Boats of all shapes and sizes churned along the choppy sea. He walked to the end of the rickety pier and looked back at the beach and then out to sea. He had forgotten how beautiful the island was. He breathed in great, wolfish gulps of sea air.
He watched his sister come out of the water and shake her hair dry, like a dog. Despite her small size, she had long legs. Like Clarisse. From afar, she seemed much taller than she actually was. She came up to the pier shivering, her sweatshirt tied around her.
“That was fabulous,” she said, putting an arm across his shoulders.
“Do you remember that old gardener at the hotel? Père Benoît?”
“No, I don’t . . .”
“An old fellow with a white beard. He used to tell us horrible stories about people drowning on the Gois.”
“Oh! Awful breath, right? A mixture of Camembert and cheap red wine. And Gitanes.”
“That’s him.” Antoine chuckled. “He once took me here, to this pier, and he told me all about the Saint Philibert disaster.”
“What happened to poor Saint Phili? Isn’t he the Noirmoutrin monk the church here is named after?”
“He’s been dead since the seventh century, Mel.” Antoine smiled. “No, this is a more recent story. I loved it. It was so Gothic.”
“So what happened?”
“A ship named after the monk. It went down in 1931, I think, just over there.” Antoine pointed ahead to Bourgneuf Bay. “It was quite a tragedy. A mini Titanic. I believe the boat was heading back to Saint-Nazaire. Her passengers had just enjoyed a picnic here on the Plage des Dames. Nice weather and everything. And then, when she had barely left this very pier, a storm blew up, a huge one. A wave knocked the ship over. About five hundred people drowned. A lot of women and kids. Hardly any survivors.”
Mélanie gasped. “How could that old man tell you things like that? How perverse of him! You were only a little boy.”
“No, it wasn’t perverse. It was magnificently romantic. I remember being heartbroken. He said the graveyard in Nantes was full of bodies from the Saint Philibert tragedy. He said he would take me there one day.”
“Thank God he didn’t and that he’s pushing up daisies now.”
They laughed and continued looking out to sea.
“You know, I thought I wouldn’t remember a thing,” she murmured. “All this is making me feel so emotional. I hope I don’t break down and cry.”
He pressed her arm. “I feel like that too. Don’t worry.”
“What a pair of soppy dummies!”
They laughed again, walking back to the beach where Mélanie had left her jeans and sandals in a little pile on the sand. They sat down.
“I’m going to have a cigarette,” said Antoine, “whether you like it or not.”
“Your lungs, not mine. Smoke away from me.”
He turned his back to her. She leaned against him. They had to shout against the wind.
“So many things are coming back . . . About her.”
“About Clarisse?”
“Yes,” Mélanie said. “I can see her here. I can see her on this beach. She had an orange bathing suit. A fuzzy material. And she used to chase us into the water. She taught us to swim, you remember that.”
“Yes, I do. We both learned the same summer. Solange kept scoffing that you were far too young to swim at six.”
“She was already that bossy, wasn’t she?”
“Bossy and husbandless, like she is now. Do you ever see her in Paris?”
Mélanie shook her head. “No. I don’t think she sees Father much either, you know. I think they had a falling-out when Grand-père died. Money matters, inheritance stuff. And she doesn’t get on with Régine. She looks after Blanche a lot. Hires the medical team for her, makes sure the apartment is well kept, and all that.”
“She had a soft spot for me in the old days,” said Antoine. “She was always buying me ice cream, taking me for long walks along the beach, holding me by the hand. She even used to come sailing with me, with those boys from the boating club.”
“Robert and Blanche never swam. They would sit up there at that café.”
“They were too old to swim.”
“Antoine!” she scoffed. “This was more than thirty years ago. They were in their sixties.”
He whistled. “You’re right. Younger than Father! They acted so old. Careful about everything. Fussy. Picky.”
“Blanche is still like that,” Mélanie said. “Going to see her has been tough lately.”
