Having settled down at the table with Simon, Paul and Colette, Sidonie was now laughing at a story that Marie-Claude, a hairdresser from Pont-Aven, was telling.
“Honestly, honestly, those mad people in the woods serve their cats and dogs the best cuts of meat—and on china plates to boot!” Marie-Claude’s imitation of Madame Bouvet, the housekeeper for Emile and Pascale Goichon—two colorful characters from Kerdruc—was so perfect that Colette had to cackle into her Bellini.
“That Bouvet woman is a quintessential Catholic tight-arse,” said Marie-Claude, tickling her lapdog Lupin.
“Did you say ‘tight-arse’?” asked Colette.
“No, she said ‘fright-arse,’?” insisted Paul.
“Or maybe it was ‘quite-a-sight-arse,’?” said Simon.
“What in heaven’s name are we talking about?” said Colette.
“Ask Paul,” said Simon. “He knows about that kind of thing.”
“Where’s Yann? I bet he’s painted a few arses in his time,” said Paul, grinning.
“Don’t talk like that about my favorite artist,” Colette ordered him. She was planning a major exhibition for Yann Gamé in Paris. The only problem was that he knew nothing about it. He wouldn’t hear of it, preferring to continue painting his tiles—it was enough to drive you mad! The man had to paint some big canvases, but he shrank from greatness. Or had he simply not found his motif? Did he need a muse? The sea, a woman, religion; some people required no more than a cake, a good example being Proust and his madeleines.
“You sound like teenagers!” complained Marie-Claude.
“And you sound like my dead grandmother,” Colette interjected. “How’s your daughter? Has she squeezed out your grandchild yet?” She tore the filter off a Gauloise and loaded the cigarette into her ivory holder.
“My God! Yesterday I felt the same age as my daughter Claudine; today I’m going to be a grandmother. Well, in two months’ time.”
“Did she tell you whose bun it is in the oven?” said Colette, blowing a smoke ring.
“I tried to find out from her diary, but I couldn’t pick the lock,” Marie-Claude said sulkily.
Simon observed Colette. Her mouth was a picture of sensuality and her forehead was a mosaic of doubt, while also proclaiming that she would never renege on a hard-won conviction. Each of her features played its part in her aristocratic demeanor. How beautiful she was!
“Anyway, mon primitif, you wouldn’t happen to know of a little darling who could give Emile and Pascale a hand, would you? His Parkinson’s isn’t getting any better and her…what’s it called? Dementia? That thing that causes you to forget everything? The two of them are getting more and more isolated out there in the woods,” said Colette.
“How come? They’ve got all those millions of stray three-legged dogs and one-eared cats. They can’t be lonely. And I’m sure they came with a horde of fleas, free of charge,” chirped Marie-Claude, checking the state of her carefully set red curls.
“And lice,” Paul added.
“Maybe Pascale and Emile Goichon were cursed,” whispered Sidonie.
“By another tight-arse?” asked Simon.
“Oh you’re not going to start that all over again,” complained Marie-Claude.
“We’re allowed to—we’re old!” Colette quipped.
“I’m not old,” the hairdresser corrected her sharply, adjusting her curls. “I’ve just lived a little longer than some people.”
“You know the tragic thing about long life expectancy?” Paul asked, suddenly turning serious. Everybody looked at him with expectation. “You have more time to be unhappy.”
“Laurine!” Geneviève Ecollier’s chin jutted out like a ship’s prow. The mug Jean-Rémy had passed her was quivering in Marianne’s hands as the waitress reported hurriedly to the kitchen counter.
“Don’t stick your bust out like that, child. There’ll be lots of strutting roosters in here today. One day you’ll let one lead you on board his boat, and next year he won’t spare you so much as a glance.”
Laurine crossed her arms in front of her chest, and two delicate spots of pink appeared on her cheeks. One of the Parisian yacht owners kept asking her onto his boat for a glass of champagne. She didn’t know how she was going to say no after his third invitation, because the man protested that her rejections made him so desperate that he would unfortunately have to go and eat in Rozbras to recover from his grief. And that would be bad for Madame Geneviève, because on the other bank of the Aven was her great rival for the appetites and wallets of the yachtsmen who moored their boats between the two small ports of Kerdruc and Rozbras without ever weighing anchor.
Laurine didn’t know how to resolve her dilemma. If she went with them, she would quickly earn herself a reputation; if she didn’t, Madame Geneviève and Ar Mor would soon have no customers, because they’d all be sitting in Alain Poitier’s restaurant or the bar tabac eating mussels in cream sauce.
“Laurine! Stop daydreaming! Today’s special is cotriade, Breton fish stew. Belon oysters, moules marinières, and noix de Saint-Jacques Ar Mor au naturel, scallops in a gratin or with cognac sauce. In short, despite his testosterone imbalance, our chef is back to top form. Write it down, girl, or you’ll forget again.”
Marianne liked Madame Ecollier’s voice. It was as full and dark as the coffee Jean-Rémy had made to accompany her small breakfast—a delicious cheese omelet.
Laurine obediently took down her boss’s words on her waiter’s pad. “What’s tes…treso…tostron imbalance?” she asked.
“A salt addiction,” summed up Madame Geneviève, pointing her arrow-slit eyes at Jean-Rémy. “It would be good if you would finally dismiss that lady from your thoughts!”
“Which lady?” Jean-Rémy cautiously enquired.
“The one for whom you empty salt by the packet into the stock!”
“Jean-Rémy is oversalting because of a lady?” asked Laurine.
“He’s in love, and when they’re in love, cooks overdo it with the salt.”
“How about unhappy cooks?”
“They overdo it with the brandy.”
“So who is Jean-Rémy in love with?” asked Laurine.
“Now, if that isn’t an irrelevant question! Allez, allez, get to work, Laurine! Show Madame Marianne the Shell Room in the guesthouse, please.”
Geneviève Ecollier flashed Marianne a smile. Yes, maybe this woman who’d washed up here at the end of the world was everything she’d been praying for in recent months. Weren’t coincidences sometimes gifts of fate?
Jean-Rémy pushed a white bundle and a sheet of paper toward Marianne, who stared at it. He pointed to a figure in the middle of the page—892 euros; the number next to it appeared to be her working hours, six hours per day excluding Tuesday and Wednesday. Lodgings were included. He explained in simple French that she was hired to work at Ar Mor. And that she was going to have to learn French and he would teach her. Marianne nodded.