Marianne roamed through the garden that she and Pascale had transformed over the past week by tirelessly planting bushes, saplings and seeds—columbine and godetia, poppies and hollyhocks, oleander and myrtle. They had fed the hydrangeas with lime and dug over the vegetable patch. The heavily laden fruit bushes were in magnificent shape, the hawthorn and anemones winked among them and the ground was covered with ranunculus, violets and tiny strawberries that had not yet ripened.
How she loved to burrow her bare hands into the soil! In fact, since she had been out at sea with Yann, she loved everything she did. She loved the enchantment of this part of the world, forged from granite and quartz, water and light. Magic was everywhere, even in butter cake, known as gâteau breton or kouign-amann. Mix flour, fresh eggs, salted butter and sugar in more or less equal parts, and don’t knead for too long. Some said that it took a sprinkling of magic to make a kouign so good that it would enchant a person’s heart forever, so they would never forget where they had eaten their first slice.
“White witches should be very skilled at baking,” Pascale said as she showed her how to prepare the gâteau breton, but however hard she tried, Marianne’s cakes never tasted as luscious and as enticing as Pascale’s.
Marianne, who had never liked washing dishes, loved Ar Mor’s scullery. She even loved the obdurate Jean-Rémy, whom she forced to write a love letter to Laurine every evening after work. He could never bring himself to send the letters, though, hiding them instead in an old lettuce crate in the cooler.
In the Goichons’ stone shed Marianne found a scythe that was perfect for licking into shape the grass along the drive and between the holly bushes and apple trees, as the quails and orioles sang a song for her. She saw Emile peering out of the kitchen window as she set about mowing around the garage. She gave him a nod. She noticed that he was trembling a lot today, but she’d realized that he preferred her to pretend she hadn’t seen anything.
Shortly afterward, the old Breton appeared at her side and motioned to her to follow him. They went over to the garage, whose door he opened with a squeal of hinges. In the half-light, Marianne could make out an old white Jaguar, and beside it, against the wall, a dusty Vespa, a bicycle, petrol canisters and some gas cartridges. He handed her a slip of paper and pulled some banknotes from his pocket.
Marianne stared at the list. Lightly salted butter, milk, goat’s cheese, oranges…
Emile tossed the car key to her.
“Monsieur, I can’t drive that truc.”
Emile rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue in irritation. He pointed to the car, opened the driver’s door and gestured to the seat.
“I…I can’t do it! I’m not allowed to! I’m never allow—” Once she was inside, Emile slammed the door shut. Marianne started to cry.
A quarter of an hour later, she was steering the British-built sedan along a narrow bumpy track through the woods.
“Open your eyes!” Emile ordered, as the car bounced through a tight gap between two beeches and the right-hand side mirror was knocked inward. She raised her eyelids.
She had sobbed so hard that Emile felt as if he’d behaved like a complete pig. Finally he had passed her his crumpled handkerchief and laid his left hand on hers on the gearshift. When he pushed down, she depressed the clutch, and he guided her hand and the stick into the next gear.
“Come on, accelerate!” The Jaguar leaped forward. She slammed on the brakes and took her foot off the clutch, and the engine stalled. “Not like that!” Emile clapped his hands angrily. “Again.”
She started the engine and they jerked forward out of the woods and onto the street that ran through Kerdruc.
“Madame, there is a third gear,” groaned Emile, “and a fourth. Put your foot down. Allez!”
They sped along the main road toward Névez. Marianne stared wide-eyed at the asphalt: it looked like a gray waterfall flowing under the wheels of the car. Little trickles of sweat had formed under her armpits.
She put the pedal to the floor, and Emile screwed up his eyes. His speechless gestures ensured that they made it to the supermarket in Névez, where Marianne swung the car to a halt across two parking spaces. She peeled her trembling hands from the leather steering wheel. “Phew!” she gasped, her eyes glowing.
Emile was smiling as he got out of the car, but he turned his face away before Marianne could catch his expression. He wasn’t finished with her yet. Once in the supermarket, he introduced her to Laurent, a jolly-looking man behind the well-stocked meat counter. Laurent had a perfectly spherical head, a waxed mustache, twinkling chestnut eyes and a thin wreath of hair.
“Enchanté, Madame Marie-Anne,” he said, winking as he stretched his hand across the counter. This done, Emile nodded to Marianne, gave her the money and the list again, and sat down in the small café between the car park and the petrol station to wait until Marianne had finished. He didn’t intend to help her with the shopping. If this woman truly wanted to stand on her own two feet, then there was no way he was going to carry her!
When they had driven back to Kerdruc and tidied away the shopping into the larder and the fridge, Marianne wound up for a thank-you speech, but Emile cut her off with a dismissive wave. “Thank you,” she said anyway. “For that, and for the driving lesson.”
“E-keit ma vi en da sav, e kavi bazh d’en em harpañ,” Emile whispered, as if reading her mind. As long as you can walk upright, you will find a walking stick. As long as you are brave, someone will help you.
She glanced at the gnarled old man. This was the first time he had wasted so much breath. Furthermore, he was smiling kindly at her.
Pascale came tottering out of the bedroom in Emile’s pajamas and a pair of rubber boots. She bent forward to kiss Emile, sighing, her eyes half shut. He loved her so much.
“Do you still want to kill yourself, Marianne?” asked Emile, and Pascale raised a hand to her lips in shock, ready to stifle the cry that was trying to spill out of her throat.
Marianne turned pale. “How do you know about that?”
Emile tapped on his heart. “Why did you come here to die?” He asked it as calmly as if he were enquiring about her plans for dinner.
“I wanted to see the sea,” answered Marianne.
“The sea,” repeated Emile. His eyes were focused on Marianne’s. “The sea contains both turmoil and profound silence. There are no ties between it and us, yet we still yearn for it to understand our thoughts and actions. And did the sea want you?”
“I would gladly have drowned in it,” Marianne said quietly. “It would have buried everything. First it would have swept over my head and then it would have forgotten me. That’s how it was supposed to be: I was on a quest for death.”
“But then?” Pascale asked anxiously.
“Then life intervened.”
Marianne made it back to the restaurant just in time for the evening shift, and found a white rose in front of her door. It had a delicate scent of raspberries. Next to it lay a postcard of Penmarc’h chapel, which had given her such a powerful reminder of her desire to live.
Yann.