The Lost Sailors (14 page)

Diamantis didn't want to die. Life was full of joys. Mariette was a wonderful example of that. She just had to smile, and her dimples lit up her round, pretty face.

“I have to . . . I have to find someone. Someone I haven't seen for . . . a long time.”

“A woman?”

Mariette's eyes searched the innermost recesses of his being. He felt uncomfortable. He shrugged, without replying.

She smiled. “And after that?”

“Why, do you have an idea in mind?”

“Mmmm . . . Not an idea, more like a desire . . .”

Their knees were still touching.

“I don't know, Mariette.”

“Come if you want to. Come when you want to. I put Laure to bed at nine, and I never turn the light out before midnight. Within those limits, anything can happen.”

Mariette dropped Diamantis in the Vieux-Port, not far from the Grand Bar Henri where he'd arranged to meet Nedim. They had driven without speaking, listening to an Italian singer she had discovered quite recently. Gianmaria Testa. Her favourite track was
Come le onde del mare
. She translated a verse of it for him.

 

Some evenings have a color you can't define,

somewhere between blue and purple,

and they vibrate slowly, slowly.

And we who wait for them,

we know they are prisoners

like the waves of the sea.

 

Mariette knew all the words, and she sang along in a soft voice. They made a fine duo, the singer and her.
Come le onde del mare. Come le onde del mare.

She kissed him on the cheek, and the spicy scent of her body filled his nostrils. Her kiss, too, was scented. He wondered how her breasts would taste tonight. Pineapple, mango, apple, or pomegranate? Or the taste of a fruit he didn't yet know?

N
edim was relieved when he saw Diamantis come into the bar. It was nearly five-forty. He had been here for forty minutes, sitting at a table with a glass of beer.

Diamantis hadn't felt up to going straight to see Nedim after leaving Mariette. He had taken the ferry and crossed the Vieux-Port. Then he had come back on foot, strolling idly along the waterfront, enjoying the hustle and bustle.

He had noticed, with a smile, that a Senegalese street merchant was selling a pack of roasted peanuts for one franc less than a pack of almonds. Why? he'd wondered, but without trying to find an answer. Then he'd found himself in the middle of a party of about fifty Japanese, which a tourist bus had just disgorged onto the quay. A black-haired, round-faced little boy in a red cap had emerged from the group, looked at Diamantis, and stuck his tongue out at him. A nice pink tongue. Then his mother had pulled him back. That had made Diamantis smile, too.

Farther on, sitting on a bench facing the sea, two old Arabs were arguing passionately. When he came level with them, he had slowed down to listen to the music of the language, even though he couldn't understand the words. He'd have liked to be able to read and speak Arabic. He had never taken the time to learn it, and he'd always regretted it. When he reached the intersection of Quai de Rive Neuve and Cours Jean Balard, he stood with his hands in his pockets, waiting for the lights to change.

A young man was pacing on the opposite sidewalk, a cigarette in his mouth. A pretty West Indian girl got off the bus and ran to him. He dropped his cigarette and took her in his arms. He lifted her up, laughing, while passersby looked on, amused. She had very pretty legs and yellow panties.

Diamantis had smiled again. Marseilles suited him fine.

“Shit, Diamantis! I was worried. Can you imagine, I don't have a cent on me. If you hadn't come . . .”

“I told you I would.”

“I know, but . . . Have you seen what time it is? No wonder I was worried.”

Diamantis ordered two draft beers.

“O.K., no need to get angry,” Diamantis said, after taking a big swig of beer. “I'm going to the Habana on my own. You wait for me here.”

“Oh. O.K.”

Diamantis didn't yet know how he was going to handle this, but he did know he didn't want Nedim under his feet. He was too impulsive, too unpredictable.

“Do you think it'll work?”

“We'll see.”

“Shit, I hope so. I really need my bag.”

“Do you have anything important in it?”

Nedim shrugged. “No . . . Just a photo of my mother and father. It's the only one I have of them together. I don't like having it out of my sight.”

