The Lost Sailors (17 page)

He could imagine himself as someone like Pepe Abed, the owner of the Fishing Club in Byblos. Silvery hair under a naval captain's cap, tight-fitting blue blazer, white pants. Eighty-five years old now, Pepe Abed had amassed his fortune during the frivolous pre-war years in Lebanon. He had lived through the dark years in a carefree fashion, and was now to Byblos what Eddie Barclay was to Saint-Tropez.

His club had become a kind of museum of marine antiques, where people gathered to listen to his stories. Ava Gardner had been there. Raquel Welch, Anita Ekberg. Marlon Brando, too. Abed was sometimes Pepe the Pirate, sometimes Pepe the Caballero. And no one gave a damn if his stories were true. Abdul had taken Cephea there, because the food—meze or grilled fish—was excellent. “I hope you won't end up like him,” Cephea had joked when they were in their room. They had laughed. That was a long time ago. Fifteen years. Maybe she saw him now as Abdul the Wanderer of the Seven Seas. Telling his stories, a margarita in his hand, as convincingly as he did on the terrace, in the evening, in Dakar.

He grimaced. A ball was forming in the pit of his stomach. Cephea was leaving him, but he was abandoning her, too. She wasn't his good star anymore, guiding him to happiness.

At one point during the afternoon, crushed by the heat, he had put up his hammock on the main deck, in the shade. Lying with his eyes closed, he had tried to find images of Cephea to arouse him. He wanted to jerk off. To tire himself out in a spasm. Eyes closed. The damp air fills the house. There's a storm brewing. Cephea is in the shower, and he watches the water flowing over her sepia body. She likes him to watch her. She takes her time.

Without drying herself, she comes and joins him in the bedroom, puts her wet hands on his shoulders, and pushes him back on the bed. Her breasts are slippery, still slightly damp, cool. She presses herself to him like a cupping glass. His cock . . . His cock had drooped, limply. He realized he had no desire. No desire for Cephea.

This is it, he had said to himself. He knew now why he couldn't write to her. Their story was coming to an end. Even desire didn't unite them anymore. He had fallen asleep, telling himself he'd find a hooker tomorrow, and resume his true life.

 

Abdul took a swig of whisky, straight from the bottle.

“Shit!” Nedim exclaimed. “You're a mean bastard, drinking by yourself!”

He hadn't heard him come in.

“I was getting worried.”

Abdul was in the middle of Diamantis's cabin. He had grabbed the bottle of whisky with a mechanical gesture and was still standing there, the alcohol burning his stomach, where the ball was. He started sweating.

“Are you O.K.? You're all white.”

He was gazing into the distance. Toward the open sea.
Where at night the world abandons us
, as he'd written to Cephea the other day. His last letter. He could remember every word thrown out to her like distress signals.
All we have left is the little we can make out . . .
He remembered that feeling, on the ocean. The Pacific merged with the sky on a moonless, starless night. He couldn't see anything around him, not even the myriads of waves breaking on the hull.
Our field of vision shrinks until it focuses on what the universe boils down to: our own selves. Despair . . .

“Hey, you all right?”

Nedim touched his shoulder lightly. He was afraid Abdul was about to collapse. “That's all we need,” he thought.

Abdul looked at Nedim. He was coming back to himself. To reality. Marseilles. The
Aldebaran
.

“If we don't find what we want in the future,” Diouf the fortune-teller had said, “it's because we don't know how to look. We must always hope for something.”

“I don't believe in fortune-telling,” he had replied.

Diouf had smiled at him, sadly. “What do you believe in, then?”

“Nothing.”

“I pity you.”

“I'm not to be pitied.”

“You'll understand one day.”

“Maybe.”

Abdul Aziz had put ten dollars down in front of the old man. He was angry with himself for agreeing to see a fortune-teller. He'd only done it to please Cephea. It was only a game to start with. What kind of person am I? Will I have good health? Will I be lucky? Will I earn more money? Cephea had consulted him first. She had never told him what Diouf had predicted for her.

The fortune-teller had seen him to the door.

“Remember, however strong a man may be, he isn't strong in all circumstances.”

