A twenty-year-old Manon stood before him. No make-up, her hair longer, her body more androgynous.
And of course she didn’t really resemble Manon; when Perdu looked closely at this captivating, athletic, self-assured girl, the picture went fuzzy. Nine times he didn’t see her, but the tenth time there was Manon, looking out of the unfamiliar young face.
Victoria’s entire attention was focused on Max as she ran her eyes over him from top to bottom, scrutinising his work shoes, his threadbare trousers and his washed-out shirt. There was a hint of acknowledgment in her gaze. She nodded appreciatively.
‘You call Max “Napkin Man”?’ asked Catherine, hiding her amusement.
‘Yeah,’ said Vic. ‘That’s precisely the kind of guy he used to be. Used a napkin, took the metro instead of walking, had only seen dogs in special holdalls, and so on.’
‘You have to excuse the young lady. Out here in the sticks, they only learn manners in the run-up to their wedding,’ Max taunted her fondly.
‘Which, as everyone knows, is the key event in any Parisian woman’s life,’ she countered.
‘Preferably more than one,’ Max said with a grin.
Vic shot him a complicit smile.
The journey is over when you begin to love, thought Jean, as the two youngsters feasted their eyes on each other.
‘Did you want to see Papa?’ said Vic, abruptly breaking the spell.
Max nodded with a glazed look in his eye, Jean nodded uneasily, but Catherine said with a smile, ‘Yes, sort of.’
‘I’ll take you to the main house.’
She didn’t walk like Manon either, it struck Perdu, as they followed her under soaring plane trees from which crickets chirped.
The young woman looked around at them.
‘By the way, I’m the red wine: Victoria. The white’s my mother, Manon. The vineyards used to belong to her.’
Jean felt for Catherine’s hand. It pressed his briefly.
Max’s eyes were glued to Victoria as she skipped up the stairs two at a time in front of them, but he suddenly stopped and tugged Jean back by the arm.
‘One thing I didn’t mention last night is that this is the woman I’m going to marry,’ Max said with calm sincerity. ‘Even if she turns out to be your daughter.’
Oh God. Mine?
Victoria gestured for them to come inside and pointed to the wine-tasting room. Had she overheard? There was an edge to her smile: Marry me? A napkin man like you? Only if you seriously up your game.
Aloud she said, ‘The old cellars are through there to the left; that’s where we store the Victoria. The Manon is matured in the vaults under the apricot orchard. I’ll fetch my father. He’ll show you around the winery. Wait here in the tasting room. Whom shall I … announce?’ Vic concluded with a cheerful flourish. She flashed Max a smile, a smile that seemed to radiate out from her entire body.
‘Jean Perdu. From Paris. The bookseller,’ said Jean Perdu.
‘Jean Perdu, the bookseller from Paris,’ Victoria repeated contentedly, then disappeared.
Catherine, Jean and Max heard her bound up some creaking steps, walk along a corridor and speak to someone. Speak for some time, question, answer, question, answer. Her steps coming back down, equally lithe and carefree.
‘He’ll be with you right away,’ said Victoria, poking her head into the room, smiling, fleetingly turning into Manon, and then disappearing again.
Jean heard Luc walking up and down upstairs, opening a cupboard or a drawer.
Jean stood there while the mistral gathered speed, tore at the building’s shutters, raced through the leaves of the towering chestnut trees and heaped dry soil between the vines.
He stood there until Max made himself scarce and went after Victoria; until Catherine rubbed his shoulder and whispered, ‘I’ll be waiting in the bistro, and I love you whatever happens,’ and set off to visit Mila’s domain of the farm.
Jean waited as he heard Luc’s footsteps approaching across the squeaking floorboards, creaking stairs and tiled floor of the winery. Only then did Perdu turn to the door. Any moment now he would be face-to-face with Manon’s husband. The man whose wife he had loved.
Jean hadn’t considered for one second what he was going to say to Luc.
43
Luc was the same height as he was. Almond-coloured hair, dulled by the sun; short, but in need of a trim. Intelligent light-brown eyes bordered by many tiny wrinkles. A tall, slender tree in jeans and a faded blue shirt, a body shaped by its dealings with soil, fruit and stone.
Perdu immediately saw what had appealed to Manon.