Coastliners - A Novel Part 4

"To make a fortune? Is that what you're after?"

"Of course. Isn't everyone?" He gave me a mischievous smile.

There was silence. We walked together, he soundlessly, I making small crunching sounds with my boots on the pieces of sh.e.l.l that littered the dune.

"Don't you ever miss your your home?" I said at last. home?" I said at last.

"G.o.d, no!" He made a face. "Why should I? There was nothing there."

"What about your parents?"

He shrugged. "My mother worked hard," he said. "My father wasn't there. And my brother-"

"Your brother?"

"Yeah. John." He seemed disinclined to pursue the subject, which made me all the more curious. "Didn't you get on?" I asked.

"Let's just say we were-different." He grinned. "Families. Who needs them, heh?"

I wondered if that was what GrosJean thought; if that was why he'd cut me out of his life. "I can't just leave him," I said quietly.

"Of course you can. It's obvious he doesn't want-"

"What does it matter what he wants? You've seen the boatyard, haven't you? You've seen the house? Where's the money coming from? And what happens to him when it runs out?"

There's no bank in Les Salants. A bank A bank, says the island maxim, lends you an umbrella when it's sunny, then takes it back when it starts to rain lends you an umbrella when it's sunny, then takes it back when it starts to rain. Instead, fortunes are h.o.a.rded in shoe boxes and under kitchen sinks. Loans are, for the most part, made through private agreement. I couldn't imagine GrosJean borrowing money; neither could I imagine a fortune hidden under the floor.

"He'll manage," said Flynn. "He's got friends here. They'll look after him."

I tried to see Omer La Patate looking after my father, or Matthias, or Aristide. Instead I saw GrosJean's face the day we left home; that look of blankness, which could equally well have been despair or indifference or something else altogether; the almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment as he turned away. Boats to be built. No time for good-byes. Calling from the taxi window; I'll write. I promise I'll write. I promise. Mother, struggling with our cases, her face crumpled under the burden of unspoken words.

We were nearing the house. I could see its red tiled roof above the dunes. A thin filament of smoke came from the chimney. Flynn walked alongside me, head bent, not talking, his expression hidden behind the fall of his hair.

Then, suddenly, he stopped. There was someone in the house; someone standing at the kitchen window. I could not see his features, but his bulk was unmistakable; a big, bearlike figure with his face pressed against the gla.s.s.

"GrosJean?" I whispered.

He shook his head, his eyes wary. "Brismand."

9.

He hadn't changed. He was older. Grayer. Broader around the waist but still wearing the espadrilles and fisherman's cap I remembered as a child, his thick fingers heavy with rings, his s.h.i.+rt stained with sweat under the armpits, although the day was cool. He was standing at the window as I came in, a steaming mug in one hand. A strong scent of Armagnac coffee filled the room.

"Ah, it's little Mado." His voice carried. It had a rich, rolling tone; his smile was frank and infectious. His mustache, though gray, now looked more bombastic than ever; that of a vaudeville comedian or a Communist dictator. He took three rapid steps forward and put his thickly freckled arms around me. "Mado, it's good, good good to see you again!" His embrace, like everything else about him, was ma.s.sive. "I made coffee. I hope you don't mind. And we're family, aren't we?" I nodded, halfstifled in his arms. "How is Adrienne? And the children? My nephew doesn't write as often as he should." to see you again!" His embrace, like everything else about him, was ma.s.sive. "I made coffee. I hope you don't mind. And we're family, aren't we?" I nodded, halfstifled in his arms. "How is Adrienne? And the children? My nephew doesn't write as often as he should."

"Neither does my sister."

He laughed at that, a sound as rich as the coffee. "Youngsters, heh! But you-you! Let me see you. You've grown! You make me feel a hundred years old-but it's worth it to see your face, Mado. Your lovely face." Let me see you. You've grown! You make me feel a hundred years old-but it's worth it to see your face, Mado. Your lovely face."

I'd almost forgotten that-his charm. It has a way of taking you by surprise, of leaving you without defenses. I could see the intelligence too behind the flamboyant exterior; his eyes were knowing, slaty, almost black. Yes, I'd liked him as a child. I still did.

"Still flooded in the village, is it? Bad business." He sighed hugely. "You must find it very different now. But it isn't for everyone, is it? Island life? Young people want more gaiety than the poor old island can give them."

I was conscious of Flynn, still standing just outside the door with his lobster pots. He looked reluctant to come in, though at the same time I sensed his curiosity, and his unwillingness to leave me alone with Brismand.

"Come inside," I told him. "Have some coffee."

Flynn shook his head. "I'll see you later."

Brismand barely glanced at Flynn as he left, then turned to me again, slinging an arm companionably over my shoulders. "I want to know all about you."

"Monsieur Brismand-"

"Claude, Mado, please." His enormous friendliness was slightly overwhelming, like that of a giant Santa Claus. "But why didn't you tell me you were coming? I'd almost given up hope-"

"I couldn't come before. My mother was ill."