Abdul turned to Nedim, who stood there, anxious, not knowing what to do. “You know, Nedim, you and Diamantis should tidy up the main deck tomorrow. It's a real shambles.”

Nedim looked at him aghast. “But tomorrow . . . I have to find a truck driver.”

“Tomorrow, you're on duty. Period. Work out a rota with Diamantis. I have a lot of things to do in town.”

Nedim was completely knocked for six by what Abdul had said. “Can you lend me the bottle? Just a quick one wouldn't come amiss.”

Abdul handed him the bottle. “O.K., you want a revenge match?”

“You mean we're still playing?”

“Why not?”

Nedim put the top back on the bottle, and smiled. “I'll show you if I'm crap or not! Just let me show you!”

But his heart wasn't really in it. Abdul Aziz scared him a little. As far as he was concerned, the guy was off his head. He'd be better off in bed. Hundreds of women were waiting for him tonight. Beautiful girls. Sexy as anything. A lot more exciting than sitting here with a madman, playing dominoes. Oh, Aysel! Nedim sighed.

T
he pain woke Diamantis. A pain he couldn't localize. He was lying on his back, his eyes wide open. The room was bathed in a gentle half-light. Behind the shutters, he could sense the heat. The daylight. He was alone in the bed, and he couldn't hear any noise. Mariette and Laure must have left. It was probably late.

He turned his head to the left to look at the alarm clock. It was eight-fifty. Not as late as all that. He could still sleep a little. It would do him good. But the pain was too strong. His mouth felt dry and furry. Beside the alarm clock, in a conspicuous position, a glass of water. He smiled at this thoughtfulness. But he didn't want water, he wanted coffee. Yes, a coffee wouldn't go amiss.

He rolled onto his side, and it was as if the blows were raining down again on his back, his shoulders, his legs, his arms, just as hard as last night, on the street. Fuck! It took his breath away. He started to panic, the way he had last night. The fear rising in him made him want to pee. To pee and have a coffee.

“Come on, now, make an effort,” he said to himself. His body didn't want to listen. His battered body refused to move, because it hurt. It was better to stay where he was, in bed. “But even in bed it hurts!” he argued with himself. “So if you get up . . .”

“Get up, take a leak, have a Dolipran.” He repeated it aloud, slowly, moving first one leg, then the other. He sat down on the edge of the bed. “Maybe even two Dolipran. Yes. And then go back to bed. All right?”

No, it wasn't all right. Every movement was like a dagger being thrust into him. He really had to take a leak. All that beer he'd drunk last night. He was glad, though, that he hadn't peed himself while they were beating him. No, that wouldn't happen again. He'd been to the toilet before leaving the bar. It had become a reflex. However much in a hurry he was, he always peed before he went anywhere. Especially if he had to go on foot. Especially if it was night.

He managed to stand. For a fraction of a second. Then he bent double. His stomach was screaming. It was the fucking kicks. He looked for his underpants, but couldn't find them. In fact, he couldn't find any of his clothes. What did that matter right now? He moved forward like that, bent double. The toilet smelled of lavender. The smell was pleasant and sickening at the same time.

He dragged himself to the kitchen. The shutters were half closed. Everything was clean and tidy. Beside the cooker, a little Italian coffeemaker, a pack of coffee, a sugar bowl, a cup, a spoon. The box of Dolipran. His pack of cigarettes and his lighter. And a note from Mariette. Nice handwriting, large and round.
Stay here and rest. See you later.
Then
Love
, and the name and phone number of her doctor.
Just in case
. . .

The apartment exuded peace and gentleness. Happiness. He made the coffee. On the square, children were playing. Soccer, to judge by their shouts. He took two Dolipran with a mouthful of water, then refilled the glass and watered the basil on the window sill. The smell immediately spread. He loved that smell. It belonged to a calm, unhurried life.

He switched on the radio and sat down at the table. The news. With its share of violence and hate and death. Bosnia reminded him of Lebanon. And Rwanda was like Bosnia and Lebanon combined. Only worse. Much worse. Hitler had contaminated the world. At Hiroshima, the Americans had tested out horror on a mass scale. Yes, but even before that, the First World War had plunged mankind into a nightmare. And before and after were as alike as two peas in a pod.

