by James Hanley
"Will you give me that letter?" Madame Marius said, "what has come over you, cannot you read? Or is it that awful weakness in you, come again, after last night, after this morning, what we said, the resolution was made—"
"How far you have travelled since that morning. I often think of you, and your good daughter, God help her in her wretchedness. I have had the mind to come to you, to see you, and to talk to you. How is your son? Has he yet been lucky, and maybe gone, or is he still hoping as we all must hope. Every day people are asking about you, and let me tell you consternation is still with us, as real and rising as a tree. You seem to have decided when end was without perhaps realizing what end means. I do beg of you, my dear Madame Marius, for the sake of your family, and of your name, to return to us and live again. On the other hand I tell myself how devoted you are to that son, to have broken up your home and followed him, and no less with her, who has suffered so much. Nothing will ever erase from my mind the dignity of this simple woman in her worst hours. Poor child..."
"I should never have let him go," Madeleine said, the letter was limp in her hand, her hand fell to her side, she stared stupidly at her mother.
"And I could have said that of your father, God have mercy on his soul, I could have said, 'why did I let you go?' Perhaps because the sea is blue. Give me that letter at once."
Madeleine reached out and handed her the letter.
"Here, I will not read any more of it," said Madeleine, and went out, and upstairs to her room.
"Poor creature. It was a blow, and it will never cease to be one."
Slowly, with great deliberation she began to tear up the letter, the muscles of her face contracted—" we could never have stayed, never, my man was gone. And then she goes and marries this Madeau, so that we are forced to ask ourselves 'who in the name of God is this?'", tearing and tearing, into the tiniest fragments, "and then the son, a fine name he made for himself, drunk, they said, when he lost that first ship, as to the other——" and suddenly she had flung a hundred tiny fragments into the air, "that cannot be answered," she said, "I would never go back. Never. I should never have let her read it, it was silly of me, I could see her falling to pieces before my eyes. Her poor son. We may have heart, but sometimes I think there must be iron. Anyway our minds are made up. It is only for Father Nollet to speak his own. Poor child. She thinks she may be happy again. Rubbish. That is something you have only the once."
She turned away from the window, she called loudly, "Madeleine, Madeleine." There was no reply. She waited, listening.
"I thought all that was finished, these secret weepings, these regrets, these—Madeleine, cannot you hear me calling you?"
She went out and stood at the foot of the stairs. In her right hand she carried a stick, and with it she now struck sharply on the floor.
"I did not ask you to come," she shouted. And louder, "I say I did not ask you to follow me here. Go back then if that is what you wish." She began to climb the stairs.
IV
"WHEN I feel disgusted with myself" he said, "I always come to you."
"We can take anything," she said, "even disgust."
With a quick shake of her shoulder her hair fell loose.
"You haven't bought me a drink yet," Lucy said, making a face at him.
"I'll get one," Marius said and jumped up, but she pulled him back.
"Call Henri," she said, "that's what he's here for."
"Henri?"
"Madame's husband, he understands everything."
"He must be very clever indeed—"
"You're actually laughing, Captain, it's the first time. Call him in. He won't fail to come, he's a mongrel man and everybody's his master."
Marius went to the door, opened it and called loudly, "Henri."
They had not long to wait. There was a knock on the door.
"Come in," cried Lucy.
Henri had mousy grey hair and a cast in one eye. He stood there in vest and black trousers, carpet slippers, looking at them indifferently.
"What is it, Lucy?"
"I'd like a long, long Cinzano."
"Two long long Cinzano's," Marius said.
He seemed no sooner departed than he was back again, he did not knock this time, but walked right in and placed the drinks on the wicker table near the bed. His single good eye was focused on the couch.
"Two Cinzano's for Room 10," he stared at Marius, then at Lucy.
There was something in his eye that Marius did not like, and he shouted, "clear to hell out", and Henri, grinning, turned and went out.
"And when we've had this drink, Captain, the lights go out, they hurt my eyes."
