Most meals aboard ship consisted of curried stew, which simmered in a great pot and to which the cook added potatoes and carrots and other vegetables throughout the voyage. Pierre and Zaharia ate with the crew, seated around a long table covered with a tattered sheet of oilcloth. The Pakistani boy leaned over his plate and ate ravenously, as though he had not eaten for days. Even while he ate, he could not take his eyes off Zaharia. He seemed astonished to see another boy aboard ship, and a privileged child at that. Zaharia did not even have to work.
Pierre and Zaharia slept on thin, soiled mattresses on metal bunks in the ship’s small dormitory. Like everyone else, they slept in their clothes. The room was steamy and smelled of sweat. Men snored and sighed and groaned in their sleep.
The night before they reached Marseille, Pierre took Zaharia up on deck. He looked around to make certain they were alone. “Here are some people you can contact in France,” he said, and pressed a paper into his son’s pocket. “In case you have to. And here is some money. Put it away where it will always be safe.”
“Why?” said Zaharia.
“Just in case,” said his father. “Do as I say.” His face was serious and stern, and he watched as Zaharia stuffed the money deep into his pants pocket.
Zaharia lay awake late into the night, trying to imagine what France might be like. He pictured it as a sort of paradise, with big shiny cars everywhere and plentiful food and palatial homes. Pale, handsome people smiled at him and said, “Welcome, Zaharia.”
It was already late in the morning when Zaharia woke up. He was alone in the dormitory. Sunlight found its way through the hatch and onto the dormitory floor in bright, thin strips. He heard the hollow sound of the ship grinding against the dock. He heard the muffled noises of the harbor and ran up on deck to find his father. Father and son gathered their belongings together and lined up with the crew. After showing their papers to the immigration officials who came on board, they were allowed ashore.
One of the Pakistanis had written the name of a cheap hotel on a piece of paper. “It’s a good place, and cheap,” he said. Pierre and the boy walked through the streets of Marseille following the Pakistani’s directions. This did not seem like France to Zaharia. It seemed more like North Africa. He heard Arabic everywhere, and the streets were filled with people who looked North African. It looked just like in Algiers. There was lots of noise and dirt. It did not seem like paradise.
There were open-fronted shops, food stalls, and restaurants everywhere, and the smell of cooking filled the air. Pierre bought two meat pies, and they sat in a small park eating them. Beggars sitting under trees nearby eyed them as they ate. “Let’s go,” said Pierre, throwing the rest of his pie in a trash can. A man in rags dug it out and began eating it as they walked away.
Pierre saw the fear and consternation in his son’s eyes, but he could think of nothing he could do or say to comfort him. If only they do not find me, he thought. He did not know whom he should fear more: the Americans or the Arabs. He wondered whether he should have trusted the Pakistani crewmen as he had, or Amir, for that matter. He only knew that he had left a broad trail behind him, which anyone wishing to do him harm would have little trouble following.
In fact, they did find Pierre, and they did so with relative ease. And even in his last seconds alive, as he saw their knives slashing down upon him, he still did not know who they were.
The Hôtel St. Denis, which the Pakistani had named, was in a narrow building on the rue St. Denis, in a residential quarter inhabited mainly by poor Arabs. The hotel was the only commercial establishment on the block, which otherwise consisted of shabby apartment blocks and an abandoned factory that had once made umbrellas. The tiny hotel lobby, a step up from the sidewalk, contained a small, chipped Bakelite table and two overstuffed chairs covered in green leatherette that was splitting at the arms. The proprietor was sitting in one of the chairs reading Le Monde when they arrived. In the other chair sat a huge Persian cat with green eyes and matted white hair.
The only decoration in the place was a framed reproduction of da Vinci’s Last Supper, hanging above the front door. It had evidently hung there for years, for the color had faded almost entirely, and everything was one shade of brown or another. The picture had apparently once been part of an advertising poster, for the words QUI SAIT? (who knows?) were still visible in large type across its center. The proprietor rose slowly from his chair as Pierre and Zaharia entered. The cat raised its head and looked at them. Pierre asked for a room and paid cash for four nights. The proprietor counted the money twice.
