Coastliners - A Novel Part 21

I hoped so. I'd always liked Damien in spite of his reserve. He reminded me a little of myself at his age-suspicious, resentful, brooding. And at fifteen, a first love is summer lightning; white-hot, fierce, and quickly over.

Mercedes, too, was causing concern. Since her engagement had been announced, she had become more temperamental than ever; spending hours in her room; refusing to eat; in turns cajoling and berating her hapless betrothed so that Xavier no longer knew what to do to please her.

Aristide put it down to nerves. But it was more than that; I thought the girl looked ill as well as nervous, smoking too much and ready to snap or cry at the most trivial thing. Toinette revealed that Mercedes and Charlotte had quarreled over a wedding dress and were now no longer speaking to each other.

"It belongs to Desiree Bastonnet," explained Toinette. "An old lace dress, nip-waisted, very fine. Xavier wanted Mercedes to wear it." Desiree had kept the dress, lovingly stored away in lavender-scented sheets, since her own wedding. Xavier's mother had worn it too, the day she married Olivier. But Mercedes had refused outright to wear it, and when Charlotte timidly persisted, had thrown an epic tantrum.

Malicious rumors that Mercedes had only refused the dress because she was too fat to get into it did nothing to restore peace to the Prossage household.

During that time, Flynn and I had settled into a kind of routine. We did not speak of the change that had occurred between us, as if to admit its existence might somehow compromise us more deeply than either of us wanted. As a result there was a deceptively carefree quality to our intimacy, like that of a holiday romance. We existed within a webwork of invisible lines that neither of us dared cross. We talked, we made love, we swam together at La Goulue, we went fishing, we grilled our catches over the little barbecue that Flynn had built in a hollow behind the dune. We respected the boundaries we had set ourselves. Sometimes I wondered whether it was my cowardice that had set these limits, or his. But Flynn no longer spoke of leaving.

No one had heard any more rumors about Claude Brismand. He had been seen a few times, with Pinoz and Jojo-le-Goeland, once on La Goulue and once in the village. Capucine said they had been hanging around near her trailer, and Alain saw them outside the blockhaus blockhaus. But as far as anyone could tell, Brismand was still too busy damp-proofing Les Immortelles to be planning anything new. Certainly there had been no mention of a new ferry, and most people were inclined to believe that the Brismand 2 Brismand 2 thing had been someone's-maybe Ghislain's-idea of a joke. thing had been someone's-maybe Ghislain's-idea of a joke.

"Brismand knows he's lost the game," said Aristide gleefully. "High time those Houssins got a taste of the underdog for a change. Their luck's turned, and they know it."

Toinette nodded. "We've got the Saint our side."

Her optimism was premature. Only a few days later I came back from the village with some mackerel for GrosJean's lunch and found Brismand sitting under the parasol in the yard, waiting for me. He was still wearing his fisherman's cap but had chosen to dignify the occasion by wearing a linen jacket and a tie. His feet, as usual, were bare in faded espadrilles. There was a Gitane crooked between his fingers.

My father was sitting opposite him, a bottle of Muscadet close at hand. There were three gla.s.ses waiting.

"Why, Mado." Brismand raised himself with difficulty from his chair. "I hoped you'd be along soon."

"What are you doing here?" Surprise made me abrupt, and he looked pained.

"I came to see you, of course." Behind the rueful expression, something like amus.e.m.e.nt. "I like to keep abreast of what's going on."

"So I've heard."

He poured himself another gla.s.s of wine, then another for me. "You Salannais have had rather an unusual run of luck, haven't you? You must be pleased with yourself."

I kept my tone neutral. "We manage."

Brismand grinned, his gangster's mustache bristling. "I could use someone like you at the hotel. Someone young and energetic. You should think about it."

"Someone like me? What could I do?"

"You'd be surprised." His tone was encouraging. "An artist-a designer-could be very useful to me right now. We could sort something out. I think you'd find it profitable."

"I'm happy as I am."

