Ocean Sea Page 16

  “That . . . that helmsman . . . Thomas . . . they say he escaped from the hospital . . .”

  “Yes, it’s a strange story. Of course it would not have happened here, but there, in the civilian hospital, you can well imagine how . . .”

  “Nothing more has been heard of him?”

  “No, for the moment, no. But he cannot have gone very far, in his condition. Most likely he is dead, somewhere or other . . .”

  “Dead?”

  “Well, it’s the least one may think of one who . . . Oh, forgive me: was he perhaps a friend of yours?”

  “IT WILL NOT BE DIFFICULT, Savigny, you only have to repeat what you have written in those memoirs of yours. While we’re on the subject you must have made a pretty penny, eh, with that little book . . . people are reading nothing else in the salons . . .”

  “I asked you if it was really necessary for me to appear in court.”

  “Oh no it wouldn’t be necessary, but this is a devil of a trial, the eyes of the whole country are on us, we can’t work properly . . . everything done by the strict letter of the law, absurd . . .”

  “Chaumareys will be there, too . . .”

  “Of course he will . . . he wants to defend himself, that one . . . he has no chance, none, the people want his head and they’ll have it.”

  “It wasn’t his fault alone.”

  “That counts for nothing, Savigny. He was the captain. He was the one who brought the Alliance to that sandbank, he was the one who decided to abandon her, and, just to finish things off with a flourish, he was the one who set you adrift on that infernal trap . . .”

  “Very well, very well, forget it. We’ll be seeing each other in court.”

  “Just one more thing . . .”

  “Let me go, Parpeil.”

  “Maître Parpeil, if you please.”

  “Good-bye.”

  “No, you cannot go.”

  “What now?”

  “Oh, a bore . . . a mere trifle, but, you know, it’s better to be careful . . . there’s a rumor going around, it seems that someone has written a . . . let’s call it a diary, a kind of diary of those days on the raft . . . it seems that this person is a sailor and this already says a lot about the importance of this matter . . . fancy a sailor who writes, an absurdity, obviously, but in any case it seems that one of the survivors . . .”

  “Thomas. Thomas could write.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “Well, anyhow, it seems that in this diary there are things . . . in a certain sense . . . embarrassing, let’s say . . . in other words, the tale is a little different from the way you and the others have told it . . .”

  “And he read. Books. He could read and write.”

  “By God, will you listen to me?”

  “Yes?”

  “Try to understand, it takes nothing to cook up a thoroughgoing libel . . . it could even ruin you . . . well I was wondering, if need be, if you would be prepared to utilize a certain sum of money, you understand me, there is no other way to defend yourself from libel, and besides it’s better to cover up the matter before . . . Savigny! Where the devil are you going? Savigny! Look, there’s no need whatsoever to take offense, I was telling you for your own good, I know my job . . .”

  “YOUR TESTIMONY HAS BEEN extremely valuable, Dr. Savigny. The court thanks you. You may step down.”

  “. . .”

  “Dr. Savigny . . .”

  “Yes, excuse me, I wanted . . .”

  “Have you something to add?”

  “No . . . or rather . . . only one thing . . . I wanted to say that . . . the sea, the sea is different . . . you cannot judge what happens in there . . . the sea is another thing.”

  “Doctor, this is a tribunal of the Royal Navy: the court knows perfectly well what the sea is.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “BELIEVE ME, reading this exquisite little book of yours was such a thrill . . . even too much of a thrill for an old lady like me . . .”

  “Madame la Marquise, what are you saying . . .”

  “It’s the truth, Dr. Savigny, that book is so . . . how can I say . . . realistic, that’s it, I was reading it and I felt as if I were there on that raft, in the middle of the sea, it gave me the shivers . . .”

  “You flatter me, Madame la Marquise.”

  “No, no . . . that book is really . . .”

  “Good day, Dr. Savigny.”

  “Adele . . .”

  “Adele, daughter of mine, one does not keep a man as busy as the doctor waiting for such a long time . . .”

  “Oh, I’m sure you will have tormented him with a thousand questions about his adventures, is it not so, Savigny?”

  “It is a pleasure conversing with your mother.”

  “A little longer and even the tea would have gone cold.”

  “You look splendid, Adele.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Another cup, Doctor?”

  “DID HE HAVE dark eyes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tall, with black hair, straight . . .”

  “Tied up at the nape of the neck, sir.”

  “A sailor?”

  “He could have been. But he was dressed . . . normally, almost elegantly.”

  “And he did not say his name.”

  “No. He only said he would return.”

  “That he would return?”

  “WE FOUND HIM at an inn on the river . . . pure chance . . . we were looking for two deserters, and we found him . . . he says his name is Philippe.”

  “And he did not try to escape?”

  “No. He protested, he wanted to know why on earth we were taking him away . . . the usual stuff. This way, Savigny.”

  “And you, what did you say to him?”

  “Nothing. The police are not obliged to explain when they put someone in jail these days. Of course, we won’t be able to hold him for long unless we find a good reason . . . but you will see to that, won’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Right, then, come. No, do not lean out too far. He’s there, do you see him? The second last in the row.”