"I know." He poured me a shot of coffee. "I'm sorry. And now this business with GrosJean-" He settled into a chair that creaked under his weight and patted the place next to him. "I'm glad you came, little Mado," he said simply. "I'm glad you trusted me."

The first years after leaving Le Devin were the hardest. It was lucky we were strong. But my mother's romantic nature had hardened to a tense, fearful practicality, which served us well. Unfit for any skilled job, she made a small income as a cleaner. Even so, we were poor.

GrosJean sent no money. Mother accepted this with bitter satisfaction, feeling vindicated. At school, a big Paris lycee, my shabby clothes made me even more of an outsider.

But Brismand had helped us in his way. We were family now, after all, even if we did not share his name. He sent no money, but there were parcels of clothes and books at Christmas, and boxes of paints for me when he discovered my interest. At school I had found refuge in the art department, which reminded me a little of my father's workshop with its small, busy sounds and its scent of fresh sawdust. I began to look forward to the lessons. I had a talent for the subject. I drew pictures of beaches and fis.h.i.+ng boats and low-roofed whitewashed houses with brooding skies overhead. Of course, my mother hated them. Later, they became our main source of income, but she disliked the subject matter no less. She suspected, though she never said, that it was my way of breaking our agreement.

Throughout my college years Brismand continued to write. Not to my mother-she had embraced Paris in all its glitz and tawdriness and had no desire to be reminded of Le Devin-but to me. They were not long letters, but they were all I had, and I devoured every sc.r.a.p of information. I concluded that his reputation in Les Salants was undeserved; the product of small-mindedness, prejudice, and jealousy. No one else had kept in touch with us; only he had shown any support. Sometimes I found myself wis.h.i.+ng that he, not GrosJean, could have been my father.

Then, twelve months ago, came the first hint that all was not well in Les Salants. A pa.s.sing reference to begin with-he had not seen GrosJean for some time-then more. My father's eccentricity, always present even during my childhood, was becoming more p.r.o.nounced. There were rumors that he had been very ill, although he had refused to see the doctor. Brismand was concerned.

I did not reply to these letters. My mother was already taking up all of my attention. Her emphysema-made worse by the city pollution-had taken a downturn, and the doctor had tried to persuade her to move. Somewhere by the sea, he suggested, where the air would be healthier. But Mother refused to listen. She adored Paris. She loved the shops, the cinemas, the cafes. She was peculiarly unenvious of the rich women whose apartments she cleaned, taking vicarious pleasure in their clothes, their furniture, their lives. I sensed that was what she wanted for me.

Brismand's letters continued to arrive. He was still concerned. He had written to Adrienne, but received no reply. I understood that; I'd phoned when Mother had gone into the hospital, only to be told by Marin that Adrienne was pregnant again and couldn't possibly travel. Mother had died four days later, and a tearful Adrienne had told me on the phone that her doctor had forbidden her to exert herself.

I took my time over the coffee. Brismand waited patiently, his big arm around my shoulder. "I know, Mado. It's been hard for you."

I wiped my eyes. "I should have expected it."

"You should have come to me." He looked around; I saw him taking in the dirty floor, the stacked plates, the unopened letters, the neglect.

"I wanted to see for myself."

"I understand." Brismand nodded. "He's your father. Family is everything."

He stood up, suddenly seeming to fill the room, and dug his hands into his pockets. "I had a son, you know. My wife took him away when he was three months old. For thirty years I waited, hoping-knowing-one day he'd come home."

I nodded. I'd heard the story. In Les Salants, of course, people a.s.sumed Brismand was to blame.

He shook his head, looking suddenly old, the theatrics put aside. "Foolish, isn't it? The way we delude ourselves. The barbs we leave in each other." He looked at me. "GrosJean loves you, Mado. In his way, he does."

I thought of my birthday photograph, and the way my father's arm had rested on Adrienne's shoulder. Gently, Brismand took my hand. "I could help you take care of your father," he said.

"I know."

"I could make arrangements. It's a nice place, Mado. Les Immortelles. Hospital facilities; a mainland doctor; big rooms; and he could see his friends anytime he liked."

I hesitated. Soeur Therese and Soeur Extase had already told me about Brismand's long-term residential care plan. It sounded expensive.

He shook his head dismissively. "I'd handle that. The sale of the land would cover all his expenses. Maybe more. I understand how you feel, Mado. But it might be for the best."

I promised to think about it. It was an idea at which Brismand had hinted before in his letters, although never so openly as this. It seemed a good offer; unlike Mother, GrosJean had never believed in medical insurance, and I could not afford to pay for his care on my small income. He needed help, that was certain. And I had a life in Paris to which I could-to which I should should-return. For ten years I had idealized Les Salants, making an exile of myself for the sake of a place that no longer existed-if ever it had done so-except in memory. But whatever my dreams had once been, the reality was too bleak for me to retain them now. I didn't belong there anymore. Too many things had changed.

10.

As I was leaving the house I met Alain Guenole and his son Ghislain, coming the other way from the village. Both were out of breath. They looked very alike, but though his father wore the traditional sailcloth vareuse vareuse, Ghislain was wearing a toxic yellow T-s.h.i.+rt that glowed like neon against his brown skin. On seeing me, he grinned and began to run choppily up the big dune.

