The Flood

by J. M. G. Le Clézio

  After the earlier hubbub and bustle, from noon on the streets gradually began to empty. Life became more and more centred on the kitchen, with its clatter of cutlery and casseroles. There was a somnolent feeling in the air now, reminiscent of an afternoon siesta. Even the animals had vanished. They were either raiding the garbage-cans in people’s back yards, or else prowling around the family dinner-table, jaws wide open, eyes bright with anticipation.

  Behind them they had left this grey deserted wilderness, over which the wind still blew fitfully. The streets seemed endless, the sidewalks were bare. The invisible tide had ebbed far out, uncovering a flat expanse of silt. People and things had withdrawn into themselves, to savour, each in their private retreat, the aroma of cooking food. Outside in the gardens, very stiff and upright in the black soil, the trees were feeding too. From the bottommost layers of humus they sucked up the soft elemental stuff of life and digested it. Phosphates dissolved slowly between their roots, and the sap, their life-blood, with the colour of milk and the taste of sugar, spread out and up till it reached the topmost branches.

  Besson felt this torpor stealing over him, and tried to resist it for a moment. He stood quite still on the corner of an intersection, and tried to imagine himself giving a sumptuous banquet. He set out a dazzling table decorated with dishes of pheasants in aspic and poulet à l’estragon. Over their delectable flesh he poured golden wines and rich, thick sauces that spread out in iridescent splendour, like a peacock’s tail. He then destroyed the table and everything on it. But this was not enough. The streets and pavements around him were still deserted. Down those long, glabrous vistas, as though traced in the dust by a finger, or daubed with mud, the letters F O O D appeared, a depressing message that nothing could obliterate. As soon as people finished their meals, and the cats curled up beside the garbage-cans and fell asleep, this maleficent sign would vanish of itself. But for the moment it was still there. This was the time of day when people should not be out of doors; those who ventured into the streets would encounter the magic word, and then the winged shadow of that vast exodus would hover over them too, like a vulture.

  Besson walked down one street in which the drains were up. The working-site was deserted except for a pile of shovels and pick-axes, and a yellow machine that smelt of oil and combustion, and was now cooling off in the sharp air.

  Cars stood parked nose to tail along the kerb; their mock-leather seat-cushions still bore the impression of those who had been sitting in them. It was like night-time, except that even the ghosts were missing.

  Outside a bakery, the smell of warm bread and cake brought Besson up short; it passed into his body with the breath he drew, and conjured up a veritable tide of saliva and digestive juices. When it reached his stomach, and stuck there, it became pure agony, turning, spreading, hardening into a sharp cross. Besson went over to the window and looked inside. The bread was there, long loaves packed upright in a big basket, their honey-coloured surface exposed for all to see, still hot from the oven, swag-bellied, dusted with flour, scarred and knobbly, that delicious and potent odour steaming gently off them. Inside the crust the bread was springy, delicate, soft, warm, permeated with millions of tiny bubbles. Its golden surface was so richly yellow that all the fire’s brightness, all the heat of the oven still seemed to live in it: it shone like the skin of a fruit. It lent itself to covetous urges by camouflaging the silken folds, crisp and melting at once, both crusty and feather-soft, of a slice from the cut loaf. It wafted the aroma of its bounty in waves to the four corners of the earth; its virginal, sculptured quality drew one gently towards it, and as gently mastered one. Besson felt himself melting, flowing imperceptibly into the heart of the loaf, as though the direction of the odour had been reversed to bring its victim back to its secret lair. He plunged head first into the middle of the warm capsule, swimming, gulping down great mouthfuls of the nourishment that none thought to deny him. He felt the thick, palpable smell of hunger, the taste of flour and yeast course through his limbs like molten stone. Now the odour filled the whole sky: the streets of the town, the roof-tops, clouds, tarred asphalt on the pavement, the bodywork of cars, all had become bread, rich full-bodied loaves, a fresh and foam-light mountain of crumb and crust, crust that one breaks with a sign of the cross over the laden table and its heavy baskets of fruit, bread that opens in whiteness and love to admit the light blessing from heaven, and yields to the holy spirit come down to dwell in it.

