The Closed Harbour

by James Hanley

  There were creatures who spent more than forty days and forty nights in the desert, and Labiche was after them. There was always somebody on the rack. His brain contained a large, outspread map of hell, full of wandering creatures who could be saved. His was a continuous descending movement. He was familiar with abysses, dark corners, lost holes, concealed turnings, labyrinths. He visited the sick, prisons, hospitals, hostels for the dying, whore houses; he climbed the gangways of ships, found his way into malodorous foc'sles, then came down again, going on, scattering good intentions, scattering seed as he went. His country lay behind the locked door, the closed window, he travelled in the night as though on wings. He watched out for the bent, the stooping, the blunderers, the night leaners against walls, the lost, flat on their backs in the knocking shops. He arrived after the last word had been said, after the clock had stopped, he was the extension on Hope. Dereliction drew him as powerfully as light, he believed in redemption, the resurrection of souls.

  There were depths lower than abyss, and he knew them, miseries as solid as walls, sin as affrighting and fierce as flame. Labiche never paused, but went forward, hope had the solidity of rock. Mercy was not just some blind leap of the heart.

  But after the nightmare hours there was the morning, the quieter day, the ordinary, the normal hours, yet Labiche often drew after him a kind of hallucinatory thread, and sometimes the very ordinary objects in his office took on an unreality...

  "There!" he said, having finished the last of the Orlando's sheets, "there and he made them into a neat pile and put them away in the top drawer of his desk, which he locked. He pushed in his chair, went and looked through the window, to see the sky and a desert of roofings. He put on his hat, picked up the umbrella, and went out into the corridor. He tore down the iron stairway, he always took it at a run, as though never a minute must be wasted. He met the cleaner coming up, armed with his cloths, his brush and pail.

  "Good-day."

  "Good-day," the cleaner said turning to watch him go. Nothing seemed funnier to the cleaner than the sight of Labiche's odd shape careering madly down the stairs.

  "Poor sod. Quite mad, I'm sure."

  Labiche went off to Fred's. Meanwhile Follet and Philippe had reached Madame Gaston's establishment. They never lunched anywhere else.

  Monsieur Follet was a fat man, he never sat comfortably anywhere. To-day he draped one of Madame Gaston's chairs, enjoying his lunch with M. Philippe. He toyed with a cutlet, and at the same time kept his eye on Madame, seated at her high desk, whose present function was one of dispensing smiles, as one after another of her favourite customers came in. Follet was always attracted to Madame Gaston by her wonderful red hair, he sometimes expected it to burst into flame. A glance from her to M. Philippe made him realise what a reedy instrument his assistant really was.

  "You were saying?" said Follet.

  Philippe sat back in his chair. "I said that Nantes bum was in again yesterday, sir."

  "Indeed! I was unaware of it," replied Follet; he looked quickly round the room as though an eavesdropper lay in every corner.

  "By the way, that Toulon agent says that the stuff is on the way, and a long way, too, I think. If I did not think it paved the way for future business I would never dream of accepting it, but agents are mighty people as you well know, Philippe, and one must not offend them. But the Clarté is held up, and her hatch yawning open for the stuff. And Manos is irritable, I cannot offend my best skipper, although he is at the nodding age. He desires to be under way by seven o'clock. I am seeing him at three o'clock. You might get on to Marcelle as soon as you get back, we must know when this bloody consignment is arriving."

  "Yes sir."

  "What did you say to this Nantes bum?"

  "Nothing, sir. What does one say? If one's a parrot perhaps the same as one said yesterday. There are no vacancies, and indeed we of the Heros like to keep the concern a family affair, we do not like strangers—"

  Follet smiled. "Quite so. What sort of job, Philippe."

  "Commander."

  "Nothing less than that?" Follet roared. "Indeed, with his record."

  "With his record, sir," Philippe replied, wiping his hands carefully on his napkin.

  "I've never seen him. What's he like. I've heard of him, of course, and indeed I may say that I've the strongest feelings I've met people of that name, years ago of course."