“I hardly go anymore,” admitted Antoine. “Last time I went, it was awful. She was in a bad mood, complaining about everything. I didn’t stay long. I couldn’t stand being there. That huge, dark apartment.”
“Never gets the sun,” said Mélanie. “Wrong side of the avenue Henri-Martin. Remember Odette? Shuffling around on those felt slippers to make the floorboards shine. Always telling us to shut up.”
Antoine laughed.
“Her son Gaspard looks so much like her. I’m glad he’s still there, looking after the place. Putting up with those nurses Solange hires. Putting up with Blanche’s temper.”
“Blanche was an affectionate granny with us, wasn’t she?” he said. “Now she’s a tyrant.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Mélanie slowly. “She was sweet to us, but only when we did what we were told. Which is what we did.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we were ideally silent, polite, meek grandchildren. We never had tantrums or fits.”
“Because we were brought up that way,” said Antoine.
“Yes,” said Mélanie, turning to face her brother and plucking the half-smoked cigarette from his fingers, then burying it into the sand, heedless of his protests. “We were brought up that way.”
“What are you getting at?” he asked.
She screwed up her eyes. “How did Clarisse get on with Blanche and Robert? Did she approve of the fact that we had to be meek and polite all the time?”
He scratched the back of his head.
“I don’t remember,” he said flatly.
She looked across at him and smiled.
“You’ll see. You will. If I’m starting to, then you will too.”
Tonight I waited for you on the pier, but you did not come. It grew cold, and after a while I left, thinking maybe it was difficult for you to get away this time. I told them I just needed a quick walk on the beach after dinner, and I wonder if they believed me. She always looks at me like she knows something, although I am sure, perfectly sure, that nobody knows. Nobody knows. How could they know? How could anyone guess anything? When they see me, they see a nice, timid, proper mother with her polite, charming son and daughter. When they see you . . . Ah, but when anyone sees you, they see temptation. How can anyone resist you? How could I have resisted you? You know that, don’t you? You knew that the minute you laid your eyes on me that first day at the beach, last year. You are the devil in disguise.
There was a rainbow earlier on, a lovely one, and now the night is coming fast, gathering darkness and clouds. I miss you.
They had a late lunch at the Café Noir in Noirmoutier-en-l’Île, the largest town on the island. It was a crowded, noisy place, obviously a favorite hangout for the locals. Antoine ordered grilled sardines and a glass of white wine. Mélanie had a plate of bonnottes—the famous little round potatoes of the area—sautéed with bacon, butter, and coarse salt. The weather had grown hot, but a fresh wind kept the heat at bay. The café’s terrace gave onto the small harbor and the thin strip of a murky canal lined with old salt warehouses and jammed with rusty fishing boats and small sailboats.
“We didn’t come here much, did we?” asked Mélanie, her mouth full.
“No,” Antoine said. “Blanche and Robert liked to stick to the hotel. They never got farther than the beach.”
“We didn’t come here with Solange or Clarisse either, right?”
“Solange took us to visit the Noirmoutier château once o
r twice, and the church. Clarisse was supposed to come, but she had one of her migraines.”
“The château is a blank,” said Mélanie. “But I do remember Clarisse’s migraines.”
He watched the nearby table fill up with tanned teenagers. Most of the girls were wearing tiny bikinis. Barely older than his daughter, Margaux. He had never been attracted to women considerably younger than he, but the ones he had met since his divorce, through the Internet or via friends, had amazed him with the unabashed boldness of their sexual behavior. The younger they were, the cruder and more violent they proved to be in bed. At first he had been terrifically aroused. But then, very quickly, the novelty had worn off. Where was the romance? Where was the emotion, the pang, the sharing, the charming awkwardness? These girls flaunted the smooth, knowing moves of porn queens and gave head with such blasé nonchalance it repelled him.
“What are you thinking about?” asked Mélanie, rubbing sunblock on the tip of her nose.