  Besson stood there a long while lost in contemplation of the bread. After this he no longer felt any hunger or thirst. Round him the signs slowly dwindled and vanished. People began to emerge from their houses again, and cars drove away, accelerating fiercely. Pigeons came fluttering down on the sidewalk, and began to waddle round in circles, uttering short liquid cooing notes.

  Some time later, well on in the afternoon, Besson came out on a large square surrounded by red-brick houses. There was a parking lot in the middle of the square and, large numbers of leafless plane-trees dotted about it. Besson crossed the road and made for the church. It was a high, rather ugly building, with a Greek-style portico supported by marble columns, above which was carved the inscription: MARIA SINE LABE CONCEPTA ORA PRO NOBIS. Towards the back of the building there rose a square bell-tower, with a clock at the top of it. The clock-face was white, and had Roman numerals round the dial. The short hand pointed to a spot just past the IV, while the long one was coming up for VI. When the long hand reached the VI there was a single dull chime from the tower; the note floated away over the roof-tops like a layer of fog. Two birds flew up and zigzagged away one behind the other. Besson heard this gong-stroke echoing faintly over the square for some time afterwards: the filaments of its metallic vibrations fixed themselves in his head like a souvenir.

  The dial of the clock gleamed there high on the tower like a kind of moon. Eventually he tore his eyes away from it, walked up the front steps, pushed through an old brown swing door, and found himself inside the church.

  The change in atmosphere was instantaneous. Throughout the vast and shadowy nave, empty now, and up in the deep, grotto-like vaulting silence reigned, the atmosphere had a dim grey profundity about it. Fine near-transparent clouds drifted slowly round the walls, dissolving into wisps, moving above the varnished pews, spreading across the stained-glass windows. Besson caught the terrifying smell of incense, and for a moment, because of something that stirred inside him, he thought his hunger had come back. But it was not hunger. There was no name one could put to the unfamiliar feeling of distress that surged to and fro between these dank walls, that set a bell tolling, on and on, echoing away deep into the earth, telling the beads for the dead, there was nothing about it that could be known or expressed. It was the fear induced by footsteps advancing over the hollow-echoing flagstones, it was the crushing weight of the vaulted roof overhead, pressing down with ton upon ton of stone, it was the power of everything obscure and ominous, of terror made into a dwelling-place. Shuddering, Besson advanced down the nave. On either side the rows of empty pews faded into semi-darkness. Great pillars soared up like tree-trunks, and lost themselves in the pearly white and foliated radiance of the vaulting. At the end of the nave, moving towards him as he moved towards it, was the pyramidal outline of the altar, glittering in candle-light.

  Besson took a few more steps down the centre of the church; then he stopped, sat down in a pew, and listened to the silence. The bustle of the streets could not penetrate these stony ramparts. And yet it was not really silence: there was too rich and dense a quality about it. Rising amid the floating particles of incense, sliding through the shadows like a thief in the night, there came a muted yet resonant murmur, a continual hum like the roar of a distant waterfall, vibrating in the ground underfoot. It was exactly as though some terrifying full-dress quarrel had taken place inside the church just a few seconds before Besson entered it, and what remained now was the mere memory of the shock-waves, the last fading tremors, the atmospheric disturbances that follow
any seismic upheaval. Though silence had replaced the previous deafening uproar, it was still quivering, muttering under its breath, filling dark nooks and corners with whispered blasphemies and stifled oaths and obscene phrases.

  Besson glanced around him, and, for the first time since he had walked in, saw that there were other human beings with him in the church. A number of old women, gathered round the pillars because they were near the radiators, sat mumbling incomprehensible prayers; some of them wore large black headscarves which completely hid their faces and hair, and were on their knees at the prie-dieu, quite still. Their bodies, swathed in black dresses and old coats, bent forward; their heads were bowed towards the ground. In the side aisles one or two old crones were lighting candles before the images, with slow, meticulous gestures.

