The Lost Sailors

by Jean-Claude Izzo

  “We have pasta with vegetable soup today. It’s better than that stodge. A man like you has to eat.” There was longing in her eyes as she said this.

  She called to a customer, the only one still eating. “Hey, Renato, is my pasta good or not?”

  “Sure. Better than I get at home.” He turned to Diamantis. “It’s true!”

  “See, what did I tell you? Now, come on, sit down.”

  She pointed to a table next to Renato’s, the last one still set for lunch, and vanished into the back room.

  “Nice songs,” Renato said. “They remind me of home.”

  The woman came back with a carafe of rosé and a bowl of ice cubes, which she placed in front of Diamantis. “It’ll take eight minutes to cook. Will that be O.K.?”

  “I have plenty of time.”

  On the way back, he had stopped off at Toinou’s to get the bottle of whisky. His daughter Mariette was behind the counter.

  “He went to have some tests done,” she said. “His heart. He’s been putting it off for months. But this morning my mother nagged him to go.”

  “He should have told me. I’d have covered for him.”

  “That’s nice of you, Diamantis. But it’s all right . . . I didn’t have any appointments this afternoon. Business is slow at the moment. It’s the summer . . . And, besides, nobody wants to buy anymore. Well, not in town, anyway. They all want to live in the country or by the sea.”

  “The sea? The sea’s right here, isn’t it?”

  Mariette smiled. Two dimples lit up her face when she smiled. She had an almost round face, framed by a mass of light brown curly hair. It was a pretty face.

  “What they mean by the sea is over toward Cassis. La Ciotat. Or Les Leques. Or on the other side, way past L’Estaque. This isn’t the sea, this is the harbor. And the beaches are for the working classes, for people from north Marseilles. So other people tend to avoid them . . .” She smiled again. “I don’t know if I’m explaining myself well.”

  “No, you’re doing fine.”

  “Would you like a beer?”

  She took one for herself, too. Diamantis offered her a cigarette. They drank and smoked in silence for a few minutes. Their eyes met from time to time, then they would look down at their glasses, or out at the square, where a few regulars still lingered. An elderly couple sat down on the terrace.

  “I’ll be back,” she said to Diamantis.

  He watched her walk away. She had a nice body, a little heavy maybe, but far from unpleasant to look at. There was something about her that reminded him of the women in Botticelli paintings. All those curves.

  It struck Diamantis that he had only ever loved tall, slender women. Even when it came to hookers, he always chose thin ones, in whichever country he was in.

  Mariette served the couple—a very light shandy and a strawberry Vittel—then sat down again on the stool behind the bar and lit another cigarette. Her eyes lowered slightly, she asked, “How would you like to come with me tomorrow when I show a house to some clients? It’s in Ceyreste, near La Ciotat.”

  She stopped, heart pounding, embarrassed by the proposition she had just made Diamantis.

  “That’s if you don’t have anything else to do. And if you’d like to.”

  Their eyes met and Mariette blushed.

  “Tomorrow? Why not? I don’t know the area.”

  “Is that right?”

  She’d calmed down again. But she couldn’t take her eyes off Diamantis. She liked the guy.

  “Not even Cassis?”

  “Not even Cassis.”

  “We can stop there if you like. I mean, if we have time.”

  “O.K.”

  “Wow, that’s great,” she cried, delighted.

  Diamantis would have liked to refuse. But he hadn’t been able to say no. She’d asked him so nicely. Besides, Mariette excited him. He had forgotten what that felt like. Being excited when a woman looks at you in a certain way. He didn’t know how Toinou would react to the idea of him going out with his daughter. “Good God!” he thought. “Whatever are you thinking of? She hasn’t asked to sleep with you. She just wants you to go with her. Because you have nothing else to do . . .”

  “O.K.,” he said again.

  “Let’s meet about . . . ten. Yes, ten is fine. I’ve arranged to meet my clients at eleven. That’ll give us time.”