“Are you seeing someone right now?” he asked in return. “I mean, do you have a boyfriend?”
“Nothing serious. What about you?”
He looked across at the group of loud teens again. One girl was rather spectacular. Long, dark blond hair, an Egyptian-like build: large shoulders, narrow hips. A little too skinny, he decided. And a little too full of herself.
“I already told you in the car. No one.”
“Not even one-night stands?”
He sighed, ordered some more wine. Not at all good for his paunch, he thought fleetingly. Too bad.
“I’ve had enough of one-night stands.”
“Yeah, so have I.”
He was surprised. He didn’t think Mélanie would go for that sort of thing.
She snorted. “You see me as some kind of prude, don’t you?”
“Of course not,” he said.
“Yes, you do, I can tell. Well, for your information, dear brother, I’m having an affair with a married man.”
He stared at her.
“And?”
She shrugged. “And I hate it.”
“So why are you having this affair?”
“Because I can’t stand being alone. The empty bed. The lonely nights. That’s why.”
She said it savagely, almost menacingly. They ate and drank in silence for a moment. Then she went on.
“He’s far older than I am, in his sixties. I guess that makes me feel young.” A wry smile. “His wife despises sex. She’s the intellectual type, so he says. He sleeps around. He’s a powerful businessman. Works in finance. He has a lot of money. Buys me presents.” She showed him a heavy gold bracelet. “He’s a sex addict. He throws himself on me and sucks me all over. Like a crazy vampire. In bed, he’s ten times more of a man than Olivier ever was—or any of my recent flings, for that matter.”
The thought of Mélanie cavorting with a lecherous sexagenarian was definitely unappealing. She giggled at the sight of Antoine’s face.
“I guess it’s hard imagining your little sister having sex. Like it’s hard imagining your parents having sex.”
“Or your kids,” he added grimly.
She caught her breath.
“Oh! I hadn’t thought about that. You’re right.”
She didn’t ask him to go into detail, and he felt relieved. He thought of the condoms he had found in his sports bag a couple of months ago. Arno had borrowed that bag for a while. He had handed them back, and Arno had grinned sheepishly. Antoine ended up feeling more embarrassed than his son.
There had been no warning. The cute little boy had sprouted overnight into a tall, thin fuzzy-faced giant who merely grunted when he needed to communicate. Antoine had been expecting this. He had witnessed friends’ sons go through the same brutal transformation. But that didn’t make it any easier when it actually happened. Especially as Arno’s blatant forage into puberty had coincided with Astrid’s betrayal. The most unfortunate timing. This meant that Antoine had to deal with the unavoidable weekend clashes about coming home before midnight, finishing homework, taking at least one shower. Astrid no doubt had to deal with those issues too, but on her end, there was another man in the house. Which probably made her less crabby and impatient than her ex-husband. Antoine felt pulled down and depressed by his isolation. Bearing the brunt of the increasingly numerous stormy situations with Arno alone made him feel even worse. Astrid and he had been a team. They had always done things together. Made decisions together. Faced the enemy together. That was over. Antoine was on his own now. And when Friday night came around and he heard his children’s key in the lock, he had to brace himself, to square his shoulders like a soldier going into battle.
Margaux was at the brink of her full-fledged debut into adolescence. Antoine found hers even harder. He had no idea how to deal with it. She was like a cat—mute, sinuous, and withdrawn. She would spend hours chatting on the computer or riveted to her cell phone. A “bad” text message could bring on tears or total silence. She shied away from her father, avoiding body contact with him. He missed her hugs, her affection. The chatterbox with the lopsided smile and pigtails was gone forever. In her place was a willowy femme-enfant with budding breasts, shiny, pimply skin, and garish eye makeup he longed to wipe away with his fingers. And the fact that Astrid was no longer around made Margaux’s complex budding out even trickier to assess on his own.
