The sound of the waves wasn’t the same as in Percé. Here, the pebbles tinkled a more scintillating ballad, the chinking of a pearl necklace released by a languid hand onto a bed of rumpled blue velvet. Bustards and their young were enjoying the gentle rolling of the swell before their migration. The stones under his soles clinked together as if he were walking on gold coins. He reflected on the irony of that image. If what Corine had said was true, these were poor man’s pebbles on a beach for exploited fishermen.
Sébastien thought about the poverty and subservience that must have been passed down through the generations. He had to talk to his father. Make a decision. Go back to the city.
The sea was making some order of the pebbles. As Sébastien walked back up to the path, they fell silent once more. But he could still hear the beating of the waves against the cliff as he made his way to the wharf. The path skirted a thicket and an animal kind of smell, an earthy, salty scent, wafted into his nostrils. His new boots felt solid on the ground. The parking area by the wharf was deserted as he approached. To his right, Sébastien saw an area with some picnic tables. He went over to see.
‘Corine?’
He shivered. She wasn’t there. She must be on the wharf, he thought. His phone vibrated again. At last, he drew near and saw that the wharf was empty. He had a look around the shacks he found behind the wharf, and a boat that was moored alongside. The sea was dazzling. He moved towards the floating dock down below. And he saw her. At least he thought he did. He wasn’t certain it was her. Worried, he quickened his step. Yes, that was her. Sitting cross-legged on the pontoon beside a boat with the name Close Call II painted on the side.
‘Corine?’ he called again.
She didn’t answer. He moved closer.
‘Has something happened?’
She pulled herself together and shook her head. ‘No. I’m sorry.’
She dried her eyes and got up. ‘This is Angel’s boat. The woman who’s missing. She’s the reason we’re going on the search.’
Behind them, a car drove down the slope into the parking area.
‘That’s Kimo. Come on, I’ll introduce you.’
He turned into the driveway of the blue house. Annie Arsenault’s home was both simple and appealing, surrounded by trees on all sides except the south, which offered a partial sea view.
As he parked his car, Moralès noticed, on a gentle slope at the rear of the house, a big vegetable garden, which extended onto Angel Roberts’ property. Foil plates hanging from strings attached to long sticks planted in the ground were dancing in the westerly breeze, scaring the birds away. Around the perimeter was a trellis fence to keep the hungry deer and hares out. The yellowed leaves of climbing beans covered the west side of the fence. Leaning against the north side was a disorderly bundle of stakes that must have been tied together after the tomato plants had withered and been pulled up. Just in front, wilted flowers drooped their brown corollas towards the ground. Through the trellis, the bright orange splotches of pumpkins, gentle green spheres of autumn cabbage and ochre-red background of turned soil painted a pointillist work or art befitting of the season. Beyond the garden was a wooden compost bin and a small shed with tools hanging on the side.
Annie Arsenault opened the door before Moralès had time to knock. She stepped outside and guessed what he was looking at, without having to turn to see.
‘Angel and I planted that garden together. Just last week, we turned some of the soil.’
She was an attractive woman with thin lips and green eyes. Her face was flushed from crying. Moralès had called that lunchtime to arrange to see her.
She smiled, and Moralès saw the whole woman appear before his eyes. The lines on her face had been shaping themselves forever around this graceful smile he guessed came naturally, usually, but not so much today. Her short, tangled hair bounced in a tousle of curls around a colourful headband. She was wearing a pretty yellow top under a navy jacket.
‘We were at school together. She decided to go into fishing, and I became a teacher. I teach maths at the college in Gaspé. People sometimes say we grow apart from our friends as we get older. But Angel and I, we bought houses next door to each other, we planted a shared garden and we do all our canning together. In the winter, when I finish late, she watches my boys, and in the summer I’ve been known to give her a hand on the boat. Time has made us sisters.’
She paused and took a deep breath to keep the tears at bay. Moralès stayed quiet. He had stopped consoling people a long time ago. What would he say to her, anyway? That he would find Angel Roberts? That he would bring her friend home alive? That the two of them would get to sow their pepper seeds again in the greenhouse in March, plant their tomatoes in May and harvest their carrots in July?
‘Let’s sit outside, shall we?’ she suggested. ‘It’s a nice day.’
She had made some herbal tea and put a box of tissues on the patio table. Moralès sat while she poured the tea. It smelled of fir, hawthorn and wintergreen.
‘My husband’s gone out there with our three boys. To help with the search. I’m…’
Tears streamed down her cheeks, following channels carved by the last few days. She pulled two tissues out of the box.
‘I’m sorry.’ She dried her eyes. ‘I just can’t bring myself to go.’ But there were more tears eating away at her from the inside. ‘I’m too scared of finding Angel, wearing her wedding dress.’
Moralès could understand. She was afraid she would find her friend beaten, raped, tortured. She was afraid of the fear she would read on the face of her confidante, her bloodied dress dragged through the mud; she was scared she would have to live with those images burned into her retinas and would never again be able to crouch in the garden and do the things they both loved.
He waited until she was back in her depth. ‘You’ve known each other a long time.’
It wasn’t a question, but she nodded. ‘Our mothers used to work together. They were nurses at the hospital in Gaspé. Cancer took hers a decade ago. Angel’s mum was the daughter of a prominent local doctor, who had spent some time in politics too. The family was very active in the community.’
‘Was her father’s family from around here as well?’
Annie Arsenault pulled a face. ‘Yes. Angel’s grandfather on her father’s side worked at the Hyman general store in Grande-Grave, which belonged to a company that exploited fishermen. He wasn’t well-liked because he played at being rich. Even when the store closed down, he pretended he was a cut above. But when he died, he left his children nothing but debts. Debts and shame.’ She cocked her head. ‘It’s sad when you think about it. My own father used to tell me how, when he was young, Angel’s father wanted to be a fisherman, but no one would take him on because his father had been so arrogant to the locals. He ended up having to go to New Brunswick to find work. One day, he came back. He met Angel’s mother and they got married. She was the one who paid for his first boat. But grudges run deep. Even with a fancy boat, he had trouble finding deckhands because people from around here refused to work with him. There are families that pass their squabbles from one generation to the next.’
‘Was he the one who bankrolled his children’s boats?’
‘I don’t know.’ Annie Arsenault bit the inside of her cheek pensively and took a sip of herbal tea.