Besson sat up uneasily and peered this way and that through the darkness. But whichever way he turned, left, right, behind, in front of him, visibility remained nil. It was impossible to tell where the footsteps were coming from. Sometimes they seemed almost on top of Besson, and he could hear the sound of breathing quite clearly. Sometimes, though, they reached him blurred by distance, and it was hard to be sure whether they were footsteps or ordinary river noises. Besson held his breath to listen the better. But he could no longer detect anything: the silence and the roar of water were so intense that all other noises faded before them, as though overlaid by the long wail of a train-whistle, screaming through the night.
Soon, however, the number of noises began to increase. There was the faint dragging sound produced by some sort of soft creature as it crept over the ground, scuffing grains of sand aside with its mandibles. Tiny popping reports could be heard on all sides, like seed-pods bursting. Pebbles were suddenly dislodged, setting off small inexplicable avalanches. Now and then, right beside Besson’s ear, there would come the precise abrasive scratching noise of some rodent, the silken rustle of a spider scuttling by. Bats were abroad too, swooping and fluttering just overhead like wisps of burning paper. Winged creatures of some sort—with black shiny bodies, almost certainly—went buzzing past, a few yards above the ground. Worms wriggled through topsoil, snakes uncoiled in the grass. In front of Besson, advancing like an army to the attack, came every variety of parasite: fleas, ticks, lice, bugs, hopping from pebble to pebble, blind, but guided by the smell of blood, prickly-bodied, velvety feelers groping for flesh, suckers and probosces already stirring in anticipation on those microscopic heads. And like some gigantic moth with the death’s-head pattern on its back, a vampire bat now began to fly around, in wide circles, fluttering its hairless wings with a soft, near-inaudible sound that was, nevertheless, full of horror and menace.
Besson stiffened, eyes wide open, ready to defend himself. By now tiny feet had begun to alight on him momentarily, and he could feel wings—lighter than the breath of air from a fan—brush across his face. Insects were beginning to crawl up his legs, searching between the hairs for a good spot to gorge themselves. Little pricking points jabbed at his forehead, his cheeks, even underneath his clothes, making him shudder at the contact. The eggs were laid in his bloodstream, and the tainted fluid spread beneath the skin, raising swellings at each point of contact. This, called for preventive action. Besson rubbed his hand across his face, ran his fingers through his hair, slapped at his trouser-legs and scratched himself wherever he could reach—under the armpits, on the stomach, at the back of the neck. But it was useless: the more he scratched himself, the more numerous his invisible assailants became. By now every noise had assumed tangible form: they descended on him en masse, whining and humming, covering him from head to foot with the whirr of their wing-cases, busy crunching jaws, hoarse breathing. They stung, tickled, licked, punctured. They slipped their darts into the warm white tender flesh and sucked the fresh blood which only such night-time victims yield.
The sound of footsteps grew closer, more threatening: now they were moving round the caisson against which Besson leant, pressing heavily on the damp earth. Besson could hear feet crunching over shingle, one behind the other, and brittle twigs snapping like bones. There was no mistaking the sound. The animal must have sensed that a man was there by the bridge: it prowled with slow deliberation, gradually cornering its victim. Besson tried to picture the black silhouette now only a few yards away from him, back arched, watching him with phosphorescent eyes. It was a wolf, perhaps, or some wild beast with pricked-up ears and quivering nostrils. His jaws would be salivating, and his throat alive with tiny suppressed growls that he emitted, despite himself, out of sheer greed. Cruelty was a natural element on this lithe shadowy beast, and his slack chops doubtless revealed rows of well-aligned teeth, all knife-hard and knife-sharp. The footsteps advanced, circled round, again and again, unwearyingly, till Besson’s head was whirling. Hatred had closed its ring about him: someone had decided that he must die. Heart pounding, his whole body sweating despite the icy air, Besson stepped out in pursuit of this noisy trail-blazer. For a few seconds the crackling noises stopped again. The darkness became more terrifying: Besson braced himself for the assault, expecting to be pinned down, as in a straightjacket, by some dark, violent creature, all teeth and claws. But nothing happened. Then the danger seemed to lose its intensity in the darkness, carrying back years and years of life, melting its obstructive hazard of agony and crime into a huge and distant cloud. Besson half convinced himself he was out of the wood.
