Lothar began to push his way through the crowd, ignoring the looks that people shot at his formal suit with its six gold buttons. He was following the woman in the blue dress, which seemed to be constantly changing color and reflecting people’s laughter and the stars overhead. As she turned slightly toward him, reacting to a call from an urbanely dressed woman with a cigarette holder in her black-gloved hand, he knew that the woman in the blue dress was indeed Marianne.
She looked taller. More beautiful. Inaccessible. He took a long swig of lager, and when he lowered his glass, he had lost sight of his wife, his view blocked by a phalanx of black backs. Those damn nuns again!
—
Geneviève elegantly climbed the steps onto the stage, lifting the hem of her red dress a touch. One of the gavotte musicians gallantly led Marianne by the hand to the stool on which she was to sit. Geneviève reached for the microphone and announced, “Let the fest-noz begin!”
“E flat,” Marianne whispered to the musicians. She let her eyes wander over the crowd, and there, next to Jean-Rémy, she saw Yann with a sketchpad in his hand. Beside him was Grete, who gave her a double thumbs-up, and beside her was Simon, although his eyes were glued to his neighbor rather than to the stage.
Paul had stepped into the center of the dance floor with Rozenn, as if the musicians were playing for them alone. The nuns were looking kindly and affectionately at Marianne. Father Ballack’s grin revealed his jagged teeth. Marianne felt herself relax under their benevolent gazes, and she saw the glow in Geneviève’s eyes and the desire in Yann’s. She saw Pascale and Emile, who was standing there with his hands folded, as if he were praying that his monstrous accordion might produce a decent sound; and she saw Colette hand in hand with Paul’s granddaughters. She thanked the goddesses of time past for this instant when she could bathe in such warmth.
The drums struck up an urgent, intense beat, and Marianne shut her eyes, imagined she was by the sea and began to play the first chords of Libertango. The bass took up her notes, and she opened her eyes. The drums picked up the tempo, and Piazzolla’s best-known tango grew in power and depth. Like waves surging higher and higher. Like fire leaping from one heart to another, kindling flames in each. Like an avalanche of singing stones.
The dance floor was already packed with spinning couples, and as the violin took up the melody, the waves of sound hit those who were sitting at the tables over mussels and wine. They swayed back and forth as the concertina captured the passionate accents and syncopation.
Paul and Rozenn crisscrossed the floor with heads held high and precise tango steps. Marianne’s fingers flew accurately and easily over the keys, and the sea rocked before her. A sea of bodies—everyone was moving, and beneath the red lanterns it seemed as if imps and fairies were celebrating their departure for Avalon. Even Claudine was twisting her belly as if in a trance. Everyone was dancing, happy to be alive at the same time.
Everyone except for one man, whose silhouette seemed rooted to the ground.
“I have to go over there,” Laurine said. She stepped toward the edge of the quayside, took a deep breath and swung her arms behind her. Alain, taking one great stride, was only just in time to stop her diving headlong into the water and swimming across the Aven.
He held the waitress back. “Laurine!” he whispered insistently. “He must come to you! Let him take the first step, and if he doesn’t, there’ll be no need to take any further ones together!” He held her tight until she had stopped struggling and had come to a complete rest in his arms.
“And that’s from someone who stands still himself!” There was no longer any trace of hesitation in her voice.
Alain looked at her briefly, then let go of her and ran down the steep quay steps to the boats.
—
The clapping almost knocked Marianne off her feet, and there was an even greater swell of applause when the bandleader led her to the front of the stage to take a bow with the musicians. He took the microphone and said, “And that, my dear delighted ladies and gentlemen, was Marianne, the high priestess of tango, and a magnificent sea whisperer, who will continue to urge you tenderly to break all the rules.”
He turned, and the drummer breathed in and struck up a new tango rhythm, accompanied by the bass player, who skipped every third beat. The bandleader played the first few chords of “Hijo de la Luna” on his concertina—D minor, G minor—and the crowd let out an enthusiastic roar. Marianne sensed when the moment had come to lay down a second strand of chords over the beat and add the tune. The violin joined in softly, sending the melody of the moon’s song out into the night.
The full moon floated above their heads, couples twirled and Marianne glanced at the concertina player. They locked eyes, and with every nod of his head to emphasize the beat, the outlines around her blurred and she melted into the music. He led and she followed, until it was only their instruments flirting with each other, just as the sea hurled itself onto the land and then retreated, an alternating series of ecstatic passion and tender emotion. The air was filled with the crackling of women’s silk stockings and the sound of men’s breathing and steps on the wooden floor. No one spoke, everyone danced, and people’s bodies obeyed their will and their passion.
Marianne’s soul took flight and was free.
Those present that evening swore for many years afterward that they had seen a white aura around Marianne’s body. The blue of her dress appeared to blaze with white-blue flames. A glow had formed around her, they said, and it was as if a priestess stood before them, calling to the moon with her song. Everyone danced themselves into a trance like none anyone had ever experienced. They loved life more than ever before and knew that it would never end.
At the end of the piece, Marianne gave a bow. The applause continued on and on, and joy coursed through her veins, illuminating her eyes like two blue gas flames. She felt as if she were floating as she strode off the stage into the crowd. She searched for Yann, but instead she spied Geneviève on the edge of the breakwater, away from the light and the warmth, staring out to the cold and the silence and the blackness.
“How I love you,” Geneviève whispered to the wind.
—
Alain untied the mooring ropes with deft fingers and then paused. He had felt something close to his ear. Something warm. A voice? He looked up with irritation. Genoveva? There it was again…Love…
Laurine hung back beside the stone wall, her fair hair gleaming in the nighttime wind like a bright flame. “Why don’t you swim?” she called down to him.
“Because I can’t!” he yelled angrily. He turned back toward Kerdruc. The music was tugging at his nerves, tearing his heart from his chest. He longed to grow wings and fly to her, to Geneviève.
…Love…
At last the rope came loose, and Alain reached for the oars. He stood in the middle of the boat as it slid out into the stream, trying to ignore its violent rocking, and cupped his hands to form a megaphone. “Genoveva!” Then more loudly, “Genoveva!” Nothing moved, apart from the dress fluttering in the wind. “I! Love! You!”
He started to row, and with every stroke he roared, “Genoveva. I. Love. You!”