It was a very special afternoon. Jordi led her through the streets of Céret, taking her hand at one point to lead her through a small gap, and then forgetting to let go again. They roamed past statues by Manolo, one image of Catalan womanhood, and another outside the bullfighting arena which depicted a slim, elegant toreador and supposedly paid homage to all the bullfighters of the world. Madeleine had a problem with this, and was glad to leave the arena behind them, but Jordi laughed at her, and told her she wouldn’t be a true Catalan until she had witnessed her first bullfight.
‘I’ll just have to stay French, then,’ she retorted, laughing as Jordi bowed ceremoniously to the toreador as if about to take to the ring. And then they moved on, further out of the town, towards the Devil’s Bridge and the open countryside. They passed fields of cherry trees, some already picked clean, others laden with fruit, and Jordi told her about the forthcoming Cherry Festival, for which Céret was famous.
‘You’ll see the Sardane danced again,’ he said, ‘which hasn’t been danced since Franco came to power. It’s still banned in Spain, you know, because the authorities think it is used to send secret signals between rebels.’
It was hard to worry about the troubles of the Catalans this afternoon, when Jordi spoke of her joining him for the festival in just a couple of weeks’ time, and took for granted that she would be with him. And he too, this afternoon, had forgotten the burdens which so often seemed to saddle his life, and was alive with energy.
The Devil’s Bridge was a fantastic medieval arch spanning the River Tech, joining the town to the fields beyond. There was a local legend about a pact with the devil, and a missing stone the devil had removed from the bridge, but the really magical thing about this bridge, Madeleine thought, was the view. To the south was Céret itself, and beyond it was Spain, and the path through the mountains that Madeleine had followed herself as a tiny refugee. To the east was the coast, too distant to see, with the plains of Roussillon in between, and to the west was the Vallespir, the wooded valley which climbed into the Pyrenees, the length of the Tech river. Céret, Jordi told her, was the capital of the Vallespir, and above it were the middle and high Vallespir, lush hunting ground and home to the Maquis in wartime.
They stood together on the high arched bridge, contemplating the river, which stretched away on both sides, shallow after a long spell without rain, bumping serenely over the rocks which jumbled the river bed, and untouched by the wind which whistled around the top of the pointed arch. It was a warm wind, not the cold mountain wind, the Tramontane, but it freshened the air nevertheless after days of unseasonal hot days. Perhaps imagining a chill in the air, Jordi stood behind Madeleine and placed his hands on her bare shoulders.
‘Look,’ he said, pointing her towards the east, in the direction of the sea. ‘Look how dark the sky is over there – the rain has already reached the coast. It’ll be raining in Vermeilla right now. It’ll be here, too, before tonight.’
Madeleine looked up at the sky above them, still the same azure blue, just peppered with clouds. It was hard to imagine rain, after this week of unbroken sunshine in the deep latitudes of the south.
Turning her head she caught Jordi looking at her, and blushed. ‘Then it’s lucky I came inland to see you, isn’t it,’ she stammered, and stopped as his head came down and he kissed her.
For a moment Madeleine didn’t move. I’ve met this man three times, she thought, then, What would Grandmother say? And then she turned to face him fully, and hooked her arms around his neck as she brought his lips to hers again.
She couldn’t remember much later of what they said that afternoon, or where they went. They roamed through the cherry trees, and Jordi plucked fruit to feed to her, his fingers staining red and ruining her clothes as he held her again and again. He seemed to shed a weight that day, and was like a boy, teasing her, climbing onto high branches to look for better fruit, laughing at her as they forded the river, jumping from islet to islet, drenching their clothes in water. Her sandals would be beyond repair, Madeleine thought, but her bare legs dried in minutes in the sunshine.
All her past life, all their joint past struggles, were forgotten that afternoon. Madeleine felt as though she had grown wings, and every challenge Jordi laid down for her she leapt to meet, her hand in his, and her windblown face turning constantly towards his.
By the time they regained the stone-lined streets of Céret the sky had covered over, and it was growing dark. A spot of rain hit Madeleine as they turned into Jordi’s little alleyway, and he looked up with some concern.
