches, a coarse St. Chinian with the cheese. For dessert, a pear goes well with another slice of the creamy-tart St. Agur. A bite from a bar of Zucher dark chocolate and a sip of coffee from the old thermos are optional. It’s another perfect meal and Papa accepts their congratulations with a not-so-humble nod. Aliette expects that now, in time-honoured tradition, he’ll stretch out and fall into his snooze mode.
Not today. Her genteel father gets to his feet, announcing, “I’m off to explore.” And he ambles away, first to inspect Sein’s light.
The women sit, feeling the sun, stomachs full, hearts quiet, harmonious. Aliette is staring empty-headed out to sea when she sees the turtle. She sends a grin in the direction of her mother, who had been first to see it; but any impulse to speak is, for the moment, absent. It’s the wind. She feels its steady whisper wrapping her in a cocoon that might keep her there for an age, leaving her alone, weather-worn, with no style or colour but merely grey, old...forgotten — and yet utterly distinct like that rock creature reposing in the waves. Happy turtle. It appears to Aliette’s dreaming eyes that Anne and Maman are sensing the wind as well, that they too are practising a prayer of solitude, preparing to be timeless: nine virgins...now three Nouvelles.
“Yes, she wants to see you...” The voice cuts through the reverie. Yvon the boatman stands in the wind, ten paces away, lank ends of oily hair snapping against his eyes. He brushes it back...and brushes it back again, posing there.
“She wants to see me?”
“Angélique...she’s waiting to see you. She says come and have a drink.”
“You’ll take me to her?” Standing...
“You can find her,” says Yvon in an offhand way, then he steps over the unmarked line and into their area. He sits on the grass, within knee-patting distance of Maman, smiling at her as if to say, I’m not dangerous.
Maman only stares dumbly, still somewhere else in her post-prandial meditations.
While Anne leaps into action. “We have chocolate and coffee...” opening the hamper, “a pear...and there’s a good glass of wine left if you don’t mind drinking from the bottle.”
Aliette asks, “So?...where?”
“Go straight back to the church but turn right at the blue gate. Keep going past Fernand Crouton then turn left at Paul Goardan. Hers is the white with the green trim.” Yvon turns to Maman. “I have children too,” he informs her. “You can’t really protect them from anything, least of all love.”
Aliette picks up her coat. With a hint of a smile — good luck! — for Anne, she leaves them. Anne will need it. Maman could hold her own.
3.
The door is open. Aliette goes in. “Angélique Ménou?” A nod. “Would you be the mother of Dorise Ménou, now residing in...” It’s difficult to see gaunt Dorise in a face so fleshy, brown and wrinkled. Closing in on ninety, guesses Aliette. And weirdly regal in the intricate cornet of lace which she wears tied under her chin with a bow: ten inches tall with bibs attached to the base, curving out and down to the nape of her neck.
“Oui, c’est moi. Sit down.” Her voice is rich, if a trifle woozy. Resting on a side table at her right hand is a plastic tray with a bottle and two glasses, each containing an ounce or so of a clear liquid. It seems she has started without her guest. A four-foot-tall plaster Virgin stands behind her, doleful eyes averted as if trying not to watch.
“My name is Aliette Nouvelle, Police Judiciaire. I’m — ”
“Drink with me.” Ang
élique lifts her glass and sips the offered spirit.
“Thank you... I’ve just had lunch. I’m interested in the whereabouts of Marcel Cyr.”
But Angélique Ménou is not. She gestures toward the other glass. “Maeve. I make it myself...it will open your eyes to the goddess.”
Maeve... C’est beau Maeve. The inspector holds the glass to her nose and instantly recognizes the fermented grainy vapour tinged with apple; but much stronger than the cloudy stuff from Dorise’s kitchen. “Merci,” replacing it with a gracious smile, “I’ve already had half a bottle of wine — and I’ve seen the turtle! I don’t think I should push my luck... This is the same remedy Dorise makes. Or something else?”
