The difficulty was finding a date for the wedding. It had to be a time when all three seafaring brothers were at home, trickier now that they were all on different ships. It had to fit in with the holidays of the brother who was a teacher at Nantes, and with my own time in Raguenès. Yvonne was the Lozerechs’ only daughter, and they were bent on a grand wedding, with three bridesmaids all rigged out in almond-green organza and guests ferried in by coach from all over south Finistère.
And I meant it to be a grand wedding for Gauvin and me too. Celebrations seemed fated to be our downfall. Indeed, we were side by side at nine o’clock in the morning, sipping our first glass of muscadet, and I knew we should have to be more or less together the whole day, part of the night, and again the following day for the traditional ‘bringing back the bride’. Gauvin looked like a performing bear, almost unrecognisable, in his Sunday best, his unruly curls glued down with some sort of hair-cream. I knew I was maddeningly cool and elegant, very much the sophisticated Parisienne in a manifestly expensive creation of palest beige wild silk and matching ankle-strap shoes which made my naturally good legs look even better, and had that air of unruffled self-assurance, the privilege of everyone who has never dreamed of being born elsewhere than in the soft cradle accorded them by fate. That morning I was the embodiment of everything that Gauvin most hated. It simply made me more determined to crack that tough shell of his and get to the vulnerable core which I was certain lay within. That night on the beach lingered in my mind, like a door too quickly slammed on a barely glimpsed vista of light. Could I have imagined those feelings which still had the power to pierce my heart? And had Gauvin felt them too? Had I been mistaken about the intensity of his mood that night? I certainly wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life in frustrated nostalgia. I would get to the truth that day if it killed me.
There was nothing to be done while we hung around interminably for photographs in front of the tiny chapel in Saint-Philibert, where the weedy specimen had been born. A spiteful breeze fluttered the bonnet ribbons and the Breton ruffs worn by the mothers of the bride and groom and a few other diehard traditionalists. Another gust made my exquisitely set ‘natural’ curls droop round my face in limp hanks.
When at last the photographer folded his tripod and covered his camera with a baize cloth we all trooped off to the Cafe du Bourg for drinks and dancing. But as soon as we got in, the men all clustered round the bar and the lads round the pinball machines, leaving the women to their own concerns. It was two o’clock in the afternoon before I found myself next to Gauvin at the top table. He was already a bit drunk but it was clear that the poor innocent was all set to work his way through the muscadet, the bordeaux, the champagne and the liqueurs which are obligatory at affairs like these. Mind you, I was counting on this for Operation Truth. Even before the inevitable ox tongue in madeira sauce, which would mean changing from white wine to red, I was acutely aware of Gauvin’s body, so close to mine. My father always quoted, ‘White on red, clear head. Red on white wrecks your night’. He ignored me completely. I told myself that it was because his fiancée was on the other side, looking prim in a pink dress which swore at her sallow complexion and the not-quite-blonde-enough hair, frizzed into one of those desiccated perms all the rage in Concarneau. She paraded a Queen of England bosom, a sort of single breast slung across her front like a bolster. Poor Gauvin, I thought, having to settle for that cushiony bulge. The wine was getting to me and I longed wistfully to feel his hand, both hands, on my breasts, soon, before the day was out. But how to make it happen? I concocted approaches so crude that he would have had to be even cruder to resist them – my sensitive soul could wait to reveal itself later. But like all the improper gestures I’ve ever thought of making in my life, the one that would have roused Gauvin from his irritating indifference escaped me. My body is obviously better brought up than my imagination.
As the hours passed, Yvonne’s wedding-feast slowly ran out of steam. Everyone sank into torpid repletion among the crumbs and stains and overturned glasses. Under the table the farmers’ wives undid their belts and kicked off the clumping court shoes bought from market stalls which had tortured their feet all day. Men queued for the lavatories and returned with expressions of relief, still buttoning their flies. Overexcited children tore around, screaming and knocking chairs over. The bridegroom was guffawing with his mates, to show he had the situation well in hand. And poor Yvonne, rather red of nose and shiny of complexion under the headdress of florist’s roses, was making her acquaintance with the loneliness of young wives.
I bided my time, sure my opportunity would come with the dancing. But we weren’t there yet by any means. The party got a new lease of life with the arrival of the wedding cake and champagne, which gave the green light for a singsong. A handful of old men, voices quavering as much with booze as decrepitude, were bent on subjecting us to every single verse of those endless Breton ballads about partings and broken promises and watery graves which paint such a tempting picture of the future for young seamen’s wives. Then a woman who fancied herself as a chanteuse embarked on a popular song of the time, and didn’t quite manage to massacre it. We must have got to the seventh chorus when Gauvin suddenly stood up to enthusiastic applause and launched into ‘Bro Goz Va Zadou’. His voice bowled me over; not that it would have taken much. It was a fine bass, which resonated on the harsh, heartrending Breton syllables. That bard’s voice, combined with his touching assurance, went so well with his massive chest and those shoulder muscles which bulged, almost indecently, under his skimpy jacket. The Tregunc tailor insisted on encasing these hulking men in skin-tight suits which clung to their backsides and strained over their great thighs.
It was Marie-Josée who gave the green light for kissing Gauvin when he got to the chorus:
The parish priest gets mad
When boys go kissing girls,
But turns out quite a lad
When boys get kissed by girls.
Well, who was I to pass up a chance to kiss the boy Lozerech? And it wasn’t going to be just a peck, either. I waited until last, so as not to join the bleating herd of women queueing up for handsome Gauvin’s lips. He was laughing loudly, flushed with success, revealing the chipped front tooth which gave him a buccaneering air, as appealing as a pirate’s patch. I was right next to him so all I had to do was lean across and plant a quick kiss on that front tooth, as if by accident.
He shot me a look. No, he hadn’t forgotten that night on the beach. But we still had to endure the ritual of drinking sangria at the Cafe du Port while everyone waited for the local stars – the Daniel Fabrice band from Melgven – who were booked for the dancing. Now I was sure, though, that my hour would soon come.
The ballroom was ghastly: bare and harshly lit, and I caught sight of myself in a mirror and saw that the long day had done nothing for my looks. To make matters worse, a whole new gang of guests arrived, some of them summer visitors, friends of mine. They pranced in fresh as paint, looking about them as if they were at the zoo. Of course, I was drawn into their orbit. It was mine too, after all. I kept casting desperate glances at Gauvin – to no avail. I might just as well not have been there at all. I experimented with all the tried and tested techniques: staring mesmerically at the back of his head, being wildly vivacious when I thought he might be looking my way, ostentatiously refusing to dance even the tango, roaming the room like a lost soul. But none of my ploys worked. It was Marie-Josée whom Gauvin took in his arms for all my favourite dances.
Oh well, nothing to do but rejoin my own kind and forget the handsome peasant. No hope left for me here. The party was pathetic. Everything was pointless. It had all turned out for the best, no doubt. What would I have done with Gauvin afterwards? He would only have been hurt. My wounded pride soothed itself with these lofty sentiments.
Yvonne’s father was surprised when I went to take my leave. ‘You’re not staying for the onion soup?’ I most certainly was not. I couldn’t stand the sight of Gauvin and his bodyguard a moment longer. Suddenly I