The Lost Sailors (27 page)

Abdul had sated them with stories. They all had to admit he knew how to tell them. They could feel him vibrate with them as his ships must have vibrated on the ocean waves. But he hadn't finished yet with his years at sea. He suggested continuing on deck.

They went down with some difficulty. Especially Abdul. His movements had been slowed down by alcohol. He was swaying slightly. But he still held himself erect, his shoulders back, his head held high, the way his father had taught him.

There wasn't the slightest breath of air, and the temperature was about eighty-five degrees, but it still felt good to breathe. Only Diamantis hadn't followed them. He's stayed in the mess to have an instant coffee. Alcohol was bad for his nerves. He was worried. It was twenty minutes to midnight, and Amina still hadn't come. He had the feeling she wouldn't come, wouldn't ever come. Something had stopped her. By the time he finished his coffee, he was sober.

And sad.

He couldn't stay here, waiting. He'd avoided thinking about Amina all these hours. The meal had helped. But now he was in a hurry to see her. To talk to her face to face. He went down to join the others on deck.

Having started telling them about his voyages, Abdul didn't know how to stop. He didn't even know what was true and what wasn't anymore. But that wasn't the most important thing. His stories had become models of reality. From one anecdote to the next, he was searching for his own truth.

They had sat down on the deck itself. Lalla was sitting on some rigging, which Nadim had covered with his shirt so that she wouldn't get dirty. He had settled himself against her, his head resting on her thigh. With a furtive, almost shy gesture, Lalla had stroked Nedim's bare shoulder, and had felt him quiver at her touch. Abdul sat facing them, on an old crate, looking down at them slightly. He had put a bottle of red wine down on the deck beside him.

“The air was still, a bit like tonight, and it was just as hot. Deep silence all around us. People who think the marshlands and jungles of Africa are noisy and swarming with life are wrong. There's only silence and heat. Everything rots and stagnates, grows and dies . . .”

Abdul had abandoned the ocean for the damp, viscous, stinking, yellowish banks of the River Niger. He had just set off along it on board the
Ciudad de Manizales
, which he had been commanding for six months, plying the coast of West Africa. He refilled his glass, then Lalla's and Nedim's. They clinked glasses. Abdul kept looking in Lalla's eyes. She seemed to be hanging on his stories the way Cephea used to sometimes, at night, on their terrace in Dakar.

Abdul completely forgot Nedim, and concentrated on Lalla. He was telling the story for her. To seduce her. Then, like Cephea, obviously, she would come to him and take away the bitter taste of his months at sea. He imagined Lalla's body slipping in against his, molding itself to his. He imagined her buttocks against his stomach. He'd part them, the better to enter her. She'd like that. Like Cephea. He was getting a hard-on, and he didn't mind.

“The anchor sank into the lazy, muddy water, and the stem chain pointed in the direction of the current . . .”

“Give me Amina's phone number,” Diamantis said to Lalla. “I'm going to call her.” He'd walked up to her silently.

“What's the matter?” Nedim asked.

“Nothing, nothing. Except that Amina still isn't here. That's a bit worrying.”

Lalla looked at Diamantis, and suddenly realized it must be very late. Listening to Abdul's stories, she'd forgotten all about Amina. She felt good here, with these men. With Nedim watching over her, his head, burning hot, on her thighs. She came back down to earth. She was worried.

“My God!” she said, looking at her watch. “What's happened to her?”

“Don't worry. She may not have found it, or maybe the watchman didn't want to come and fetch us.”

He was talking bullshit. He didn't want to worry her. Was there in fact anything to worry about? Amina was spending the evening with Ricardo. Maybe he'd decided he wanted her to spend the night. Or maybe she was tired, and had decided to put off their meeting till later. No, that was bullshit, too. Amina wanted to see him as soon as possible. Lalla had told Diamantis that.

“I'm going to the checkpoint to call her. Do you agree?”

She nodded. “I'm coming with you.”

“No, stay.”

“Take her car,” Nedim said. “You can't take the bike, at this time of night.”

“He's right,” she said. “The keys and papers are in my bag.”

Abdul was watching them with an annoyed expression. He was still drinking.

“I'm sorry, Abdul,” Diamantis said.

