by James Hanley
It had been a strange day. On the quay, lying under the keel of a rotting boat, he had felt something crawling about him, things with claws, crabs perhaps. And in the late evening he woke, shivering a little, he could not remember leaving the house. He tried to remember a dream. The eyes, fish open, were staring towards a large object that looked like a crane, and then like a house dissolving, and he had dragged himself to his feet and walked towards it. Nobody had appeared to notice him, walking across a short gangway that spanned two ships, two ships so close together their plates might be congealed.
No sound. No winch, no crane, no voice. No rattle of chain, whisper of steam, no pulse of engine, no bell, no footfall. Marius had walked the length of the Bergerac, tossed up by an ocean, bound to the quay, buried in mud and slime, a ship dying, discarded, ransacked, the last wave broken under her vitals. He had walked for'ard, climbed to her foc'sle head, leaned far over her rail, perilously hung there, staring at the brass letters of her name, the light upon them falling as the sun withdrew. Staring down to darkening water, thickish with its skin of refuse, the water hemmed in by the pressure of the plates. Things moving, an old greasy cap, a salmon tin, orange peelings, old papers, scattered invoices, lading bills, all moving to the slow stir of this dead water, the plop and blob and chug against steel.
Marius had turned, gone down the ladder, run the length of her well-deck, cupped his hands, shouted, swore, called the hands. He had then climbed to the bridge. Upon it he stood erect, his hands behind his back and clasped tightly, he stared at the piled city. Bergerac's head was turned from the sea.
He pulled hard upon her port telegraph but this had refused to ring. It was strange indeed. And speaking rapidly, nervously down the tube the engineer below had refused to answer him. He pulled again at the telegraph handle. Then he clenched his fist and struck hard upon the stout teak of her bridge rail, and swore and left the bridge, pausing with each step upon the companion ladder, to listen, to wait. But only silence. Nothing happening. Life flat upon its back. He ran down her starboard alley way, passed through the steel door, and this clanged behind him, began to descend down three staircases of shining steel. Below, something that looked like silver and shone brightly, and he cried as he went, "hello! Hello there!" And then he reached bottom and stood and stared at the things that shone.
But it was unbelievable—he had been hours in the engine-room. He had first toyed and felt the stationary wheel, the stiff piston, and then in incredible rage had pulled and tugged and heaved and hammered, sat down and reflected and sweated, risen again and turned and twisted and pulled, but nothing had happened. The engines would not start. A most stubborn ship.
He had been fore and aft, and for'ard again, below and aloft. Even her syren had refused to budge. Perhaps in the darkness a hand had risen from the river and gripped it, torn and destroyed it. He had stood at the foc'sle door, bawling them out, cursing, he had gone to the cabin of the chief engineer, sworn, and beat upon his door.
Marius's world was full of doors, and these were closed. He returned to the bridge. Again he grasped the telegraph, moved her over to SLOW-AHEAD. He began to pull it backwards and forwards as though he would drag up this stubbornness by the roots. Wearily he had turned away to lean on the bridge rail again, and stare raptly at the far off horizon. Nobody had noticed him board her and nobody had noticed him leave.
As he slowly walked her deck there came to him more clearly the sound of his own footsteps, striking hard upon the iron surface. But this could not disturb her bones, whose head was turned from the sea forever. He had paced her bridge and her decks, whilst all around him the world was in motion.
He sat very still. Always he listened. When the chair creaked again he got up and went to the door. He turned the key, unlocked it, turned it again, he continued to turn it. He heard this sound, and he heard other sounds. He heard the doors at the Heros being closed, the blinds drawn down. The Bilter Line doors were closing, too. Somebody was behind Marius, counting the thousands of steps he had climbed. Men were counting them in offices, and writing the figures into their books.
