The Lost Sailors (12 page)

D
iamantis knocked at the door of Abdul's cabin. “Abdul! Are you coming to eat?”
“Come in!” he cried.

It was the first time Abdul had ever asked Diamantis into his cabin. Abdul was changing. Diamantis couldn't help sneaking a glance at the way the cabin was laid out. Everything was neat and tidy. He was surprised to see a number of books piled on the worktable. Abdul had never mentioned any books he was reading or had read.

Abdul was standing there, with his hands in his pockets. He had put on a pair of blue shorts and a loose-fitting black T-shirt.

“So, how exactly did he fuck up?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don't piss me around, Diamantis. Nedim may be a nice guy but he always fucks things up, you know that.”

“We all have our stories, right? If he wants to tell you, he will. You're the same way, and so am I. There's no reason for me to treat him any differently.”

“Our stories are our business. They have nothing to do with this fucking ship. I'm the captain, and I have responsibilities. I accept that for as long as I'm here. O.K., Diamantis? But I'd bet my right arm that Nedim's going to fuck things up for us.”

They looked at each other in silence. There was something false about this conversation, and they both knew it. They were arguing over a crew member as if the
Aldebaran
were about to set sail that night. And the amazing thing was that they'd never argued like this over a crew member before.

Irritably, Diamantis took a few steps toward Abdul. As if he were about to hit him. Abdul didn't move.

“Listen, Abdul,” Diamantis said, facing him now. “I don't give a shit about all your fine talk. And let me tell you this, we're all of us stuck here, with our stories. And whatever they are, they do have something to do with this heap of old iron, dammit!”

Diamantis turned to leave the cabin, but Abdul held him back. They looked at each other. There was friendship in their eyes.

Diamantis smiled. “So, you coming to eat?”

They boiled some rice and poured oil over it, and shared two cans of mackerel between them. It was Nedim who broke the silence. He always had to talk. He couldn't help himself.

“Any news about the boat?”

“Why?” Diamantis said, with irony in his voice. “Do you want to work for us again?”

“Fuck off! I've finished with all that. I'm going home, getting married, starting a little business. I'm going to have a nice easy life. I've been thinking about it quite a bit. You see the world, you have a few laughs, you fuck all kinds of women, then before you know it you're fifty years old, and you're alone, or your wife's cheating on you. What do you think, captain? Am I right?”

“In Rouen,” Abdul said, not picking up on Nedim's question, “they just sold the
Legacy
. I heard about it this morning. They started at seven hundred fifty thousand dollars, and went up to one million thirty-five thousand dollars.”

Diamantis whistled through his teeth. “Do you know who bought it?”

“A Panamanian company, as usual. Talgray Shipping Inc.”

“Do you know it?”

“Yes,” Abdul said, smiling. “They say it's a front for the previous owner.”

“And who's that?”

“The same as ours.”

“The bastard!” Nedim cried. “The fucking bastard! We're dying here, and he goes and buys himself another boat.”

“Yes,” Abdul said. “But the
Legacy
's a damn good freighter. Three hundred and eighty feet. Not even twenty years old. A bargain.”

“How many on board?”

“Two.” Abdul looked at Diamantis. “The captain and his first mate. The eight crew members had been gone for several months. Like you,” he said, looking at Nedim.

“Hey, I'm still here. If they sell us tomorrow, I want to make a bit of money, right?”

“You've had your money. And officially, you're not even here any more. Remember?”

“Do you know the captain?” Diamantis asked.

“A young guy. Antonio Ramirez, a Chilean. Thirty-nine. Forty times around the world. I had him once as a first mate, in Madagascar. Ten years ago.”

The
Legacy
had arrived at Honfleur a year earlier, to deliver fertilizer. But Ramirez had refused to connect the cables and unload the merchandise as long as the wages had not been paid, which they hadn't been for six months. The owner agreed to pay out a hundred and fifty-two thousand francs, but the crew considered the sum insufficient.

Ramirez decided to take the
Legacy
on to Rouen. There, Hydroagi France agreed to advance three hundred thousand francs so that the merchandise could be released. Ramirez gave the order to hand it over. But since then, as a kind of reprisal, the
Legacy
had been left in port by the owner. The crew had spent a whole year without water or electricity, cooped up in unheated cabins and, like the crew of the
Aldebaran
, supplied with provisions by charitable organizations.