  “The one leaning against the wall . . .”

  “Yes. Is it him?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “No?”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “But the description, he fits it perfectly.”

  “Perfectly, yes, but it is not him.”

  “Savigny . . . now listen to me . . . you may well be a hero of the Realm, you may also be a friend of all the ministers in the world, but that one down there is already the fourth that . . .”

  “It does not matter. You have already done a great deal.”

  “No, listen to me. We shall never find him, that man, and do you know why? Because that man is dead. He escaped from some lousy hospital in some stinking corner of Africa, he managed a few miles in some infernal desert and there he got himself roasted by the sun until he croaked. C’est fini. That man, now, is on the other side of the world, busy fertilizing a heap of sand.”

  “That man, now, is in this city, and is about to reach me. Look here.”

  “A letter?”

  “Two days ago somebody left it in front of my door. Read it, read it by all means . . .”

  “Only one word . . . ?”

  “But a very clear one, don’t you think?”

  “Thomas . . .”

  “Thomas. You are right, Pastor. You will never find that man. But not because he is dead. Because he is alive. He is more alive than both of us put together. He is as alive as an animal stalking its prey.”

  “Savigny, I assure you that . . .”

  “He is alive. And, unlike me, he has an excellent reason for remaining that way.”

  “BUT IT IS MADNESS, Savigny! A brilliant doctor like you, a celebrity by now . . . now that the doors of the Academy are about to be thrown open before you . . . You know very well, that study of yours on the effects of h
unger and thirst . . . well, even though I deem it more romantic than scientific . . .”

  “My Lord Baron . . .”

  “. . . however, it has made a great impression on my colleagues and I am happy for you, the Academy bows before your charm and . . . also before your . . . painful experiences . . . I can understand it . . . but what I cannot understand is why you have got it into your head, now of all times, to go and hide in some godforsaken hole in the provinces to play, hear ye hear ye, the country doctor, am I right ?”

  “Yes, My Lord Baron.”

  “Oh, congratulations . . . there is no doctor in this city who would not want, but what am I saying, who would not love to have your name and your brilliant future, and what do you decide to do? To go off and practice in some village . . . and what kind of village would it be, come to that?”

  “In the country.”

  “I have understood that much, but where?”

  “Far away.”

  “Must I deduce that one may not know where?”

  “That is my wish, my lord Baron.”

  “Absurd. You are pitiful, Savigny, you are worthless, unreasonable, execrable. I can find no plausible justification for this unpardonable attitude of yours and . . . and . . . I cannot think other than this: you are mad, sir!”

  “It’s the other way around: I don’t wish to become so, my lord Baron.”

  “LOOK . . . that’s Charbonne . . . do you see it down there?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a fine little town. You will like it there.”

  “Yes.”

  “SIT YOURSELF UP, Doctor . . . that’s it. Hold this a moment for me, that’s it . . . You have been raving all night long, you must do something . . .”

  “I told you that there was no need to stay on here, Marie.”

  “What are you doing? . . . you are not thinking of getting up . . .”

  “Of course I am going to get up . . .”

  “But you cannot . . .”

  “Marie, I’m the doctor.”

  “Yes, but you did not see yourself last night . . . you were really ill, you seemed a madman, you were talking to ghosts, and you were shouting . . .”

  “Shouting?”

  “You were angry with the sea.”

  “Ohhh, again?”

  “You have some bad memories, Doctor. And bad memories spoil life.”

  “It’s bad life, Marie, that spoils memories.”

  “But you are not bad.”

  “I did some things, down there. And they were horrendous things.”

  “Why?”

  “They were horrendous. No one could forgive them. No one has forgiven me for them.”

  “You mustn’t think about it anymore . . .”

  “And what is even more horrendous is this: I know that, today, if I were to go back down there, I would do the same things again.”

  “Stop it, Doctor . . .”

  “I know I would do the same things again, the exact same things. Isn’t that monstrous?”

  “Doctor, I beg you . . .”

  “Isn’t that monstrous?”

  “THE NIGHTS ARE getting colder again . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like to take you home, Doctor, but I don’t want to leave my wife alone . . .”

  “No, don’t put yourself out.”

  “However . . . I want you to know that conversing with you is a great pleasure for me.”

  “For me, too.”

  “You know, when you came here, a year ago, they said you were . . .”

  “A haughty and arrogant doctor from the capital . . .”

  “Yes, more or less. The folk here are suspicious. Every so often they get hold of strange ideas.”

  “Do you know what they said to me, about you?”

  “That I was rich.”

  “Yes.”

  “And taciturn.”

  “Yes. But also that you were a good man.”

  “It’s as I told you: the folk here get hold of some strange ideas.”

  “It’s curious. To think of staying here. For a man like me . . . an arrogant doctor from the capital . . . to think of growing old here.”

  “It seems to me that you are still a little too young to start thinking about where to grow old, don’t you agree?”

  “Perhaps you are right. But here is so far away from everything . . . I wonder if anything will ever manage to take me away again.”

