The Closed Harbour (16 page)

"That Lustigne woman's right. The moment we're out we're watched, somebody following you all the time, one's only safe here."

He turned over in the heat-clinging bed, then he jumped out, crossed the room and turned the key in the lock. He returned to the bed and stretched out again.

"I'll plan. I'll get out of this dump, into the Black Sea, anywhere there, if I could get to Greece, the Islands—Italy perhaps, Leghorn, Genoa—

"Ah! If I could have seen that Follet now. Just the once. There's a man of understanding, I could tell him everything, everything. I'd sink all pride, forget my merits. Merits. Jesus! Look at them? Rusting away, falling to pieces. I only want the broad deck of a ship to walk on, no more than that, God, its not much to want, feel it moving under me, to be away, away. Ah, Follet, trying to see you is like trying to see a bloody Emperor. So precious is intelligence, so rare the understanding, you battle to reach it. Through what? These bloody men, damn them, say I'm a Jonah, spread rumours about me, won't sail with me. It's those bastards who draw up the gangways, block the doors, glare at me through the windows, turn up their noses. They pick and choose their Captains like they choose their tarts—"

"If by some effort of the will—"

He was staring up at the window. There was something not quite right about it.

"It's those damn flies, they've gone," he thought, he wondered where.

"Been to five offices to-day, boarded three ships, sat in half a dozen Bistro. That waiter Varinet. Lucy said that Jacquette man frequented the place, never turned up, hoped like hell he would. Can't count the number of walls I leaned against, and that man Labiche, following me, saw him three times to-day, what the hell does he want anyhow? He scares me, he really scares me. I've been to a funeral, too. Took coffee in a café, stuck twenty minutes outside Renart's, couldn't move, stiff as a ramrod. Couldn't budge. All those people rushing in and out, the mad Sales were on, it's unreal, can't believe I was there. Can't believe all those rushing, shouting, laughing people were happy, pushing past you as though you weren't there. That girl, alone, sitting in the park. And now I'm here. Another day."

He sat up with a sudden jerk, put his head in his hands.

"It's this place, too. This bloody house."

He sat motionless, as though listening. The dead silence of it screeched at him, an intense, persistent spirit was about, Marius could plainly hear it in his ear, "not satisfied, not satisfied."

"That Philippe. The swine. I could kill him. So smug, so correct, so
good,
a wink from him, a finger held up, just saying yes, change everything, get me out of here to-morrow
...
" and a ship was blowing, a tug hooting, cranes roaring, winches rattling, men hailing and hurrying, the ship's engines' first heavy sounds, and then the steady rhythm of them, everything moving, and it made Marius move, he was on his feet again, pacing the floor.

"Knew my father in the old days, if I could see him,
if
...
by God, I'll visit him at his home, why the hell didn't I think about that, why didn't I? It's in the Directory, of course, easy
...
fool—you're a fool .. but that Philippe, day after day after day, his very goodness makes it hurt, see him smiling now, covers you with slime, see him talking to Follet, hear him, 'that Nantes bum was in again to-day'. One is deaf after that, I never hear what Follet answers."

He stopped dead in the middle of the room.

"Who's there?"

He waited, but there was no sound, and then he was off again, up and down, up and down, round and round.

"How happy Lucy is, I can hear her laughing," and he gave an odd little chuckle himself, he could hear her talking, her warmth all round him.

"Be really sick, Captain, it'll do you good, she was in ballast for Algiers, what's ballast?"

He was back on the bed again, he was listening to the sound of his own voice.

"Lucy's got ballast, there's iron in poor Lucy."

"I should never have arrived, that's the trouble."

Through shut eyes he saw himself carried high by a single wave, right across a sea, the sound of which was now roaring in his ears, and there he was, landed, in the murdering town, fighting his way through the jibbering, incoherent groups, Royat back somewhere, away back somewhere, lost. There was the station.

"All lighted up. Mad."

Sometimes it was difficult to remember. Flinging himself into the train, rain hammering on the windows, the darkness outside, and there on the opposite seat the old man, silent, frozen with horror.

"Are you flying, too?"