"Madame GrosJean," he gasped, pausing to catch his breath. "We need to borrow the tractor trailer from the boatyard. It's urgent."

For a moment I was sure he hadn't recognized me. This was Ghislain Guenole, who was two years older than I was; with whom I'd played as a child. Had he really called me Madame GrosJean? Madame GrosJean?

Alain nodded to me in greeting. He too was anxious, but it was clear that he considered no business urgent enough to make him run. "It's the Eleanore Eleanore," he called over the dune. "We spotted her out at La Houssiniere, just off Les Immortelles. We're going out there to bring her in, but we need your father's trailer. Is he home?"

I shook my head. "I don't know where he is."

Ghislain looked concerned. "It can't wait," he said. "We'll have to take it now. Perhaps you you-if you tell him what it was for-"

"Of course you can take it," I said. "I'll come with you."

At this Alain, who had caught up, looked doubtful. "I don't think-"

"My father built that boat," I said firmly. "Years ago, before I was born. He'd never forgive me if I didn't help. You know how fond he is of her."

GrosJean was more than fond of her; I remembered that much. Eleanore Eleanore had been the first of his "ladies," not the most beautiful of his creations, but maybe the most dear. The thought that she might now be lost filled me with dismay. had been the first of his "ladies," not the most beautiful of his creations, but maybe the most dear. The thought that she might now be lost filled me with dismay.

Alain shrugged. The boat was his livelihood. There was no place for sentiment when money was at stake. As Ghislain ran for the tractor I was conscious of a feeling of relief, as if this crisis were some kind of a reprieve.

"Are you sure you want to bother?" said Alain as his son fastened the trailer onto the old machine. "It's not exactly entertainment."

I was stung at his casual a.s.sumption. "I want to help," I said.

The Eleanore Eleanore had bottomed on some rocks about five hundred meters out of La Houssiniere. She had become wedged in place by the rising tide, and though the sea was still quite low, the wind was brisk, crunching the damaged hull farther against the rock at every wave. A small group of Salannais-including Aristide, his grandson, Xavier, Matthias, Capucine, and Lolo-were watching from the sh.o.r.e. I scanned the faces eagerly, but my father was not among them. I saw Flynn though, in his fis.h.i.+ng boots and jersey, carrying his duffel bag over his shoulder. They were soon joined by Lolo's friend Damien; now that I saw him next to Alain and Ghislain I could see he shared the Guenole features. had bottomed on some rocks about five hundred meters out of La Houssiniere. She had become wedged in place by the rising tide, and though the sea was still quite low, the wind was brisk, crunching the damaged hull farther against the rock at every wave. A small group of Salannais-including Aristide, his grandson, Xavier, Matthias, Capucine, and Lolo-were watching from the sh.o.r.e. I scanned the faces eagerly, but my father was not among them. I saw Flynn though, in his fis.h.i.+ng boots and jersey, carrying his duffel bag over his shoulder. They were soon joined by Lolo's friend Damien; now that I saw him next to Alain and Ghislain I could see he shared the Guenole features.

"Stay back, Damien," said Alain, seeing him approach. "I don't want you getting in the way."

Damien shot his father a sullen look and sat down on a rock. When I looked back a few moments later I saw that he had lit a cigarette and was smoking it, his back turned defiantly. Alain, his eyes fixed on the Eleanore, Eleanore, seemed not to notice. seemed not to notice.

I sat down next to the boy. For a time he ignored me. Then, curiosity got the better of him and he turned to face me. "I've heard you were living in Paris," he said in a low voice. "What's it like?"

"Like any other city," I told him. "Big, noisy, crowded."

For a moment he looked downcast. Then, brightening; "European cities, maybe. American cities are different. My brother's got an American s.h.i.+rt. He's wearing it now."

I smiled, averting my eyes from Ghislain's luminous torso.

"They eat nothing but hamburgers in America," said Alain, who had been listening, "and all the girls are fat."

The boy looked indignant. "How would you know? You've never been there."

"Neither have you."

On the nearby jetty, which shelters the little harbor, a number of Houssins were also watching the damaged boat. Jojo-le-Goeland, an old Houssin with a sailorly manner and a lubricious eye, greeted us with a wave. "Come to watch?" He grinned.

"Out of the way, Jojo," snapped Alain. "Men have work to do here."

Jojo laughed. "You'll have your work cut out, trying to get to her from here," he said. "The tide's coming up, and there's a wind from the sea. I wouldn't be surprised if you ran into trouble."

"Ignore him," advised Capucine. "He's been talking like that ever since we arrived."

Jojo looked pained. "I could take her down to the beach for you," he suggested. "Haul her off the rocks with my Marie Joseph Marie Joseph. Easy to bring a tractor down onto the sand. Load her up easy."

"How much?" said Alain with suspicion.

"Well, there's the boat. The labor. Access ... Call it a thousand."

"Access?" Alain was incensed. "To where?" Alain was incensed. "To where?"