  "I never looked, sir," Philippe said.

  "And he standing in front of you?"

  "What could happen if I'd looked at him? A miracle? There are no berths, our ships are manned. Isn't that correct, sir?"

  "Why yes, of course, of course. And there are other Lines," said Follet.

  "Then let him try them," said Philippe.

  "Quite so."

  Follet began wiping his mouth, he looked towards the high desk, smiled, received one back, the cheese was coming.

  "He asked for you, sir," Philippe said, "but he always does."

  "Naturally. Everybody asks for me, Philippe. But one is far too busy. It's a long way to come looking for a ship, anyhow, a long way—"

  "If one comes to Marseilles looking for a ship the circumstances may be exceptional, sir," said Philippe.

  "That is very true. I gather his people are here, too. Am I correct?"

  "They say his mother and sister followed him here."

  "Intriguing, but far too hot to-day to pursue anything."

  "The family is quite respectable, I understand that the father was a Commander in the Navy, went down with the Croilus in the First World War—"

  "That's it. I remember now, I met a Madame Marius and her husband years ago, at a launching, so long ago I've almost forgotten it."

  "I wonder he did not follow in the father's footsteps, sir," Philippe said.

  "Well, as to that, I could tell you that his own father had the Admiralty turn the son down, the father didn't think he was good enough for the Navy, not French enough if I may say so, a stuffy, thick-headed provincial but a thorough good fellow, and loyal, that counts; there's little loyalty about to-day, Philippe," and Philippe nodded an immediate approval.

  "He'd a suspension some years ago, too."

  "Yes. A heavy loss for her owners, a very young Captain, twenty five or six, no more, at the time."

  "A heavy loss to her owners?"

  "It was indeed. Marius did well in the Marine, but somehow he always steered clear of decent owners, the riff-raff attracted, I've heard tales about him, seeing sailors every day of one's life—"

  "Yes yes, of course. His stock fell."

  "Then you have this other affair, the Corsican. There was supposed to have been an enquiry about it—"

  "It didn't happen, hardly the time, people were too busy killing each other ... the war."

  "That's true."

  "But it hasn't been forgotten, sir," said Philippe.

  "By whom?"

  "Sailors."

  "Is he a heavy drinker?"

  "They say he likes his drop, but he's no exception. He's a splendid sailor. Yet they say there's a contradiction in him, a sort of flaw. A good commander but not always able to carry the authority of one. He is a proud man, too, and a jealous one."

  "You seem to know a hell of a lot about this man, and you seem to be making an exception of him."

  "You asked me about him, sir and I'm telling you. I'm seeing sailors in the office every day of my life, stories get about, it's natural, some say they wouldn't ship with a man like Marius, call him a Jonah. That's what is hurting him to-day. Nobody questions him, nobody enquires, companies just ignore him, it's worse than a direct kick."

  "I should say so. Poor swine. How long's he been calling on us?"

  "Almost daily, well at least three times a week for the past four months..."

  "It almost makes me feel ashamed," replied Follet.

  "The rule of iron is the one hold on a powerful element, and men are dependent on it," said Philippe.

  This made Follet burst out laughin
g, "now you're talking like an actor, Philippe, please keep to business."

  "Quite so, sir. Take the Corsican then. If Marius was wrong on that night then he's not the one to admit it. Such men are liabilities to any company."

  "But you are an asset to mine," cried Follet, and he slapped heartily at Philippe's knee. "I'm enjoying my lunch, Philippe, and I hope you are, too."

  "I am indeed, sir."

  "I'm trying to recall that matter," Follet's brow was furrowing, "there were two survivors, they say."

  "It was this man Royat who first spread the story of Marius having had a row with his mate and with the helmsman, Madeau, on a matter of the correct course, a difference of nearly four degrees. It is interesting to note that he broke with all tradition by surviving."

  "There are no longer traditions," Follet said, "one does not stand at the mast-head like a fool, saluting as his ship goes down. Rumour is like fire," he added, "who believes in gossip, anyhow?" He sat back, waited for his coffee.