‘We’re in for a downpour, and I have to take you back on the motorbike. You’ll be soaked.’
‘So will you, mon ami, and you have to do the journey twice!’
‘It would be madness to do the journey right now. We’d be driving straight into the storm. My suggestion would be that you stay here for a while, and we can have dinner before you go back, and wait for a break in the rain. What do you think? Do we drown you now or try not to drown you later?’
‘Later!’ Madeleine voted without hesitation, returning his long, slow smile. ‘But I’ll have to call the hotel, so that Uncle Bernard doesn’t worry.’
They went to a nearby café, and while Jordi negotiated for use of the phone the owner brought Madeleine a glass of sweet wine similar to the Banyuls of the coast. She waited for Jordi, and they drank together, clinking glasses.
‘Salut i pau,’ he toasted her in Catalan. Health and peace.
‘We especially need the peace!’ she joked, and went off to make her call.
At the Hotel Bon Repos the phone was answered almost immediately, and Mme Curelée’s voice came through very indistinct across the crackly line. You could almost hear the rain on the phone lines, thought Madeleine. She asked for Bernard, and had to shout to make herself heard.
‘He isn’t here, Mademoiselle,’ came the reply. ‘Philippe Lemont came looking for him a couple of hours ago, saying the young boy Perrens had gone missing, and they both went off together.’
‘Missing? Martin? Where has he gone?’
‘Nobody knew, it seemed, but why they are worrying when a young lad takes some time for mischief is a mystery to me.’
Madeleine felt a sharp stab of worry. ‘What is the weather like there, Mme Curelée? Is it still raining?’
‘Raining! We have such a storm as I haven’t seen for years. The quayside is ankle-deep in water, Mademoiselle, and you need to take care coming to the hotel. We have sandbags in front of the door to stop the water coming in.’
Madeleine could hear the harassed tone in Mme Curelée’s voice even through the distorted phone line. She said goodbye and hung up, and returned to the table, where Jordi had already caught the worry on her face.
‘Martin has disappeared,’ she told him. ‘Something has happened. You were right, Jordi.’
‘What information could you get?’ He didn’t waste time with exclamations or surprise.
‘Nothing more. Mme Curelée obviously thinks there is nothing to worry about, and that he must be off on some boy’s adventure, but she doesn’t know the background, and she’s more worried about the rain and the floods.’
‘You want to get back.’ It was a statement, not a question.
Fifteen minutes later they were on the road, Jordi’s only waterproof jacket in thick leather wrapped firmly around Madeleine, despite her protestations. It took well over an hour to make the journey, often through rain which made the road almost impassable and cut visibility down to a yard or two in front of them. Madeleine hung on to Jordi, and tried not to think of what might have happened in Vermeilla. Rain poured down her face and plastered her hair to her head under her scarf, her skirts created a puddle of water which froze the thighs, and her bare calves almost lost feeling in the stormy winds.
Eventually they rode into the outskirts of Vermeilla, and the street lights made their progress easier. Jordi shouted to ask where they were going, and Madeleine directed him to the Café de Catalogne. Jordi nodded and said nothing, and suddenly Madeleine was reminded of Jordi’s vow never to come to Vermeilla. And here she was directing him to the home of the very people who had ruined his father’s life.
But only at the café could they learn what had happened, and as they drew up outside Jordi didn’t hesitate to follow Madeleine towards the café door. As she looked into his face, though, she saw none of the carefree Jordi of this afternoon. He had the burdened look which she had earlier seen disappear, but perhaps, she hoped, not quite the hard-edged look of earlier in the week. As she scanned his face he gave her a quick smile, and squeezed her hand.
‘We’d better find out what’s been happening,’ he said briefly, and she led the way inside.
The warmth of the café hit them as they stepped through the door. It was deserted, except for the barman, and, at a table far to the rear, Bernard and Philippe, deep in discussion with a local policeman. As Madeleine and Jordi approached, the policeman picked up what looked like a map from the table and headed past them towards the door, pulling his rain cape over his head as he did so.