  Not far from Besson, in the same row of pews but half-hidden by shadow, a woman was sitting, and Besson examined her attentively. She was, he saw, about sixty years of age, with grey, almost white hair tied up in a mauve headscarf. Her dress was mauve too, but of a somewhat darker tone than one ordinarily saw. Her rounded back was pressed against the seat behind her; her legs, swollen by varicose veins, were set squarely on the ground; her hands lay clasped in her lap. She sat thus, staring straight ahead of her, not moving her lips. Besson could just make out her pale, deeply lined face, with its strong nose; beneath the eye there was a dark stain, as though she had been crying and mascara had run down with the tears. These brown smudges came very low, following the line of the cheek-bone, and her eyelids seemed to be a curious purplish colour, as though someone had given her a couple of shiners. She remained absolutely immobile, looking almost translucent in the gloom; all that could be seen of her now were the pale patches denoting face, neck and hands. She moved once only, to push away a strand of hair that had fallen over her forehead. She simply looked straight ahead of her with those dark-ringed eyes, indifferent to anything going on around, as though into a mirror. Besson tried to deduce, from the direction of her gaze, just what she was looking at. Her eyes were focused a little above the horizontal, he decided. If one prolonged this line of vision it came out at the top of the altar, against a kind of gilded ornament in the shape of a double palm-leaf. There was nothing above or below it. Both the Cross and the altar-piece were away to one side, where she could not see them. The Tabernacle stood to the right of her, and it seemed clear enough that it too stood beyond her range of vision. Then what was the explanation? Why did she sit there staring at this piece of decoration, with its vague resemblance to a double palm-leaf, as though it were a mountain of gold? What was it about this piece of stucco moulding that attracted her?

  After some time the woman rose to her feet, picked up a handbag, and walked along the row to the aisle, her gentle, melancholy face an expressionless blank. As she passed Besson her eyes met his, and he felt his heart beat faster. Then they slipped away again, brown aureole and all, not really looking at anything, like two smooth drops of dark water in the middle of that white face.

  Then Besson turned back towards the luminous hole shining at the far end of the church, and let the fear rise up in him. He breathed in the saffron-scented air, and listened to the silence throbbing around him. He was inside a boat now. On every side a wide expanse of ocean pressed against its stone hull, so that it groaned gently. A slight rolling motion rocked the marble pillars, and made the vaulting move up and down. Chandeliers swung from right to left, with a clash of crystal pendants, and on countless candles the tiny point flickered perilously. The hum of the great ship’s engines was counterpointed by Besson’s heart-beats, thudding in his chest and on either side of his head. Under the smooth wooden pews the floor stretched away, a vast bare grey expanse, feebly reflecting both daylight and lamplight, a lake that had frozen over. The great flagstones lay snugly side by side, so granite-hard, so peaceful, that one wanted to climb right up into the roof and then hurl oneself into empty space, come smashing down on this platitude, arms outspread in the form of a cross, to founder in a mess of blood and pulped-up flesh and bone.

  Or perhaps one was imprisoned in the belly of a whale, still alive, and free to move around inside one’s living captor. Piping and cavities, rucks and folds of oozy wall—these suddenly began to multiply as one watched. Clustering glands sprang from its side, pink-and-green garlands swimming in gall and shadow. Soon one would be digested. The burning lava flow would come spurting through minuscule holes in the middle of each wall, and overwhelm one. Then the frenzied dance would begin, hurling its cramps and spasms from one end of the empty sac to the other. Beyond this activated corridor came the point of final absorption: swallowed up in gold and tinkling crystal, sucked out at one stroke by this gaudy cupping-glass, one would disappear into the void.

  This was it, in fact: the building had a driving urge to engulf you. You couldn’t run away, you couldn’t shout or make a fight of it. The cold stone weighed down on you with its millions of years, the deathless gold mocked you with the laughter of madness. It was like being a fly, trapped in that abominable flower which slowly closes its clawed and curving petals over its victims; and the perfume that issued from those hidden mouths spread like some deadly poison. Marble, amber, rubies, incense, porphyry, all were ready to hook you.