  "Black and a brandy, Philippe?"

  "If you please, Monsieur Follet. Thank you."

  "Thank you, Jean," when the coffee came.

  "Ah," exclaimed Follet, after the first sip, he looked at Philippe.

  "It all comes to this," he said, "this man is looking for a berth, and we have no berths, and we are glad there are no berths. Is not that so?"

  Philippe smiled assent.

  And then he returned to his bone.

  "D'you know what I think sir?"

  "What do you think?"

  "I think there's something fishy about the whole thing."

  "Why?"

  "Because Madeau did not survive. And it's plain, too, that it was the end for Marius, he had already suffered a suspension, he'd be bound to lose his ticket, nothing else for it, inescapable, I can see him facing the issue, see any Captain of that ripe age facing it. One does not require much imagination—" continued Philippe, but he was interrupted by Follet, who waved a hand violently in the air.

  "My God, Philippe, how you love sensation," he leaned closer, lowered his voice, "and how the love for it seems to feed on quiet, respectable lives, such as yours Philippe, growing out of your rose garden, even out of your house slippers. Rubbish. I never listen to stories, anyway."

  "A man came to me for a job some three months ago, sir," said Philippe; "he'd been sent along to me by a quartermaster under Manos, he said he'd got it from a stoker that there was a violent row between Gasse the first officer and Marius, and that Madeau who was at the wheel at the time sided with Gasse and angered the other. Consider. If this was so, Marius's end as a skipper was inevitable. He might consider the humiliation, the downfall, he might do anything—"

  "Your imagination does you credit," said Follet.

  Philippe, the bone firmly between his teeth, replied quietly, "I'm serious, sir."

  "No. No. That is Fate giving too hard a knock to a creature," said Follet, his voice full of protest. "Spare me, Philippe. Besides, look at the clock. It is time to get back to business. So you think that Marius, to save his pride might have killed his own nephew. Well well. I would advise you, Philippe, to keep a careful control over the tongue in your head. If this were so, well, there are such things as justice, somebody would do something—"

  "France was in pieces, Monsieur Follet. France was fleeing. The matter of a single ship is a tossed fragment, besides there is a kind of honour—"

  Follet was up, calling loudly for his bill.

  "Enough, Philippe, I've a conference at three o'clock, but perhaps you forget."

  "Labiche says that France has not fallen far enough, she has yet to sink further—"

  Smiling, Follet paid his bill, spoke low into Philippe's ear.

  "And this morning I gave him a rise in salary."

  "The Marius affair is a ripple in the ocean, sir," remarked Philippe as they moved towards the door.

  "Good. That will close the matter. Let it be a ripple in the ocean, and let the ocean alone, Philippe, and let your imagination alone, too. I'm off. I cannot afford to be late with Manos, I haven't seen him for some time now, and he is our best man."

  They had reached the steps.

  "It's been interesting," Follet said, "but shall we now let Marius rot?"

  "Very well, sir we'll let him rot," Philippe replied, and together they went out into the bright sunshine.

  "Manos is waiting for you in your office, sir," Marcelle said, as soon as Follet came in.

  "Thank you."

  "Ah Manos. A pleasure. I so rarely see my Captains. How are you, my dear fellow?"

  Grunting a little Manos replied, "you rarely see your ships, either. I am quite well, thank you."

  "But I dream about them," Follet said, "do sit down."

  Manos was as Spanish as Jerez. Follet often thought he had in him the blood of an old pirate, he often stared at the Captain's ears, they used at one time to carry ear-rings. He sprawled in the chair.

  "Have a cigar?"

  "Thank you, sir. Some stuff is not yet through, Monsieur Follet, and my hatch is waiting. Beyond number five we are battened down and derricks home, we are indeed ready. Again, I want to be off."

  He sent smoke flying round the office.

  "Is that all you called about?"

  "Of course, and you yourself are only waiting for me to be under way."

  Follet growled. "Time has never stopped being money."

  Manos tossed back his head. "Indeed! I was unaware of it."