“Maeve is Maeve. She can be a cure...or a host. Drink.” She does so herself and finishes off her glass. “I don’t think my Dorise has ever had a man,” she mutters, licking her lips, gross. “I think she fell in love with that Ondine Duguay... I wonder if she’ll come home to bury me.”
“Of course she will... What happened when Ondine came here?”
“I only met her once. She came to tell me my son was dead. She loved him.”
“I’m sorry. Were they married, Ondine and your son?”
A slow shake of her head. “He never even met her until after...” a thick hand concentrating on the task of pouring herself another shot.
“After what?”
“After he was dead.” Now toasting her visitor in a perfunctory manner. Drinking.
Oh Lord, this is not what I need... “Where is Marcel Cyr?”
“Drink with me!”
“I won’t drink with you, madame. Please stop... Dorise is involved in a murder.” Will that help clear the woman’s mind?
“I think you’re too proud.”
“Did you hear what I said? Your daughter and Ondine Duguay are involved in a murder. I need information. I need — ”
“Are you a horse?” asks Angélique.
“I may as well be,” says Aliette
“Epona...yes,” filmy eyes assessing; “you’re one of hers... Now I see it. I’ll bet my Dorise knew the moment she saw you. Go back to the mainland. You can’t be so proud. Not out here.”
“A woman was killed. Her name was Manon. Dorise says she was her friend. This drink you make is involved. Your goddess...all of them! That makes it worse, no? Why would they kill their friend? Madame Ménou? Why would the goddess allow that? And I know they sent her out here with Marcel Cyr. You must try to tell me what...what...” What could this Angélique Ménou tell her?
“There was no murder,” says Angélique. “She wanted to be with the goddess.”
The inspector tries again. “Someone killed her. The goddess was there.”
“It is what she wanted!” Insisting, almost lucid.
“But Marcel Cyr... How could he be part of it?”
“He made a bargain. He kept his side of it.”
“What kind of bargain?”
“What do you think? They gave him what he wanted — what he lived for.” Angélique imbibes more Maeve and repeats it. “There was no murder. Yes, he brought her here...” And another taste, eyes boring into Aliette’s. “He and Céleste, they took her out and delivered her to Mari Morgan. This was what she wanted.”
“And then?”
The old woman shrugs, her energy spent. “I don’t know. I’m old. I was sleeping. You’ll have to ask Céleste...” Her mouth drops open.
Aliette has seen the same thing in Ondine Duguay. Blank passivity; that posture of inevitability shaped by a past that must — has to! — preclude her from the here-and-now. Aware of the stillness in this room, this house, she asks the wizened lady, “Are you alone?”
“Since my husband sailed into the arms of Mari Morgan fifty years ago. Maybe sixty. Before the war. Do you know how long that is?”
Aliette shakes her head. Too long. She knows it’s futile, but still she asks, “Where is she?”
Out back? The inspector moves through the silent house. She sees a white cow tethered in the walled-in yard. Yes, well... And returns to the shadowy room. An interlude: the woman watching her like some old dog, waiting; while the inspector considers the regal bonnet...it was beautiful work, and the dissolute remains of a life beneath it, a caricature of the horrible witch glorified in the disappearing lore. “Tell me...please try to tell me one thing: was Ondine Duguay a good person?”
“Good? What is this...good?”
“Good. You’re a mother — you would have known.”
“Mmm...” A foggy rumble from far inside, defensive, responding almost in spite of herself. “Yes, she was good... She saw Mari Morgan. What else could she be?”
“I don’t know... It’s why I’m here.”
“From corruption, sweetness,” says Angélique. As if just now remembered. And cueing her to drink again.
“Merci, madame.” Aliette leaves, closing the door behind her.
There’s a girl coming along the lane, about eleven or twelve, still skinny with straw-coloured hair cut off in bangs above her eyebrows. Aliette’s hair had been like that once. The girl passes her without a glance — so many tourist faces in the course of a summer that’s almost done. Aliette turns as she hears the girl knock at the house she has just left. When there’s no answer, the girl knocks again, harder. Aliette can’t help calling — quietly, “Angélique’s not very well today, I’m afraid. I doubt you’ll raise her right now.” The girl only nods: she knows. She takes five more steps, unlatches a gate in a wooden wall and goes in by the back way.