The stupid face of the old man, hugging and hugged by his terror, bewildered.

"Everybody's flying, don't worry."

"I wonder where he is now," thought Marius, "that poor old man," then he shouted, "Ah, France, you took some mighty kicks in the arse," and the sounds seemed to split into fragments and scatter everywhere, the quiet house was deluged by them.

"The things I've seen."

"Who's there?" he shouted.

He was at the door again, rattling frantically at the knob.

"Who's there?"

There was no answer.

"I thought I heard somebody. I must be going crazy."

He got out of bed and drew the curtain across the window. The darkness was final. And somewhere within it were the soft, continuing padding sounds as of a moving animal, and this was Marius, on his feet again, naked, the closed window forgotten, the heat of the long day always rising. Sometimes he stopped and listened, glancing towards the locked door, and heard only his own breathing and the tick of the watch. It was at this moment that he heard the voice calling and following in its direction walked quietly into the sea.

Ships moved in utter darkness, the sea was full of ships, slinking through the night, like petty thieves, like murderers, fugitive ships, determined ships, ships already lost before they had veered away from the quays, and he was there in the middle of them. He was on the bridge and Berriat was there, and Jean, too, both there, and silent.

"At ten Gasse'll come up. He won't say good evening and I don't want it, we know where we are. He'll watch me all the time,
I
will be the fool,
I
will make the mistake. My orders are explicit, final. A reduction of speed at twenty three hours, not an inch more, we're moving towards a minefield. Madeau isn't here, I'll wait."

There it was. Five bells, loud and clear.

He watched the reliefs come up, Gasse, his nephew. He waited a little longer. Then he crossed the deck, stood watching him there.

"You all right, Jean?"

"Yes uncle."

How clear the youthful voice in the night air, strong, beautiful.

"Sure? You know what you're about?"

"Yes."

"Not unhappy, not afraid
...
no?"

"No. I'm not."

"Good! Steer well."

He could feel and smell and touch this moment.

"Should never have gone, never, I went below, yet I knew, felt I shouldn't, my feet held so hard, forced myself to it, how tired I was, nervy. I was in the cabin, fell asleep—Christ, I fell asleep
...

"I woke, by God how sudden I woke, perhaps I wasn't asleep after all, dozing
...
and then I saw that watching eye, that Gasse. And I sat on my bunk and I looked at my watch. How we hated each other. His eye. Never see an eye like it again, never. I had slept too long, it was done, too late, knew it, knew it running, falling over in the darkness, how she heaved
...
"

Marius stood still in the middle of the room, clenched his hands. He felt the sweat drip from his forehead, and was so still he heard, their minute drops. And risen high above him on the darkened sea, as clear as day, the ploughing ship. He felt again the odd shiver of her timbers, as though this living ship realized she had been caught in the trap.

The steady pulse of the engines rose from the depths, sounded as thuds. And beyond, in the darkness, others, blind, groping
...

"Gone! They'd gone. I swear to Christ we were alone, that hammering, what the hell was that, like great fists beating at her hull
...

"There's something wrong."

"There's nothing wrong," the man at the wheel said.

"Blast you for a fool, what course is this?"

"The course as ordered," the helmsman said.

"Swing her back at least three degrees."

He saw Gasse, tall, sphinx-like.

"D'you wish to sink us? I'll put you in irons
...
"

Gasse did not stir, not a muscle of his face moved. Marius stared, felt weakened, was helpless before those eyes.

"It's
you,
you're wrong," Madeau said, "Monsieur Gasse is correct, uncle
...
"

Marius felt himself go suddenly limp, he dragged himself across to the bed and slumped there.

"Fell where he stood, struck him, never even looked at him. It
was
Gasse. I flew at him."

"If she strikes, then by the living God I'll see to it you're dead before I am."

He threw his arms behind his head, stretched out his legs, he seemed to be waiting again, listening. He heard her strike.

Some monster, some giant perhaps, unseen in that darkness, and darker still that great confused mass of water.

"It was like somebody struck a match, it flamed and it went out."

