This is from Chapter Eight.
Her movements were
unmistakeably familiar. It was Minnie. Bart took off at a trot from where he
watched her, across the now silent street. All day, it had bustled with all sorts
of activity and movement. At sunset, it was almost deserted, and even the kiosk
attendant, whose face he now knew well, was packing for the evening.
The way she leapt, when he
drew up by her side so abruptly, made him seem apologetic rather than
overjoyed. ‘I’m sorry! Minnie! It’s you – I’ve startled you.’
She exhaled forcibly, then
gathered her wits quickly and smiled. ‘Bart! Yes.’ She leaned forward in the
French way, expecting to be kissed on the cheek.
Bart kissed her, then kissed
her again as she turned her head. Like a French couple meeting on the street, to
look like they did so every evening of their life, she took his arm and steered
him away quickly.
‘You said Le Havre … I came.’
‘We can’t hang about here.’ She
was breathless.
Without another word, as he
had done before, Bart allowed himself to be taken forward. They turned a corner,
where he could see the glimmer of water he knew was the Bassin du Commerce. He
knew the area well now, having tramped it on foot for two whole days. It was
large, one end of it bustling, a tourist centre as unlike the atmospheric
painting by Monet he had once seen in a book as it could be. There were none of
the tall ships Monet had painted, no romantic grey waters. The modern bridge
that spanned the harbour to his left was bathed in bright light, and drew the
eye from every perspective. White yacht masts tilted and crossed each other;
strings of lights from shops and cafés made it seem commercial and alive.
When they reached a third corner,
she stopped. ‘I knew I would find you.’
‘I found you!’ Bart
exclaimed. But he paused. A vague gut feeling of manipulation flitted in and
out of his mind. It was replaced by a confirmation of everything about her he
found captivating.
They faced each other, eyes
locked, standing on a darkening street, in complete silence. Minnie stood on
her toes and kissed him full on the lips, open-eyed, bold and uncertain at the
same time. It was not a fleeting peck, not a salutation in the French way: this
time Bart felt he was kissed for himself, not for any other reason. Taking her
by the forearms, he stopped her retreat and kissed her again, taking the lead.
She did not resist.
If anyone passed on the
deserted street, it would not have seemed strange to see a couple engaged in a warm
embrace. France was like that, Bart knew. But he had never thought he would
find himself on a street in Le Havre, of all places, with the same unfortunate
woman whose form he knew so well, whose body he had seen outlined in a hospital
gown, half a world away.
He held her closely and she
deepened their kiss, moaning softly. In her left hand, she held her computer.
Her right came up and clasped him firmly by the arm.
When they stood back, she
looked him in the eye again. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You are that type, Bart. You go
at something until you do find it.’ Her eyes held a tiny hint of sadness, which
was quickly dispelled. ‘This way now.’ She led him onward along the embankment
until he could see darkening shadows of tall cranes in the distance.
They made their way in
silence, hurrying past Le Volcan, where wet puddles studded grey concrete
paving and the lone sculpture of an upturned hand extended, plaintive, from the
wall over the flat fountain-bed.
Across the way, Bart could
see where he had run for his life, two nights before, panting and sweaty,
fleeing from the thug with the shaven head. He shook his head, but the memory
was vivid.
She led him up lanes and down
alleys. Finally they turned up a street not far from where he glimpsed the
trees of the park at Hotel de Ville.
She spoke again. ‘It’s what I saw in you right
away. You like following threads, solving um … puzzles.’
Bart knew she came close to
saying mysteries, but said nothing.
‘I wish I had your brains.’
He laughed. ‘You know nothing
about me. I don’t even want my brains!’
The peal of her laughter
trailed behind them. There seemed to be no concern now about being followed,
about anything at all untoward about their meeting, except the haste to get wherever
she led him.
‘See what I mean? You make me
laugh.’
Again, Bart sensed a kind of
sadness in her voice. It attracted him, making her seem less convinced of her
actions and decisions than she outwardly seemed.
At a corner, where lights
from a crowded restaurant lay slanting on the pavement, she turned into a doorway
and tip-tapped swiftly up a flight of dingy stairs that rose to a glass doorway.
Bart ascended behind her, entered after she quickly unlocked it with a key that
was ready, at the tips of her fingers. More stairs led them spiralling upward,
past many closed apartment doors, until they reached a green one with a brass
number seven screwed slightly lopsidedly onto the architrave. She unlocked that
one too, turned a switch, and bathed them in amber-coloured light from a
swinging lantern in a tiny hallway.
‘You have a place here – in
Le Havre.’ He mumbled in surprise, out of breath from the quick ascent.
‘Just two rooms – not exactly
the Ritz.’
‘And you’ve got a new laptop.’
‘Yes.’ She put it down
without looking at it.
‘Now, you must tell me
exactly …’
She turned on more lights: a
large lamp in a corner, a desk lamp, and one balanced on a pile of magazines,
then stood still, striking a match and trying to light a candle. ‘First, I must
put the kettle on – I’m dying for a cup of tea.’
‘There’s lots you have to
tell me.’
Minnie nodded. ‘Yes.’ Getting
busy with cups and things, shrugging her coat from her shoulders, pointing to a
green divan where he should sit, pulling off her hat and teasing out her hair were
all done in quick economical movements. She did not talk.
There was a lot he had to
tell her, as well. How he had waited in Paris. That he was followed for days on
end. When the thug had almost got him. He thought the man would give up, but he
was there, as recently as yesterday, confronting him at Le Volcan, as
threatening as before. It reeled through his head.
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