But he was wrong. Suddenly the footsteps began again, over the pebbles, and Besson realized it was a man walking. A heavy, awkward, still-invisible shadow, weaving along beside the river on two uncertain legs. The crunch of his feet on the shingle sounded louder as he passed under the arch of the bridge. Like a giant, and wrapped in soot-black rags, the man lurched forward at random over hillocks and holes, tripping over tin cans, shattering mouldy old crates to pieces, twisting his ankles on rotten branches, crunching through carpets of dead leaves, skidding on silt and shingle, floundering in mud-holes—and keeping this up, yard after yard, in the exact direction of the caisson where Besson was sitting. He moved blindly, like a tank, face thrust forward, mouth open, breathing with difficulty. His wheezing, panting efforts were all too audible now, and so were the flapping and rubbing noises his various garments made. The atmosphere was filled with his strong, gamey smell, the smell of a man with unwashed feet and pocketfuls of stubbed-out old dog-ends, a nauseating mixed aroma of stale wine-dregs and perspiration. A dark black shape, slinking through the shadows like a deeper shadow himself, frizzy hair blowing in the wind, he still kept coming on, and on. His eyes gleamed snow-bright in his smoke-grimed face, and his teeth were bared in a glinting lopsided grin. Here he came, hands outstretched, without knife or gun or anything capable of piercing a man’s lungs, skewering his throat. Here he came, neither from in front nor from behind, but from all sides at once, with that curious bearing which suggested a victim hell-bent on revenge, feeling his way gently during lulls in the invisible wind, pushing his halo of fear before him. He was not a person one could forget. He dragged his feet forward over the uneven ground, an innocent stripped of his crimes, offering the fat of his belly and the gristle in his face to any unknown pigsticker’s spear. He had no real strength, and his dim silhouette remained nameless. Yet he was approaching, making straight for Besson, without pity, almost with indifference. In the night of nothingness, here in this godforsaken corner of the world, he was still trying. His will held. He did his best. He was still blazing a noisy trail in pursuit of his ignoble purpose; he had not been sufficiently chastised. The whip had humiliated him in vain. Though his neck had been clipped by the iron collar, and passers-by had spat in his nameless face, it had all gone for nothing. He refused to understand. He still had to go on putting one foot in front of the other, even though this led him, slowly, step by step, to further punishment. Sins and vices were not enough for him, the cold grey desert of the day had not taught him all he needed to know. His water-swollen feet and varicose legs had not yet had their full ration of pain. Still he came on. He was very close now, and Besson could almost feel the regular waft of his breath against his, Besson’s, face. He loomed horribly out of the dark abyss behind the bridge, still moving straight for his target as though along some cold, taut wire, like a tramcar on its rails, with all lights extinguished. As Besson listened to the crunching sound of his footsteps, each individual tread seemed to last longer and longer, as though the foot were about a yard long. Every two seconds or so there came the noise of shingle and pebbles being crushed down, an alarming crrrk, crrrrk, crrrrk that went right through Besson’s head. The sky, the surface of the river, the bridges, the twinkling lights of the town floating buoyantly in mid-air—all were subsumed in this vast human silhouette, its black garments outspread like the wings of an albratross.
