her.
At first he thought she wasnât going to answer, but then she said, âI donât think so. I think itâs sad. So many lives lost. So many lovers, husbands and sons. So much grief.â
âDo you know how they built the Mulberry harbour? They towed the damn thing all the way from England.â
She turned and faced him. âIâm not very interested in old things. I like only new things.â
He stared at her and he felt as if centipedes were crawling down his back. She was so much like Marianne that it could have been her. The same complexion, the same cheekbones, the same faint overbite. Most of all, she had the same colour eyes; like a reflection on a winter lake.
He knew that it couldnât be Marianne, any more than the girl on the bus in Rouen had been Marianne, or Stephanie, outside the Louvre. But she was so much alike that he couldnât speak. He just stood looking at her, his arms by his sides, while the wind flapped his collar against his cheek.
âIs something wrong?â she asked him.
âIâm sorry. Iâm really sorry. You remind me of somebody, thatâs all.â
âI hope it was somebody you were fond of.â
He gave her a tight smile. He didnât know that he could answer that question without a catch in his throat.
âWell,â she said, âI have to be going now. My parents are expecting me.â
âI was just going for a cup of coffee. Why donât you join me? We could have it the Norman way â you know, with a dash of calvados in it. Just the thing to warm you up.â
She hesitated, and then she said, âAll right. But not for too long. My father gets impatient.â
They walked back across the beach.
âDo you live nearby?â he asked her.
âI live in St Martin de Fontenay. Itâs a little town near Caen. I keep telling myself that I must get out and see the world, but I donât know. Something always conspires to stop me.â
They went into a small café with a tiled floor and tables covered with red checkered cloths. The ceiling was hung with fishing nets and plaster lobsters. They sat by the window and ordered two cups of black coffee and two small glasses of calvados. It was too cold to take off their coats.
âYouâre American, arenât you?â the woman said. âDo you come from a big city in America?â
âI was born in a place called New Milford. That wasnât exactly your throbbing metropolis. But since then Iâve spent a lot of time in New York, and London, England.â
âIâd love to live in a big city.â
âBelieve me, itâs no great shakes.â
âI donât care. Iâd love to be famous all over the world, and live in a big city.â
He tipped his calvados into his coffee and stirred it. âWhat do you want to be famous for? Or do you just want to be famous?â
âI play the cello. Well, Iâm learning to play the cello. Itâs very demanding for a woman.â
Gerry lowered his cup and stared at her intently. The woman stared back, quite unabashed. Neither of them said anything for almost a minute.
âYouâre her,â he whispered.
Her eyes flickered for the first time. âI donât know what you mean. My name isnât Marianne. Itâs Chloe.â
âAnd your father isnât a magistrate?â
âOf course not. Heâs retired. He used to be the head-teacher at the lycee.â
Gerry cleared his throat. âI know this is really a stupid thing to ask you, and I wonât be offended if you donât want to answer, but do you know me at all? Have you ever met me before, anywhere?â
Chloe shook her head. âI would have remembered, donât you think?â
Gerry said, âItâs incredible. The resemblance is incredible. Youâre just like her.â
There was another long pause, during which they simply sat and looked at each
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