He gave them a curious look as he passed them, and Madeleine realised they must make a strange sight, two completely drenched people dripping water from every part of their bodies and clothing. If her face looked like Jordi’s, then they were both white and strained from cold and the stress of the journey. Philippe and Bernard were looking at them both with astonishment.
‘Bonsoir, mes oncles,’ Madeleine rushed into speech. ‘Uncle Bernard, this is Jordi, who brought me back on his motorbike. We got,’ she said, gesturing helplessly to their clothes, ‘a bit wet. But when I called the hotel Mme Curelée told me Martin had gone missing, so I thought I’d better get right back.’
The two men were still gazing at them blankly, but finally Philippe pulled himself together and got up to greet Jordi, and called to the barman to bring coffee and brandy, and towels. They rubbed the worst of the wet from their hair and clothes, dried their faces, and wrapped the towels around themselves to ease the shivers which set in as soon as they began to react to the warmth of the café.
‘You need to get changed into dry gear,’ declared Bernard. ‘But you probably want to know what’s happened here before you go.’ Madeleine nodded, and sat down to drink her coffee. Jordi sat in a chair in the background and watched, nursing his hot coffee cup in his hands.
‘Where’s Colette?’ asked Philippe, and Bernard gestured towards the stairs.
‘Upstairs. She’s preparing food for the search party. She won’t come down just now.’
Philippe nodded. Madeleine was shocked by his appearance. His bony, boyish face was tightly drawn and he seemed suddenly older, furrowed, and his very movements were hesitant as he began to speak, his hands held open almost in supplication.
‘Colette told Martin today,’ he explained. ‘I’ve been urging her to tell him the truth, because it seemed to me that above all we needed to avoid him learning it by chance, from some dropped word or by overhearing a conversation. Think how awful that would have been!
‘But I think now I was wrong. It should have waited until Colette was calmer, and had got over this week a bit and made her peace with Daniel. Too much haste, that’s always been my weakness, and not enough thought.’
His voice raised briefly in self-anger, and then he looked towards the stairs and checked himself. Madeleine kept her voice gentle as she questioned.
‘So what happened?’
‘Well, she told him. She tells me it was incredibly difficult, and he wanted to know all about his real father, and how he had died, and why he had died, and Colette said she just couldn’t tell him the whole truth about Jean-Pierre, and was controlling how much information she gave out. But she was crying, and Martin’s voice was raised, and they made too much noise, and Jean-Pierre came through to the sitting room. He doesn’t move about much on his own, you know, so nobody ever expects him to appear. But today he did, just at the wrong moment, and he started yelling at Martin, saying he was nothing but a common bastard, and his mother was a whore, and that his “father” had just got what was coming to him, and Martin had been lucky to have house room all these years, and more to that effect. Colette couldn’t tell me everything – she was shaking like a leaf when I spoke to her. Anyway, Martin screamed back, saying he hated him, and had always hated him, and called him despicable, and a murderer, and when Colette appealed to him he told her he hated her too, and left, ran out of the room and away, and no one has seen him since.’
‘How long ago did it happen?’
‘About three o’clock. He came home early from school because a teacher was ill, and it was a quiet moment here in the café, which is why Colette decided to talk to him. What time is it now? Eight o’clock? So five hours ago.’
‘But wouldn’t he have gone to a friend’s house?’
Philippe shook his head in desperation. ‘We’ve checked everywhere. Daniel thought he might have gone up to the vineyard, to his shed, but he’s not there or in any of the other sheds up there. And we checked the school. But of course he could have taken the bus to almost anywhere. It’s the bad weather which is worrying people, including Henri, the policeman you saw just now. Now that it’s dark and some hours have gone by, a good few people in the village have become involved. They just know that a teenager had an argument with his parents, but they’re worried nonetheless, and since the fishermen won’t be out this evening we have a good-sized squad looking for him.’
Bernard nodded, and added, ‘Philippe and I have been given the unofficial role of coordinators, so we get to stay in the dry. What’s worrying us most is that it had barely begun to rain when he ran off, and he only had on his school shorts and shirt. So we’re really hoping he’s taken shelter somewhere.’