A dark cab, drawn by a lame grey horse, had pulled up outside the Heros building, and Monsieur Follet had come out, head bent, body wrapped against a winter journey, and he had entered the cab. Philippe had followed down the steps with a wreath of his own roses, and he entered after the other. Then the door of the cab had closed, and it moved slowly away. Another man had rushed from the building, crying, "wait," and he had climbed on to the back of it. He was small and thick-set, with dark, penetrating eyes, and he hung on, and the cab vanished into the fog.
Marius held the key in his hand, the hand in the air, he was looking at this, holding it very close to the eye, and it glittered. He smiled at the key. All down the street of ships the doors were closing, he heard the keys turning in the locks and hurriedly he pushed in his own key, and quickly turned it. Then he threw himself hard and close to the door, and all endeavour of muscle and bone were behind him as he pressed forward. He heard the gangways pulled down, ship after ship was losing contact. The great gangways were rolled inwards, and rumbled through towering steel doors, and these too, were closing with noises like gun-fire, and the last gangway was rushing forward to the final door.
The dying Bergerac gave a lurch, pulled clear of her companion, turned over, sank from sight into the mud, the locked water moved, was swept up in a wave that washed swiftly inwards, as though to swallow the quays in one great gulp. Then, in the same instant this wave rose high, as towers rise, smashed down, and at once Marius saw the huge mass of water turn again and move swiftly towards the horizon, and then there was only the mud, the desert, and beyond it the quick-moving sea, rolling further and further, far beyond the quays and beyond the breakwater. Watching, he saw the mountain of water tearing past the great Chateau.
Marius now pressed with all his might against the door of his room. He heard the sea, and saw it break, move forward again, and he heard the closing of the last door; this was far out in the Black Sea, the night like pitch, and Manos, bearded and drunk, placing his body against the cabin door before the sea should strike.
Marius's body was moving, gradually, slowly, as melting snow piled to the wall breaks under the sun, until he was on his knees, and the key in the lock and his hand to this. He cried feebly, "hello!"
"Hello!"
He stiffened.
"Hello!" Marius said.
And the voice said, "hello!"
Then silence.
"My name is Labiche. Aristide Labiche. Do not be afraid. No harm will come to you."
Labiche could hear the heavy breathing behind the door. He had entered the house by the back, and in the darkness found his way to the top of the stairs. He now sat on the top stair, his head turned towards the locked door. He had listened to the rallentando of the key in the lock. With another kind of eye he was trying to ascertain where in the room Marius was. Behind this door? By the window? Sat on the bed? Sprawled on the floor?
"Your sister Madame Madeau has left me a note. She says you are ill. I would like to talk to you," he said.
Listening intently, Labiche thought that in this moment even the man's breathing had ceased, he felt he could cut this silence with a knife. He rose to his feet.
"May I come in? I am not from the police, as you appear to think, as you mentioned to our mutual friend Madame Lustigne."
He knocked gently on the door, and waited. Hearing a step behind it, he thought instantly," here he is," but there was the silence as before.
Marius had gone to the window.
"Nobody who comes to this city is ever refused help, and nobody who comes to us will be turned away. We are not the Heros, nor the Transport Oriental, and we are not the Bilter Line, and we are not the Messereau concern either. Father Nollet would like to speak to you. I have a friend, a good man, and he will help you. No questions asked."
Noiselessly he returned to the top stair and sat down.
Labiche lit a cigarette and drew gre
edily, pleasurably upon it.
"It's getting late," he thought, and fished out his watch. By its illuminated dial he saw that it was nearing ten o'clock.
"I will tell you his name. It is Gallois. He is a gentleman who has been a strong arm to our society, which is that of Saint Vincent de Paul. There are no limits with us."
After a pause he said quietly, "Marius, you are not lost," and the intense silence within and without the door gave a frightening audibility to these quiet words.
"We are not concerned with the things that have been done. The debris they leave behind, that is our concern."
He drew heavily on the cigarette, and for a moment his thoughts winged clear of the house.