"Maybe so. But circ.u.mstances change, heh? You might welcome a little independence. Safeguard the future." He grinned widely and pushed the gla.s.s toward me. "Here. Have some wine."

"No thanks." I indicated my packet of fish. "I need to get these in the oven. It's getting late."

"Mackerel, heh?" said Brismand, getting up. "I know a wonderful way of doing them, with rosemary and salt. I'll help you, and we can talk some more."

He followed me into the kitchen. He was more deft than his bulk suggested, slitting and gutting the fish in a single swift movement.

"How's business?" I asked, lighting the oven.

"Not bad," said Brismand, smiling. "In fact, your father and I were just celebrating."

"Celebrating what?"

Brismand gave his enormous smile. "A sale."

They'd used the boys, of course. I knew my father would do anything to keep the boys close by. Marin and Adrienne had played on his fondness; spoken of investments; encouraged GrosJean to borrow beyond his capacity to repay. I wondered how much of the land he had already signed away.

Patiently Brismand waited for me to speak. I could feel his huge and chilly amus.e.m.e.nt as he waited, his slate-colored eyes intent as a cat's. Presently, without asking me, he began to prepare the marinade for the fish, with oil, balsamic and salt, and shoots of rosemary from the bushes beside the front door.

"Madeleine. We should be friends, you know." His look would be mournful, I knew-drooping jowls and sad mustache-but there was laughter in his voice. "We're really not so different. Both fighters. Both businesspeople. You shouldn't be so prejudiced about joining me. I'm sure you'd be a success. And I sincerely do want to help, you know. I always have."

I did not look at him as I salted the fish and wrapped them in foil papillotes, then slid them into the hot oven.

"You forgot the marinade."

"That's not the way I do it, Monsieur Brismand."

He sighed. "A pity. You would have enjoyed it."

"How much?" I said at last. "How much did he give it to you for?"

Brismand tutted. "Give it to me?" he said reproachfully. "No one has given me anything. Why should they?" it to me?" he said reproachfully. "No one has given me anything. Why should they?"

The legal papers had been drawn up on the mainland. My father was slightly in awe of the arcane business of seals and signatures. Legal terminology bewildered him. Though Brismand was vague with the details, I gathered he had accepted to take land as collateral on a loan. As usual. This was simply a variation on his old technique: short-term loans to be paid off in property at a later date.

After all, as Adrienne would have said, the land was useless to my father. A few kilometers of dune between La Bouche and La Goulu, a derelict boatyard; useless, at least, until now.

All my worst suspicions had been confirmed. The repairs to the house, the presents for the boys, the new bicycles, the computer games, the sailboards- "You paid for all that. You lent him the money."

Brismand shrugged. "Of course. Who else?" He dressed a green salad with vinaigrette and salicorne salicorne, the fleshy island herb often used in pickles, and put it into the wooden bowl as I began to slice tomatoes. "We should have shallots with these," he observed in the same mild tone. "They bring out the flavor of a ripe tomato like nothing else. Tell me, where do you keep them?"

I ignored him.

"Ah, here they are, in the vegetable bin. Lovely fat ones too. I can see Omer must be doing good business down at the farm. It's been a golden year all around for Les Salants, hasn't it? Fish, vegetables, tourists-"

"We've done all right."

"So modest. Heh. It's almost a miracle."

He sliced shallots with a swift, practiced hand. The scent was pungent, like the sea. "And all thanks to that nice beach you've stolen. You and your clever friend, Rouget."

I put down the knife gently on the tabletop. My hand was shaking a little.

"Careful. You don't want to cut yourself."

"I don't know what you mean."

"I mean you should be more careful with that knife, Mado." He chuckled. "Or are you you trying to tell me you don't know anything about the beach?" trying to tell me you don't know anything about the beach?"

"Beaches move. Sand moves."

