When she had got back from Concarneau, her room was exactly as she had left it: the bed messy, the wardrobe open, roses in the vase. The only thing missing was Yann. The imprint of his head on the pillow was still visible.
The view from her window to the sea over Kerdruc’s breakwater, the old thatched cottages, the colorful boats and the swaying waters was just as it had been the first time she had seen it—so unsettlingly beautiful that it made the rest of the world difficult to bear.
She unpacked her bulky suitcase, went down to join Jean-Rémy in the kitchen, tied her apron around her waist and began to prepare batter for the pancakes, both sweet and savory, as if nothing had happened.
Jean-Rémy stared at her, his mouth gaping at first, then with a never-ending beaming smile. Geneviève Ecollier came into the kitchen and gave her a testing look. “Welcome back,” she said. “You’ve walked a long way to reach us at the end of the world.”
“And this is exactly where I want to stay,” replied Marianne.
“Fantastic. Champagne?”
Marianne nodded, and as they clinked glasses she said, “You can waste half your life only ever looking at the man who has caused you the greatest pain.”
“That’s typical of us women,” said Madame Ecollier after a while. “We think it’s a mark of bravery.”
“Thinking that someone else’s life is more important than your own?”
“Yes, it’s a reflex. Like the twelve-year-old girl who is placed at the exact position in the family where she disturbs everyone the least, punctually sets the table and clears away after her father, and waits patiently to be loved, as long as she behaves herself.”
“I think that’s stupid.”
“But only recently, right? Before that, you were stupid too and you didn’t even realize it. Everything was more sacred than yourself, and your own longings were the least sacred thing of all.”
Marianne thought of Lothar and nodded.
“You’ve changed,” said Madame Geneviève, her voice interrupting Marianne’s train of thought.
“People never change!” Marianne retorted. “We forget ourselves, and when we rediscover ourselves, we merely imagine that we have changed. That’s not true, though. You can’t change dreams; you can only kill them—and some of us are very good murderers.”
“Have you rekindled your dreams, Madame Lance?”
“I’m still looking for the rest of my dream,” whispered Marianne. And the part of me that dares to seize it. Oh Yann, forgive me. Please forgive me.
“Where’s Laurine got to?” she asked, trying to regain her composure.
“She has a job interview in Rozbras.”
“What? Why?”
Geneviève pursed her lips and left the kitchen. Marianne found Jean-Rémy smoking a joint outside the back door. She stood up as straight and tall as she could. “What. Have. You. Done?” She grew angrier with every word.
Jean-Rémy blew a smoke ring into the air.
“Slept with another woman,” he said with studied casualness. “It’s better that way. I’m not made for one woman, and definitely not for one like Laurine.”
Marianne pulled back her arm and dealt the young chef a resounding slap, which sent the joint spinning from his hand. His face twisted with suppressed anger, but he picked up the joint and hid his resentment behind an impassive expression. “Yann Gamé didn’t exactly look overjoyed when I saw him earlier either.”
Marianne slumped onto the stone step beside Jean-Rémy.
“Do you know what men do when they’re suffering, Marianne? They drink. They sleep with other women if they’re lucky enough to get it up despite their grief, and then they wait until things improve.”
He passed her the joint, and she took a quick drag, then a longer one.
“Merde,” she said disconsolately.
“Ya,” agreed Jean-Rémy.