  Diamantis turned to Abdul Aziz. They were walking side by side along the quay. The sun, still hot, was tinging the arid mountain ridges toward L’Estaque with red.

  “I have to go to town tomorrow. Tomorrow morning.”

  Abdul looked at him, and shrugged. They walked some more and then he asked, “Do you have a woman on land?”

  “You said I could do whatever I wanted on land.”

  “Yes.”

  “What about you, Abdul? Any problems?”

  “Worries. You know that.”

  “No, I don’t know.”

  “I haven’t heard from Cephea. Just that. We all have our stories.”

  “O.K. It’s up to you.”

  They found Nedim in the mess, sitting in front of a bowl of instant coffee, smoking a cigarette. He was in shorts, bare-chested, unshaven, hair uncombed. His face was drawn. He looked up as they came in.

  “Shit!” he said to Diamantis. “You’re here too.”

  How come he was still here? Nedim wondered. He was sure Diamantis would have hotfooted it like the others. Maybe they were queens, he thought with a smile, even though he knew it was a crazy idea.

  “Well, I’m glad.”

  Nedim meant what he said. He got on well with Diamantis, and he was genuinely pleased he was still here. He’d be easier to talk to than Abdul Aziz. He would understand his problems. He’d help him.

  “Are there only the two of you here? Or did all the others come back too?”

  “No, including you, there are just the three of us,” Diamantis said.

  Abdul Aziz had sat down. He gave Nedim a severe look. He wasn’t overjoyed to see him. “What happened to you?”

  “Fucking truck driver didn’t wait for me. Look, Captain, you’ll have to go with me to see about my authorization. That fucking watchman didn’t want to let me pass. He nearly called the cops.”

  “So you’re planning to stay on board.”

  “Yes, but not for long. I’ll find another way to get home. A few days at most.”

  “I don’t know, Nedim. Officially you’ve left the ship.”

  “Four or five days,” Diamanatis intervened. “We can manage, can’t we?”

  “That’s right. Just four days, five days, not even that. Just until I get organized.”

  “But it’s not in the regulations,” Abdul said, and stood up. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  He left the room. Diamantis put the bottle down on the table and took off his shirt.

  “What’s the matter with him?” Nedim asked. “Is he having his period or something?”

  “He has problems. Like all of us.”

  “Talking about that . . . I have something to tell you.”

  “What?” Diamantis said, sitting down.

  Nedim unwrapped the bottle. “Fuck! Whisky! Let’s celebrate!”

  Diamantis grabbed the bottle from him. “Private property.”

  “Just a glass. I need a pick-me-up.”

  “After dinner.”

  “Fuck, this is like Hell here!” he muttered, taken aback.

  Diamantis laughed. “Didn’t you know that?”

  “Well, it’s no laughing matter. By now I could be fucking my fiancée.”

  “A few days, did you say? You’ll live.”

  “Easy to say. I’m broke. Flat broke.”

  “Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

  “Yes.”

 
“All right, I’m listening.”

  “How about a little drink?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Shit!”

  Lying on his bunk, with his eyes closed, Abdul worked out several letters to Cephea in his head. He was trying to feel again the happiness he had felt that afternoon. When the light flowed from the sky. The way it did in Byblos. Cephea was there, close to him. But each time he found the right words, he saw the Citerna 38. Ready to put to sea. And Cephea was getting farther away. He seemed to see her on the quay. In that pale blue dress he had given her when he returned from Adelaide. She was waving her hand.

  “There’s no shame in being happy,” he said, sitting up. He didn’t know if he was talking to himself or to Cephea. Or mankind in general.

  11.

  RECONCILING THE PROBABLE AND THE

  IMPROBABLE ISN’T EASY

  Diamantis knocked at the door of Abdul’s cabin. “Abdul! Are you coming to eat?”

  “Come in!” he cried.

