The Closed Harbour (17 page)

She stood in the kitchen, hesitant, a little stupefied, she wondered what to do. She saw the clock. It was turned half past four.

"It's Sunday," she said, "it's Sunday morning," and went to the tiny pantry. Her hands shook, she put the wrong things on the plate, and was half way upstairs when she noticed what was lying on it.

She could hear the long, trembling snores from her mother's room.

"I've got the wrong things."

She went down a second time, and stood in the pantry again, the empty plate in her hand, her eyes searching about, she had forgotten something, she couldn't remember what it was, but it was there in front of her.

"That terrible arm," she said.

Then quickly, like a good orderly housewife she had gathered up bread and meat and the bottle and was on her way upstairs again.

"You'd better dress," she said, she felt like a nurse, a doctor, a mother once more, "you'd better dress."

She put the things down on the little table. For a few seconds she looked about her, she saw his "things", the sextant, the old telescope, the brown paper parcel, the little pile of letters which she had gathered together again, whilst he put on his trousers, his shirt, hid from view that snake, the hairy arm.

"Eat," she said, her back to him, she was standing by the window, and there it was again, the sea.

"Madeleine."

She heard the noise then and she gave a jump. The wine bottle had fallen from his hand, and the liquid was spreading in a thin red stream across the floor. The bread had also fallen, soaking it up. She saw him sitting stiffly in front of the mirror, gazing at himself.

"You're ill."

Through the mirror she watched herself place a hand on his shoulders, saw the eyes steadfast in their stare, and in them an expression of melancholy, something beyond her, something she could never reach.

"Lie down, Eugene," she said.

The body was so erect, so taut, she felt this as upthrusting rock, and when she put a hand on his head she felt it there also, as though in a moment the whole body had stretched itself and frozen like ice.

"Do lie down."

She tried to move the head a little, from side to side, it had the resistance of iron.

"I'd better wake her," she thought, "God help him, something is happening," and she lay her head heavily on his shoulder and in a low voice kept saying, "Eugene, Eugene."

The sun had thrown a ray of light across the floor, and under it the wine shone and grew warm.

Below, a workman's heavy boots struck hard upon stones, and his shrill whistling cut clean through the air.

In the corridor beyond the open door some plaster fragments fell with a patter and a fine dust rose, spreading into the room, and this she saw through the mirror.

Marius had half opened his mouth as if on the point of speaking, and it remained so, as though he had suddenly forgotten what he had to say, as if the words, crowded and confused in his throat, could not come out.

The warmth of the big shoulder had oozed through his shirt, and she felt it against her face, and like him, she was now motionless, but out of her mouth the three words had finally broken.

"God forgive you," she said.

"Enough," she said, hand upon his mouth, "enough."

Far out, beyond the house, beyond the quays, a mist was rising slowly towards the sun, far stretching, formless. The light falling upon the greyish-white mass gave the impression as of golden rain striking the surface of the sea. The night was splitting into fragments, life struck out with the breaking day, struck everywhere. Unseen, towering somewhere at the horizon line, the ship, whose syren now burst brutally upwards and for some seconds one could hear the reverberations rolling swiftly inwards like some iron ball, moving towards the waking city.

The two figures, staring at each other in the mirror had not moved, were so still, so fixed and held, it seemed as though life itself had stopped.

"Are you ill?"

For a moment or two she seemed not to realize she had spoken, and then she saw his hands rising, high and back to the shoulders, felt them pressed flat upon her own, he pressed hard, he drew her head down over his shoulder and leaned his own heavily against it, she felt the rough palm stroking her cheek.

"Don't cry," he said, tenderly, "don't cry," to her who was not crying, who could not cry.

"It's me, my fault, I did it, I was mad, I killed him."

"He loved you," she said.

The surface of the mirror was clouded by the vapour of his own breath, but she yet saw that his eyes were closed, as if only at this moment he had realized she was behind him.

"Let me go," Marius said, who was yet clinging to her, and he heard her say with a quiet voice, "you are free."

