The Closed Harbour (23 page)

His own voice answered him. He sat motionless on the chair. The darkness increased. He could no longer see the door. Each time he called he would sit tense, listening. After a while he got up and struck another match. He left the room. At the foot of the stairs he called, "Hello!" The house kept its mouth shut.

He climbed the stairs. In the larger of the two bedrooms he went first to the window. This he closed. Turning towards the bed, the small flickering light, the red glow from the bowl, frightened him. He rushed at this, and in an excess of fear blew violently upon the night-light, and this drowned in its own oil; it gave off a sharp, acrid smell. But the light itself that had burned for four months before the altar, had gone. Marius put his hand on the bedclothes, began turning them over and over, he felt about in the bed.

Stretched across it, he called "Hello," and listened, his head turned towards the door. He left the room. The silence made him feel chill, he descended to the kitchen, and instinctively his hand went to the switch. The room flooded with light.

The place was swept and clean, the corners were empty. Nothing on the table, not even a crumb. He felt along shelves, he bent down and looked under the grate, into the fire that had never been lighted. Nothing. Not a scrap of anything, an old bone, a scrap of paper, an envelope. He switched out the light and returned to the other room. He talked to himself. Through the window he stared at nothing. But every attitude was that of a waiting, listening man. He called again, but this time in a low voice, then he went out and started to climb the stairs for the second time. He found his own door, opened it, he went on talking to himself. He shut and locked the door. He closed the window and drew down the catch, he drew the curtains across it. He struck no match, switched on no light. He sat on the chair at the foot of the bed, hands gripping his knees. He listened. His own boot scraping the floor made him jump and he said quickly, "hello, hello there!"

The house that had been silent so long, was no less silent now.

It had been a strange day. On the quay, lying under the keel of a rotting boat, he had felt something crawling about him, things with claws, crabs perhaps. And in the late evening he woke, shivering a little, he could not remember leaving the house. He tried to remember a dream. The eyes, fish open, were staring towards a large object that looked like a crane, and then like a house dissolving, and he had dragged himself to his feet and walked towards it. Nobody had appeared to notice him, walking across a short gangway that spanned two ships, two ships so close together their plates might be congealed.

No sound. No winch, no crane, no voice. No rattle of chain, whisper of steam, no pulse of engine, no bell, no footfall. Marius had walked the length of the
Bergerac
, tossed up by an ocean, bound to the quay, buried in mud and slime, a ship dying, discarded, ransacked, the last wave broken under her vitals. He had walked for'ard, climbed to her foc'sle head, leaned far over her rail, perilously hung there, staring at the brass letters of her name, the light upon them falling as the sun withdrew. Staring down to darkening water, thickish with its skin of refuse, the water hemmed in by the pressure of the plates. Things moving, an old greasy cap, a salmon tin, orange peelings, old papers, scattered invoices, lading bills, all moving to the slow stir of this dead water, the plop and blob and chug against steel.

Marius had turned, gone down the ladder, run the length of her well-deck, cupped his hands, shouted, swore, called the hands. He had then climbed to the bridge. Upon it he stood erect, his hands behind his back and clasped tightly, he stared at the piled city.
Bergerac's
head was turned from the sea.

He pulled hard upon her port telegraph but this had refused to ring. It was strange indeed. And speaking rapidly, nervously down the tube the engineer below had refused to answer him. He pulled again at the telegraph handle. Then he clenched his fist and struck hard upon the stout teak of her bridge rail, and swore and left the bridge, pausing with each step upon the companion ladder, to listen, to wait. But only silence. Nothing happening. Life flat upon its back. He ran down her starboard alley way, passed through the steel door, and this clanged behind him, began to descend down three staircases of shining steel. Below, something that looked like silver and shone brightly, and he cried as he went, "hello! Hello there!" And then he reached bottom and stood and stared at the things that shone.