And he left.

*

Diamantis parked behind the checkpoint. He woke the watchman.

“What the fuck is it now?” the man said.

“I need to make a phone call.”

Ricardo picked up at the fifth ring. “Yeah.” The voice was a weary drawl.

“This is Diamantis.”

“I thought you'd call.”

“Pass me Amina.”

“Listen,” he said, after a brief silence. “I think the best thing is if you come over. You and I have to talk.”

“She's the one I want to talk to.”

“It's better if you come over,” he repeated. He sounded exhausted.

He gave him the address and hung up before Diamantis could say anything else.

 

He drove slowly past the deserted harbor, took the tunnel through the Vieux-Port, came out in front of the former careening dock, opposite the old abbey of Saint-Victor, then headed for the Corniche. As far as Prophète Beach, he remembered. After that . . .

In the glove compartment, he found a map of Marseilles. Above the beach, Ricardo had said. On Traverse Nicolas. He could see it on the map. It was in the middle of a maze of alleys. He'd get lost if he took the car in there. He parked at the bottom of Chemin de l'Oriol and climbed Montée de Roubion. There was a flight of steps, and then he was on Traverse Nicolas. The neighborhood was silent, apart from the occasional barking of a dog.

Amina's house was a little villa protected by a garden. The only one in the whole street where the lights were on. He pushed open the gate and walked across the garden. There was a fragrance of pines. The front door was open. He went in. He didn't ask himself any questions.

Ricardo was sitting on a chair in the living room, wearing a short-sleeved white shirt. He'd opened the collar and loosened his blue polka-dot tie. He was drinking whisky. He turned his head to look at Diamantis, but didn't stand up. He looked older than Diamantis had imagined. He seemed completely exhausted.

“Come in.”

“Where is she? Where's Amina?”

“I have to talk to you,” he said. “Sit down.”

“I prefer to stand.”

Suddenly, Diamantis realized that Ricardo's men could jump him, beat him up, stuff the barrel of a gun in his mouth, kill him. His whole body stiffened, went on alert.

He looked around him.

“Don't worry,” Ricardo said. “Sit down.”

“I expect the worst of you.”

“Oh, yes . . . All that . . .” he said, making a wide, sweeping gesture with his arm. “But the worst is never what you think.”

Sweat broke out on Diamantis' temples. This man sent shivers down his spine.

“Where is she?” he asked again.

“Upstairs.”

Diamantis turned his back on Ricardo and walked toward the stairs.

“Come back here!” he ordered.

He turned. Ricardo had stood up and was pointing a gun at him, a gun with a curiously long barrel. A silencer, Diamantis realized.

“Have a drink and sit down.”

“I'm not thirsty.”

“It's up to you.” With the barrel of his gun, he pointed to a sofa.

One of those soft sofas that Diamantis hated. He sank into it reluctantly. Ricardo sat down again on the chair, facing him.

“I'll tell you about it,” he began.

And he told him the whole story, down to the smallest details. Amina's life. His own life. And Lalla's.

“She's your daughter. Did you know that?”

Diamantis didn't flinch. He felt groggy. Since Nedim's remark on the terrace of the bar, he'd kept coming back to that idea, and each time he'd dismissed it. He had done the calculations over and over, had questioned Lalla about her age. He'd had to admit it was plausible. Which was why it couldn't be true.

“No,” he stammered. “No. Can I pour myself a drink?”

“It's up to you,” Ricardo repeated.

Diamantis poured himself a large glass. He didn't like the smell of whisky. But he needed a pick-me-up. He'd wanted to retrace his steps, come to terms with his past. And here he was. But it wasn't the past that had caught up with him, it was the present. Lalla, his daughter. If the circumstances had been different, he might have seduced her and slept with her. Nedim must have thought that.

He saw them again, together on the deck of the
Aldebaran
. He also saw again the way Abdul had looked at Lalla, and a shudder went through him. He had to get back as soon as possible.

He didn't sit down again.

“She doesn't know anything about it, of course,” he said.

“Amina wanted to tell you tonight. And tell Lalla, too. She wanted to give it all up, the Habana, this life. She wanted to go away with Lalla, if Lalla agreed, of course. She wanted to leave me.”