That was the only thing men knew how to do: tear each other apart. You needed more money, so you robbed your neighbor. He called the cops. Or got out his rifle. Men killed each other over a woman, a car, a fence built in the wrong place, a piece of land trespassed on, a religion, a country. There was always someone who thought he was better than other people. Purer. More just. And beheaded, murdered, massacred. In the name of reason . . .

Diamantis changed stations. The same news, but with a commentary. In a part of Marseilles he didn't know, a school had been ransacked by some of its pupils. People asked why. The principal. The teachers. The pupils' parents . . . He switched off the radio. It was exhausting.

He had a second cup of coffee and smoked a cigarette, then leaned on the edge of the table to help himself to stand. Like an old man. He felt old. He dragged himself into the living room, and went to the stereo. He needed music. Santana, Bob Dylan, Khaled, Verdi, Tito Puente, the Rolling Stones . . . Mariette had eclectic tastes. He liked that. He found what he was looking for. Gianmaria Testa. His voice filled the apartment.

 

Io ti parlavo e tu eri già partito

E quello che dicevo non lo ascoltavi più.

La musica, il bicchiere le altre sere

Ti avrebbero legato qui ma non adesso.

Ti sento addosso e non ci sei . . .

 

Cradled by the music, Diamantis fell asleep trying to understand the words.
Ti sento addosso e non ci sei . . . I feel you all over me and you aren't there . . .
You aren't there. Why aren't you there? Who isn't there? When he opened his eyes, he saw Mariette's face. The face of an angel, soft and round. Haloed by that luminous mass of hair. An apparition. She was smiling at him. The shutters were more open now. A ray of sunlight filtered into the room. Mariette glowed against the light.

He smiled at her. Then his eyelids closed again, involuntarily. His head was still heavy. His body must have been heavy, too, but he couldn't feel it anymore. The pain had made it leaden. He was sweaty.

“How are you feeling?” he heard her ask.

He needed to wake up. Maybe if she put her hand on his forehead, it would help. Would do him good. Would stop the sweat trickling down his temples.

He nodded without replying and smiled at her again.

“You're very hot,” she said, putting her hand on his forehead. The hand felt cool and light. Mariette was an oasis. He let the coolness spread through his body.

“I'm thirsty,” he said.

And his eyes closed again.

 

She helped him to take a shower. She soaped him, rinsed him, wiped him. His body was covered in bruises. Under the almost cold jet of water, life gradually came back to him. Things fell back into place. And the questions started to flood into his head again, just as the blood started coursing again through his veins, or into the pit of his cock when Mariette's soapy hands moved from his stomach to his groin. She had gentle hands. He got a slight hard-on. He wanted her fingers to linger there for a few more moments. Or longer than that, if possible. But she made him turn around, unconcerned about his hard-on, and made no comment.

He told Mariette the whole story as he drank coffee. He was dressed in new clothes. She had bought him beige cotton pants, a white T-shirt, and even underpants.

“It's not easy to get blood off clothes,” she'd said.

She thought he was a handsome man. Even with that purple patch, turning almost black now, under his eye.

“I must be a terrible sight.”

She laughed, stood up, went out, came back with a large pair of sunglasses, and put them on his nose. “There. Now you're really handsome!”

She laughed again, and her laugh infected him. A moment of joy, another moment snatched from life. Life, which was there, outside, waiting impatiently for Diamantis to return. So that it could grab him all over again. With its questions, its doubts. Its laws and rules. Because you can't leave life in the lurch. A door always has to be opened or closed. He wondered what he should do. Open the door, to find out what he had left behind? Or close the door behind him forever? What did he want? He wasn't sure anymore. Take the blows? Get another beating? Or kill someone, maybe. Did Amina even remember him? Twenty years. Did he have to retrace his steps? And why? To confess that he had fled because he was scared to death. And tell her . . . Tell her what? “Look, I'm sorry about all this. I have my life now. You have yours.” Was he doing it for her or for him? And what about her? What did he expect her to say? “I forgive you, Diamantis. You can't argue with the fear of death.” Wasn't that what he was expecting? Just that. Her forgiveness. And once he was absolved, it didn't matter to him how many men fucked her.