Aliette finds her way out of the labyrinth of lanes and onto the main quay, walks through the sun and crowd to the far end. Heading back along the path to the picnic site, she steps into the cemetery and searches till she finds a stone for François Emile-Marie Ménou, and his dates, and the inscription Disparu en mer. Beside is a stone for Yann Théodore François Ménou, also Disparu en mer. The epitaph is on many of the stones bearing male names: these were sailors of one sort or another and they all had disappeared into the sea — into the arms of Mari Morgan. She stands in front of Yann Ménou and thinks of Ondine Duguay. Crying. Ondine, frustrating as she cries to be unburdened of responsibility. Ondine, who is a good woman, according to the mother of this long-departed sailor. “What else could she be?” Now an inspector has to wonder just what kind of answer she could have possibly expected of old Angélique Ménou.
Deliverance. Eternity. Love. How can one generation know what the next will do with its stories and beliefs? Here in this isolated place, so barren in its present...deeply elaborate in its past, life was as literal as chilled soaking flesh, and, Aliette senses, as veiled as the dreamiest song of the sea. Life was fate. Fate was a woman who lived in the sea: Mari Morgan, who sang the sounds of deliverance, eternity and love into the hearts of ones such as Angélique.
The sea; the heart of Angélique — both these unknowable places. An inspector has to believe Angélique is not malevolent. Just decrepit. From corruption, sweetness? We can only hope. But this drink. This drug? C’est beau Maeve... A cure; a host. Was it, layered in drab medicinal pretexts, a concealed weapon? She wonders if Manon Larivière’s cloudy remedy had been masking a deadly ecstasy. If Colette Namur had been even more powerless than she’d first surmised. If Ondine Duguay had stopped at Sein half a lifetime ago and let a strange woman’s potion induce her into falling in love with a ghost. And had she kept her ghost and brought it home? Why?
The goddess whispers: Because love is love and we need to keep its stories.
And when the story fades — as it surely has in Ondine’s soul; what dark residue remains?
The sea is a mottled sheen of black and silver lit by streams of a westering sun shot through holes in the broadening cover of cloud. Aliette dawdles, watching the waves and stones, lulled again by the one-note song of the wind.
4.
“...you see, the last time I was born under the sign of the oak and I despaired of ever moving on. Then the war came and I went to join it and bam
! less than an hour after the shooting began I was dead. One shot and gone — blown apart, and ready to be remade at last. Mother Nature would not let me move on. She had boxed me in. I was freed by a war, by something I had never believed in at all and that’s the wonder of it. A paradox bumped me closer to the edge of the wheel. It’s frightening when you think about it. A man could look at paradox and easily forget about believing in anything. And then his children...and the next generation after that. What kind of world would it be?” Yvon bites into the chocolate and chomps down on a last mouthful of pear as Anne and Maman consider this large question. Tossing away the core, he tells them, “Now my birthday’s in September and the apple is my tree, and — ”
“ — and the apple means immortality,” says Aliette, stepping forward, taking a place on the blanket beside her mother and sister. Her own birthday (thirty-six on the 27th) was just last week.
“Yes,” without breaking stride, like a schoolmaster acknowledging a latecomer; “...and now my work is on the sea, where there are no trees at all. Just Mari Morgan, waiting for me.”
“Oh...?” Maman sucks on her lips, perplexed.
“But that doesn’t mean I don’t need another good woman,” says Yvon, with a smile for Anne, “to take me through to that last day. More children, too.”
Anne doesn’t say a word. How could she?
Aliette asks, “You’ve been enjoying yourselves?”
“I suppose we have,” says Maman.
“What’s the difference,” asks Anne, tentative, “between being remade and...and dying?”
“No one dies,” says Yvon. A statement of fact.
“Then between being remade and not moving on?”
“It’s something in your heart.”
“Oh.”
Yvon checks his watch and rises. “I’ll tell you about it on the way back.” That’s a promise. To Aliette he says, “Your mother tells me you work with the police.”
“She shouldn’t have.”
“Why?”