‘Manon. Her name is Manon.’
‘She must be beautiful.’
‘As beautiful as a cherry tree in spring.’
It was so easy to close his eyes and answer the difficult questions Cuneo asked in his mellow, kindly voice.
‘And clever, si?’
‘She knows me better than I know myself. She … taught me to feel. And to dance. And loving her was easy.’
‘Was?’ a voice asked, yet so softly that Perdu was unsure whether it came from Max, Salvatore or his own inner censor.
‘She’s my home. And she’s my laughter. She’s …’
He fell silent. Dead. He couldn’t say it. He was so scared of the grief that lurked behind the word.
‘And what will you say to her when you meet?’
Jean wrestled with himself, then opted for the only truth that concurred with his silence about Manon’s death.
‘Forgive me.’
Cuneo ceased his questions.
‘I envy you so much,’ said Max. ‘You live out your love and your longings, however crazy they may be. I, on the other hand, feel like a waste. I breathe, my heart beats, the blood pumps through my veins. But my writing’s going nowhere. The world is falling to pieces, and I’m whining like a pair of punctured bellows. Life’s not fair.’
‘Death alone awaits us all,’ said Perdu coolly.
‘That’s true democracy,’ added Cuneo.
‘Well, I think death’s politically overrated,’ said Max. He handed the end of the joint to Jean.
‘Is it really the case that men choose their beloved according to whether she looks like their mother?’ asked Cuneo.
‘Hmm,’ said Perdu and thought of Lirabelle Bernier.
‘Si, certo! In that case I’d have to look for someone who’s always calling me an imposition and slaps me when I’m reading or use words she doesn’t understand,’ said Cuneo with a bittersweet laugh.
‘And I’d have one who only in her mid-fifties learns to say no and to eat something she actually likes rather than whatever’s cheapest,’ Max admitted.
Cuneo stubbed out the roll-up.
‘Hey, Salvo,’ asked Max when they had almost fallen asleep. ‘May I write your story?’
‘Don’t you dare, amico,’ was Salvatore’s reply. ‘Kindly come up with your own storia, young Massimo. If you take mine, I’ll have none left of my own.’
Max gave a deep sigh. ‘Oh, okay,’ he muttered drowsily. ‘Do the two of you at least have a couple of words for me? You know, a favourite word or two? To send me to sleep?’
Cuneo smacked his lips. ‘Like milk soufflé? Pasta kiss?’
‘I like words that sound like the things they describe,’ whispered Perdu. His eyes were closed. ‘Evening breeze. Night runner. Summer child. Defiance: I see a little girl in pretend armour, fighting off all the things she doesn’t want to be. Well behaved and thin and quiet – no way! Lady Defiance, a lone knight against the dark forces of reason.’
‘Some words can cut you,’ mumbled Cuneo, ‘like razor blades in your ear and on your tongue. Discipline. Drill. Or reason.’
‘?“Reason”? is the word on everyone’s lips, so it’s no wonder others can hardly make it through,’ Max complained. Then he laughed: ‘Imagine if you had to buy beautiful words before you could use them.’
‘Some people with verbal diarrhoea would soon be broke.’
‘And the rich would call the shots because they’d buy up all the important words.’
‘And “I love you” would cost the most.’
‘And twice as much if it’s not used sincerely.’
‘The poor would have to steal words. Or play charades rather than speak.’
‘We should all do that anyway. Loving is a verb, so … do it. Less talk and more action. Right?’
Crikey, dope does amazing things.
Not long afterwards Salvo and Max rolled themselves out of their blankets and slipped away to their berths belowdecks.
Before Max Jordan disappeared, he glanced back at Perdu one last time.
‘What is it, Monsieur?’ Perdu asked sleepily. ‘Want another word to take to bed with you?’
‘Me? … No. I just wanted to say … I really like you. Whatever …’
Max looked as if he wanted to add something, but didn’t know how.
‘I like you too, Monsieur Jordan. A lot, in fact. I’d be delighted to be your friend. Monsieur Max.’
The two men looked at each other. The only light on their faces came from the moon; Max’s eyes were in darkness.
‘Yes,’ whispered the young man. ‘Yes … Jean. I’ll gladly be your friend. I’ll try to be a good one.’
Perdu didn’t understand the last bit, but put it down to the grass.
When Perdu was alone, he simply lay there. The fragrance of the night was beginning to change. From somewhere a scent wafted over to him … was it lavender?
Something quaked inside him.