She drew away from him, he got up and crossing to the window, closed it again, drew the curtain, came back and stood behind her, saying quickly, "somebody watching, somebody outside. That man. Been following me, watched him, three times last evening, won't leave me alone."

She took his hand, led him towards the bed.

"Sit down, Eugene," she said.

Obedient as a child he sat down, and she sat by him, held his hand.

"It doesn't matter," Madeleine said. "It's too late."

He turned towards her.

"Don't look at me again, and don't touch me," she said.

"Drink this."

She had retrieved the bottle from the floor, offered him the dregs of wine, which he took, and his head went right back to drain it, she saw the muscles of his throat moving, listened to the gurgling sound.

Then she took the empty bottle from him and offered him some bread.

"Eat it," she said.

He ate the bread.

"It was there, all the long day, lying on the table, you never came in."

He remained silent, he was listening to the heavy, distinct breathing from the other room.

"She's fast asleep, she doesn't care, it doesn't matter, nothing matters now," he heard her say.

His fingers tore at the remainder of the bread.

"D'you remember," she began, then suddenly stopped.

It didn't matter, she was back there already, it was years ago, they were sitting together in the wood, sitting just as they were now, she could hear him laughing, looking down at her, saying, "how very simple you are."

"I'm still simple," she thought, "here I am, sitting by him, now."

"Don't go," he exclaimed, "don't go," but she only got up and went and shut the door.

"There" she said.

From time to time he turned and looked towards the window.

"There is nothing there, nothing at all."

"There's the Angelus" she said abruptly, "I must go," and she was in the other room, watching her mother wake, the whale-like movement as she stretched and yawned, and then as the bell's tones rang in her head, the lumbering movement to the floor, upon her knees, the first prayer, and the sharp voice saying, "Madeleine, Madeleine. It is time to get up."

"Don't go, don't go," Marius said, and she could not move, he had fallen on his knees, his head buried in her lap.

She was still in the other room, this head was felt only as weight, he was mumbling into her skirt, weird, confused sounds.

"No, it could not be that, he would never cry."

"I must go," she said, "I can hear her, she's awake. Eugene, let me go."

He clung to her.

"There's nothing I can say."

"Madeleine! Where are you, Madeleine?"

She could feel his hands clutching her knees, "Madeleine, Madeleine."

"There's nothing I can do."

"It's like this," he said, "like this," and he was jabbering into her lap, speaking so rapidly that she could not catch a single word, and above the continuous mumble she heard the sharp blows of her mother's stick upon the bedroom floor.

"I must
go
," she cried, "I must
go
" feeling the stick's hammering in her ears, pressing there, "let me
go
," trying to free herself, hearing the old woman's shouts, "are you deserting me, are you running away from me."

"I'm coming, mother," she shouted at the top of her voice, "coming, coming. Stop hammering."

The very floor seemed to vibrate under the falling, metal-studded walking-stick.

"You
are
my brother," she said, and with her calm hands stroked his hair, "oh Eugene, Eugene. If you'd had but one drop of the spirit of my heart-happy man—don't be frightened nobody will harm, nobody—I swear."

When he raised his head she could not bear to look at him. And as though he had sensed this momentary terror, this revulsion, he quickly lowered it again.

She was aware of the cessation of the blows, from her mother's bedroom, and she called out sharply. "Coming, mother! Coming."

"Listen," Marius said, "listen," she felt the breath from his mouth upon her knees, he was babbling again, he seemed to vomit words, her ear strained to them, and now and again a certain word would rise clear of the stream of incoherent sounds.

"Gasse. It was Gasse. Been up in the main-top looking for a light. Loom of a red light, no light there, never was. Never see a light I said, never see it, bring her up to windward, bring her up to windward—head up higher to the wind, higher,
higher
—HIGHER—he was on the lee side of the bridge—I was there, he fell—"

"Stand up," Madeleine said, she hardly realized she was free, his body grown so limp beneath her.

"Stand up."

It seemed to her that this was not a man, but something nameless, something she had never seen before, something that could not rise and remain upright.

