During the days Collioure was almost deserted, the shutters of the houses closed against the heat. We would wander in the narrow cobblestone streets and climb the hills and watch the boats; in the evenings the locals would bring out their chairs and wine to sit in the long shadows and watch the day’s catch being loaded into ice for the trucks. There were no hotels or apartments in Collioure, in spite of what the tourist guidebook said, and so we stayed in a small room over a bar. We were les anglais to the people in the village, smiled at maternally by the women when we walked about after dark, stared at by the men, but in general left alone by everyone. There were no other visitors in the village while we were there.
Except one. We noticed him on our second day while climbing up to the hills on the eastern side of the village. As the narrow road rose above the houses it turned across the rise, making a loop from which it was possible to see down across the cottages around the harbor. From this position the walls and angles of the roofs seemed foreshortened, piling against each other to make an irregular geometric pattern lit by the morning sun. There was an artist sitting here, a small canvas propped on an easel in front of him.
He was a small man with a round head and a hunched figure. It was difficult to guess his age: not old, perhaps forty to fifty. As we passed we nodded to him, but he made no answer. I felt Sue’s hand slip from mine and she looked sharply at him, then at me, then again at the artist. She was obviously trying to tell me something, but I had no idea what it was. As we walked on she was looking back, as if trying to get a glimpse of the canvas.
When we were out of earshot she said, “That looked like Picasso!”
“He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Of course he’s dead! It couldn’t have been him— but that man looked exactly like him.”
“Did you see what he was painting?”
“It wasn’t possible. I’ve never seen anything like it! He looked just like the photographs.”
“Perhaps it’s a relative … or someone who wants to look like Picasso.”
“That must be it.”
We walked on, talking about the way some people try to imitate the appearance of those they admired, but Sue would not accept that. To her it was a deeper mystery, and she kept returning to it.
In the end I said, “Do you want to go back for another look?”
“Yes, let’s.”
I half expected that he would have disappeared by the time we returned, but he was still there at the turn of the road, crouching on his stool and painting slowly.
“It’s incredible,” Sue whispered. “It must be a relative… . Did Picasso have sons?”
“I’ve no idea.”
We were walking back on his side of the road, so that this time we would see his canvas. As we approached, Sue called out, “Bonjour, monsieur!”
He raised his free hand, but did not turn. “Hola!”
We passed behind him. The canvas was only half completed, but the angles of the roofs had been blocked in, the pattern was forming. We walked on down the hill into the village, Sue practically dancing with curiosity.
“There’s a print of that in one of my books!” she said.
We were in Collioure for a total of four days, and on each of them, at some time, we walked up the hill to see if the artist was still there. Every day he was at his easel, painting slowly and patiently. He was in his own stasis, and progress was slow; on our last look he had added very little to what we had first seen.
Before we left Collioure we asked the woman who ran the bar if she knew who he was.
“Non. Il est espagnol.”
“We thought he might be famous.”
“Pah! Il est trčs pauvre. Un espagnol célčbre!” And she laughed and laughed.
XIV
We should have finished in Collioure, but we planned to fly back to England, and after a two-day drive through the Pyrenees we came to Biarritz. The staff in the reception of the hotel booked us a flight, but it was not for two days. After the first night I took the car and turned it in at the local Hertz office.
Sue was waiting for me at the hotel, and I knew immediately that something was wrong. She had the evasive, indirect look I had grown to recognize from the bad times, and I felt a sudden dread. I knew at once it was something to do with Niall.
But how? Niall was hundreds of miles away, and could have no idea where we were.
I suggested a walk to the beach and she agreed, but we walked apart, not holding hands. When we reached the path that led down to La Grande Plage, Sue came to a halt.
“I don’t really feel like the beach today,” she said. “You go if you want.”
“Not without you. I don’t care what we do.”
“I think I’d like to do some shopping on my own.”
“What’s the matter, Sue? Something’s happened.”
She shook her head. “I just want to be on my own for a while. An hour or two. I can’t explain.”
“If that’s what you want.” I gestured irritably at the beach. “I’ll go and lie around until you feel like being with me again.”
“I won’t be long.”
“But I don’t understand what you want to do.”
She had already moved away from me. “I want some space to think for a while, that’s all.” She came back, pecked me on the cheek. “It’s nothing you’ve done. Really.”
“Well, I’ll go back to the hotel in an hour or two.” She was moving away as I said this, missing most of it. I walked off in a huff, going quickly down the cliff path.
The beach was uncrowded. I found a place for myself, and there I spread out my towel, took off my jeans and shirt and sat back to brood.
She had distracted me again, but now I was alone I took in my surroundings at last. The beach was … still. I sat up straight, looking around, aware that something had ceased around me.
This was different from the Mediterranean beaches I had seen. There was no topless sunbathing, and unlike the Riviera coast the heat of the sun was pleasantly tempered by a sea breeze. The sea itself had muscle: long steady breakers came rolling in, making the satisfactory roaring noise familiar to me from British beaches. So there was movement and sound, denying the stillness, but still I felt locked in something that had settled, become stable.
Looking around at the other people on the beach I noticed that many of them were using changing huts, like tiny Arab yurts, erected in three parallel rows one behind the other. The people who emerged from these hastened down the beach and ran into the surf with a peculiar crouching motion, reaching forward with their arms. As the first breaker hit them they would jump up against it, turning their backs and yelling in the cold. Most of the swimmers were men, but there were a few women and these all wore shapeless one-piece bathing suits and rubber caps.
I lay back in the sunshine, still feeling uneasy, listening to the cries of the holidaymakers and thinking about Sue’s behavior. How had Niall contacted her? How did he know where she was?
Or had she contacted him?
I felt irritated and hurt. I wished Sue would take me more into her confidence about Niall. If only she would tell the truth, then we had a chance of working together to solve the problem.
I sat up again, restless. Overhead the sky was a deep, pure blue, the sun striking down from above the casino. I glanced up at it, narrowing my eyes.
There was a cloud, the only one in sight. It was a white, woolly-looking cloud, the sort you see on a summer’s day when the sun raises thermals from the fields and woodlands. This one, though, was by itself. It stood close to the sun, apparently unaffected by the breeze from the ocean. If the sun went in, what effect would it have on the beach scene around me? I imagined a sudden breaking of the gentle stasis, the people scurrying back to their changing tents, pulling on their flannelette dresses and their baggy slacks.