‘The sickness a man catches when he’s deeply in love,’ he confessed. ‘Sleeping badly, nightmares, not being able to think straight. Not being able to read or write or eat. Brigitte and Gérard obviously couldn’t stand by any longer so they prescribed me some activities to stop my mind from going to pot. That’s why I’m working for them: it helps me too. We don’t mention money, and that suits me just fine.’
‘The woman on the red tractor?’ Jean asked.
Max nodded, then took a deep breath as though he were building up to an announcement.
‘That’s right. The woman on the red tractor. That’s a good cue, because there’s something about her I have to te—’
‘The mistral’s coming!’ Madame Bonnet called to them anxiously, interrupting Max’s confession. In shorts and a man’s shirt as always, and carrying a basket of fruit, the small, wiry woman came towards them and pointed to the spinning windmills planted in the ground beside a lavender bed. For now it was merely a breeze tugging at the stems, but the sky was bright and the colour of deep-blue ink. The clouds had been swept away, and the horizon appeared to have closed in on them. Mount Ventoux and the Cévennes stood out, sharp and clear – a typical sign that the strong northwesterly wind was rising.
They greeted each other, then Brigitte enquired, ‘Do you know about the effects of the mistral?’
Catherine, Jean and Max looked at each other in bemusement.
‘We call it maestrale, the ruler. Or vent du fada, the wind that drives you mad. Our houses keep a low profile’ – she gestured to the layout of her buildings, their shorter sides facing the prevailing wind – ‘so that it won’t take any notice of them. The weather doesn’t just turn cooler; it makes every noise louder, and every movement harder. It’ll drive us all crazy for a few days, so it’d be better not to discuss anything too important – you’ll only argue.’
‘What?’ Max said quietly.
Madame Bonnet looked at him with a kindly smile on her nut-brown face.
‘Oh yes. The vent du fada makes you feel as crazy and stupid and edgy as when you’re unsure if your love will be reciprocated. But when it’s over, all the cobwebs have been blown away – from the countryside and from your head. Everything’s spick-and-span again, and we can start life afresh.’
She took her leave, saying, ‘I’ll roll up the parasols and tie down the chairs.’ Jean turned back to Max and asked, ‘What were you about to say before?’
‘Um … I’ve forgotten,’ Max said quickly. ‘Are you hungry?’
They spent the evening at a tiny restaurant in Bonnieux called Un Petit Coin de Cuisine, which had a wonderful view of the valley and of a red-and-gold sunset that gave way to a clear night sky strewn with stars glistening like ice. Tom, the cheerful waiter, served them Proven?al pizza on wooden boards, and lamb stew. There, at the wobbly red table in the cosy, stone-vaulted room, Catherine added a new and positive element to the chemical bond between Jean and Max. Her presence spread harmony and warmth. Catherine had a way of looking at people as though she took every word they said seriously. Max told her about himself, about his childhood and unrequited crushes on girls, and how he came to be on the run from noise, which was something he had never told Jean – or, presumably, any other man.
While they were deep in conversation, Jean was able to slip away into his own thoughts. The cemetery lay barely a hundred metres above him on the hill, next to the church; they were separated by only a few thousand tonnes of stone and timidity.
It was only as they started down into the valley through the noticeably stronger wind that Jean wondered whether Max had been saying so much about his childhood to conceal the fact that he didn’t wish to say any more about the tractor girl.
Max escorted them to their room.
‘You go ahead,’ Jean said to Catherine.
Max and he were standing together in the shadows between the main house and the barn. The wind hummed and wailed softly but constantly around the corners.
‘Come on, Max. What did you want to tell me?’ Jean asked him cautiously.
Jordan was silent.
‘Don’t we want to wait until the wind’s dropped?’ he said at last.
‘Is it that bad?’
‘Bad enough for me to wait till you got here before telling you. But not … fatal. I hope.’
‘Tell me, Max, tell me, otherwise my imagination will get the better of me. Please.’
I’ll imagine, for instance, that Manon is still alive and was merely playing a trick on me.
Max nodded. The mistral hummed.
‘Manon’s husband, Luc Basset, married again three years after Manon’s death. Mila, a well-known local chef,’ Max began. ‘Manon’s father gave him the vineyard as a wedding present. They produce white and red wines. They’re … very popular. So is Mila’s restaurant.’
Jean Perdu felt a sharp pang of jealousy.
Together Luc and Mila had a vineyard, an estate, a popular restaurant, maybe a garden. They had sunny, flower-filled Provence, and someone to whom they could confide all their concerns; Luc’s luck had simply repeated itself. Or maybe not simply, but at that moment Jean couldn’t muster the will to form a more balanced opinion.