"It is getting late. I have a wife and children at home and they are waiting for me. It is so very simple, Marius. You get up and open the door. I will come in. Or I will go out with you. Perhaps you would share black coffee with me across the way. Perhaps a vin chaud higher up the street. Your mother and sister have gone away. Father Nollet, parish priest of this district wrote your mother a letter and advised her to return from whence she came. She may have done so. Your sister, Madame Madeau has left me a note. That is why I am here."
Labiche stood up. He began a slow, leisurely pacing of the landing, his thumbs stuck into his vest, in the manner of a man who has oceans of time in front of him, one who was totally indifferent to the total darkness that surrounded him. He wished only to draw through the door a sick, and miserable man.
Within the room something had fallen to the floor. Labiche paused by the door, took the handle in his hand and rattled it.
"It is a sin to be miserable," he said.
He stared downwards at the banked up darkness.
"I sit on the lowest stool at the Heros office, you will have noticed me whenever you called, as I noticed you, on that first morning, on all the other mornings, and it was the Marius who had gone out who interested me. I would say to myself, where will he go now? What will he do? He will go to other shipping offices, climb their stairs, get his answer, climb down again, he will walk about in a dream and he will end up where they all end up, on the quays. You are not the first who has come to this city, and I don't suppose you will be the last. The others had no illusions whatever, and now they are gone, Marius. But you remain. You are not cunning enough to be wise."
Labiche threw down his cigarette and stamped it out. He tried the door handle again, but it refused to give.
"Please open the door, and I'll talk with you. We help, not hinder. Many people come to us, and we have gone to many others. Some felt no shame in their coming, and others fooled us, some bit deep into the hand. Can you hear me speaking to you?"
There was no answer, and for a moment Labiche fancied that all the time the man was asleep. He went to the top of the stairs, stood there with a hand on either rail.
"I must get him out of here," he thought, "the man is very ill."
He heard a long scraping sound within the room and turned quickly round, he was certain now that Marius would open the door to him, and he stood by it and waited.
"Are you there?" he asked.
He grabbed the knob and rattled it again. "It is important that you should remember you are a man," he said.
"I know why you came here. You came to see Monsieur Follet. He would not see you. Not because you were without papers, but because he himself would be embarrassed. We know that much."
He lit another cigarette.
"I say again, Marius, if you will trust me, we will help you. Of course we do not solve all situations. For instance we do not make people happy. If all a man requires from life is simply happiness, then that is only another way of killing oneself. Will you open the door?"
He knelt down and spoke through the keyhole. Marius had suddenly recognised the voice.
He had carried the chair to the window, under which he now sat, his hands pressed to his knees. And out of the voice had risen the man. He saw him at the Heros, standing up to stare when Philippe had been so rude, saw him following him down the road, sitting opposite him in a Bistro, smiling and saying good-evening to that Madame Lustigne, the man who was everywhere, the man with wings. The man who was following him. Now he was outside the door. There he was, speaking again.
"I am only another creature like yourself" Labiche said.
For the third time he knocked gently on the door.
The smashing of glass sounded like thunder throughout the house. Labiche jumped.
"Marius."
He began a tattoo upon the door. But there was no answer, and the door would not give. He heaved his weight against it, and the shaky lock broke clear, the door was wide, and he was in the room. He felt for the switch. The lighted room revealed nothing save the open window. He ran from the room and down the stairs.
Marius was already running down the street.
"Poor man," thought Labiche, as he rushed to the rear of the house.
Outside he found nothing, and the glass made a sharp crushing sound under his feet. For a moment he leaned against the wall.
"If he'd understood," thought Labiche, "running away from me. I'm completely harmless," and then he hurried quickly down the street.
Marius had reached the end of the street, and now stood against the wall, his hands to the collar of his coat, hugging this, pressing his head against the brick. A single light from the bared, and dirty yellow bulb threw curious shadows upon it, and Marius's head grown huge in shadow seemed to be climbing roofwards. Beyond this the darkness, wall upon wall of darkness. Marius remained perfectly still, listening. Footsteps sounded in the distance, drew nearer, grew louder, passed by. He moved from the wall and ran on. He passed through patches of light and darkness, the air was suddenly cold and chill. He kept close to the buildings, the doors, the walls, fugitive sounds struck at him as he ran, a voice from a doorway, somebody laughing, the clink of glasses, somebody hammering.
