In the evening breeze, confused and entranced by their bold faith in life, they kissed.
Jean felt as though it were his very first kiss.
Catherine’s lips were soft, and they moved with and fit his perfectly. It was so wonderful to eat, drink, feel and caress her at last … and so thrilling.
He wrapped his arms around this woman and kissed and bit her mouth gently; he traced the corners of her mouth with his lips; he kissed his way up her cheeks to her fragrant, delicate temples. He pulled Catherine towards him; he was overflowing with tenderness and relief. Never again would he sleep badly as long as this woman was beside him – never. Never again would loneliness embitter him. He was saved. They stood and held each other.
‘Hey?’ she said eventually.
‘Yes?’
‘I looked it up, and the last time I slept with my ex-husband was in 2003. When I was thirty-eight. I think it was an accident.’
‘Great. That makes you the more experienced of the two of us.’
They laughed.
How strange, thought Perdu, that one laugh can wipe away so much hardship and suffering. A single laugh. And the years flow together and … away.
‘I do know one thing, though,’ he said. ‘Making love on the beach is overrated.’
‘Sand in all the places it shouldn’t get.’
‘Worst of all are the mosquitoes.’
‘You don’t get many on the beach, do you?’
‘You see, Catherine. I don’t have a clue.’
‘Then I’ll show you,’ she murmured. Her expression was youthful and reckless as she pulled Jean into the spare bedroom.
He saw a four-legged shadow scuttle away through the moonlight. Psst sat down on the terrace and politely turned his ginger-and-white striped back to them.
I hope she likes my body. I hope I haven’t lost my old vitality. I hope I touch her the way she likes, and I hope …
‘Stop thinking, Jean Perdu!’ Catherine ordered tenderly.
‘Can you tell?’
‘You’re easy to analyse, darling,’ she whispered. ‘My lover. Oh, I wanted you so … and you …’
They continued in whispers, but their sentences had no beginning and no ending.
Slowly he peeled off Catherine’s dress. Underneath she was naked apart from her plain white knickers.
She unbuttoned his shirt, buried her face in his throat and chest, and drank in his scent. Her breath tickled him, and no, he didn’t need to worry about his vitality, because it was there when he saw the flash of the white, cotton triangle in the dark and felt her body move in his hands.
They savoured the whole of September in Sanary-sur-Mer. Eventually Jean had drunk his fill of southern light. He had been lost and he had found himself again. The hurting time was over.
Now he could go to Bonnieux and complete this stage.
41
By the time Catherine and Jean left Sanary, the fishing village had become their home away from home. Small enough to fit snugly into their hearts, big enough to protect them, beautiful enough to be a permanent touchstone as they got to know each other. Sanary stood for happiness, peace and quiet; it stood for the first stirrings of empathy with someone who was still a stranger, someone you loved without being able to say why. Who are you, how would you, how do you feel, and what is the arc of your moods over an hour, a day, a few weeks? These things they discovered with ease in their heart-sized home. It was during the quiet hours that Jean and Catherine grew close, and so they tended to avoid loud, busy places such as fairs, the market, the theatre and readings.
September bathed their calm, intense period of getting-to-love-each-other in a spectrum of tones from yellow to mauve and gold to violet. The bougainvilleas, the rough sea, the painted houses by the harbour that oozed pride and history, the crunchy golden gravel of the boules area: this was the landscape in which their affection, friendship and deep understanding of each other could thrive.
And they always took it slowly with each other.
The more important a thing is, the slower it should be done, Jean would often think as they began to caress each other. They kissed lingeringly, undressed slowly and left themselves time to stretch out, and even more time to flow together. This careful, focused concentration on the other called forth an especially intense physical, spiritual and emotional passion from their bodies, a feeling of being touched all over.
Each time he slept with Catherine, Jean Perdu drew closer to the stream of life again. He had spent twenty years on the far bank of that river, avoiding colours and caresses, scents and music – fossilised, alone and defiantly withdrawn.