Roxanne Bouchard - The Coral Bride

How, God only knew, but in one pirouette Sébastien managed to pluck the elastic loose from the spunky young constable’s painful ponytail, setting her golden locks free, so they spilled out like a wave of honey, and unleashing a flaxen-haired Medusa who frolicked in the damp morning air. Transfixed, Joaquin watched his son – somehow still standing despite his long drive, drunken antics and sleepless night – turn this insufferable rookie into a graceful dancing queen. Was he really in any position to lecture him? Joaquin’s gaze drifted back to the sea, searching for that sailboat of Catherine’s he longed to see return, before settling on the young couple once more. How did he know things were rocky between Maude and Sébastien, anyway? Maybe he’d got the week off work, and Maude was away at a conference abroad. It wouldn’t be the first time. His son loved to dance, so maybe all this was completely innocent. Joaquin’s eyes wandered out to the Baie-des-Chaleurs, deserted in the morning light. He looked away, put his car in gear and headed back to the road.

It was about time he set the fishing line in the water, Moralès thought, but first he would have to eat something. His hopes were not high when he opened the fridge door. He couldn’t remember when he had last gone grocery shopping. Still, he managed to salvage three mushrooms, half a tomato, a scrap of green pepper, two eggs, a hunk of cheese and a tiny onion. Not such a bad start to the morning after all.

With Celia Cruz’s voice stuck in his head, he was humming ‘Rie Y Llora’ as he rustled up breakfast for himself. He wasn’t expecting Sébastien to join him; he figured it would be a while before the rookie drove him back here after their salsa on the sand. Just as he was sliding his ranchero omelette onto a plate and pouring himself a coffee, he heard a car pulling into the driveway. Cursing under his breath that he’d not even taken a bite, he stepped outside to thank Joannie Robichaud and see what state his son was in.

‘You can count on me, Mr and Mr Moralès!’ Away she skipped, with rosy cheeks and messy hair.

‘You aren’t forgetting your service weapon, are you?’

Giggling like a naughty child, she gambolled back to Sébastien’s car, grabbed her things and returned to her own vehicle.

‘I’ve never seen her like that before,’ Moralès said.

‘I guess she needed the Mexican touch.’

‘Since when are you Mexican?’

‘Since I’ve been in the Gaspé.’

‘And how long have you been in the Gaspé, exactly?’

Joaquin immediately regretted his words. He hated bombarding his son with questions. The sun was starting to feel warm as Sébastien sauntered sheepishly over to his car, packed to the roof with the ruins of a couple’s life together. He yanked the back door open, grabbed a box of pots and pans, and clutched it to his chest as if he were gauging a party costume for size. ‘I’m here to do some culinary experimentation,’ he said.

Moralès reeled back in surprise.

‘Culinary experimentation?’

Sébastien was a chef, but unfortunately his dishes always fell flat on flavour. There was something dependable yet ultimately forgettable about his cooking. It was the kind of food that tickled no one’s taste buds, let alone their fancy. Moralès had often wondered whether customers ever remembered dining at the restaurant he worked in. He’d like to think the blandness had something to do with following the restaurant owner’s recipes, but after tasting Sébastien’s home concoctions, he’d come to the realisation that his son, who calculated spices and counted portions by the gram, cooked like an accountant.

‘ Si, señor! I’ve talked to my boss and he thinks it’s a good idea.’

Moralès didn’t know what to say. ‘Chiquito…’

‘I want to learn more about the local specialities. You know, lobster, crab…’

‘The season’s over. The fishermen put all their traps away weeks ago. The halibut catch is in, and their boats are all pretty much in dry dock.’

Sébastien kicked the car door shut. ‘Shrimp, then!’

‘There’s no shrimp fishing in the Baie-des-Chaleurs. You have to go further up the coast for that.’

‘Are you sure? Oh, well. I’m not hung up on crustaceans. There are plenty of fish in the sea, right?’

Moralès opened the front door for his son and his box of pots and pans, and followed him inside the house.

‘Aw, you made your good old ranchero omelette for me? I haven’t eaten one of these in years. Thanks Dad, you’re the best!’

Sébastien dumped the box on the kitchen counter and carried his father’s omelette and coffee to the table. The first forkful was in his mouth before he’d even sat down. Moralès bitterly remembered why children have to fly the nest and learn to make their own breakfast. Sighing, he threw two slices of stale bread into the toaster and put another pot of coffee on.

‘So, you’ve started fishing again?’ Sébastien asked.

‘Yes. I was just heading out there, actually.’

‘Where?’

‘Down by the water’s usually a good place.’

‘I mean, do you fish right here?’

When the toast was ready, Joaquin realised he was out of butter. He poured himself another coffee, only to see he was out of milk too. ‘Yes. There’s a wooden staircase leading down to the shore. There’s a trench at the foot of the cliff, on the right. The fishermen put their traps there in the summer. I went diving down there once. There’s no end of lobster, crab and fish.’

‘What do you fish for?’

Moralès was just sitting down at the table, but his son had already wolfed the whole plate down, like a teenager having a growth spurt.

‘Anything that’ll bite. It’s not so much fishing as underwater trial and error.’

Sébastien looked around the room. ‘Nice place you have here, anyway.’

It was the first time he’d set foot inside the house his father had moved into three months earlier. What it lacked in size, it made up for with charm. The open-plan living and dining room had big bay windows and a patio door leading out onto a deck overlooking the sea. Only one painting adorned the walls, a piece Moralès had owned forever that went well with the colours of the Mexican flag hanging over the stairs. All the furniture was new, and by the window was a powerful telescope turned to the horizon.

Sébastien collapsed on the sofa. Sitting down at the table, Moralès pushed his son’s dirty dishes aside and ate in silence. Sébastien didn’t say a word either. Joaquin could sense his son wasn’t comfortable mentioning the real reason for his visit. He waited until he’d finished his toast before testing the waters.

‘How long are you planning on staying?’

No answer.

‘Because there’s no bed in the spare room yet.’

Silence. Moving closer, Moralès saw that his son had fallen asleep, sitting on the sofa with his chin buried in his chest. He went to fetch a pillow and blanket, and helped him to lie down. Then, he downed the rest of his coffee in one gulp, grabbed his coat, wallet and keys and went into town to buy a bed. Not that he wanted to spoil his son with luxuries. He just didn’t want him crashing on his sofa, spreading his things all over the place and getting between him and his telescope. No matter how temporary a thing it was.

By the time Joaquin eventually made it down to the water’s edge, the day was nearly over. He had gone to the furniture store in Bonaventure, only to discover it was closed on Sundays. He ended up driving all the way to Grande-Rivière and ordering a bed for delivery the next day. He stopped for groceries on the way home. Finding his son still snoring away on the sofa, he put the groceries away, navigating around the box of pots and pans, and grabbed his fishing rod before heading down the cliff.