“The Federation paid for the crew to be repatriated,” Abdul said.

“Shit!” Nedim said. “You could have arranged for us to be repatriated, too. We wouldn't have had to sweat blood finding ways to get home.”

“You got money instead. They didn't. I thought it was better for you to get money.”

“Yes,” Nedim admitted, sadly. “You're right.”

He fell silent, lost in thought. Yes, it was better to have had the money. But if he'd had a train ticket and nothing else, he'd have been home by now. He'd have made up some story about how they were going to send his money on to him. One or two old pals would have helped him out in the meantime.

That was what he could have done, dammit! He could always make some quick money in Istanbul. From the tourists. Especially the Italians and the French. The French arrive with their noses in their guidebooks, looking for cheap hotels. And once they're out on the streets, they get lost. You just have to be there. To help them, advise them.

He had earned quite a bit that way, when he was in the army and had an evening's furlough. He'd point them in the direction of other hotels and restaurants, not the ones in the guidebooks. Places that were just as good, and no more expensive. And what's more—this was the clincher—places were they'd steer clear of other tourists.

The real Istanbul. Even the Cafe Yenikapi, down by the sea, which wasn't mentioned in any guidebooks.

He got a small commission from the hotels and restaurants. In addition, the tourists often bought him drinks. Meals, too. It didn't cost them too much. Shrimp, Albanian liver, stuffed mussels, beans in sauce, white cheese . . . Not to mention the possibility of fucking the girls. The French girls, especially. They came in twos or threes, with rucksacks on their backs. No guys in tow.

His best stroke ever had been the two girls from Alsace. Both blond, and as cute as could be. They were determined to go to Kizil Adalar, the Red Islands. Twelve miles off Istanbul. They called them “the Princes' Islands,” because that was what they were called in their guidebooks, and they were searching desperately for the landing stage in order to take the ferry. He had a better suggestion. A little boat for just the two of them. Better than sharing a ferry with fifteen hundred people!

The owner of the boat, Erol Aynaci, had taken them all around the islands: Büyük Ada, Heybeli Ada, Kinali Ada, Burgaz Ada. On Burgaz Ada, he took them bathing in the creek of Kalpazankaya. They had never had such a good time in their lives. And Nedim had really had an eyeful! Better still, he had found a room for them at the Imperial Hotel where, he told them, Théophile Gautier had stayed. He didn't give a damn about Théophile Gautier. He didn't even know who he was. But, shit, that had really impressed the two girls. He'd given them a tour in the footsteps of the writer in question. Then he'd told them that Trotsky had been exiled here in 1932, with only his books for company. Shit, that had impressed them even more!

He'd fucked both of them. That evening, he'd suggested they go for a tandir kebab on Kinali Ada, then they'd danced and drunk all night. It had been great when he'd found himself in bed between the two girls.

“What's your problem, Nedim?” Abdul asked.

“My problem . . .” The image of the two blondes faded, to be replaced by Lalla and Gaby. “My problem is, I got taken for all my money. Like an idiot.”

He glanced quickly at Diamantis. He had told him the truth. Well, not quite the whole truth. He hadn't mentioned his bag, which was still in the Habana. Or the money he needed to get it back.

“I thought you were cleverer than that, Nedim. You got taken for all your money? What are you, some kind of country bumpkin or what?”

“Yes,” he said, with a dumb look on his face. “I'm just a peasant.”

“What do you take me for, an idiot?”

Diamantis smiled.

“I went to a club, with Ousbene,” Nedim said. “Just to kill time. And we had a few drinks.”

“Did Ousbene get away?”

“Yes, I think so. He had a train to catch. Trains leave on time. I stayed on my own.”

“And blew it all?”

“Fuck, no!” He was getting irritated. He pushed away his plate and stood up. He hadn't eaten his mackerel. “Ugh! This food is disgusting!”

“It's all we have to eat,” Diamantis retorted. “You'll have to get used to it. Now, don't get all worked up. Sit down.”