‘Yes.’ The voice was Jordi’s, coming from the shadows, and Bernard looked at him in surprise, as though he’d forgotten he was there.
‘Yes,’ said Jordi. ‘You only have to look at the state of Madeleine and me after an hour or so on the motorbike. If he hasn’t found shelter he’ll be in real danger. Poor kid, we need to find him quickly. So tell us, where are your team looking, and where is left to cover?’
Philippe looked at him in amazement. ‘There’s no need for you to go looking, Jordi! No point either – you don’t even know what Martin looks like.’
‘No, I don’t, but Madeleine does.’
‘You can’t mean to take a girl out on a search like this? In this weather?’
‘Madeleine isn’t a girl, she’s a woman. You’ll come with me, won’t you, ma belle?’
Madeleine nodded vehemently. ‘We just need to change clothes first, that’s all, and we need some oilskins. And you need to tell us where to look. But my worry is that he doesn’t want to be found. If he’s hiding somewhere, how on earth is anyone going to find him unless he comes out voluntarily?’
‘That would be all right, Madeleine.’ Jordi was incisive. ‘It actually doesn’t matter if everyone is out there looking for nothing, provided the boy is safe somewhere. That’s the best case scenario for all of us.’
There was a silence. Madeleine stood up abruptly. ‘Come on, then, let’s get looking. You’ll tell us where to go, Uncle Philippe?’
Philippe nodded. ‘Get changed, and then I suggest you cover the whole beach area again as far as the coast path. It’s been done, but some time ago, and now the search has moved away up into the hills and further along the coast path. I’ve been worried that Martin might be hiding in the rocks almost anywhere behind the beach further along, and in the dark no one would find him if he kept well hidden. But now the teams have moved on, there’s just a chance he may not be hiding so intently.’
Bernard looked at Jordi’s muscular frame, and then down at his own rather rounded figure, and gestured towards Philippe.
‘You’d be better borrowing clothes from Philippe than from me,’ he said ruefully. ‘Although to my mind Philippe is too tall, and his trousers will hang off you.’
‘No,’ Philippe shook his head. ‘That’s no good. What we need is Daniel’s clothes. He’s a bit taller and thinner, but his fishing overalls are loose and would do you very well, Jordi. Come with me and we’ll ask Colette.’
He made towards the stairs, and then turned back to see that Jordi hadn’t moved. He was still sitting in his chair against the wall, looking straight at Philippe without speaking, and his whole body said no. Philippe looked nonplussed, and Madeleine thought, they don’t understand what this means for Jordi, even to have come into this café. He can’t go upstairs, where Jean-Pierre lives. Doesn’t Philippe see that? She moved from where she was standing towards Philippe, until she was positioned almost protectively in front of Jordi.
‘Why don’t you get the clothes, Uncle Philippe, and then Jordi can change at the hotel, in Uncle Bernard’s room?’
Philippe nodded, still perplexed, but too preoccupied to question. He disappeared up the stairs and came back some minutes later with a clean set of overalls, and some fresh underwear which he passed surreptitiously to Jordi as though afraid Madeleine might see them. He also had two sets of oilskin jackets and trousers.
‘These will fall off you, Madeleine, but you can always tie the trousers around the waist. It’s better than getting wet again, like before.’
Bernard came with them to the hotel, leaving Philippe to man the café in case of news. Madeleine rubbed her body roughly with a dry towel, and threw new clothes on, covering herself afterwards with the smelly oilskins, and then hurried downstairs again to find Bernard and Jordi already waiting for her in the hallway.
‘Very elegant, my dear,’ murmured Bernard with a smile. Madeleine grinned back.
‘Catalan fashions, my uncle,’ she answered.
Jordi laughed. ‘Right, let’s go.’ They went out into the unabated storm, leaving Bernard to make a hurried dash back to the café.
The night closed around them, and the rain drove into their eyes from the dark, angry waters of the harbour.
