The old fisherman cracked his eyelids open and cast him a sideways glance. ‘Heee … what are you going on about, son?’
Sébastien shrugged. ‘I’m telling you what you want to hear, aren’t I?
‘What I want to hear? Heee … Why not just tell me what you saw?’
‘Well if you really want to know, all I’ve seen lately is a whole bunch of lies.’
Cyrille turned his head to look at the angry young man. ‘Heee … How so?’
‘Last week, my mother bought a condo in Longueuil behind my father’s back. Yesterday, my boss, who thinks he’s oh-so understanding, told me I was out of a job if I wasn’t there by noon. And the server in the bistro insinuated my father had an affair with a woman called Cath—’
‘Heee … Your girlfriend’s pregnant and she didn’t tell you?’
Sébastien showed almost no surprise at these words. He just nodded and carried on, like a spinning top caught up in its own momentum.
‘Do you know what all that is, Mr Bernard? It’s just a whole lot of thrashing on the surface with no fish in the water. And I’m the one circling hungry overhead and diving into the sea for a meal that isn’t there. It’s the lure that’s been hooking my whole life for years. That’s what I saw in the telescope this morning.’
Cyrille closed his exhausted eyes. ‘Heee … That’s a lot of things to see on your first time.’
Sébastien pushed the chair back and stood up. ‘You’re just like everyone else, telling me I’m seeing things all wrong.’
‘Heee … If you were looking at the sea for yourself, why talk to me about it?’
‘Because my dad asked me to.’
Cyrille opened his eyes again and looked Sébastien up and down. ‘How old are you?’
‘Thirty.’
‘Thirty years old and you’re foaming at the mouth over two bloody ships? Heee … Thirty years old and you’re still doing everything your father says? Heee … Thirty years old and you don’t know the difference between a rogue wave and a shoal of fish?’
Sébastien was lost for words.
‘Heee … If you came here just to keep your father happy, you’d have told me about those two ships and gone on your way. Heee … Don’t let an old man like me, on his death bed, keep a young man like you.’
All of a sudden, something clicked for Sébastien. He felt like he wasn’t going around in circles anymore. Like a spinning top that ran into something in its path, he teetered and swayed his way back to sit in stillness in the chair at Cyrille Bernard’s bedside. And apologised.
The old fisherman shrugged. Lying at death’s door, he wasn’t about to start chalking up faults now.
‘Sometimes it’s like I don’t know who I am anymore.’
‘Heee … You sound like your father. You dream of the wide blue yonder, but you never take your eyes off the shore.’
Sébastien took a deep breath and edged a touch closer to the old fisherman, who was still studying him with his ocean eyes.
‘You’ll have to tell me what you want me to look out for.’
‘Heee … Stop asking other people what you should see. Just open your eyes and look.’
‘I can come back again tomorrow…’
‘Son, it’s been a long time since I needed anyone to tell me stories about the sea. Heee … Everything I need to know is in here.’ He pointed an experienced finger to his heart. ‘Heee … Some fishermen say when you’re on a boat, you rise up above the waves. But, you listen to me, son: it’s the sea that rises in you. It’s just like everything else. We always think fear, jealousy, resentment and lies are things that come from other people. Heee … But they’re lurking inside all of us. Like a winter tide.’
Sébastien had run out of things to say. Then he remembered her. ‘My dad wants you to know he’s in Rivière-au-Renard investigating the disappearance of a woman. Angel Roberts.’
Cyrille had been resting his eyes, but he blinked them open. ‘The young lass with the lobster boat?’
‘Yes.’ Sébastien held his breath, as if holding back a tear.
‘There are families that have hated each other for so long, it welds them together. Heee … Your father’s caught a hell of a pot of crabs there.’
Sébastien stood and moved towards the window.
‘The suffering we put ourselves through is worse than all the rest. Heee … It takes a whole lot of horizon to calm your own troubles.’ Cyrille shifted position in the bed, slowly succumbing to his fatigue. ‘Do you know what the word “Gaspé” means? Heee…’
Sébastien turned to him and shook his head. ‘No.’
‘It means “the end of the world”. Go out there and see your father. Heee … Listen to an old fisherman who’s on his last legs. Heee … Keep looking at the sea and I promise, one day, you’ll see it.’
Moralès had been going round in circles. Where could he go to write his report for the day? He didn’t feel comfortable going down to the dining room again, for fear of disturbing Corine and Kimo, and sitting alone in the empty bar was a depressing prospect, especially as he was getting hungry. He grabbed his things and decided to go into downtown Gaspé. Lefebvre had recommended a pub called the Brise-Bise.
Arriving at the pub, he sat at the bar in what looked like a quiet corner. The barman came over, a heavyset type who probably knew all the regulars by name and looked like he could be a ship’s captain: forearms inked with sailor tattoos, a single earring, close-cropped black hair and beard, hours of gym time in his biceps.
‘Today’s special is chicken chasseur, with a pear tart for dessert. I’d suggest a pint of Pit Caribou amber ale to go with it. I can bring you the menu if you like.’
‘No, that will be perfect,’ Moralès replied.
It was an easy-going kind of place. A gentle blues soundtrack filled the air while a football match played on one of the TV screens. Moralès felt happy. He glanced at his phone. An email had just come in from a former colleague and friend in Montreal, a Detective Sergeant Doiron. He replied to the message, then opened his file, grabbed a blank sheet of paper and started writing his report.
‘Is it you who’s investigating the disappearance of the fisherwoman?’ the barman asked, stealing a glance at the file as he put the pint on the bar.
Moralès took a sip of the beer. ‘Do you know her?’
‘No, but her husband comes here often.’ He reached a hand over the bar. ‘My name’s Louis.’
A bell dinged in the kitchen, and the barman went away. Moralès made a note about discovering that the lobster trawler had been moved, probably by Jimmy Roberts and the Babin brothers; he’d have to clear that up. The beer was good. He made a start on the report of his conversation with Jacques Forest. The serving staff were buzzing like bees around the kitchen, flying up and down the stairs between the two floors of the pub, smiling and cracking jokes with customers. Moralès chose not to put the tumultuous episode with Simone Lord on the record. His chicken chasseur arrived.
‘Do you think it’s a revenge thing among fishermen?’ the barman asked.
Moralès leaned back in his bar stool. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Well, fishermen might seem friendly enough when you see them on shore, but out on the water they can be different beasts.’
‘Have you ever worked as a fisherman?’
‘No, but I hear them talk.’
‘And what else have you heard?’
Louis gave him a half-smile, shook his head and returned to his duties, leaving Moralès to tuck into his chicken. The file stayed closed while he was eating.
He’d demolished the chicken and the pear tart before big Louis opened his trap again. Moralès had asked for the bill and was standing between the pillar at the end of the bar and the closed kitchen door when the barman, peering down at the screen on the till, spoke up.