Their room was small and clean and sparsely furnished. There was a sagging iron bed, covered with a chenille bedspread, positioned against the wall to the left as you entered. A dresser with a mirror attached was against the opposite wall, and a wooden straight-back chair and a sink stood like sentries on either side of the door. The wooden floor had been scrubbed and polished over the years until there was no finish left on it, except around the edges of the room.
The high ceiling was painted white, and a plaster medallion in the center suggested that the building had seen better times. A small glass lamp hung from the medallion and, along with the pale yellow wallpaper with its pattern of little pink roses, somehow gave the room a cheerful aspect for which Pierre was grateful.
There was one small window, which did not close properly, opposite the door. It looked out onto an adjoining roof and, beyond that, to a tall building across an alley. That building’s windows were all sealed from inside with what appeared to be blue plastic. Ropes hung from the roof and ended halfway down the building. The plastic rattled and the ropes swung slightly when the wind blew. Pierre pulled down the window shade. There was a toilet just at the head of the stairs.
Early on their third morning in the St. Denis, just as the sun was coming up, Zaharia awoke to the sound of a commotion in the hall. His father was not in bed. Zaharia was about to open the door to see what was going on, but decided instead that he had better look through the keyhole first. He saw two men in policemen’s uniforms and two other men. Their faces were contorted and their brows were furrowed in concentration as they held his father down against the floor. Pierre was struggling mightily, arching his back and then collapsing, then arching again. He tried to kick out but they held his legs.
Pierre’s body arched one last time, and he seemed to remain in that position for a long time before his body sagged and he was finally still. Zaharia did not know what to do. He did not know whether the men would come for him, so he turned the key in the lock as silently as he could and got back into bed. He pulled the covers up and pretended to sleep.
Before long he heard sirens and the sound of men running up the stairs. Zaharia understood some French, but everyone was speaking at the same time and too quickly for him to make out what they were saying. Then there was a knock at the door.
Zaharia turned the key in the lock and opened the door. A tall policeman stood in front of him. The hallway was filled with police. Beyond them the toilet door was open. Blood had dripped down the sides of the toilet bowl and was splashed about on the door. At that moment a stretcher was being lifted by two attendants in yellow coats. Pierre lay on the stretcher, his head turned sideways, facing the boy. His skin was gray, and his open mouth had been stuffed with a huge wad of blue plastic. His wide eyes looked straight at his son, but they saw nothing. Zaharia knew his father was dead. Pierre’s head bobbed as he was carried down the stairs.
The tall policeman went down on one knee. His face was right in front of Zaharia. It looked like a kindly face, but it belonged to one of the men who had killed his father. “What’s your name, son?”
“Zaharia,” said the boy.
“Do you know what happened?”
“No.”
“Did you see or hear anything?”
“I was asleep.”
The policemen thought for a moment. “Your door was locked?”
“Yes,” said Zaharia.
“Do you have anyone you want us to call? Do you know anyone in Marseille?” said the policeman.
“No,” said the boy.
“Well, we’re going to finish up out here, son, and then we’ll come take you someplace where you’ll be safe. In the meantime, go back in your room and get your things together. I’ll be right back.”
Zaharia rolled his things into a bundle. He did the same with Pierre’s things. He sat on the bed and waited. He opened the shade and looked out the window at the building with the ropes hanging down. After a while, he heard a sound at the door. He looked through the keyhole but didn’t see anyone.
He opened the door, and the large white cat walked into the room. Zaharia watched the cat cross the room and jump onto the unmade bed. He walked over and sat down next to the cat. The cat looked up at Zaharia, and the boy thought of his father’s terrified eyes. He could not stop seeing them. He could feel the blue plastic as though it were in his own mouth, and he began to cry. Tears rushed down his cheeks and splashed on his shoulder blades. He wept bitterly, and yet he did not make a sound. He stroked the cat while he wept.