Diamantis looked at Nedim. The guy always surprised him. He was so unaffected, so rough and ready, so tender and shameless and naïve. Sincere even when he lied or tried to pull a fast one. The ideal mark for any con. Especially if a woman handed it to him on a plate.

If for no other reason, Diamantis wanted to come back with the bag. He felt up to it. Eager to get going, because of the beauty of this city and Mariette's smile.

“I'm off,” he said.

“Leave me a cigarette.”

Diamantis threw three on the table and left. Nedim crossed his fingers in front of his heart. “
Bismillâh irrahmân irrahîm
. . .” he recited to himself. Then he lit a cigarette.

 

“We're not open,” the black man said.

“Are you Doug?” Diamantis asked.

“Yes,” he muttered, surprised. “What do you want?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Are you a cop?”

Without replying, Diamantis took a step forward. Doug didn't stop him. Diamantis entered the club. The ceiling lights were on. The place stank of cold cigarette ash. A woman was cleaning the tables. She looked up when Diamantis came in, but didn't stop working. Doug closed the door behind him.

“Well?” he asked.

“I'm a friend of Nedim's. Know who that is?”

“He owes nine hundred francs.”

Doug didn't seem bothered. He flexed his muscles, to show them off. He was wearing a tight black T-shirt, so it was an impressive spectacle.

“Are you here to pay his debts, pal?”

Diamantis didn't like his familiarity. He didn't like musclemen either. “I'm sorry?”

“He has a slate of nine hundred. Pay or get out.”

“Are you the boss?”

“We don't have a boss.”

“What are you then? The muscle around here?”

Diamantis had twenty-five years' experience of this kind of situation. The only thing that threw these guys was nerve, not muscle.

Doug sized him up. Diamantis was no match for him. Doug was easily forty-five pounds heavier than him. One headbutt, and he'd be on the ground. It might not even be necessary. A single well-aimed slap would be enough. But you can never be sure, he told himself. And Diamantis was standing some distance from him. A bit too far. With his hands in his pockets. The bastard might have a knife.

Diamantis kept his eyes on Doug.

“What do you want?”

“His passport and his bag.”

“Are you kidding or what?”

“Do I look like I'm kidding, Doug?”

The cleaning woman stopped and looked at them, then disappeared into the back room. This might start to get complicated, Diamantis thought. From the position he was in, he couldn't see what was happening to his left, where the cleaning woman had gone. He should have kept his back to the door. He was angry at himself for his carelessness. He must be getting old.

“No, but . . . I'm losing money.”

“First of all, it's not your money. And besides, who says you're going to lose it?”

“So what, you're going to write me an IOU, is that it?”

“Exactly.”

Doug shook his head all over the place. Clearly, he thought the idea was completely crazy. “You can't be serious!” he cried.

Gaby came to the doorway of the back room. When she saw Diamantis, she slowly moved back. He didn't see her. He didn't even realize she was there. He was too busy keeping his eyes on Doug. He didn't trust him, even though he had scored a few points by losing that insolent familiarity. “A guy who isn't too familiar respects you,” Hans, the first mate on the
Alabama
, had taught him. “He won't find it so easy to smash your face. Never forget that, son.” He hadn't forgotten it. He had also learned that there were a lot of exceptions to the rule. He had paid the price for that at the Milord, a bar in Morindava, Madagascar.

Juju, her name was. A hostess. Like Lalla. Like Gaby. Like thousands all over the world. And Diamantis had gotten caught in the trap. Like Nedim, and like all young sailors. He had told Nedim the story last night. The story of Juju. Just to relieve the strain. Juju had bumped into him as he was coming out of the post office. She was wearing a blue scarf over her curly hair. A black miniskirt with a thick studded belt, and lots of bracelets on both arms

Diamantis had believed Juju's story. So sincere, it made you cry. She wasn't looking to sleep with anyone, she had said, her eyes full of tears, as she drank her Coke. No, she was looking for the love of her life. The
vazaha
. The man who would change her life and take her away to wherever he lived, which had to be better than Madagascar.