But it was unbelievable—he had been hours in the engine-room. He had first toyed and felt the stationary wheel, the stiff piston, and then in incredible rage had pulled and tugged and heaved and hammered, sat down and reflected and sweated, risen again and turned and twisted and pulled, but nothing had happened. The engines would not start. A most stubborn ship.

He had been fore and aft, and for'ard again, below and aloft. Even her syren had refused to budge. Perhaps in the darkness a hand had risen from the river and gripped it, torn and destroyed it. He had stood at the foc'sle door, bawling them out, cursing, he had gone to the cabin of the chief engineer, sworn, and beat upon his door.

Marius's world was full of doors, and these were closed. He returned to the bridge. Again he grasped the telegraph, moved her over to SLOW-AHEAD. He began to pull it backwards and forwards as though he would drag up this stubbornness by the roots. Wearily he had turned away to lean on the bridge rail again, and stare raptly at the far off horizon. Nobody had noticed him board her and nobody had noticed him leave.

As he slowly walked her deck there came to him more clearly the sound of his own footsteps, striking hard upon the iron surface. But this could not disturb her bones, whose head was turned from the sea forever. He had paced her bridge and her decks, whilst all around him the world was in motion.

He sat very still. Always he listened. When the chair creaked again he got up and went to the door. He turned the key, unlocked it, turned it again, he continued to turn it. He heard this sound, and he heard other sounds. He heard the doors at the Heros being closed, the blinds drawn down. The Bilter Line doors were closing, too. Somebody was behind Marius, counting the thousands of steps he had climbed. Men were counting them in offices, and writing the figures into their books.

A dark cab, drawn by a lame grey horse, had pulled up outside the Heros building, and Monsieur Follet had come out, head bent, body wrapped against a winter journey, and he had entered the cab. Philippe had followed down the steps with a wreath of his own roses, and he entered after the other. Then the door of the cab had closed, and it moved slowly away. Another man had rushed from the building, crying, "wait," and he had climbed on to the back of it. He was small and thick-set, with dark, penetrating eyes, and he hung on, and the cab vanished into the fog.

Marius held the key in his hand, the hand in the air, he was looking at this, holding it very close to the eye, and it glittered. He smiled at the key. All down the street of ships the doors were closing, he heard the keys turning in the locks and hurriedly he pushed in his own key, and quickly turned it. Then he threw himself hard and close to the door, and all endeavour of muscle and bone were behind him as he pressed forward. He heard the gangways pulled down, ship after ship was losing contact. The great gangways were rolled inwards, and rumbled through towering steel doors, and these too, were closing with noises like gun-fire, and the last gangway was rushing forward to the final door.

The dying
Bergerac
gave a lurch, pulled clear of her companion, turned over, sank from sight into the mud, the locked water moved, was swept up in a wave that washed swiftly inwards, as though to swallow the quays in one great gulp. Then, in the same instant this wave rose high, as towers rise, smashed down, and at once Marius saw the huge mass of water turn again and move swiftly towards the horizon, and then there was only the mud, the desert, and beyond it the quick-moving sea, rolling further and further, far beyond the quays and beyond the breakwater. Watching, he saw the mountain of water tearing past the great Chateau.

Marius now pressed with all his might against the door of his room. He heard the sea, and saw it break, move forward again, and he heard the closing of the last door; this was far out in the Black Sea, the night like pitch, and Manos, bearded and drunk, placing his body against the cabin door before the sea should strike.

Marius's body was moving, gradually, slowly, as melting snow piled to the wall breaks under the sun, until he was on his knees, and the key in the lock and his hand to this. He cried feebly, "hello!"

"Hello!"

He stiffened.

"Hello!" Marius said.

And the voice said, "hello!"

Then silence.

"My name is Labiche. Aristide Labiche. Do not be afraid. No harm will come to you."

Labiche could hear the heavy breathing behind the door. He had entered the house by the back, and in the darkness found his way to the top of the stairs. He now sat on the top stair, his head turned towards the locked door. He had listened to the rallentando of the key in the lock. With another kind of eye he was trying to ascertain where in the room Marius was. Behind this door? By the window? Sat on the bed? Sprawled on the floor?