  The universe had been swallowed up. Streets, cars, cafés, sky and sun, trees, pigeons—nothing of this now remained. The world had suddenly become a cavern, an underground cathedral full of huge stalactites, a concrete air-raid shelter.

  Besson knew he had to act fast. He knelt on the wooden kneeler and bowed his head. He tried to say a prayer, but the words would not come any more. Then, while vaulting and walls and floor danced in fury about him, he closed his eyes and submitted himself to God.

  When the danger had passed, he got up again. A sudden vast tiredness came over him, as though he had just finished an all-night train journey. He left the pew and walked down the side aisle. The black-clad women were still there, silently moving their lips. Near a painted statue of John the Baptist administering baptism, a grey-clad figure knelt, head in hands. A little further on, close to a big candelabra with half a dozen wax tapers burning in it, a group of three or four women sat waiting. Besson joined them, and took his place in the queue. He looked at the candles burning on the tray of the candelabra; the wax had run down all of them, producing the most curious excrescences. At the top of each little column, attached to the wick like a banner, was a little tongue of yellow light, burning with stubborn persistence, more ephemeral and tragic than the life of a butterfly.

  Other women arrived and sat down beside Besson, taking the places of those who had gone. Finally one of them turned to him and whispered: ‘It’s your turn.’

  Besson hesitated. Then he got up and walked across to the little black box of the confessional. He pulled the purple velvet curtain aside, and knelt down. After a few seconds there was the sound of a panel being slid open, and a little light filtered through the grille. ‘Pray,’ a voice whispered in his ear.

  Besson listened to the lengthy muttering that followed, spoken in a breathy whisper that filled the confessional. When it was over the voice told him to say Amen.

  ‘Amen,’ said Besson.

  ‘When was your last confession, my son?’

  Besson reflected for a moment.

  ‘It was—I think it was sixteen years ago. Fifteen or sixteen years.’

  There was a brief silence.

  ‘Why did you go so long without confessing?’

  ‘I don’t know, I—I lost my faith.’

  ‘What sins have you committed, my son?’

  Besson hesitated again.

  ‘Almost all of them,’ he said.

  ‘Will you list them, please?’ said the voice, patiently.

  ‘It may take a long time,’ Besson said.

  ‘That’s all right,’ said the voice. ‘We’re in no hurry. What are your sins?’

  ‘I have lied,’ Besson said. ‘I have been a habitual liar. I have stolen. I have blasphemed.
I have had evil thoughts. And—and I have committed degrading acts…. I have—I have been egotistical, covetous, full of envy. I have taken pleasure in spreading harm around me…. I have doubted the existence of God, and of His bounty. I have been indifferent to Him. I have sworn. I have taken advantage of others for my own profit. I have been idle, and self-indulgent. I have refused to help others, to aid those who might have need of me…. I have scorned the poor. I have been luxurious, and full of pride, and on many occasions excessively angry. I have struck my mother. I have felt hatred for my father. I have entertained thoughts of murder, and planned criminal projects. I have committed the sin of vanity, and of complacency in vice. I have refused to follow good advice…. I have prayed to the Devil. I have been dishonest. I have failed to keep my promises. I have squandered other people’s money. I have desired evil things, I have longed for war. I have been a libertine. I have shown lack of respect towards my parents and relations. I have killed animals.’

  ‘Is that all?’ the voice asked.

  ‘No,’ Besson said, ‘no, it isn’t. I have also been coarse in my behaviour. I have fallen into the sin of despair. I have rejected love. I have been cowardly, and have made insulting statements about the Church. I have—I have thought of suicide. I have felt arrogant contempt for others, and I have never loved my neighbour. I have been cruel. I have been malicious.’

  ‘Is that all, my son?’ the voice said again.

  Besson reflected for a moment.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I have committed many other sins.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘I have been impatient, ill-tempered, and unfaithful. I have committed the sin of gluttony. I have laughed at other people’s misfortunes. I have never been charitable. I have been unclean both in thought and deed, and I have shown lack of respect both for my own body and for the woman’s. I have committed acts of filthiness. I have soiled what was pure.’