Evangelista's Fan by Rose Tremain Read Free Book Online

never return to Leclos. He’d told her twenty-seven years ago that he’d grown to dislike the town, dislike the hill it sat on, dislike its name and its closed-in streets. He said: ‘I’ve fallen in love, Mercedes – with a girl and with a place. I’m going to become a Parisian now.’
    He had married his girl. She was a ballerina. Her name was Sylvie. It was by her supple, beautiful feet that the mind of Mercedes Dubois chained her to the ocean bed. For all that had been left her after Louis went away were her dreams of murder. Because she’d known, from the age of eighteen, that she, Mercedes, was going to be his wife. She had known and all of Leclos had known: Louis Cabrini and Mercedes Dubois were meant for each other. There would be a big wedding at the Church of St Vida and, after that, a future . . .
    Then he went to Paris, to train as an engineer. He met a troupe of dancers in a bar. He came back to Leclos just the one time, to collect his belongings and say goodbye to Mercedes. He had stood with her in the square and it had been a sunny February day – a day just like this one, on which Honorine had brought news of his return – and after he’d finished speaking, Mercedes walked away without a word. She took twelve steps and then she turned round. Louis was standing quite still, watching her. He had taken her future away and this was all he could do – stand still and stare. She said: ‘I’m going to kill you, Louis. You and your bride.’
    Mercedes went down into her apartment. A neat stack of thirty candles was piled up on her table, ready to be returned to St Vida’s. A mirror hung above the sideboard and Mercedes walked over to it and looked at herself. She had her father’s square face, his deep-set brown eyes, his wiry hair. And his name. She would stand firm in the face of Honorine’s news. She would go about her daily business in Leclos as if Louis were not there. If she chanced to meet him, she would pretend she hadn’t recognised him. He was older than she was. He might by now, with his indulgent Parisian life, look like an old man. His walk would be slow.
    But then a new thought came: suppose he hadn’t returned to Leclos alone, as she’d assumed? Suppose when she went to buy her morning loaf, she had to meet the fading beauty of the ballerina? And hear her addressed as Madame Cabrini? And see her slim feet in expensive shoes?
    Mercedes put on her red anorak and walked up to Honorine’s house. Honorine’s husband, Jacques the plasterer, was there and the two of them were eating their midday soup in contented silence.
    â€˜You didn’t tell me,’ said Mercedes, ‘has he come back alone?’
    â€˜Have some soup,’ said Jacques, ‘you look pale.’
    â€˜I’m not hungry,’ said Mercedes. ‘I need to know, Honorine.’
    â€˜All I’ve heard is rumour,’ said Honorine.
    â€˜Well?’
    â€˜They say she left him. Some while back. They say he’s been in poor health ever since.’
    Mercedes nodded. Not really noticing what she did, she sat down at Honorine’s kitchen table. Honorine and Jacques put down their spoons and looked at her. Her face was waxy.
    Jacques said: ‘Give her some soup, Honorine.’ Then he said: ‘There’s too much history in Corsica. It’s in the stone.’
    When Mercedes left Honorine’s she went straight to the church. On the way, she kept her head down and just watched her shadow moving along ahead of her as, behind her, the sun went down.
    There was nobody in St Vida’s. Mercedes went straight to the candle sconces. She snatched up two low-burning candles and blew them out. She stood still a moment, hesitating. Then she blew out all the remaining candles. It’s wretched, wretched, she thought: all this interminable, flickering, optimistic light; wretched beyond comprehension.
    After February,