"You're very beautiful, Lucy, did you know that?"
Lucy only laughed, she laughed at anything.
"How old are you, really?"
"Me. I'm twenty," she said.
"Ought I to envy you, I'm forty eight," and Lucy laughed again, because she always did, she couldn't help it.
"At least," he said, "you're happy—yes?"
"Of course I'm happy," she pulled his hair.
"And never sad?"
She noticed the Captain's quick change of expression, "and never sad?" he repeated.
"Why should I be sad?" she asked, she made a loud gurgling noise when she drank.
"Well consider," Marius said, he had noticed a sudden boldness in her voice.
"Well—consider," his mouth touched her ear, "consider," and then her hand was flat against his mouth.
"Please, no sermons—now you're being fatherly—are you married?"
He shook his head, "Never."
"Had she been married?"
"Twice," Lucy said, "it was no good, I'm not like that, Captain," her mouth widened to a smile and he looked admiringly at the firm white teeth.
"You're sloppy," she said.
"All the same you are beautiful," Marius said, his look was so intense that Lucy suddenly shut her eyes against it.
"Why d'you think I'm unhappy?"
She pressed her hands on his chest, obliterating the barque that sailed so triumphantly across it.
"Well—" he found himself stuttering, "you're so beautiful—so young—this life—this sort of life—"
Lucy positively shook with laughter.
"Good Lord! That's what makes me happy," Lucy said, "this is my life, silly old fool, it's what I am," she went on laughing.
She sensed a sudden stiffening of his body, Marius felt as though he had been struck.
"I'm a hard creature," he thought, "and unshockable, too, but that—" and when he looked at her he knew there was no answer to that.
"You mustn't drink any more, if you do, I'll kick you out," Lucy said, leaning heavily against him, "look," she cried, "look."
"What?"
"There," and she pointed to the tattooed snake on Marius's long, hairy right arm. "It's moving."
They both laughed.
The hand heavy on her shoulder, had moved to her hair, lost itself in the black mass, he played with it, spreading the tresses either side of her head.
"Poor Lucy," he said, "who parted her legs before she parted her lips."
She pulled at his ear again.
"And you, Captain, what about you."
"Oh, I'm still waiting for the tide, so to speak."
"For that ship?"
"For that ship."
"Is it that difficult?"
"It depends on what you can pull from your pocket on the right occasion," he said.
"Sometimes sailors come here, and they haven't any papers, but Madame gets them away, she knows people."
"Does she. Imagine that" he said.
"Sometimes, when I look at you, quickly, when you're not noticing, I think, 'there's a frightened man, frightened of his own shadow.' Are you frightened, Captain?"
"Sometimes I try to remember, try hard," Marius said.
She felt her shoulders gripped, his breath on her face, "I've talked to you before, you're not even listening, Lucy."
She went off into another peal of laughter, then switched out the light, "the things I get told when I'm flat on my back," and her un-controllable laughter made Marius really frightened for the first time.
He shook her roughly, "what the hell are you laughing at?"
"You," she said, and clung hard to him.
"I've never been closer to a creature than I have to you" said Marius, and she felt his finger moving over her face, as though he were tracing its structure in the darkness.
"They all say that," she said. "Rubbish."
Feeling the warmth of her cheek he clung more tightly, as though never until this moment had he really been warm.
"And then again," she continued, "I think he's so full of something he wants to get rid of, like a person trying hard to be sick. You want to be sick, Captain, isn't that it, get something off your chest. You could tell me anything, I wouldn't say a word."
He did not answer.
"To be sick in public is not very nice," Lucy said, "you can tell me anything here, I wouldn't snitch, not me, are you being watched, Captain, you are always looking over your shoulder, we girls notice things."
Suddenly she realized he was not there, he had left her, moved away to the bed's edge, had thrown out his arms, one of which hung heavily over the side, one knee was raised, she saw his open eyes staring up at the ceiling.
"I'm not wanted by anybody," Marius said, "that's my trouble."