"Your sister Madame Madeau has left me a note. She says you are ill. I would like to talk to you," he said.

Listening intently, Labiche thought that in this moment even the man's breathing had ceased, he felt he could cut this silence with a knife. He rose to his feet.

"May I come in? I am not from the police, as you appear to think, as you mentioned to our mutual friend Madame Lustigne."

He knocked gently on the door, and waited. Hearing a step behind it, he thought instantly," here he is," but there was the silence as before.

Marius had gone to the window.

"Nobody who comes to this city is ever refused help, and nobody who comes to us will be turned away. We are not the Heros, nor the Transport Oriental, and we are not the Bilter Line, and we are not the Messereau concern either. Father Nollet would like to speak to you. I have a friend, a good man, and he will help you. No questions asked."

Noiselessly he returned to the top stair and sat down.

Labiche lit a cigarette and drew greedily, pleasurably upon it.

"It's getting late," he thought, and fished out his watch. By its illuminated dial he saw that it was nearing ten o'clock.

"I will tell you his name. It is Gallois. He is a gentleman who has been a strong arm to our society, which is that of Saint Vincent de Paul. There are no limits with us."

After a pause he said quietly, "Marius, you are not lost," and the intense silence within and without the door gave a frightening audibility to these quiet words.

"We are not concerned with the things that have been done. The debris they leave behind, that is our concern."

He drew heavily on the cigarette, and for a moment his thoughts winged clear of the house.

"It is getting late. I have a wife and children at home and they are waiting for me. It is so very simple, Marius. You get up and open the door. I will come in. Or I will go out with you. Perhaps you would share black coffee with me across the way. Perhaps a vin chaud higher up the street. Your mother and sister have gone away. Father Nollet, parish priest of this district wrote your mother a letter and advised her to return from whence she came. She may have done so. Your sister, Madame Madeau has left me a note. That is why I am here."

Labiche stood up. He began a slow, leisurely pacing of the landing, his thumbs stuck into his vest, in the manner of a man who has oceans of time in front of him, one who was totally indifferent to the total darkness that surrounded him. He wished only to draw through the door a sick, and miserable man.

Within the room something had fallen to the floor. Labiche paused by the door, took the handle in his hand and rattled it.

"It is a sin to be miserable," he said.

He stared downwards at the banked up darkness.

"I sit on the lowest stool at the Heros office, you will have noticed me whenever you called, as I noticed you, on that first morning, on all the other mornings, and it was the Marius who had gone out who interested me. I would say to myself, where will he go now? What will he do? He will go to other shipping offices, climb their stairs, get his answer, climb down again, he will walk about in a dream and he will end up where they all end up, on the quays. You are not the first who has come to this city, and I don't suppose you will be the last. The others had no illusions whatever, and now they are gone, Marius. But you remain. You are not cunning enough to be wise."

Labiche threw down his cigarette and stamped it out. He tried the door handle again, but it refused to give.

"Please open the door, and I'll talk with you. We help, not hinder. Many people come to us, and we have gone to many others. Some felt no shame in their coming, and others fooled us, some bit deep into the hand. Can you hear me speaking to you?"

There was no answer, and for a moment Labiche fancied that all the time the man was asleep. He went to the top of the stairs, stood there with a hand on either rail.

"I must get him out of here," he thought, "the man is very ill."

He heard a long scraping sound within the room and turned quickly round, he was certain now that Marius would open the door to him, and he stood by it and waited.

"Are you there?" he asked.

He grabbed the knob and rattled it again. "It is important that you should remember you are a man," he said.

"I know why you came here. You came to see Monsieur Follet. He would not see you. Not because you were without papers, but because he himself would be embarrassed. We know that much."

He lit another cigarette.

"I say again, Marius, if you will trust me, we will help you. Of course we do not solve
all
situations. For instance we do not make people happy. If all a man requires from life is simply happiness, then that is only another way of killing oneself. Will you open the door?"