Page 49 of Vianne

I found Guy waiting in the van, with Stéphane in the back with Pomponette.

During the time I’d been with Cécile, Guy had changed from his business suit into a pair of baggy shorts and an orange Hawaiian shirt with a frangipani design.

Apart from the newly cropped hair, he looked just as he had when we first met, and I felt a pinch of unease. Camouflage , he’d told me. But why?

‘Stéphane needed a lift,’ said Guy. ‘I said I’d drive him to Marseille.’

I thought about the bidonvilles , and the sleep merchants, and the vendors at the Vieux Port. ‘I needed a change of air,’ said Stéphane, revealing his disconnected teeth. ‘And besides, you never know, there might be work at the harbour.’

Roxane and Poupoule had already left. I hoped the shelter would take them in.

I thought about the lentil van; Bal and his mother; the band of homeless people around that cheerless station.

Suddenly I wanted to be gone from this city of desert-rose and its scent of desperation.

I wanted the ocean wind, the sound of morning traffic from the Canebière, the markets and fishmongers of the Vieux Port, the kitchen at La Bonne Mère.

I wanted my room, with its woollen throw.

My pans. My knives. My piece of sky. And Edmond, the lost boy, the boy I promised his mother to find.

‘A change of air sounds good,’ I said.

We set off into the traffic.

The van smelt of cacao and rust, and the damp wool of Stéphane’s overcoat.

The little blue-eyed glass charm dangled from the mirror.

We drove through the rosy streets of Toulouse in silence until we reached green space, and the long grey stretch of the autoroute .

Stéphane seemed to go to sleep; Guy kept his eyes on the road, and the van made small, unsettling sounds as it rattled over the carriageway.

Finally, I asked him. ‘Guy, how did you find me so quickly?’

‘I told you. I know people. Besides, Cécile’s a family friend. You chose a good place to pass out, Vianne.’

‘A friend?’

‘Well, more of a client, I guess. My father’s firm helped her out once or twice. Abusive husband, messy divorce.’ He shrugged. ‘The usual story.’

‘Your family’s firm,’ I repeated.

Guy pulled a face. ‘Lacarrière, Maurel. It’s been going for sixty years. My grandfather founded it with his friend. It’s quite an institution.’

I nodded. ‘It must be strange, coming back here.’

‘It’s like being a flamingo, trying to blend in with a murder of crows.’

I laughed. ‘That explains the haircut, the suit. I almost didn’t know you at first.’

‘I barely know myself.’ He smiled. ‘But that’s what it’s like, when I come back here. Some places never let you change. It’s like coming back to your childhood. Everyone knows you. Or thinks they do. Everyone makes assumptions.’

He drove on in silence for a while, and the fields and the trees went by. Finally, I asked him: ‘Guy, does your family know what you do? Do they know about Mahmed?’

A pause. ‘Well, not exactly ,’ he said. ‘It’s sometimes easier to blend in than to be who you really are.’ He smiled. ‘But we can talk about that later. For now, try to sleep. You’re exhausted. I’ll tell you about it another day.’