‘It takes only one word to hurt a woman, a matter of seconds, one stupid, impatient blow of the crop. But winning back her trust takes years. And sometimes there isn’t the time.’
It’s amazing how unimpressed people are by being loved when it doesn’t fit in with their plans. Love irks them so much that they change the locks or leave without warning.
‘And when a horse loves us, Jeanno, we deserve that love as little as when a woman does. They are superior beings to us men. When they love us, then they are being gracious, for only rarely do we give them reason to love us. I learned that from your mother, and she’s right. Sad to say, she’s right.’
And that’s why it hurts so much. When women stop loving, men fall into a void of their own making.
‘Jeanno, women can love so much more intelligently than us men! They never love a man for his body, even if they can enjoy that too – and how.’ Joaquin sighed with pleasure. ‘But women love you for your character, your strength, your intelligence. Or because you can protect a child. Because you’re a good person, you’re honourable and dignified. They never love you as stupidly as men love women. Not because you’ve got especially beautiful calves or look so good in a suit that their business partners look on jealously when they introduce you. Such women do exist, but only as a cautionary example to others.’
I like Catherine’s calves. Would she enjoy introducing me to someone? Am I … intelligent enough for that? Am I honourable? Do I have something that women value?
‘A horse admires your overall personality.’
‘A horse? Why a horse?’ asked Perdu, genuinely irritated. He had only been half listening.
They had turned a corner and were now standing back near the pétanque players beside the Canal de l’Ourcq.
Joaquin was greeted with handshakes, and the boulistes spared a nod for Jean.
He watched his father step into the throwing area, go into a crouch and swing his right arm like a pendulum.
A cheerful barrel with an arm. I’ve been lucky with this father. He always liked me, even if he wasn’t perfect.
Iron hit iron: Joaquin Perdu had skilfully struck out one of the opposing team’s boules.
A murmur of applause.
I could see her and cry and never, ever stop. Why can I be so stupid that I don’t have any friends left? Was I afraid they’d leave one day, like my best friend Vijaya did back then? Or afraid that they’d laugh at me because I never got over Manon?
He looked at his father and wanted to say, ‘Manon liked you. Do you remember Manon?’ However, his father was already turning towards him: ‘Tell your mother, Jeanno … no, no. Tell her there’s nobody like her – nobody.’
A look of regret flashed across Joaquin’s face that love couldn’t stop a woman wishing to string up her husband because he was a serious pain in the neck.
10
Catherine had inspected his red mullets, the fresh herbs and the cream from broad-beamed Normandy cows, then held up her small new potatoes and cheese, and gestured to the fragrant pears and to the wine.
‘Can we do something with this lot?’
‘Yes. But one after the other, not together,’ he said.
‘I’ve been really looking forward to this all day long,’ she confessed. ‘And dreading it a bit too. How about you?’
‘The other way around,’ he replied. ‘I’ve been really dreading it and looking forward to it a bit. I have to apologise.’
‘No, you don’t. Something’s gnawing at you at the moment, so why pretend it isn’t?’
As she said this, she tossed him one of her blue-and-grey-checked tea towels to use as an apron. She was wearing a blue summer dress and tucked her towel-apron into her red belt. Today he could see that her blonde hair was tinged with silver at the temples and that the former confusion and terror had left her eyes.
Soon the windowpanes had misted up; the gas flames were hissing under the pots and pans; the white wine, shallot and cream sauce was simmering; and in a heavy pan the olive oil was browning potatoes sprinkled with rosemary and salt.
They were chatting away as if they’d known each other for years and had simply lost touch for a while. About Carla Bruni, and about how male sea horses carried their young around in a pouch on their stomachs. They talked about fashion and about the trend for salt with added flavourings, and of course they gossiped about their neighbours.
Heavy and light topics such as these came to the fore as they stood next to each other at the stove, the wine and the fish before them. With every sentence, it seemed to Perdu as though Catherine and he were discovering a communion of souls.
He continued working on the sauce, and Catherine poached one piece of fish after another in it. They ate straight from the pans where they stood, as she didn’t have a second chair.