  It was the first time Abdul had ever asked Diamantis into his cabin. Abdul was changing. Diamantis couldn’t help sneaking a glance at the way the cabin was laid out. Everything was neat and tidy. He was surprised to see a number of books piled on the worktable. Abdul had never mentioned any books he was reading or had read.

  Abdul was standing there, with his hands in his pockets. He had put on a pair of blue shorts and a loose-fitting black T-shirt.

  “So, how exactly did he fuck up?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t piss me around, Diamantis. Nedim may be a nice guy but he always fucks things up, you know that.”

  “We all have our stories, right? If he wants to tell you, he will. You’re the same way, and so am I. There’s no reason for me to treat him any differently.”

  “Our stories are our business. They have nothing to do with this fucking ship. I’m the captain, and I have responsibilities. I accept that for as long as I’m here. O.K., Diamantis? But I’d bet my right arm that Nedim’s going to fuck things up for us.”

  They looked at each other in silence. There was something false about this conversation, and they both knew it. They were arguing over a crew member as if the Aldebaran were about to set sail that night. And the amazing thing was that they’d never argued like this over a crew member before.

  Irritably, Diamantis took a few steps toward Abdul. As if he were about to hit him. Abdul didn’t move.

  “Listen, Abdul,” Diamantis said, facing him now. “I don’t give a shit about all your fine talk. And let me tell you this, we’re all of us stuck here, with our stories. And whatever they are, they do have something to do with this heap of old iron, dammit!”

  Diamantis turned to leave the cabin, but Abdul held him back. They looked at each other. There was friendship in their eyes.

  Diamantis smiled. “So, you coming to eat?”

  They boiled some rice and poured oil over it, and shared two cans of mackerel between them. It was Nedim who broke the silence. He always had to talk. He couldn’t help himself.

  “Any news about the boat?”

  “Why?” Diamantis said, with irony in his voice. “Do you want to work for us again?”

  “Fuck off! I’ve finished with all that. I’m going home, getting married, starting a little business. I’m going to have a nice easy life. I’ve been thinking about it quite a bit. You see the world, you have a few laughs, you fuck all kinds of women, then before you know it you’re fifty years old, and you’re alone, or your wife’s cheating on you. What do you think, captain? Am I right?”

  “In Rouen,” Abdul said, not picking up on Nedim’s question, “they just sold the Legacy. I heard about it this morning. They started at seven hundred fifty thousand dollars, and went up to one million thirty-five thousand dollars.”

  Diamantis whistled through his teeth. “Do you know who bought it?”

  “A Panamanian company, as usual. Talgray Shipping Inc.”

  “Do you know it?”

  “Yes,” Abdul said, smiling. “They say it’s a front for the previous owner.”

  “And who’s that?”

  “The same as ours.”

  “The bastard!” Nedim cried. “The fucking bastard! We’re dying here, and he goes and buys himself another boat.”

  “Yes,” Abdul said. “But the Legacy’s a damn good freighter. Three hundred and eighty feet. Not even twenty years old. A bargain.”

  “How many on board?”

  “Two.” Abdul looked at Diamantis. “The captain and his first mate. The eight crew members had been gone for several months. Like you,” he said, looking at Nedim.

  “Hey, I’m still here. If they sell us tomorrow, I want to make a bit of money, right?”

  “You’ve had your money. And officially, you’re not even here any more. Remember?”

  “Do you know the captain?” Diamantis asked.

  “A young guy. Antonio Ramirez, a Chilean. Thirty-nine. Forty times around the world. I had him once as a first mate, in Madagascar. Ten years ago.”

  The Legacy had arrived at Honfleur a year earlier, to deliver fertilizer. But Ramirez had refused to connect the cables and unload the merchandise as long as the wages had not been paid, which they hadn’t been for six months. The owner agreed to pay out a hundred and fifty-two thousand francs, but the crew considered the sum insufficient.