When Zaharia went downstairs, the cat followed. In front of the hotel, policemen were interviewing the proprietor and writing down his answers. Others were talking to neighbors, asking them what they might have seen or heard. The policeman with the kindly face was still there, so Zaharia went back upstairs. He picked up his small bundle of things, opened the window, and stepped through onto the roof of the adjoining building. He crossed the roof and found an unlocked door that led into a stairwell and down two flights to another door that opened onto the alley.
An hour later, Zaharia had found his way to the train station, where he sat on a bench, eating a pain au chocolat and wondering what he should do. There were crowds of people coming and going. He took the list of names his father had given him “just in case” from his pocket and studied them one by one. There were six names on the list, but they were all unknown to him, except for one: Louis Morgon, followed by the words Saint Leon sur Dême.
XI
The village of Pen’noch sits alone, out of the way and almost forgotten, among the stony cliffs at the southern end of the Bay of Audierne in the Finistère. The villages to its north and south are not only more attractive and more accessible, but they are also served by small, efficient hotels and several restaurants. And these towns have beaches that attract a regular stream of visitors. Pen’noch has none of these things.
You can get to Pen’noch by any one of three small roads, all three of which come from small villages inland, and all of which wind and twist their way along ancient rights-of-way through fields and marshes and woods. When the ocean is finally within sight and you imagine you have reached your destination, the three roads converge, and it is only at this point of convergence that a small sign announces the village of Pen’noch. You must still pass over the cliffs and descend toward the harbor, and only then does the village finally reveal itself. This particular configuration of roads suited Louis’s purposes well. There was only one way into Pen’noch, but there were three ways out, not counting the path along the coast heading north and south.
Of course, Louis knew that his arrival in Pen’noch would not go unnoticed. Like the inhabitants of small villages everywhere, and particularly those off the beaten track, the citizens of Pen’noch made it their business to scrutinize every stranger. If he did not stay, they watched him leave. If he did stay, they made it their business to know what had brought him. And they were unabashedly straightforward in this pursuit. They asked direct questions, they stared, and they exchanged information. They seemed to consider it their obligation and moral duty to know who was in their town and why. Though it might seem otherwise, this also recommended Pen’noch to Louis as a suitable hiding place. He knew that once he had told them his story, he could depend on the citizens of Pen’noch to establish his false identity for him.
Louis stepped from the cab in the Pen’noch square just above the harbor, and a group of three women and a man broke off what had, until that moment, been an animated conversation. They watched Louis pay the fare—they noticed that the taxi was from Quimper—and gather his things from the trunk. They watched as he crossed to the mairie—the town hall. He carried a knapsack on his back, a small suitcase, a plastic bag of groceries, and what appeared to be a large wooden briefcase.
When Louis left the mairie a short time later, they stared at him again. He nodded in their direction, but they did not smile or otherwise acknowledge his greeting. Nor did they avert their eyes until he was out of sight.
In the ten minutes it took Louis to walk along the path above the sea to a gray stone cottage with blue shutters and to turn the key in the lock, they had learned from Natalie Lechamp, the secretary on duty in the mairie, that he was Louis Bertrand, an Irish painter, and he had rented the small cottage owned by the mayor. The odd wooden box he carried held his paints and brushes. It had legs that unfolded so that it also served as an easel. Monsieur Bertrand spoke excellent French, but with a slight accent. He appeared to be an amiable man. He had not said how long he intended to stay, but he had rented the cottage for two months with the provision that he could extend the lease.
That evening Louis stood in line at the bakery behind the same three women. He greeted them as though he knew them. “Mesdames,” he said, and tipped his hat. This time they nodded in return. Within not too many days, almost everyone in Pen’noch had laid eyes on Louis and thought they knew his business.
