A blond surfer dude cleared away Perdu’s pot and plate of shells, and smoothly set down a bowl of warm water for Perdu to wash his hands in.
‘Would you like dessert?’ It sounded friendly, but there was a hint of ‘if you don’t, then please leave, because we can get another two sittings in.’
It had felt good, nonetheless. He had eaten the sea and drunk it in with his eyes. He had yearned for this, and the trembling inside him had subsided a little.
Perdu left the rest of his wine, tossed a banknote onto the plate with the bill and walked to his patchwork Renault 5. He drove on along the coast road with the taste of creamy salt on his lips.
When he lost sight of the sea, he took the next right off the main road. He soon spotted the water again, a glinting ribbon in the bright moonlight among the pines, cypresses, windswept evergreens and houses, hotels and villas. He drove along empty lanes through a pretty residential area. Colourful, stately villas. He didn’t know where he was, but he knew that this was where he wanted to wake up the next morning and swim. It was time to look for a guesthouse, or a stretch of sand where he could make a campfire and sleep under the stars.
As Perdu was rolling down the Boulevard Frédéric Mistral, the Renault started to make a whistling woooeeeh sound. This ended in a hissing bang, and the engine spluttered and died. Channelling the last momentum from the descent, Perdu steered the car to the edge of the road, where the Renault issued its final breath. There was not so much as an electronic click as Jean turned the key in the ignition. The car obviously wanted to stay here too.
Monsieur Perdu got out and looked around.
Below him he spied a small bathing beach and above it villas and blocks of flats, which appeared to condense into a town half a mile from where he stood. Over this scene flickered a friendly peach-coloured glow. He fetched his small bag out of the car and marched off.
There was a soothing peacefulness in the air. No open-air disco. No traffic. Yes, even the sea swell was quieter here.
After a ten-minute walk he reached an odd square tower, around which someone had built a hotel more than a hundred years ago – and he realised where he was.
Of all places! How fitting.
He stepped reverently onto the quayside and closed his eyes to take in the smell. Salt. Open spaces. Freshness.
He opened his eyes again. The old fishing port. Dozens of coloured boats rocking on the glossy blue water. Sparkling white yachts further out. The houses – none higher than four storeys, their fa?ades painted in pastel shades.
This charming old seafarers’ village: daylight made the colours blossom; by night it was lit by the wide starry sky, and in the evening by the soft rosy light of old-fashioned lanterns. Over there the market with its yellow-and-red awnings under lush plane trees. Around them, soothed by the sun and the sea, people reclined dreamily in their chairs at countless tables in old bars and new cafés.
This town had seen and harboured many a fugitive before him.
Sanary-sur-Mer.
37
To: Catherine [surname of the famous Le P.-You-Know-Who],
27 Rue Montagnard, 75011 Paris
Sanary-sur-Mer, August
Faraway Catherine,
The sea has sparkled in twenty-seven colours so far. Today, a mix of blue and green: petrol, the women in the shops call it. They should know, but I call it wet turquoise.
The sea can cry out to you, Catherine. It can scratch at you with catlike swipes. It can snuggle up to you and stroke you; it can be as smooth as a mirror, and the next moment it rages, luring surfers into its crashing waves. It is different every day, and the gulls screech like little kids on stormy days and like heralds of glory on sunny ones. ‘Fine! Fine! Fine!’ they call. Sanary’s beauty could kill you, and you wouldn’t go willingly.
My bachelor days in the belle bleue – my blue room in André’s Beau Séjour guesthouse – ended soon after 14 July. I no longer need to stuff my clothes inside my bed linen and visit Madame Pauline wearing the expression of a pleading son-in-law, or haul my bundle to the launderette behind the shopping centre in Six-Fours-les-Plages; I have a washing machine now. It was payday at the bookshop. MM – Madame Minou Monfrère, the owner and doyenne of the town’s booksellers – is happy with me; I don’t get in the way, she says. Fair enough. The first boss I’ve ever had put me in charge of children’s books, encyclopedias and the classics, and asked me to stock up on books by writers who fled the Nazis to live here in exile. I do everything she says, and it feels strangely good not to have to bear any responsibility.
I’ve found a home too – for my washing machine and me.