  Ramirez decided to take the Legacy on to Rouen. There, Hydroagi France agreed to advance three hundred thousand francs so that the merchandise could be released. Ramirez gave the order to hand it over. But since then, as a kind of reprisal, the Legacy had been left in port by the owner. The crew had spent a whole year without water or electricity, cooped up in unheated cabins and, like the crew of the Aldebaran, supplied with provisions by charitable organizations.

  “The Federation paid for the crew to be repatriated,” Abdul said.

  “Shit!” Nedim said. “You could have arranged for us to be repatriated, too. We wouldn’t have had to sweat blood finding ways to get home.”

  “You got money instead. They didn’t. I thought it was better for you to get money.”

  “Yes,” Nedim admitted, sadly. “You’re right.”

  He fell silent, lost in thought. Yes, it was better to have had the money. But if he’d had a train ticket and nothing else, he’d have been home by now. He’d have made up some story about how they were going to send his money on to him. One or two old pals would have helped him out in the meantime.

  That was what he could have done, dammit! He could always make some quick money in Istanbul. From the tourists. Especially the Italians and the French. The French arrive with their noses in their guidebooks, looking for cheap hotels. And once they’re out on the streets, they get lost. You just have to be there. To help them, advise them.

  He had earned quite a bit that way, when he was in the army and had an evening’s furlough. He’d point them in the direction of other hotels and restaurants, not the ones in the guidebooks. Places that were just as good, and no more expensive. And what’s more—this was the clincher—places were they’d steer clear of other tourists.

  The real Istanbul. Even the Cafe Yenikapi, down by the sea, which wasn’t mentioned in any guidebooks.

  He got a small commission from the hotels and restaurants. In addition, the tourists often bought him drinks. Meals, too. It didn’t cost them too much. Shrimp, Albanian liver, stuffed mussels, beans in sauce, white cheese . . . Not to mention the possibility of fucking the girls. The French girls, especially. They came in twos or threes, with rucksacks on their backs. No guys in tow.

  His best stroke ever had been the two girls from Alsace. Both blond, and as cute as could be. They were determined to go to Kizil Adalar, the Red Islands. Twelve miles off Istanbul. They called them “the Princes’ Islands,” because that was what they were called in their guidebo
oks, and they were searching desperately for the landing stage in order to take the ferry. He had a better suggestion. A little boat for just the two of them. Better than sharing a ferry with fifteen hundred people!

  The owner of the boat, Erol Aynaci, had taken them all around the islands: Büyük Ada, Heybeli Ada, Kinali Ada, Burgaz Ada. On Burgaz Ada, he took them bathing in the creek of Kalpazankaya. They had never had such a good time in their lives. And Nedim had really had an eyeful! Better still, he had found a room for them at the Imperial Hotel where, he told them, Théophile Gautier had stayed. He didn’t give a damn about Théophile Gautier. He didn’t even know who he was. But, shit, that had really impressed the two girls. He’d given them a tour in the footsteps of the writer in question. Then he’d told them that Trotsky had been exiled here in 1932, with only his books for company. Shit, that had impressed them even more!

  He’d fucked both of them. That evening, he’d suggested they go for a tandir kebab on Kinali Ada, then they’d danced and drunk all night. It had been great when he’d found himself in bed between the two girls.

  “What’s your problem, Nedim?” Abdul asked.

  “My problem . . .” The image of the two blondes faded, to be replaced by Lalla and Gaby. “My problem is, I got taken for all my money. Like an idiot.”

  He glanced quickly at Diamantis. He had told him the truth. Well, not quite the whole truth. He hadn’t mentioned his bag, which was still in the Habana. Or the money he needed to get it back.

  “I thought you were cleverer than that, Nedim. You got taken for all your money? What are you, some kind of country bumpkin or what?”

  “Yes,” he said, with a dumb look on his face. “I’m just a peasant.”

  “What do you take me for, an idiot?”

  Diamantis smiled.

  “I went to a club, with Ousbene,” Nedim said. “Just to kill time. And we had a few drinks.”

  “Did Ousbene get away?”