"Stand up."

"Look at me. Look straight into my eyes, Eugene," she said.

The door was flung open. Madame Marius stood there, tall, dishevelled, hair streaming upon her shoulders, a single breast bared to the light, the long gown swept the floor, her very stature made her magnificent.

"What is the meaning of this? I ask you? Are you mad?" Then she strode in through the door.

Not hearing her, not thinking about her, Madeleine, put a hand behind her brother, led him towards the bed, she felt she was taking a child with her.

"Lie down."

At first he knelt with one knee on the bed's edge, then slumped down.

He did not speak.

"Be quiet. You're ill."

The voice spoke to him, but more powerfully to her, it sank inwards with the searing touch of ice.

"Main-top," she thought, "why, that's a sailing ship—what's he talking about?" and could not answer the question she had put to herself. Something had foundered.

She covered him with the blanket.

"Lie still."

Madame Marius watched all this in silence.

"Go out," she said, not looking at Madeleine, nor at her son, her eyes were centred on the chair at the bed foot.

"Get yourself ready. You know I hate arriving after the First Gospel."

She remained quite still until the door closed upon her daughter. Then she picked up the chair, stood it in the centre of the room, and sat down. She looked at the man on the bed.

"Are you ill then?" she cried.

There was no answer. She was struck by the inertness of the figure, and, as she stared about her, by the disorder of this room. There came vividly to her mind the one and only occasion she had been taken down into a malodorous foc'sle. The movements in the nearby room she had ceased to hear, she was aware only of the silence by which she was surrounded. She looked from object to object, the piled bedclothes, the empty wine bottle on the table, his clothes in a bundle beside it, she noted the large stains across the white floor boarding. She looked up at the high window, then down at the man.

"You look composed," she said, "even peaceful, which shows this to be your natural place. It's three hundred or more miles from where we came, those awful train journeys, but you never lost your sense of direction. It may not be the last, or even the first. That is your affair."

She found herself staring directly at the great toe of his right foot, it stuck out from beneath the blanket.

"There is a man in this city, who, twenty years ago was engaged to and then deserted your sister. You came here to see him, you thought he would help, and you would crawl to him. I hope you will spare us that final humiliation."

The chair creaked as she got up. She then left the room.

"What were you doing in
his
room?"

"
Please,
mother," still edging her gently towards the bedroom. Quietly she closed the door.

"Something has happened to Eugene," she said.

"And nearly time. If you're to be at the first mass you mustn't stand about, and neither must I."

"You don't understand, mother."

Madame Marius was dressing, and she was not listening. Once or twice she paused, threw down a garment, as though she were uncertain about it, then picked it up again, but finally she was dressed and had left the room. Madeleine, was struggling into the same old black dress as of yesterday, and all the other days since first they had come. Then she, too, went downstairs.

"I can't find my prayer-book," Madame Marius said, "where is it?"

"
There
. You're looking at it," and she pointed to the book on the window shelf.

"I heard you get up. What does he want of you?"

"Nothing," Madeleine said, nothing now."

"In that case—There's the bell," Madame Marius said.

She fussed about in the sitting-room, looking for her hat, her black gloves—

"My stick, my stick," and Madeleine said, "here" and pushed it into her hand.

"We'd better go," her mother said, "I hate to arrive at the church after the first gospel."

"There's a time to speak, and there's a time to be silent," Madame Marius said as they went out into the street.

"Ah!" she exclaimed, pausing a moment to take in a great breath, "after that house—how splendid the morning is. Come along, Madeleine, have my old feet to run you to shame," and she went forward with spirit, with determination, she would not be late, who was never late.

"It must be a holy day," thought Madeleine, glancing over the crowded church, and then she was separated from her mother, she had to take a separate bench. She knelt, but not for long. Feeling sick she sat back in her seat again. She remained seated throughout the first Gospel and the last, and to her mother's horror did not rise and go to the rails as was usual, but remained tight in her seat. She stared straight ahead, at the altar, at the chalice, through the chalice and through the altar, she was back in the room with Marius.