He felt her arm on his neck, heard her say, "be sick here, Captain, with me, it's safer."
"Open the bloody window," he cried, "I'm stifling," and she got up and threw back the curtains.
"There."
Moonlight seeped into the room, the tiny box-like room with its high, narrow cell-like window.
"I should never have arrived," he said.
The silence of the room was suddenly heightened, it seemed an eternity before he heard her say, "that's nothing. Lots of people never arrive. Don't talk any more, Captain," she said.
"To hell with talk," Marius said, and turned towards her.
He did not stir again, and in the sudden silence she could hear the heavy breathing.
"Miserable man," she thought, her hand moving up, feeling his mouth, and higher, the muscle, the bone, the flesh that gave to the touch.
The air smelt strongly of scent and sweat, and she was conscious too of a strength in the room. Marius lay quite still. He had fallen asleep. Lucy held to him and shut her eyes.
The house was curiously silent, and only in the yard below did the mongrel dog proclaim a wakefulness that struck flat against the walls, it barked and went on barking. Above their heads an alarm-clock ticked away merrily, and in the red glass bowl under the altar, rocking gently upon the holy oil, the flickering night-light, swaying to and fro like some minute, drunken ship, under the lightest of breezes that came through the window. Each time it flickered the face of the plaster Virgin was illuminated, it seemed to move through continuing patches of light and darkness.
She could feel the relaxed muscles of his forearms, the slackness of the powerful back, the long arm upon her grow heavier still. She wanted to move, but did not. Something had gone out of him, something withdrawn, she had felt it go. She opened her eyes, then quickly closed them, she drew back her head. The eye had opened hard up against an unfamiliar darkness, something strange. She had been staring into the interior of Marius's wide nostrils, at the hair and bone.
In the distance she heard the sound of a lorry moving towards the basin, and almost at the same time the hoot of a tug. Her head lay comfortable in the crook of his arm.
"He says he loves me, he'd marry me. They all say that sort of thing."
She felt the light fluttering upon her eye-lids, and she woke gently to a sun-filling room. Marius was still talking, but in his sleep.
Lucy lay back, drew up her knees, she felt a pleasurable exhaustion, her hands were clasped and lay uppermost upon the greyish-coloured sheet. Below she heard Henri shout, the mongrel starting his day.
She planted a strong foot in the middle of Marius's back.
"It's turned five o'clock," she cried.
In his sleep he turned towards her.
Gradually the eyes opened, to the light, the new landfall. He was so close to Lucy that he could see those fluttering eyelids, the gentlest movements of the long lashes, that seemed to be fanning the bright eyes below them. His strong thumb lay at the corner of her mouth. He felt her hand run the length of his arm.
"You'd better get out," Lucy said, she gave him another push.
Marius sat up, then reached out for his coat, hanging over the nearby chair. From this he took his wallet. He extracted some notes from it and handed them to her.
"For you. Madame need not know."
She took them from him with a smile, but did not speak.
She got up and started to dress.
"When are you coming again?"
"Soon," Marius said, he was dressing, too. "Does that include a cup of coffee, Lucy, I've a throat like the bottom of your bird-cage?."
She broke the day with her first laugh.
"Henri's down. I'll go and get you some."
She flung on a heavily flowered blue dressing-gown and went out.
Marius finished dressing. He washed in the basin, used Lucy's comb and brush.
"Only another bloody day," he said.
"Here's your coffee. Drink it and get out."
"And you?"
He sat down by her, and she watched him drinking the thick, hot brown liquid.
"Go out by the rear door," she said.
"Why the rear door?
"Go out by the rear door," Lucy said again.
He finished his coffee, laid the cup on the floor at his feet, turned to her.
"Lucy."
"Hell! Not again," she said, avoiding threatening arms.
"Shall I come again?"
"If you like. Now get out."
He picked up his cap and made for the door, and in a moment she was after him, a hand on his own. "I'll help you if you wish it," she said.