Diamantis had just turned twenty-two. This was the first time he'd really been away from home. His heart was pounding. He couldn't believe his luck. Juju took him from bar to bar. At last, late at night, they ended up in the Milord. He wasn't yet ready to say he'd marry her, but he was quite prepared to say that he would come back for her. Because he was really desperate to sleep with her!

She snuggled against him, stroking his chest. She had slender, gentle fingers. Her lips lightly brushed his. She half opened them, moved them over his neck, his cheeks, his ear, teasing the lobe, then returned at last to his lips. He felt her hot tongue against his. He held her close, lovingly.

When he opened his eyes, the drinks they had been served five minutes earlier had disappeared. Juju signaled for them to be served again, as if nothing had happened. That was when he'd understood. He realized that he hadn't even touched his first two drinks.

He had protested.

“Is there something wrong?” the waiter had asked.

“Yes. I never get the time to have my drink.”

“You can't drink and lick a girl's face at the same time. She ordered, I'm serving. You got a problem with that?”

“Yes.”

Juju had left the seat and was at the bar now, smoking a cigarette, watching and waiting.

He saw the blow coming, but wasn't quick enough. The fist hit him on the chin, and he collapsed on the bench, knocking over the table as he did so. The guy was on top of him before he could get up. He took another blow on the temple, which nearly knocked him out. He was saved by the arrival of Hans and the other sailors. There followed a free-for-all, in which they never managed to gain the upper hand. It was the cops who broke it up in the end. He never saw Juju again, but the consolation was that he didn't have to pay for the drinks.

“So we all get screwed,” Nedim commented. “Well, that's a relief. And did you think what a pity it was you didn't fuck her after all that?”

“I didn't think anything, Nedim. I was quite pleased I hadn't lost nine hundred francs!”

“Yeah, that's one way of looking at it,” he said, not picking up on the allusion. “All the same, Diamantis, those girls . . .”

Diamantis had stopped listening to Nedim. He didn't even answer him. And he didn't tell him that when he got to Marseilles, he'd met Amina. Or that she was the spitting image of Juju. Only even more beautiful. Because Amina wasn't Juju. She really was looking for the
vazaha
. And he was the one who'd deceived her.

“Doug!” A woman's voice.

“What's the matter?” Doug said, turning toward the door of the back room.

Diamantis took advantage to change position slightly. A young woman had just appeared. He supposed she was Lalla. Nedim's description was spot on. He had assumed it was an exaggeration, but it wasn't. Lalla was a stunner.

“Can you come here a moment?”

“I'm busy.”

“That's what I want to talk to you about. This guy.”

Doug looked at Diamantis, then at Lalla. He walked toward her, swinging his arms. Just so that Diamantis could appreciate how muscular his back was. That didn't make him smile. His good mood was fading fast.

Doug disappeared into the back room. Diamantis lit a cigarette and paced a little. He wasn't worried anymore, just impatient. He was suffocating in here. He wanted to be back outside in the air, to take advantage of the last moments of daylight. Especially the moment when the sunset sets first the ochre buildings on Quai de Rive Neuve, then the whole harbor, aflame.

Doug reappeared. With one hand, he was dragging Nedim's bag behind him. In the other, he held the passport. Diamantis didn't understand.

“I have a deal for you,” Doug said. There wasn't much conviction in his voice. Someone else was speaking through him.

“Go on.”

“The Turk's passport and bag in return for your passport.”

“And I give you nine hundred francs to get it back.”

“That's right.”

“I get fucked over, in other words.”

“The Turk's a friend of yours, isn't he? He won't fuck you over.”

Doug smiled, for the first time. Diamantis had no idea who he owed this deal to, but he had to admit it was a clever move.

He pretended to think about it for a few seconds, and then said, “O.K.”

Because he could always report the passport as lost or stolen. It would take time to get a new one, but he had plenty of time. Nedim didn't. Listening to him last night, when he was recounting his misadventures, he'd told himself it was high time Nedim went home, got married, and settled down. In the state he was in, Nedim could do all kinds of stupid things.