‘We go all the way along to the left to start,’ Madeleine shouted to make herself heard, and they began a cold, fruitless search, along the village seafront, from the end of the sea wall, with nothing but open sea beyond, where huge breakers crashed over the wall and poured over their oilskins, and Jordi held Madeleine to stop her slipping. There was nowhere to hide here, with nothing but the sea wall and the stone-flagged quayside all around, and the quayside stretching before them in front of the village streets seemed equally fruitless, but as the beach opened up on their left, Jordi roamed it back and forth, almost to the seafront and back, and again, and again, covering the bare sand, although nothing could possibly be there, surely. Then the fishing boats loomed ahead, drawn up as high as possible on the beach, away from the waves, and tied firmly to avoid any danger of them being swept away. They searched the boats, the nets, the boxes of equipment. Their night sight had improved, but there was no sign of a living form.
They moved on, holding hands for spurious warmth, and headed along the beach away from the village, to where the tourists would swim, and where Madeleine had lain only two days before, eating lunch in the sunshine at the very end, by the rocks and the tiny stream. There were rocks behind them all along the beach, and here was where Philippe had thought Martin might hide. It seemed unlikely to Madeleine. Surely a boy wanting to run from hurt would head much further from home, but the other searchers would be covering other areas, and Philippe wanted them here. They could only make a small contribution, especially as neither of them knew the area.
So they searched. The gaps between the rocks were large enough for a young boy to push through, and there were obviously holes behind where he could huddle. They pushed into each hole as far as they could, Madeleine first, as the slimmer of the two, flashing her torch into the darkest corners, with Jordi supporting her from behind. They called non-stop for Martin as well, but there was nothing there, nothing even this black night could hide.
They turned their attention to the area above the rocks, Jordi clambering up, and then reaching down to help Madeleine to follow him. Up here was a broad ledge with scrubby bushes, and behind that a sheer rock face that no one could have climbed. They raked through the bushes, making their way cautiously along the rocks in the lashing rain towards the end of the beach. Ahead the ledge opened up, and they came to the path which led up from the beach to join the coastal path to Collioure.
‘Not that way,’ Madeleine said, pointing up to the right. ‘That’s the path, and the search party are already along there. We have to stick to the beach.’
Jordi nodded, and wiped drops of rain off her frozen nose.
‘You all right?’ His voice was impossibly tender in the circumstances, and Madeleine leant upwards for a kiss.
‘Doing just fine,’ she reassured him. ‘Let’s keep going.’
He took her hand again, and they headed down the path back to the beach. There were a few more rocks behind the beach which were quickly covered, and then they were at the end. Ahead was the little outlet of water, barely a stream two days ago, surrounded by rocks, where Madeleine had washed her face and hands. Tonight it was a raging torrent of white water, bursting through and over the rocks towards the sea. It was impossible to get closer than several yards away.
There certainly won’t be anything here, Madeleine thought, but Jordi had taken a step further up the beach, away from the sea, to where there was a bigger lump of rock which stood proud of the cascading water. He leapt for a point halfway up the rock where a piece jutting out gave him a foothold. Madeleine watched and held her breath as he climbed up, and stood on the top of the rock, with the wind almost taking his feet away, and the rock slippery beneath him. He scanned the jumble of rocks beyond the torrent, and pulled the torch from his pocket to flash it across the water.
He scrambled back down the rock, and exclaimed urgently.
‘There’s something there. Something white, on the rocks, way past the water, but I have no idea how you would get to it.’
‘I don’t know, Madeleine, but it could be. It isn’t moving.’
Madeleine felt her blood run cold.
‘What can we do?’ she said.
‘We need help. There must be some way to get to those rocks, but we may need ropes, and we definitely need someone who knows the terrain.’
‘Let’s go,’ Madeleine said. And then, ‘Do you think he’s alive, Jordi?’
‘I don’t know. I just don’t know. But he could be, and as long as that’s the case, we can hope.’
Hope. Take back the news and hope. Wanderer, your footsteps are the road. Let him be alive, prayed Madeleine, and we’ll make a way forward. I promise you, Martin, we’ll make a way forward.
She reached for Jordi, and together they ran back along the beach towards the village.