  “Don’t think about it. If it happens, it will be something good. And if not, this town will be glad to keep you for itself.”

  “It’s an honor to hear it said by the mayor in person . . .”

  “Oh, don’t remind me, I beg you . . .”

  “I must really go now.”

  “Yes. But come back, when you wish. I should like that. And my wife too would be most happy.”

  “Count on it.”

  “Good night, then, Dr. Savigny.”

  “Good night, Monsieur Deverià.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Adams

  HE STAYED AWAKE for hours, after sunset. The last innocent time of a whole life.

  Then he left his room and walked silently along the corridor until he came to a stop in front of the last door. There were no keys in the Almayer Inn.

  One hand resting on the doorknob, the other holding a small candleholder. Moments like needles. The door opened without a sound. Silence and darkness, inside the room.

  He went in, put the candleholder down on the writing desk, and closed the door behind him. The click of the lock made a sharp sound in the night: in the half-light, between the sheets, something moved.

  He went up to the bed and said, “It’s over, Savigny.”

  A phrase like a saber cut. Savigny shot upright in bed, lashed by a thrill of terror. Questing in the tepid light of those few candles, his eyes caught the glitter of a knifeblade and, motionless, the face of a man whom he had been trying for years to forget.

  “Thomas . . .”

  Ann Deverià looked at him, bewildered. She propped herself up on one arm, cast a glance around the room, she did not understand, she sought again the face of her lover, she slid close to him.

  “What is happening, André?”

  He kept on staring, terrified, straight ahead.

  “Thomas, stop, you’re mad . . .”

  But he did not stop. He came right up to the bed, raised his knife, and brought it down again violently, once. Twice, three times. The covers were soaked with blood.

  Ann Deverià did not even have the time to cry out. Stupefied, she stared at the dark tide that was spreading over her and she felt life slipping away from that open body of hers, so fast that it did not even leave her the time for a thought. She slumped backward, with staring eyes that could no longer see anything.

  Savigny was trembling. There was blood everywhere. And an absurd silence. It was at rest, the Almayer Inn. Motionless.

  “Get up, Savigny. And take her in your arms.”

  Thomas’s voice resounded with an inexorable tranquillity. It was not over yet, no.

  Savigny moved as if in a trance. He got up, picked up Ann Deverià’s body, and, holding it in his arms, he let himself be dragged out of the room. He could not manage to say a word. He could see nothing anymore, nor could he manage to think. He was trembling, that’s all.

  Strange little procession. The beautiful body of a woman borne in procession. A dead burden of blood in the arms of a man who dragged himself along trembling, followed by an impassive shadow with a knife clutched in his fist. They crossed the inn like that, until they were out onto the beach. One step after another, in the sand, until they reached the seashore. A wake of blood behind them. A little moonlight upon them.

  “Don’t stop, Savigny.”

  Swaying, he forced his feet into the water. He could feel that knife pressed against his back, and, in his arms, a weight that was becoming enormous. Like a puppet he dragged himself on for a few yards. That voice stopped him.

&n
bsp; “Listen to it, Savigny. It’s the sound of the sea. May this sound and that weight in your arms follow you for the rest of your life.”

  He said it slowly, without emotion and with a hint of tiredness. Then he let the knife fall into the water, turned around and headed back to the beach. He crossed it, following those dark blotches, congealed in the sand. He was walking slowly, with no more thoughts and no more story.

  Nailed to the threshold of the sea, with the waves foaming between his legs, Savigny stood motionless, incapable of any gesture. He was trembling. And he was weeping. A puppet, a child, a wreck. He was dripping blood and tears: the wax of a candle that no one would ever be able to extinguish.

  ADAMS WAS HANGED, in the town square of St. Amand, at dawn on the last day of April. It was raining heavily, but many had come out to enjoy the spectacle. They buried him that same day. No one knows where.

  CHAPTER 8

  The Seventh Room

  THE DOOR OPENED, and a man came out of the seventh room. One step beyond the threshold, he stopped and looked around. The inn seemed deserted. Not a sound, not a voice, nothing. The sun was coming in through the little windows in the corridor, cutting the dim light and projecting small trailers for a clear and bright morning on the wall.

  Inside the room, everything had been put in order in a willing but hasty fashion. A full suitcase, still open, on the bed. Sheets of paper in piles on the desk, pens, books, a lamp, switched off. Two plates and a glass on the windowsill. Dirty but ordered. On the floor, a corner of the carpet formed a large dog-ear, as if someone had left a sign in order to find the place again one day. On the armchair was a large blanket, folded roughly. Two pictures could be seen on a wall. Identical.

  Leaving the door open behind him, the man went along the corridor and went down the stairs, singing a cryptic little refrain softly to himself, and he stopped at the reception desk—if we want to call it that. Dira was not there. There was the usual register, open on the book rest. The man began reading, tucking his shirt into his trousers as he did so. Funny names. He looked around again. The Almayer was decidedly the most deserted inn in the history of deserted inns. He entered the large lounge, walked around the tables for a bit, sniffed at a bunch of flowers growing old in a horrendous crystal vase, went up to the glass door, and opened it.