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CHAPTER 1
CHARLES
As I ate, I studied the cockroach. This one was real; I was sure of it. Squatted on the edge of the restaurant’s decked terrace, camouflaged like a dark stain against the wooden struts. Biding his time.
My sleazy unwelcome companion had a discerning palate; the oysters here were plump and springy, the langoustines refined and sweet. The house wine surpassed my expectations too, a subtle and elegant rosé with a delicate hint of vanilla and an even more delicate blush. And chilled to perfection; a dribble of condensation, like a solitary tear, trickled down the outside of my glass.
I imagined my mother sitting opposite, sharing the bottle.
Balancing an armful of empty plates, an older waiter weaved expertly through the early evening diners. Skinny and too hot after a day bussing tables. A waft of magnolia-scented breeze trailed in his wake. Sensing an adversary, like the wiliest of veterans, the cockroach retreated a few inches. As did the grim palette of charcoals swirling around my head the creature induced. As a second waiter approached, he scuttled back into the shadows, out of sight, thus permitting me the rare dignity of a convincing social interaction.
“Peut-être un petit dessert ou un café, monsieur?”
With a polite shake of my head, I requested the bill. He left, and within a minute, the cockroach resumed his sentry post in the lee of the pretty shrubs bordering the terrace. My internal monochrome colour wheel reappeared too, no less vigilant, saddled once more across my shoulders. Defiant little bastards, both of them.
The stroll from the restaurant back home took me on a meandering route through shallow salt marshes anchoring the village of Loix to the rest of the island. A tenuous maze of clay paths snaked around them. My mother would have liked it here. We’d have hired bikes—two of the ubiquitous old-fashioned sit-up-and-beg ones—and explored. I’d have attempted to persuade her to try an oyster—she’d have refused and settled for a simple cheese platter instead. And of course, I’d have relented.
For an instant, her familiar buttery-yellow filled my senses.
I followed the main track, wider than the others and bolstered into a thoroughfare big enough for cyclists and pedestrians. Tangerine streaks split the dome of blue sky, heralding dusk. Soon the paths would fall silent, and night would descend. Soon I could tick off another day.
Only minutes from greeting the horizon with a fiery kiss, the setting sun attracted both amateur and professional photographers alike. A west-facing crowd had already gathered around the edges of the biggest salt marsh bordering the village, phones and cameras at the ready. Most of them pointed at the salt harvester.
He bent over his rake, a dark silhouette against the orangey glow. At this time of an evening, I was yet to decide whether his presence was a necessary component of his job, or whether he was employed by the island’s tourism committees to complete the dusk tableau for the benefit of the tourists. Nonetheless, as the dying sun shimmered over the crystal lakes, daubing them in every warm shade from liquid bronze to a darting quicksilver, the young salt harvester commanded centre stage. And like a thousand angry crickets, the camera-clicking began.
Salt harvesting seemed a solitary occupation. It was rare to see two harvesters working side by side, as if a magical charm prevented them hopping from one marsh to another. Perhaps they would transform into pillars of salt themselves if they attempted it. Or from handsome bronzed gods to wizened old men, punished by an ancient island spell.
Or maybe I’d had one too many glasses of rosé.
I wandered by, pondering idly how they occupied themselves when they weren’t farming the salt marshes. Was it a hobby or a full-time job? Was the delicate and rare art of extracting salt a guarded secret, handed only down the male line? Because I hadn’t spotted any female ones. Or perhaps I’d been right all along; after the photos were taken and the sun dropped below the horizon, the young man now dragging his wooden rake across the shallow pond, shielding his face with a straw Panama, would lay down his tools, collect his earnings, and be on his way.
I reached my village house, rented for the summer, to find that Marcus, my oldest friend and business partner had texted. And just like that, my pulse quickened. An orange mist, its edges blurred, simmered behind my eyes. I hesitated, my finger hovering over my phone, knowing he’d see the message switch to read as soon as I clicked. And then tapped anyway; the damn thing would be ringing if I didn’t respond, and I’d be forced to speak to him.
Our nightly text conversations played out like one of those humorous social media lists; what British people say versus what they really mean.
How are you today, Charles? (Surely you must be feeling better by now. It’s been bloody ages.)
The mist in my mind burned an umber warning as my thumbs automatically answered on my behalf. I’m fine, Marcus. (I’m still broken.)
Great! You’re finally on the mend! How’s the weather? And the grub? (I don’t know what to say to you anymore.)
Hot and sunny. The seafood is delicious. (Yet it sits like ash on my tongue.)
Oh, by the way, they were asking after you in the office today. (The primary purpose of this text is to find out when you’re coming back. For God’s sake, please say soon.)
Send everyone my regards, Marcus. (I’m still broken.)
CHAPTER 2
FLORIAN
“These aren’t my clothes, are they?”
“Yes, Papi, they are.”
“Oh.”
The old man pulled at his checked shirt in puzzlement. This new and depressing development had fast established itself as an integral part of our morning routine. Maybe a sticker next to his wardrobe might help, with the words Gilberte’s clothes written in capital letters.
