To describe Perros as a sleepy seaside town is to make it more exciting than it is. There was nothing—I mean nothing—for Raoul and me to do to get into trouble except get drunk and have our wives slap our faces when we tried to be suave. We tried to persuade Reza to open a Persian coffeehouse—as the only entertainment in town, it would make him a billionaire in short order. He told us he wasn't importing women for the likes of us, and besides, he was happy playing Grandpapa. He sat on the beach all day watching the babies play and toddled off to bed early. I gave him the devil about turning into a boring old man.
Masson settled down. The biggest danger was in leaving him to his own devices for any amount of time. I happened to be reading L'Epoque one afternoon and I noticed the boy making repeated trips through the room, each time carrying a book. By about the sixth trip, I decided there was a problem. To make a long story short, he was building a structure with rock and books whereby he would be able to jump to the first branch of a fairly large tree in the back garden. Once again, typical boy stuff, but Christine would have found no humor in it. Problem was, he was too smart for his own good; it's fine to try to climb trees when you're six or eight, but Masson was rushing things.
The other thing Masson enjoyed was picking up women on the beach—I should say, having women pick him up. If he saw someone he fancied, he'd stroll over with Christine and strike up a conversation, bold as Jove. First the innocent victim would pat the kitty, next minute she'd scoop up the adorable, clever boy. If I lost sight of him, he was easily located by searching for the cluster of young lovelies; he was invariably in the middle of it, holding court. Imagine that scene: "You're Masson's father?" I pried my son away from a prodigious number of suspicious bathing beauties.
We had a bathing beauty of our own. My little angel adored swimming, so much so that if she saw the water and wasn't taken to the beach immediately, she was heartbroken. Miri-ange was unquestionably diva material. When she cried, she rested her little forehead on my shoulder and absolutely convinced me that the world was coming to an end. Christine insisted I was spoiling Miri-ange, because all she did was point and I carried her wherever she wanted to go. I thought little girls were meant to be spoiled.
I decided to work on Raoul's idea of the thin leather flesh-colored mask. The white was dashing and all for the theater, but I was overdressed enough as it was in Perros. The cobbler in town was a talented, ancient man who was thrilled to have something to do besides repair shoes. Somehow, he managed to convince me that he'd be able to do a much better job if I'd let him take a life mask of me. He said he did plaster casts of people with 'foot situations' all the time, and I shouldn't be so shy. Right, but the foot goes in the shoe; it's not right out there for everyone to stare, laugh and scream at. Anyway, he was a dear old man and if it ultimately made me less conspicuous, I could do it. I had to take Raoul; I was a nauseous wreck. It's like taking your clothes off in the middle of Paris. On a lighter note, Raoul told the cobbler that I was his twin brother.
Raoul. Raoul had to return to Paris. It was a bad day, a very tearful day. They promised to visit often, but it wasn't going to be as it had been—no more weekly raids. Christine was going to miss Manon so much; they raised the babies together, compared notes on everything.
Three days after they left, I mentioned Raoul in passing, and Christine fell silent. When I asked her what was wrong, she replied that she missed them and turned weepy.
"Them?" I asked. She nodded, extending her hand for my handkerchief. I felt all the hair on my body stand up. I felt a horrible cold panic, completely mindless.
"Do you mean them, or Manon, or Raoul ?" I asked.
"What did you say?" Christine demanded. Her eyes were flashing.
"You heard me."
"Yes, I did. I heard you, but I can't believe you. What are you asking me?"
"I'm asking if it's Raoul you're crying for." I replied.
"How can you ask me that, Erik? What's come over you?"
I shrugged. "I don't know. I mention Raoul and you burst into tears. What do you expect me to think?"
"You were crying for him yourself only days ago! Did I take you task over it?"
"Christine, I was never married to him, if you recall."
"Are you trying to be an idiot, Erik? If you are, you're doing very well," she snapped. "Let me by, please."
I caught her hand. "No, not til you answer me."
"This isn't funny anymore. If you have even a tiny brain, you'll let me go and drop this ridiculous inquisition."
"Just tell me it's not Raoul you were crying for, Christine," I insisted.
"I won't. If you can honestly ask me a question like that…" her livid façade crumbled, and she began crying again. "…you don't deserve an answer!"
"You will answer me!" I growled.
"You're a sick man, Erik!" She snatched her arm away and ran to the bedroom.