‘I’ll sleep outside,’ Max swiftly suggested.
The dovecote was small but wonderful, and the view from its high windows stretched as far as the Valensole plateau. The building stood in the middle of a huge fruit and lavender garden with a gravel terrace and a broad stone wall that resembled the remains of a castle. A small, welcoming fountain burbled away next to the dovecote. One could cool a bottle of wine in it and sit on the wall, legs dangling, gazing out over orchards, fields of vegetables and vineyards far down the valley, which seemed devoid of any roads or other farms. The site had been chosen by someone with a keen eye for a view.
Max jumped up onto the broad wall and looked out over the plain, one hand shielding his eyes from the sun. If he concentrated, he could hear a tractor engine and see a small cloud of dust moving steadily from left to right, and then back from right to left.
More lavender bushes, roses and fruit trees had been planted around the dovecote’s terrace, and two chairs with comfy, brightly coloured cushions stood at a mosaic table beneath a generous parasol. Here Madame Bonnet served the two men a bulbous, ice-cold bottle of Orangina each and, by way of greeting, some chilled bong veng, as she pronounced bon vin in her Proven?al accent – a shimmering pale-yellow wine.
‘This is a bong veng from here, a Luc Basset,’ she chattered. ‘The estate was founded in the seventeenth century. It’s just the other side of the D36, a fifteen-minute walk. Their Manon XVII won a gold medal this year.’
‘Excuse me, their what? Manon?’ asked Perdu in shock.
Max had the presence of mind to intervene and thank their flustered hostess profusely. Max studied the wine label as Brigitte Bonnet sauntered away between the magnificent borders, stopping here and there to pick something. There was a printed drawing of a face above the word ‘Manon’ – a gentle frame of curls, the ghost of a smile and large, intense eyes directed at the viewer.
‘That’s your Manon?’ asked Max in astonishment.
Jean nodded initially, then shook his head. No, of course this wasn’t Manon, much less his Manon. His Manon was dead and lovely, and she lived on only in his dreams. But now, without warning, she was staring out at him from this wine bottle.
He took the bottle from Max’s hand and ran his finger gently over the drawing of Manon’s face. Her hair. Her cheek. Her chin, mouth, neck. He used to touch her in all those places, but …
Only now came the tremors. They began in his knees and continued upward, sending a sizzling and a quaking through the inside of his tummy and chest, before advancing along his arms and fingers, and taking hold of his lips and eyelids. His circulation was on the point of collapse.
His voice was flat as he whispered, ‘She loved the sound apricots make as you pick them. You need to take them gently between your thumb and two fingers, twist them a little and they go knck. Her cat was called Miaow. In winter Miaow would sleep on Manon’s head like a hat. Manon said she had inherited her father’s toes – toes with a shapely waist. Manon loved her father dearly. And she loved pancakes filled with Banon cheese and lavender honey. And she would sometimes laugh in her dreams when she was asleep, Max. She was married to Luc, whereas I was merely her lover. Luc Basset, the vigneron.’
Jean looked up. He set down the wine bottle on the mosaic table with trembling hands. He would have preferred to hurl it against the wall, had it not been for his irrational fear of shattering Manon’s face.
He could barely stand it; he could barely stand himself. He was in one of the most picturesque places on earth, with a friend who had become his son and confidant. He had burned his bridges behind him and sailed south on water and tears.
Only to discover that he still wasn’t ready.
In his head he was standing in the hallway of his flat, trapped behind a bookcase.
Had he imagined that simply coming here would miraculously resolve everything? That he could leave his torment behind on the waterways, and trade his unwept tears for a dead woman’s absolution? That he had come far enough to earn redemption?
Yes, he had.
But it wasn’t that easy.
It’s never that easy.
He reached out angrily and gave the bottle a violent spin. He didn’t want Manon giving him that look any more. No. He couldn’t face her like this. Not as this non-person whose heart drifted, unmoored, lest he love and lose his beloved again.
When Max slipped a hand into his, Jean clutched it tightly. Very tightly.
36