his cap and appeared ill at ease as he drank his glass of rosé which Emile had just poured out for him.
It was nothing in itself, but it was the same with everybody.
'Is Emile in?'
'No. He's gone down to Cannes.'
'It doesn't matter. I'll look in again later.'
'Can't I give him a message?'
'Don't bother.'
People knew his habits, knew where to find him. A kind of freemasonry was being created around Berthe, against her, which constantly opposed her.
'You haven't seen my husband?'
Instead of replying, people would look at her with an artificially innocent air as if they were trying not to give him away.
To avenge himself for Paola's departure, Emile had bought a little boat, a second-hand pointu. He had wanted one for a long time. For him it represented part of the Midi; it was the complement of La Bastide, of the games of bowls outside the post office at Mouans-Sartoux, of the Forville market and the little bar where he used to linger over a coffee or a glass of white wine.
The boat, however, from the moment he had bought it, looked like a challenge. He hadn't mentioned it in advance to his wife, had simply announced, one evening:
'I've bought a pointu.'
He knew that at heart she felt the shock, even though she had enough self-control not to let it show.
'A new one?'
'Second-hand. It's in perfect order. I managed to get a complete set of fishing gear with it, including five lines for rainbow-wrasse, two baskets for congers and one for bogues.'
She did not ask him how much he had paid. Nor did she ask when he intended to go fishing.
In the height of the season he could not even think of it, as he had his hands full with work from the moment he woke up. In the winter months the sea was seldom calm enough, and in any case the fishing was not so good.
February, March, April, sometimes May were idle months, during which they seldom had more than two or three residents at a time, like the Belgians who were there now, with several guests passing through at midday and in the evening.
It was about the same in October and November, until the heavy rains which marked the beginning of winter.
Then he would get up as early as four o'clock in the morning, dress in the dark, and the idea never entered his head of planting a kiss on Berthe's forehead, where she lay pretending to be asleep. From the moment he put his hands to the steering-wheel of the van he became a free man, and he would drive down to the port whistling, to find, along the wharf, other fishing enthusiasts, nearly all of them older than himself, preparing their tackle and starting up their motors.
"Morning, Emile!'
"Morning, you old bastard!'
He had taken to quipping as they did, expressing a cruel truth sometimes beneath the guise of a joke.
'How's the mistress? Did she forget to lock you in last night?'
He got as good as he gave, naturally. Anyhow, it was the others who had started it.
He liked the throbbing of the motor, the silky sound of the water against the hull, the sight of the whitish furrow which widened in his wake, and it was a pleasure, later on, to lower the big stone which acted as an anchor, to break open the hermit-crabs which he used as bait for catching boulantin.
He had familiarized himself with the colours of the fishes, so different from the ones he had sometimes caught at L'Aiguillon, in Vendée, when he was a boy. He had learned to detach the spiny hogfish from the hook or from the net, and to cut the heads off the murry-fish, which had a nasty bite, with a single blow of his knife.
The sky would grow lighter, the boat rock in a world which seemed each time to be new, and little by little the air would grow warmer, the sun would rise over the horizon, Emile would take off his coat, at times his shirt as well.
Wasn't it worth the price he was paying? Sometimes he asked himself the question, only less brutally. Why couldn't he get rid of the feeling that he had been tricked?
He sensed, at the basis of their life together,
It was nothing in itself, but it was the same with everybody.
'Is Emile in?'
'No. He's gone down to Cannes.'
'It doesn't matter. I'll look in again later.'
'Can't I give him a message?'
'Don't bother.'
People knew his habits, knew where to find him. A kind of freemasonry was being created around Berthe, against her, which constantly opposed her.
'You haven't seen my husband?'
Instead of replying, people would look at her with an artificially innocent air as if they were trying not to give him away.
To avenge himself for Paola's departure, Emile had bought a little boat, a second-hand pointu. He had wanted one for a long time. For him it represented part of the Midi; it was the complement of La Bastide, of the games of bowls outside the post office at Mouans-Sartoux, of the Forville market and the little bar where he used to linger over a coffee or a glass of white wine.
The boat, however, from the moment he had bought it, looked like a challenge. He hadn't mentioned it in advance to his wife, had simply announced, one evening:
'I've bought a pointu.'
He knew that at heart she felt the shock, even though she had enough self-control not to let it show.
'A new one?'
'Second-hand. It's in perfect order. I managed to get a complete set of fishing gear with it, including five lines for rainbow-wrasse, two baskets for congers and one for bogues.'
She did not ask him how much he had paid. Nor did she ask when he intended to go fishing.
In the height of the season he could not even think of it, as he had his hands full with work from the moment he woke up. In the winter months the sea was seldom calm enough, and in any case the fishing was not so good.
February, March, April, sometimes May were idle months, during which they seldom had more than two or three residents at a time, like the Belgians who were there now, with several guests passing through at midday and in the evening.
It was about the same in October and November, until the heavy rains which marked the beginning of winter.
Then he would get up as early as four o'clock in the morning, dress in the dark, and the idea never entered his head of planting a kiss on Berthe's forehead, where she lay pretending to be asleep. From the moment he put his hands to the steering-wheel of the van he became a free man, and he would drive down to the port whistling, to find, along the wharf, other fishing enthusiasts, nearly all of them older than himself, preparing their tackle and starting up their motors.
"Morning, Emile!'
"Morning, you old bastard!'
He had taken to quipping as they did, expressing a cruel truth sometimes beneath the guise of a joke.
'How's the mistress? Did she forget to lock you in last night?'
He got as good as he gave, naturally. Anyhow, it was the others who had started it.
He liked the throbbing of the motor, the silky sound of the water against the hull, the sight of the whitish furrow which widened in his wake, and it was a pleasure, later on, to lower the big stone which acted as an anchor, to break open the hermit-crabs which he used as bait for catching boulantin.
He had familiarized himself with the colours of the fishes, so different from the ones he had sometimes caught at L'Aiguillon, in Vendée, when he was a boy. He had learned to detach the spiny hogfish from the hook or from the net, and to cut the heads off the murry-fish, which had a nasty bite, with a single blow of his knife.
The sky would grow lighter, the boat rock in a world which seemed each time to be new, and little by little the air would grow warmer, the sun would rise over the horizon, Emile would take off his coat, at times his shirt as well.
Wasn't it worth the price he was paying? Sometimes he asked himself the question, only less brutally. Why couldn't he get rid of the feeling that he had been tricked?
He sensed, at the basis of their life together,
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