Another thing about village life in France, and perhaps everywhere else in the world as well, is that a stranger, no matter how long he stays, remains a stranger. Even if he is accepted and becomes part of village life, it is as the village stranger, which is not unlike the village pharmacist or the village doctor or the village teacher or, in some cases, the village idiot.
If the stranger is accepted over time, the people of the village become his mentors and protectors. They take great satisfaction in teaching him their ways. They correct the errors and missteps that he commits with astonishing regularity, and they praise his astuteness when he does or knows something a stranger might not be expected to do or know.
One sunny day shortly after his arrival, Louis carried his paint kit to the dock. He extended the legs under the portable easel, placed a canvas on the tray, and began to paint. He had not painted the ocean before, and he found the constantly changing light frustrating and difficult. After a time, Louis turned to see a man standing behind him, studying the canvas he was working on. “You’ve gotten the prow wrong,” said the man. “The arc of her. You’ve got her like this, but she’s more like this.” The man moved one hand and then the other to show Louis what he meant.
“Ah,” said Louis. He studied the boat and then the painting. “You’re right.”
“Of course,” said the man. “And the mast is a bit too far forward.” The man paused. “You see, I built her,” he added finally, half by way of explanation, and half as apology.
“You built her?” said Louis. He lowered his brush and turned to face the man again. “You have built a beautiful thing, monsieur. I take my hat off to you.” And Louis actually lifted his hat.
The man smiled in return. “Forgive me for speaking up. I could not help myself, monsieur. I apologize. I am not a critic. I can see you are an excellent painter. But”—the man shrugged—”I built her.”
“Have you built many boats, monsieur?” asked Louis.
“I have,” said the man. “Thirty-six, to be precise. I am Jean Pierre Lamarche, monsieur. I live just over there.”
“I am Louis Bertrand,” said Louis. The men shook hands. “May I invite you, monsieur?” said Louis, motioning with his head to the small bar that faced the mairie.
The men sat at one of the tables on the square. Jean Pierre drank a glass of beer and Louis drank cold cider from a small ceramic cup. The sharp, sweet taste bit into Louis’s tongue. He closed his eyes and felt the sun on his arms.
It turned out that Jean Pierre Lamarche was also a stranger. He was originally from Paris, where he had been a professor of literature at the Sorbonne. He had left Paris in 1978 and come to live in Pen’noch full-time, more or less. “My grandparents were from the Finistère, near Douarnenez. My fondest memories are of summers spent at their house. My grandfather built boats, and when I was a teenager, he began teaching me. I helped him in his workshop and learned from the ground up. I suppose it was all but inevitable that I would build boats, once I came to live in the Finistère, that is.”
Over the last twenty-five years, Jean Pierre had acquired a reputation in this corner of Brittany as a builder of fine small sloops. He built them using only hand tools and traditional methods, and he had orders for as many boats as he wanted to build.
Jean Pierre’s wife had died a year earlier. And so, while the two men took an immediate liking to one another, it was sadness that cemented their friendship. “Marianne and I were married forty years. We spent great blocks of time apart. She adored Paris and I did not. She did not like the sea. She was cold most of the time she spent out here. She couldn’t wait to get back to Paris.
“She stayed in Paris most of the time, and I stayed here in Pen’noch. But only now that she is dead do I notice and comprehend her absence. Her absence is complete and total. It cannot be undone. I cannot go to Paris and find her there. A day apart from someone who has died is far worse than a day, or a month, for that matter, apart from someone who is alive. When someone is alive, there is always the possibility that the absence will end.”
Louis spoke only reluctantly about Solesme. Her death was more recent, and he feared the power it held over him. The thought of her touch, the feel of her warm skin beneath his fingers, rendered him almost incapable of speech. But he found, at the same time, that speaking of her with Jean Pierre, who was gentle and understanding, revived for him somehow the happiness he and Solesme had shared. He was grateful to be able to speak of her and to recollect their shared life.
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