"At a single blow, one blow, there he was, as he had fallen, stone dead, I knew I had also killed myself. Poor little Jean. I was mad with rage
...
"

Marius watched himself turn and fling himself towards Gasse, meet nothing save the onrushing sea. In a matter of minutes, gone. A whole living world wiped out. In four minutes.

"That time he looked at me I knew I was finished."

He began frantically searching under the pillow for his cigarettes, the matches, his hand gripped the watch, it ticked
at
him, and he flung it across the room, and he listened to the smash.

"Where the devil are they," still madly searching, aware of his hot tainted breath upon the pillow, the stickiness of the sheet.

The bed creaked a little as he searched.

A match suddenly blazed and went out again.

"Phew," Marius said, puffing out smoke.

He drew up his knees, clutched them, lowered his head until he could feel chin bristles rubbing against tenderness of chest. Marius spoke in barely audible whispers to Marius.

"My arm was too strong, and I was far too proud, but I wasn't going to drown, not even for France."

He saw, very near to him, suddenly, powerfully there, Royat. The deck-hand, the simpleton, the poor boob who knew not left from right, the disaster seemed more hideous with him there, the sea more terrible, this harmless, useless creature flung into it.

"By somebody's mercy it was, only that. Picked up."

"I didn't care any more, about anyone, about anything, I was alive, I felt the different parts of my body, kept feeling them, I was alive—"

Marius broke down and wept.

Behind the closed door she heard him, had heard it all. She turned the knob, pushed, the door refused to open.

"Eugene," Madeleine said, "Eugene."

He did not hear her footsteps moving away from the door, the steps on the stairs, did not hear the sudden barking of a dog, a far distant wail as of a fog-horn, nor hear her ascending the stairs again, the key in the lock on the other side, his own fall with a clatter to the bare wooden floor.

"Eugene."

He heard steps across the darkened room. The light came on, a blinding flash, and she saw him, naked, sitting crouched on the bed, haggard, huddled.

She went across to him, sat down on the bed by his side, she put a hand on his shoulder.

"I thought it would never stop," Madeleine said, "that pacing, it went on and on,
she
heard it, it wore her out, she's gone to bed."

He did not answer, and did not look at her. As she rose again his head rose, he opened wide his eyes to stare at her, she had gone to the window, drawn aside the curtain, dragged open the window, the dawn seeped down into the hot, tight room. She returned to her place, again her hand was on his shoulder, feeling it hot, sweated, strong, she let it lie there.

"Eugene."

He leaned towards her, and she withdrew a little, but her hand lay cool on his shoulder. She had the smell of his hair, and then in a half frightened, half shy confidence, he said, "I nearly got away."

Still naked he got up and crossed to the fireplace, and from its tiny, narrow shelf he picked up a heap of letters, and in his sudden hurry to get the one he wanted, the others fell in a white cloud to the floor. He came back to her.

"Look! Transport Oriental. Skipper for the Arabian. Wrote at once. Look what they said."

He began waving the letter in the air.

She took this from him and read it.

"Give it me," and he tore it from her hand.

"No vacancy. Never was. Wanted a deck-hand," his voice louder, words rising like froth, "wrote again, I'll have it, give it me. No answer.

"Silence."

"Ssh!" Madeleine said, "ssh! For heaven's sake. You'll wake her, she's fast asleep, not well—she's failing—that strength—it's a lie—ssh!—ssh! You'll wake her."

"I can crawl like a bug myself," Marius said, and his curious smile frightened her.

She saw a snake lying flat between elbow and biceps, the eye travelled the full length of this arm—her gaze immobile, rapt. She could not move this eye, nor close it, nor turn her head, but went on staring at the arm, saw its whole length live, rising, high, then falling.

She turned from him quickly, pressed the flat of her hands to her face, she wanted to be sick, a wave of feeling was rising in her, she felt she would drown in it.

Through her fingers she said, in a low, husky voice, trying to hide her desperateness, "you've been out all day, you haven't eaten, I'll get you something," ordering her body to rise, to drag itself away, and then she was through the door, leaving it wide open behind her, groping her way blindly down the stairs, their every creak sounded like shots.