"Yes, it does, and sometimes it even moves of its own accord. But not this time, heh?" He held out his hands, still b.l.o.o.d.y from the fish, in a wide gesture. "Oh, don't think I bear you any grudge. I'm full of admiration for what you've done. You've brought Les Salants out of the sea again. You've made it a success. All I'm doing is standing up for my own interests, Mado, making sure I get to enjoy my share. Call it compensation, if you like. You owe me that."

"You're the one who started the flooding in the first place," I told him angrily. "No one owes you anything."

"Oh, but they do." Brismand shook his head. "Where did you think the money was coming from, heh? The money for Angelo's cafe, Omer's windmill, Xavier's house? Who do you think provided the capital? Who laid the foundations for all this?" He gestured toward the window, sweeping La Goulue, the village, the sky, the sparkling sea into his grimy palm.

"Maybe you did," I said. "But that's over now. We're holding our own. Les Salants doesn't need your money anymore."

"Shh." With exaggerated concentration Brismand poured marinade over the tomatoes. It was tempting and aromatic. I could smell how it would be on the hot fish, how the rosemary vinegar would evaporate, the olive oil sizzle. "You'd be surprised at how things alter when there's money to be made," he said. "Why be content with a couple of tourists in a back room when, with a little capital, you could convert a garage into a holiday flat, or build a row of chalets on some waste ground? You've had a taste of success, Mado. Do you really think people will be so easily satisfied?"

I thought about it in silence for a while. "You may be right," I said at last. "But I still don't see what you're going to get out of it. You can't build much on my father's bit of land."

"Madeleine." Brismand's shoulders slouched expressively, reproach etched into every line of his body. "Why must there always be an ulterior motive? Why not simply accept that I want to invest in Les Salants?" He spread his hands in appeal. "There's been so little trust between our two communities. So much antagonism. Even you have been drawn into it. What have I ever done to earn your suspicion? I advance money to your father in exchange for land he doesn't need-suspicion. I offer you a job at Les Immortelles-more suspicion. I try to mend the bridges between our communities for the sake of my family-greatest suspicion of all. Heh!" He threw up his arms dramatically. "Tell me. What do you suspect me of now?"

I did not reply. His charm, fully unfurled, was palpable and immense. Even so, I still knew I was right to mistrust him. He had some plan-I thought of the Brismand 2 Brismand 2, half-completed six months before, now ready to launch, and I wondered once again what it might be. Brismand sighed heavily and tugged at his collar to loosen it.

"I'm an old man, Mado. And a lonely one. I had a wife. A little son. Both sacrificed to my ambition. I admit that once I valued money over everything else. But money gets old. It loses its shine. Now I want the things money can't buy. A family. Friends. Peace."

"Peace!"

"I am sixty-four years old, Madeleine. I sleep badly. I drink rather too well. The machine begins to run down. I ask myself whether it was worthwhile, whether the making of money has made me happy. I ask myself these things more and more often." He glanced at the oven. The timer was on zero. "Madeleine, I think your fish are cooked."

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 appet.i.te-" He patted his stomach ruefully. "My appet.i.te 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 pa.s.sed by the blockhaus 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 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 etier etier had gone. 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. Angelo too seemed unworried. But Aristide looked concerned. "Accidents happen," he told us dourly. "Remember Olivier-"

"Heh," said Alain. "Olivier always was unlucky."

Angelo 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 Houssiniere, where the Brismand 1 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. 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.

"Mercedes?"

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 Brismand 1.

I looked at her, concerned. "Mercedes? 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. Mercedes 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-"

Mercedes gave a furious sob under her hair. "I don't don't want to go!" want to go!"

I picked up her bag. "Then come with me."

"Not the Chat Noir-" said Mercedes quickly, as I turned toward the cafe. "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. Mercedes 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.

Mercedes 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 naivete, appearing by turns much older, and at the same time much younger, than her years. I imagine this was what attracted Joel Lacroix to her in the first place, that flirtatious show of confidence. But in spite of her short skirts and s.e.xual bravado, she remained an island girl at heart, touchingly, alarmingly ignorant.