Thank you for your sweet note. I know I cannot keep your letters, though I long to, as you cannot keep mine. I cannot believe the summer will soon be over and that you will be leaving again. You seem calm and confident, but I am afraid. Maybe it is because you are wiser than I am. You are not worried. You feel there is hope for us. You think it will work out for you and me. I don’t know. It frightens me. You have taken such a hold over my life this past year. You are like the tide, sweeping relentlessly over the Gois. I surrender time and time again. But fear soon replaces the ecstasy.
She often looks at me curiously, like she knows what is going on, and I feel we must be so careful. But how could she know? How could she guess? Could anyone? I don’t feel guilty, because what I have for you is pure. Don’t smile as you read this, please. Don’t make fun of me. I am thirty-five years old, a mother of two, and with you I feel like a child. You know that. You know what you have started up within me. You have set me alive. Don’t laugh.
You come from a modern country, you are sophisticated and well read, you have a degree, a job, a status. I am only a housewife. I grew up in a sunny village that reeked of lavender and goat cheese. My parents sold fruit and olive oil in the market. When they died, my sister and I worked at the stalls in Le Vigan. I had never taken a train before I met my husband. I was twenty-five years old, and I discovered another world. I had gone to Paris for a little holiday. But I never came back. I met him in a restaurant on the grands boulevards, where I was having a drink with a girlfriend. And that’s how it started, him and me.
I sometimes wonder what you see in me. But more and more I feel you reaching out to me, even in the way you look at me, silently. Your eyes reach out for me.
Tomorrow brings you to me, my love.
After lunch they went swimming in the hotel pool. Antoine was so hot he decided to face Mélanie in a bathing suit. She made no comment about the shape his body was in. He felt thankful. How he hated himself. And to think that when Astrid was still his wife, he weighed at least eight kilos less. He was going to have to do something about it. And something about the smoking.
The pool was a bright artificial blue and full of screaming children. It didn’t exist back in the seventies. Robert and Blanche would have hated it, thought Antoine. They loathed vulgarity, loud people, anything nouveau riche. Their huge, chilly apartment on the quiet avenue Henri-Martin, not far from the Bois de Boulogne, was a haven of elegance, refinement, and silence. Odette, the chinless bonne, hobbled about, opening and shutting doors noiselessly. Even the telephone rang in a muffled way. Meals lasted for hours, and the worst thing, he recalled, was having to be put to bed on
Christmas Eve just after dinner and being woken up at midnight for the presents. He would never forget that groggy, jet-lagged feeling, stumbling back into the living room, bleary-eyed. Why weren’t they allowed to stay up to wait for Père Noël?? Christmas came only once a year.
“I keep thinking about what you said,” Antoine said.
“What?”
“About Clarisse and our grandparents. I think you’re right. I think they gave her a hard time.”
“What do you remember?”
“Nothing much.” He shrugged. “Nothing in particular, but just how uptight they were about everything.”
“Ah, so it’s coming back . . .”
“Something is coming back.”
“Like what?”
He squinted across to her against the sun.
“I remember a fight. During our last summer here.”
Mélanie sat up.
“A fight? No one ever fought. Everything was always smooth, unruffled.”
Antoine sat up too. The pool was teeming with writhing, glistening bodies, stoic parents looking on.
“One night they quarreled. Blanche and Clarisse. In Blanche’s room. I heard them.”
“What did you hear?”
“I heard Clarisse crying.”
Mélanie said nothing.
He went on. “Blanche had a cold, stony voice. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but it sounded like she was very angry. And then Clarisse came out and saw me there. She hugged me and wiped her tears away. She smiled and said she’d had a little argument with Grand-mère. And what was I doing out of bed, she said, and she shooed me back to my room.”
“What do you think it meant?” mused Mélanie.
“I don’t know. I have no idea. Maybe it’s nothing.”
“Do you think they were happy together?”
“She and Father? Yes, they were. I think so. Clarisse made people happy. You remember that, don’t you?”