Then he stood up, back still pressed against the caisson, to face the enemy. He waited, while the minutes ticked away: they might as well have been hours. Heart thudding, eyes hot, vision starred with bright diatomic patterns, legs and arms turning to water, he stood there watching for the monster to materialize. The head would appear first, perhaps, very pale, and floating, as though a detached entity, between two layers of mist. Or maybe the hands, all twenty fingers outstretched, tipped by dirty grey nails. He counted the steps under his breath: two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven. Twenty-eight, twenty nine … Thirty, thirty-one. Thirty-two, thirty-three. Thirty-four. Suddenly he felt as though an icy fist had grasped the back of his neck. His heart stopped beating, and a long shudder ran through his body. He put up a hand and tried to free himself, but his hand met only empty space. He half turned, and looked: nothing. He stretched out his arm to its full extent. Still nothing. Then his fear hardened into anger. He stopped listening to the sound of the footsteps, and began to mutter throatily, things like: ‘I’ll get you—you’re there somewhere—I know it, I know it, I’m going to get you—see if I don’t get you!’
Muscles tensed, he gathered himself to spring. His hand scrabbled on the ground, got hold of a big sharp stone, grasped it tight. The crunching footsteps were right on top of him now. Three more yards. Two more—Suddenly, like water gurgling in the pipe under the taps, a voice began to whisper in his ear: a voice, a breathy babble, a terrible humming sound, inarticulate, yet the very essence of life, worming its way into the very centre of his brain, seeking a hiding-place. This gabble of meaningless words reached him in the same instant as the man’s physical self, and it was as though one had suddenly passed into a vacuum-chamber. The man loomed out of the night in front of Besson, as though to swallow him up, a vast swaying mass all hung about with rags.
Besson gave a strangulated cry, hurled himself forward in blind fury, and struck. The edged stone in his fist hit something soft and slightly resilient. He struck again. The black silhouette slowly crumpled up and collapsed on the shingle, with a tiny moan and a rustle of clothing. Besson crouched over the body, raining blows on its prostrate limbs, his arm bouncing back each time he struck. He went on pounding away until the stone hit a softer part, slipped out of his hand, and went rolling across the ground. Then he got up and looked down at his feet. He saw there was something lying there, but no one could have said what it was. It made a kind of dark hump on the river-bed. The clothes were spread over it like an old coverlet, and from underneath there trickled little rivulets of some thick black tar-like liquid, which vanished in the gaps between the pebbles.
Everything was absolutely still again. Besson picked up his beach-bag and walked off along the line of the river. He no longer felt any desire to sleep. He stopped for a moment and looked at the lighted windows above the quai, and the blue haloes of light from the street-lamps. Then he plunged into the long tunnel that ran under the town. He could hear the sharp, resonant sound of people’s footsteps on the vaulting overhead, and the susurrus of car-tyres moving to and fro. He could also hear the echoes of his own tread rebombinating against the walls, and smell the deathly odour, that lay hidden at the heart of darkness. He plunged forward through this closed cylinder, where no daylight ever penetrated, his whole body exposed and in agony, like a small scrap of reason and common sense afloat on the bitter ocean of folly.
At one point he passed a secondary gallery, at the bottom of which four or five tramps had installed themselves. They had lit a fire, using old broken boxes for fuel, and were now either asleep or drinking: not a word passed between them. Besson hid behind a pillar and watched them for a moment. Then he made a detour, and continued his walk alongside the big central sewer, through which the river flowed with a noise like thunder. Ten minutes later he came out on the far side of town, facing the sea.
Chapter Twelve
In the public toilets—François Besson goes on a journey—Walking and looking about one—The earth seen from a dirigible balloon—The breath of eternity—A bird circling alone in the sky—Conversation between two children on the beach: a matter of monks and candlesticks—Between past and future—How François Besson became blind by staring at the sun
ON the twelfth day, François Besson began by going to the public toilets for a wash and a shave. He found himself in a big old strong-smelling room, with very clean walls and floor and ceiling, all covered with white porcelain tiles. On the left-hand side, close to the entrance, was an old woman sitting on a stool, and immersed in a paper. In front of her was a table, on which stood a little bowl with a few low-denomination coins in it. The first wall was occupied by a row of wash-basins with mirrors above them. The second was empty, the third had the urinals along it, and the fourth was accounted for by six closed toilets, of which five were marked ‘Free’ and one ‘Engaged’. Men came and went without saying a word. They washed their hands in the basins, combed their hair in the mirrors, dried themselves on the roller-towels. Others urinated facing the wall, pressed into the hollows of the bright white porcelain stalls, only half protected by the shallow divisions between them. They did not look at each other, apart from two or three who flashed quick furtive glances at their neighbours. Some stood at the mirrors and blew their noses, with a loud trumpeting sound, after, which they would stride out briskly, tossing a small coin into the bowl on the old woman’s table as they passed, with a tinkle of falling metal.