  Noticing a mass of papers, Manos remarked that Monsieur Follet was somewhat busy.

  "I was checking up on a certain matter."

  "I see."

  "I've often wondered what you thought about it?"

  "About it, about what?"

  "Nothing, really."

  Manos shrugged his shoulders. "One thing upon which you may congratulate yourself Monsieur Follet, is that we have such a splendid lot of men."

  "Including Captains?"

  "I thank you."

  Follet sat up in his chair. "Well now? Have you had a man by the name of Marius looking for a job aboard the Clarté?"

  "I'm not interested. It's the Nantes man, no, not at all. Many skippers have lost their tickets and will do again."

  He turned round, swept the office at a glance.

  "How comfortable you are here" he said. "To return to important matters, I hope I'll see this consignment on the quay before five o'clock. It's important, you know it is."

  "It will be there."

  "Good. Then I am satisfied."

  "Tell me, Manos, would you ship this Marius?"

  "If he were a good sailor and I was a hand short."

  "Isn't he a good sailor?"

  "I'm not as close to him as that," replied Manos.

  He was staring down at the red carpet, he liked this, he wished he had one as good for his cabin in the Clarté.

  "But you are tight-minded as well as tight-fisted."

  "I have to respect my crew."

  "So there is something in it?"

  Manos shook his head.

  "Nothing in it. If this bum's dragging through the gutter, then it's his own fault. When a man with his record refuses to ship below his rank—well, I ask you—" and Manos threw out his hands in a despairing gesture, "the man's crazy. There are ways of climbing. No one can find them for you, you find them yourself. Marius will."

  "At fifty?"

  "I must be off, Monsieur Follet. Thanks for the cigar."

  "Suppose he came to you for a job?"

  "With great respect to you, I refuse to discuss the matter."

  "Your ears are closed to the stories then?"

  "The common mouth is a very large one," replied Manos, "anything may come out of it," he tossed his cigar into the grate. "I must go. I've things to do," and he picked up his hat.

  He paused at the door. "You'll find out about the lorries?"

  "I'll ring at once."

  "Shall I wait while you ring?"

  "There's
no need," and Follet's voice sounded somewhat stiff. He stretched out a hand.

  "Well Manos—sailor's affairs are sailor's affairs, eh?"

  "Sailor's affairs are most often sailor's affairs. Good-bye."

  "Good-bye. Pleasant voyage."

  "Thanks," and Manos went out through the door.

  Follet threw away his cigar, sat down and rang up Marcelle.

  Manos waddled his way out. He had a beautiful roll, it often made passers-by think he was drunk. In a considerate way they would steer their way past him. He reached the Clarté in a leisurely, comfortable walk, having had a drink or two on the way just to assure himself that he could still take it.

  "I'm not getting younger."

  He leaned now upon her foc'sle head rail. There was something, peaceful, satisfying about the late afternoon, now drawing to evening. The noise of winches rattled in his ears, but it did not disturb a sudden feeling of content that he felt within himself. It was good to have a job, to be safe, to be understood. He looked seawards with some longing, away past the loud chattering little motor boats carrying their excursionists to the Chateau d'If. Like Marius, he had been too long hard bound.

  Had he heard? Of course he'd heard. Who hadn't. Poor devil. It's what he doesn't know that'll scare the guts out of him. They'll find Royat in the end, people aren't fools. Now if he'd only come down off his Captain's throne, why, I'd try to find him something myself. At the best I could stick him in the hold, but would he go? Trotting about the place with his record.

  He turned lazily, put a hand to his eyes. "Ah! This country's far too civilized, everybody has feelings, consciences—the happy state is complete anonymity."

  He pulled out and lit his seventh cigar, he liked cigars.

  His eye met the sun as one thin line of fire, he took in the whole harbour, the far off line where the water danced, beyond the breakers he seemed to see continuously moving ribbons of light.

  "He may have made a mistake, who knows, and saw his sacred ticket crumbling to ash before his eyes, he might have done what they say—all the same he has served ships well, that's remembered."

  He left the foc'sle head, walked aft.