Diamantis wasn't listening to Ricardo anymore. He wasn't hearing anything anymore. The past tense Ricardo had used to talk about Amina had brought him up short, and although his body was soaked with sweat he felt cold. He wanted to run upstairs and see Amina. There was a knot in his stomach. And that had nothing to do with the whisky.

“There's no way you could understand. I needed her. I'm at the end of my tether. Now was when I needed her most. Now. But she wouldn't listen. You breezed into Le Mas, you and your remorse . . . How did you know she worked at the Habana?”

Diamantis didn't reply. None of this made any sense anymore.

“I loved her, Diamantis.”

They looked at each other. Ricardo's eyes misted over. The tears started flowing. He threw his gun on the armchair.

“I killed her. She's upstairs.”

 

Amina was lying on the floor. The blood around her had already turned black. Her dead eyes stared up at Diamantis. He took a step forward and knelt beside her. He moved his hand closer to her face, but stopped his gesture in mid-air. Amina was smiling at him. It was twenty years ago. She was naked and Diamantis's hand hovered over her body, tracing its contours without touching it. Amina arched her body toward him, whispering, “Touch me, please touch me. Put your hand here . . .” He moved his hand closer and lightly touched first one breast, then the other, then her belly, her pubic hair. The smell of her moist, glistening cunt filled his nostrils. He moved his lips closer, and his hands came to rest on her open thighs.

“Forgive me, Amina.”

He stood up and went back downstairs. Riccardo had poured himself another glass of whisky. He was prostrate. He watched Diamantis walk towards him, but without really seeing him. His eyes seemed to have turned in on themselves, for good. Diamantis picked up the glass he had put down on the low table. He knocked it back in one go, poured himself another shot, and drank half of it.

The gun was still there, on the armchair. Diamantis picked it up. It was a strange sensation, holding a gun. He didn't know why men liked them. How they could live with them. Use them against other men. No, that was something he'd never understood.

He turned the gun toward Ricardo, slowly. As if the gun might go off in his hand.

Ricardo looked up at Diamantis, smiled, finished his drink, put down the glass, and lit a cigarette. He took a big drag on it, and breathed out the smoke, first through his nose, then through his mouth. “I couldn't do it,” he murmured.

“Do what?” Diamantis said.

“Put a bullet in my head. After I . . .”

“But her, yes. That you could do. You're a coward.”

Ricardo took another drag of his cigarette, more slowly this time.

“I took off the security,” he said.

His eyes were imploring Diamantis.

Diamantis pressed the trigger.

It made no more noise than a ping-pong ball on a racket.

Ricardo's body lifted slightly.

Diamantis pressed the trigger again, kept pressing until there were no more bullets.

Ricardo slumped backwards.

Diamantis opened his eyes. He took out a Kleenex and mechanically wiped the gun, the way he had seen people doing on TV shows, then threw it on the armchair. He picked up Ricardo's cigarette butt, still alight, from the tiled floor and stubbed it out in the ashtray. Then he picked up the glass and finished his whisky, looking at Ricardo's body. He felt as if he was on the edge of an abyss, and down below, all the way down, could see his life fraying. But that wasn't it. He simply felt very empty, and stupid. He wiped the glass and put it down.

Then he went out into the Marseilles summer. His head empty, his heart cold. He had just one thing left to do. The thing Amina had been planning. Talk to Lalla.

His daughter.

A
bdul apologized to Lalla for the state of the ship.

“In normal circumstances . . .” he had begun.

But he didn't finish his sentence. Lalla and Nedim were following him. At the entrance to the main deck, there was a wooden sign that read:
Take care of the ship and the ship will take care of you.

“You see, in normal circumstances, that's how it works. We respect the ship.”

Carrying a storm lamp—the last one still working—Abdul led them along the deck. Nedim's mood had darkened. He was sick and tired of Abdul and his stories, and his arrogant tone, the way he was constantly emphasizing, in the things he said, the fact that he was his superior. O.K., on board the
Aldebaran
, Nedim was just a sailor, but on land, dammit, they weren't captains and sailors anymore. They were all losers. And the
Aldebaran
, eaten away by rust, didn't matter to anyone now. Abdul was no more a captain than he was!