Nedim sat down again. “Do you have a cigarette?” he asked Diamantis. “Mine are all gone.”

He lit the cigarette, then looked at Abdul.

“I lost track of time. I had a few more drinks and . . . Shit, I got hustled. By two girls. There. Happy? Huh?”

“Don't lie to me, Nedim. I'm not your father. Or your mother. Or your fiancée. You can sweet-talk them all you like, but not me. O.K.? Man to man. No bullshit.”

Diamantis cleared his throat. Abdul looked up at him. Nedim watched the two of them. “There's something between them,” he thought, without batting an eyelid.

“Hey,” Nedim said. “What about that whisky? Are we drinking it or not?”

Diamantis went to get the bottle. They drank in silence.

“What are we going to do?” Nedim asked them.

“How do you mean, what are we going to do?” Abdul replied.

“I mean, for me. Shit, I'm not going to hang around here. It's not that I don't like the two of you, but . . . The more I listen to you, the more . . . I think you're like the guys on the
Legacy
. The captain and the first mate. You're stubborn. Have you known each other long?”

“Quite a while,” Diamantis replied.

“There's nothing we can do for you, Nedim,” Abdul said. “You were given money to leave. Period. You won't get anything else. Even if we sold the
Aldebaran
tomorrow, you wouldn't be entitled to anything. You gave up all your rights.”

“It was a rip-off!”

“That's not what you said yesterday.”

“Yesterday . . .”

“The best thing you can do,” Diamantis said, “is find a way to get home. If you need a little money, we'll find it for you.” He looked questioningly at Abdul.

“Yes, we'll think of something,” he admitted reluctantly. He finished his drink and stood up. “A word of advice, Nedim. Don't give us any trouble. I warn you. Good night. Oh, one more thing. I'm staying on board tomorrow. Work out a duty rota between the two of you for the other days.”

“A duty rota!” Nedim exclaimed as soon as Abdul had gone out. “What's that shit? A duty rota for what?”

“Just a duty rota. Do as he says and don't ask any questions.” Diamantis grabbed the bottle, and poured a decent shot for Nedim. “To see you through the night.
Ciao
.”

He picked up the bottle and left.

“Crazy people!” Nedim muttered.

Diamantis climbed on to the main deck. Nothing had been put away. The deck was cluttered with ladders, pipes, cables, storm lamps, rigging, blowtorches, work gloves, and pots of paint. He liked it up here. He liked the smell, a real boat smell.

The weather was fine. He sat down. He wondered if Mikis was coming to Psara for his vacation this year. He should call him to find out. He'd have liked to go fishing with his son. It had been a long time. Since he and Melina had separated, those fishing expeditions were the only times he and Mikis got together. Surrounded by the silence of the sea. Fishing brought them closer. Father and son. They didn't need words, but when they came, they came naturally.

“What are you searching for when you go away?” Mikis had asked him last summer.

Diamantis had shrugged. “Nothing. Not anymore. I thought I'd find happinesss, going around the world . . . But, you know, when I think about all my years as a sailor, and all the things I can tell you about, you and everyone, I don't know what's true anymore. It's all real in its way, but was that the happiness I was looking for? I don't know!”

Happiness, he thought now, only existed alongside pain and suffering. You realized in the end that it was only an idea. But he hadn't said that to Mikis. He was his father, but that didn't mean he was in possession of the truth. He might be wrong. He'd often been wrong in his life.

Now he was sitting on his bunk. He opened the notepad containing his reflections gleaned from studying Mediter­ranean sea maps. He read them over, trying to shut out the
Aldebaran
.

The reason the sea routes are not easy to define may be that they are interwoven with stories: the maps on which they are marked may have been imagined, the writings that go with them invented . . .

He took a swig of whisky straight from the bottle. It was a question that had obsessed his father. They had talked about it a lot in the year before his death. The explorations of Pytheas, he had told him, had been disputed by many historians and geographers, especially Strabo, who didn't believe that Pytheas had gotten as far as where “the Tropic of Cancer becomes the Arctic Circle” and where the soil is such “that it is impossible to walk on it or find your way across it.” Polybus also considered these journeys nothing but fables.