He pulled up alongside Simon’s battered Citro?n, whose hood was pointing toward Ar Mor’s terrace. “Bonjour, Monsieur Paul,” called Laurine, the young waitress from Ar Mor, as the former legionnaire got out of his car.
Paul went over to stand next to her. “Hello, Laurine.” He peered at the mouth of the Aven, but all he could see was the Gwen II making for the quayside.
“There!” cried Laurine. Her overexcitement made Paul feel slightly dizzy. Simon was standing on the Gwen II, as always. And next to him…
“There!” repeated Laurine. “Yoo-hoo!”
“A woman?” Paul gasped. How on earth had Simon managed to pick up a woman and take her on a boat trip before lunch? The traitor! Hadn’t they sworn last night that women were to play no further part in their lives? No major part, at any rate.
—
Simon preferred to manage the final few yards on his own. He’d enjoyed the smell of Marianne’s seawater-soaked hair. Someone should invent seawater shampoo and market it, he thought. He’d have a word with Paul later about how they could put the sea into one of those plastic bottles. He suddenly caught sight of Laurine on the quayside, and behind her, Paul, with a sour look on his face.
—
Marianne leaned on the railing while Simon was busy docking. She drank in the sight of Kerdruc harbor once more. Her heart clenched at the scene, and she felt as if she were returning home after a long sea voyage.
Nonsense. Nonsense, stop thinking such nonsense!
“Morning, Monsieur Simon!” called Laurine. Simon thought that Laurine could have been a model. He’d once suggested that she move to Paris or Milan and get rich.
She had looked at him with astonishment and said, “Rich? What for?” and she’d meant it. The twenty-three-year-old had the body of a woman, but her mind was often that of a child—too unsophisticated to lie, and too na?ve for distrust.
Simon gave Marianne an awkward helping hand out of the boat. “I’ll never touch another drink,” he informed Paul as he stepped off the Gwen II and wound the rope expertly around a bollard.
“Me neither,” Paul lied, glancing at Marianne with a quizzical, charming smile.
“Paul, this is Marianne. She’s German.”
“Allemande, eh?” said Paul, and took her hand in his, pretending to plant a kiss on it. “Zwei brezzelle, beete.” She withdrew her hand, aghast.
Simon nudged him. “Leave her, she’s shy.”
Paul switched into Breton. “I thought we’d come to an agreement about women. Some mate you are. As soon as I turn my back, you—”
“Oh put a sock in it. I was just going for a dip when she came out of the cabin naked.”
“Naked?!”
“With the cat.”
“And then? Did you—”
“Almost drowned me.”
“The cat?”
“Trying to rescue the girl. She fell into the water!”
“I don’t understand.”
“Then don’t ask.”
“Have you already had breakfast?” asked Paul.
“Let’s have a game of backgammon and a coffee,” Simon replied. “The loser has to mind the shop today.”
Marianne stood beside the two men the whole time, lost, her feet close together, her handbag clutched tightly to her chest. She felt defenseless. She could sense that they were talking about her, so she affected her most carefree smile. The cat rubbed up against her legs, and she found its presence calming. She cleared her throat. “Excuse me, I…” Her mind was suddenly empty. White noise, but no words.
Laurine leaned forward to give her three kisses on the cheeks. Left, right, left. “Bonjour, madame. I’m Laurine,” she said with a smile.
“Marianne Lanz,” Marianne answered self-consciously. She still felt like a bedraggled cat, and presumably smelled like one too.
“Marianne? What a pretty name! Lovely to see you here. Did your journey go well?”
Marianne didn’t understand a word. Laurine took her by the hand, while Simon and Paul began to lay cushions on the wooden chairs on the terrace, moving with the characteristic slowness of old gentlemen.
“Kenavo,” Simon called after Marianne. That was Breton for “see you later.”
Laurine was terribly agitated, and as always when she was agitated, she whispered. “I’m taking you to see the chef. His name’s Jean-Rémy. He’ll be delighted to meet you!”
Marianne lingered apprehensively in the doorway as Laurine preceded her into Ar Mor’s kitchens. “I…I’m sorry, but…” Nobody was listening to her. Nobody.
It was only when the chef looked at her, pushed back his red bandanna and smiled that Marianne’s embarrassment gave way to relief. It was him! The man with the oysters!
“What do you think you are—a budding Hell’s Angel?” Madame Ecollier had asked Jean-Rémy two summers earlier when he dismounted from his motorbike for a trial session in the kitchen. Black jeans, red shirt, studded boots. He had earrings, and a tattoo under the dark curls at the back of his neck. A case containing his favorite knife dangled from his belt like a revolver in a holster. Each of his leather bracelets represented one of the kitchens he had worked in during the thirteen years since he’d started out as a chef at the age of sixteen.
Nevertheless, Madame Ecollier had taken a shine to his outfit. “I’d prefer it if you resembled Peter Sellers rather than Johnny Depp, but never mind. Just cook and keep your eyes off our female guests—and your hands off my staff. And stay away from the drink, unless you’re pouring it into a saucepan. Keep it simmering, Mr. Perrig.”
Marianne found him delightful. “Bonjour,” she said almost inaudibly.
“Bonjour, Madame,” said the man who had offered her the first oyster of her life, as he emerged from behind the stainless-steel kitchen island. “Nice to see you again. I hope you enjoyed the oysters.”
“This is our new chef,” Laurine whispered breathlessly. “Marianne Lance!”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” gasped Laurine. “Monsieur Simon fished her out of the sea. We have no idea where she is from.”
Marianne looked confused, and Jean-Rémy caught her eye. Out of the sea? He remembered the impression she’d made on him at the oyster farm the day before: lost, and yet determined to find something very specific. That impression still lingered in her eyes, despite her efforts to conceal it behind a fragile smile.
Now Jean-Rémy looked at Laurine. Laurine, my kitty-cat, he thought, what have you done to me? He had to tear his eyes away from her.
Marianne was hoping uneasily that someone would explain why she was waiting here. She stole a glance at Laurine and Jean-Rémy, who were gazing at each other as if each was expecting the other to speak first. Eventually Laurine turned away and headed outside.