"With what?"
"You talked your head off," she said, "and when I woke up you were still talking..."
"Then it must be true," he said.
"What must be true?
"Nothing," he said, gave her a quick pat, a kiss, and then went out.
"I believe he's still drunk," thought Lucy.
She stood by the open door, listening to his heavy steps down the corridor, then a quick, clumsy run down the iron stairway, a banged door, and he was gone.
"He was a little nervous, and I like that," she said, "and clumsy, too, but I liked that also. He's not a common sailor, I do know that. And he comes here and he never asks for anybody but me."
She stood arranging her hair in front of the small mirror— hanging over the table. Through this she noticed that the night-light had gone out, and immediately she went and put in a new one. She could hear opening and closing of doors, one after another, footsteps, she recognised Madame Lustigne's high, tremulous voice, Henri's, high and flute-y, an emasculated voice, then Simone singing through her teeth, continued descendings on the iron stairs. It was time to go.
She picked up her bag, put the money in, burst into song, a popular tune, then ran off lightly down the corridor to the stairway.
Marius was long forgotten. Marius might well have been on the furthermost sea.
V
"SOMETIMES I ask myself why I am here" Madame Marius said, and at once she raised her hand to silence the other. "Let me speak.
"Sometimes I think he was lucky. Coming back like that, the place in flames, yes, it would be like that for him, he has the devil's luck, and poor old Berthelot and his precious offices a heap of dust. These days you need only have one ship to call yourself a shipowner. I once saw that Corsican, and if that ship had anything it had the right to sink. And what was she carrying for Algiers? I ask you? A
nd you may well ask till the last day. I doubt if anybody knew she had really sailed. In the morning there was nothing but dunnage where she had been. That was the ship your brother sailed, but then I don't think he ever in his life had the Captaincy of a decent ship. Even the Mercury stank. And nobody asked whether she returned or not, perhaps they didn't care, except the poor souls who had lost men in her. And think on that. Millions dying. Who has the right to fuss about two score of men?"
After a momentary silence, she added,"I haven't heard him come in. Out all night again."
Madeleine's lips seemed never to have parted, and yet she had spoken.
"Are we staying here forever?"
"I hope not," replied Madame Marius.
"I know I talk like a parrot," Madeleine said, "but I ask again, what are we waiting for?"
"I want the truth out of him, and I want justice. It would be terrible to have lived a long life and never to have seen it. And we are here because we cannot go back. We are finished there. Everything is finished. Never can I look some people in the face. Never."
"The priest thinks you're the fool, throwing everything up for your pride."
"Would you have stayed?" asked her mother, but Madeleine turned her head abruptly and did not answer. "Would you?"
Madeleine got up and went out of the room. Madame Marius heard her climbing the stairs.
"She will have her little weep," she thought.
In this low chair, hard by the window Madame Marius looked mountainous. There was something implacable, the sleeping strength of some powerful animal. She sat erect, the heavy, fleshy hands clasped gently together in her lap. Only the eyes moved. And by her side lay the black bag with its powerful lock. This bag never left her side day or night, she dragged it with her everywhere, she lay with it under her pillow. Her life was locked inside it, her memories, her pride, the family history, the days that were gone and the days to come. Sometimes, unconsciously, her hand would stray towards it and grip it, and if she were talking she would lift it up and plant it firmly on her knee, then continue with her conversation, staring at the other in a defiant way, as though to say, "well, try and take it from me".
She had once been handsome. Height only redeemed this shapeless body. The fine nose still remained, but one could see where other blows had struck, one after another, the swollen ankles, the outsize arms, the chin as powerful as a man's, and ready to pull down and destroy the remaining structure of the face. The eyes were almost black, but completely without lashes, the lips had dwindled, tightened, giving the mouth the appearance of a half shut purse. Everywhere the skin was coarsened, excepting the fine forehead from which the hair had been rudely drawn back. It was smooth yet carried an unhealthy shine about it.