Stepping off the kerb he tripped and fell, got to his knees, at the moment that the light came, stabbing the darkness, drowning him, he was unable to move. The car pulled up with a screech, its horn tore at him, he could not remember reaching the other side, but beyond this light was darkness again, darkness itself reeling, darkness as fluid and flowing as the sea itself.
He flung himself to its shelter and ran on. He stopped dead in his tracks, he seemed to sense the oncoming protection, and threw himself into the doorway of the empty shop. He crouched, shivering, put out a hand, drew back in horror, exclaimed, "Labiche!"
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," the old woman said.
The voice was drowned by a greater sound. Marius thought them the footsteps of a man. He stiffened by the darkened window.
"Labiche" he said.
Labiche was everywhere. The sounds drew nearer, resounding stampings, he saw sparks fly up from the cold stones, and then they ceased. He could not move. He stood listening for the sound again. But here darkness and silence held tightly. It was as he began to move from the window, slow, furtive, forever turning his head and looking to his rear, that the shape loomed up. Marius stood in the middle of the road. He shut his eyes.
The great horse was stood quiet against the kerb, the sacking across its magnificent shoulders. It drew breath, it reared its head, it sensed silence, sensed air, sensed the strange stillness of this dingy street, its shops shuttered, its warehouses sealed. It reared its head again to the chill night air, it stood serene and powerful, beyond the frontier of man himself. Behind it there glowed a tiny light, a bluish white light, and past this its master had gone, and it heard his dragging foot steps before they died away in the depths of the Bistro.
Marius did not move. He was aware of darkness, aware of this curious shape that seemed to rise before him as upon another level of air, and then he heard the curious sound, the single giant stamp of the hoof, saw fire struck from the stone. Into the long narrow street there poured out through the bared teeth the single neigh.
"Labiche."
Marius turned and fled by the way he had come.
The sound of a syren held him for a moment, and frantically he looked one way and then another, as though he were searching for its direction, as though he were smelling out those swarming, protecting quays. He found himself once more leaning against the high wall, and the dancing shadows, the naked light swinging ever so slightly near the roof top drew his attention for a moment or two, and he pressed the flat of his hands against this wall and rested there. Always he was listening, always he was ready, waiting for the footsteps. When the light suddenly went out, leaving him hidden against the wall, it was as though he had reached beyond the barrier of the feet.
The light might never have gone out, Marius yet pressed to the wall, and, for a second or two shut off his own breathing. From the opposite corner Labiche was watching him, he had never lost sight of Marius. He walked when Marius walked, stood when he stood, ran when Marius ran. He saw the light go out.
"Poor creature, he thinks he's making for the quays, he's wrong."
Through the darkness Labiche could see the quays, to him they were as clear as daylight.
The hawsers, heavily hanging, trailing over slack water, climbing to hawse pipes, under deserted decks, the yawning hatch, truck tops buried in the darkness, a dampened flag sagging in the upper air, winches powerless and cool. A reflection upon water that gave it skin. A conglomeration of smells rising from trampled ground, rising from the heat and hum and litter of that day, as though the whole earth had suddenly closed in upon this mysterious port, and powerful above these, the smell of pitch and rope. Life burrowed inwards, Labiche knew, who sometimes came at night to the quays, and once saw, pressed close and riding easily upon the slow stir of water, the sleeping gulls. Labiche knew. Eyeless, he could point anywhere. The map quivered under the hand. He saw the feet driven into the piled grain, sharing warmth with the rats, the exposed face, white against timbers, the head lost in the sacking, a late stupration in the rotting boat, bewildered creatures moving in from all compass points as darkness drew down. The hideous collapse of ferocity and desperation. God-frightening, powerless in sleep. Labiche could read clear upon his map, Magnificent and Bestial.