Besson shaved himself in very leisurely fashion. First he plugged in his electric razor, and the motor began to buzz. Then he ran the razor up and down his cheeks, very slowly, listening to the rasp of the rotary blades as they sliced through the stubble. In some places his beard was tougher than in others, and he had to go over the patch four or five times, giving an involuntary grimace when a hair was pulled out or a pimple removed. His face looked much thinner in the mirror, and the electric light shone directly on his dark eyes, so that they had a bright gleam in them. Daylight only just struggled through to this underground region, and light-bulbs glittered along the walls like so many drops of water. Besson held this buzzing, slightly rounded object in his right hand. He was much attached to his electric razor; he would have hated to lose or break it. Inside that plastic shell the motor revolved at great speed, while the tiny helical blades shaved through endless stubble, flush with the skin, setting up their minute and cushioning current of warm air. The motor was very smooth and efficient: it vibrated smoothly against hand and cheek, nothing more, with a noise that sounded as though it could go on for ever. Holding it was like travelling in an aircraft, drawn effortlessly through the air by four droning engines, sitting safely inside a metal fuselage and watching the patchwork earth slide by far below.
At one point there was the sound of flushing water from the toilet marked ‘Engaged’. Besson, watching in the mirror above the basin, saw the toilet-door open, and a tall, powerfully built man come out. He was, Besson noticed, going a little bald on top. He stopped for a moment to button his overcoat. He had a rosy complexion and a sharp, aquiline nose. His deep-set eyes twinkled with vigour and affability. He picked up a brief-case and hurried out, whistling as he went. The rattle of a coin in the bowl accompanied his departure.
When he had finished shaving, Besson put his razor away in a red case, and put the case in the beach-bag. Then he washed his hands and sluiced his face with cold water and combed his hair. He also swallowed two or three mouthfuls of water, which smelt of disinfectant.
He hoped he might get out of the public toilets without paying, but when he drew level with the table the old woman looked up and stared at him over the top of her paper, and Besson was forced to put a coin in the bow
l.
Outside, the streets of the town were bustling with life, and the sky was an unbroken blue. Besson counted the money which the foreman had given him, and walked off in the direction of the bus-station. He was going to take a little trip, he decided; he was going to get out of this hellish town, where the houses just sat and sat for ever on the tarred asphalt. Besides, he ran the risk of meeting people he had known—his parents, Marthe and the little red-haired boy, Josette, Bayard, Siljelcoviva, even the police, who were liable to slap a murder charge on him.
When he got to the station he found about a dozen buses there, standing by the kerbside, or manoeuvring slowly into their parking-space. People were waiting in queues, behind various rusty signboards set up at the top of poles. Most of these carried very curious combinations of words and figures, such as:
9 A PESSICART
LAS PLANAS
108 FABRON
10 12
6 ISOLA
ROQUESTERON
AEROPORT
SAVONA-GENOA
B 444
People elbowed their way through the waiting crowds. Old women sat on the benches with baskets on their knees, and children ran about in all directions, screaming shrilly. From time to time a bus would open its doors, and the crowd would surge in, pushing and jostling. The engine would start up under the mud-encrusted bonnet, and keep ticking over, its every vibration transmitted shudderingly to bodywork and windows. Crates and cases were being loaded on the roof-racks, and men in dark blue uniform, with stained caps pushed to the backs of their heads, stood smoking on the kerbside or shouting at each other. An Arab wandered round trying to sell carpets. A little man with a brown moustache and a tray of confectionery balanced on his head threaded his way through the crowd, singing:
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