Jean put the full force of his body, breath and concentration into every gesture. He whispered to her in the language of tango, which Manon and he had learned and murmured to each other in bed. They had addressed each other formally, the way traditional elderly married couples in Spain had in days gone by, and whispered lascivious words to each other.
Everything merged into one – the past, the present, this young woman and the other one called Manon; the young man he had once been, with no inkling of the man he could become; the not-yet-old but nonetheless older man, who had nearly forgotten what it was like to desire and to hold a woman in his arms.
And here he was in the arms of a cat woman who loved to fight, be vanquished and then return to the fray.
Manon, Manon, this is how you danced. With the hunger to make something entirely your own, without the burden of your family and the land of your ancestors on your shoulders. Just you; no future, you and the tango. You and I, your lips, my lips, your tongue, my skin, my life, your life.
As the third song, the ‘Libertango’, struck up, the fire escape doors burst open.
‘Here they are, the swines!’ Perdu heard an incensed male voice shout.
23
Five men barged their way through the door. The women screamed.
The first intruder was already tearing Cuneo’s partner from his arms and making as if to slap her. The burly Italian caught his arm, upon which a second man threw himself at Cuneo and punched him in the stomach, allowing the other to drag the woman away.
‘Betrayed,’ hissed P. D. Olson, as he and Jean Perdu guided the cat woman away from the frenzied mob of men, who reeked of alcohol.
‘That’s my father,’ she gasped, turning ghostly pale, and pointing to an axe-wielding maniac with eyes that were too close together.
‘Don’t look at him! Go out that door ahead of me!’ ordered Perdu.
Max was fending off a pair of furious guys who saw Cuneo as the instigator of their wives’, daughters’ and sisters’ satanic sex games. Salvatore Cuneo had a split lip. Max kicked one of the assailants in the knee, and threw the other on his back with a kung fu move. Then he hurried back to the briar dancer, who was standing motionless and proud amid the chaos. Max bowed and kissed her hand with a flourish.
‘I’d like to thank you, queen of this incomplete night, for the most wonderful dance of my life.’
‘Hurry up or it will be your last,’ called P. D., seizing Max’s arm.
Perdu saw the queen smile as she watched Max go. She picked up his earmuffs and clutched them to her heart.
Jordan, Perdu, P. D., the cat woman and Cuneo ran outside and over to a battered blue Renault. Cuneo squeezed his barrel belly in behind the wheel, a panting P. D. piled into the passenger seat, and Max, Jean and the young woman crawled onto the load bed at the back, alongside a toolbox, a leather suitcase, a bottle carrier with spices, various kinds of vinegar and bunches of herbs, and mountains of textbooks on various subjects. They were thrown higgledy-piggledy as Cuneo put his foot to the floor, pursued by the irate, fist-shaking mob that had chased the strangers out into the car park, no longer prepared to put up with their womenfolk’s secret urge to dance.
‘Dumb hicks!’ spat P. D. Olson, tossing a reference book on butterflies into the back. ‘They’re so small-minded they think we’re a bunch of swingers who start off dancing fully clothed and then strip. That would look fairly repulsive – all those shrunken balls, pot bellies and skinny little grandpa legs.’
The cat woman snorted, and Max and Cuneo laughed too – the exaggerated laughter of people who have evaded danger by the skin of their teeth.
‘Wait, sorry but … can we stop at a bank anyway?’ Max asked in a pleading voice as they raced hell-for-leather back to the boat along Cepoy’s main street.
‘Only if you’re looking to sing castrato,’ P. D. huffed.
They soon pulled up at the book barge. Lindgren and Kafka were lazing by the window in the early evening sun, studiously ignoring an excitable couple of crows that were croaking insults at them from a twisted apple tree.
Perdu noticed Cuneo’s longing glance at the barge.
‘I don’t think it’s safe for you to stay here,’ he said to the Italian.
Cuneo sighed. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve heard those words before, Capitano.’
‘Come with us. We’re on our way to Provence,’ said Perdu.
‘That damn letter splicer told you my story, si? About me travelling the rivers in search of a signorina who has stolen my heart?’
‘Sure did. The Yank spilled the beans again. So what? I’m old and I’m going to die soon anyway – a bit of mischief is all that’ll keep me alive. At least I didn’t post it on Facebook.’
‘You’re on Facebook?’ Max asked in disbelief. He had picked some apples and was cradling them in his shirt.
‘Yeah. And? Just because it’s like tapping on the walls of a prison cell?’ Old Olson snickered. ‘Of course I am. How else am I supposed to find out what people are up to or that village lynch mobs can suddenly recruit members worldwide?’
‘Right. Okay,’ said Max. ‘I’ll send you a friend request.’