“Nedim, I swear to you, if you blow that money, I’ll smash your face.”
He lowered his eyes. “By the way, did you see the girls?”
“No,” he lied. “Only Doug.”
“Fucking nigger!”
Diamantis stood up, paid for the drinks, and handed Nedim a pack of cigarettes he’d barely started.
“Are you going?”
“I still have things to do. We’ll meet later.” He leaned over. “Don’t forget what I said, Nedim. I’ll smash your face, I mean it.”
Diamantis got to the harbor just as the sun was setting behind the bell tower of the Accoules church. He stood there, without moving. In the last red rays of the day. Marseilles was like that, he said to himself. She promised nothing, forecast nothing. All she did was give, in profusion. You just had to take. If you knew how.
14.
IN LIFE, ALL YOU HAVE IS LIFE
Although it was still early, Le Mas was full. A waiter approached Diamantis.
“Have you reserved a table?”
“No,” he replied. “Actually, I’m looking for someone.”
“Go ahead.”
Diamantis walked across the room. The smells rising from the various dishes were mouthwatering. There was a knot in his stomach. After leaving Nedim, to kill time, he had sat down on the terrace of the Bar de la Marine in the harbor. A meeting place for skippers. He liked the atmosphere. He’d had a few beers, four or five maybe, and eaten roasted peanuts. Now he was hungry.
Even after all these years, he was sure he’d recognize Amina. At least, he thought he would. She’d be thirty-nine or forty now. Or maybe forty-one. Suddenly, he didn’t feel so sure. But what did it matter now? When you’ve really loved a woman, you should be able to recognize her anywhere, twenty years later. Amina’s beauty, he was convinced, was beyond time.
People looked up as he passed, then down again at their plates. No one knew him and he knew no one. But the clientele here was interesting. It reeked of money. Businessmen, lawyers. Doctors. Maybe a few journalists, too. The women with them didn’t buy their clothes from the ready-to-wear racks of department stores. All the same, there was something vulgar about them. Too showily dressed, too heavily made-up. But their men seemed to like them like that. He smiled, imagining them in red lace underwear.
“May I help you?” a man behind the cash desk asked. A well-preserved man of about sixty, in black pants and a white silk shirt wide open to reveal a thick gold chain. On his right wrist, a big chain bracelet with his name: Giovanni. The owner, probably, or the manager.
“Yes, maybe. I’m looking for a friend. Someone I . . . I haven’t seen for some time. I was told she sometimes comes here. Amina. Amina Masetto. Masetto was her maiden name.”
The man looked closely at him, then into the distance. Diamantis turned, hoping to see Amina, hoping he would recognize her. But she wasn’t there.
“One moment,” Giovanni said.
He walked to a table where three people were having dinner. A couple and a man on his own. The seat next to the man was empty, although a place had been set. The man had his back to Diamantis. Despite the heat, he was wearing a lightweight navy-blue cotton or linen jacket. His neatly cut hair was graying at the temples and the back of his neck. He looked to be on the short side, and stocky. Diamantis found it hard to judge his exact age.
“Excuse me,” a waitress said to Diamantis. She was carrying three plates of grilled fegatelli in her right hand and balanced on her left forearm.
Giovanni leaned over and whispered something to the man in the jacket. The couple looked up at Diamantis, but the man didn’t turn in his direction.
Giovanni came back to Diamantis.
“Who is that man?”
“Not a friend of yours, that’s for sure,” Giovanni replied, coldly. “We don’t know if Amina will be in this evening. But you can leave her a message and I’ll give it to her as soon as I see her.”
Giovanni’s tone wasn’t at all friendly.
Diamantis remembered what Masetto had told him. Amina was a whore, or something like it. The guy in the jacket might be her pimp, or her husband. Or even both. But Masetto could have told him that out of spite. People here had the usual Mediterranean contempt for young women who married older men rolling in money. Obviously, once they were married, they fell for the first traveling salesman who showed up on their doorstep. Money may arouse you but it doesn’t give you an orgasm.
Diamantis couldn’t get his head around the idea of Amina as a hooker. Even a high-class one. Or even a kept woman. The guy must be her husband. He stuck to that. It was what he wanted to believe. It was less painful than imagining other things. Like Amina giving a blow job to some disgusting old man for money, for example.
He retched. The mixture of food smells and these images suddenly going through his head made him feel nauseous. He shook his head to dismiss them from his mind.
Giovanni handed him a notepad and a pen, and he scribbled a few words.
I’m in Marseilles. I’d like to see you again. To beg forgiveness. Let’s meet . . . He hesitated. . . . the day after tomorrow. About five in the afternoon. In the Bar Henri on Rue Saint-Saëns. Diamantis. He added: My ship is the Aldebaran. In case you can’t make it. You can ask for me at the Gate 3A checkpoint.
He folded the note, wrote Amina on it, and gave it to Giovanni. They looked at each other.
“Thanks,” Diamantis said.
He wondered if the message would even get to Amina. The one thing he was sure of was that Giovanni would show it to the man in the jacket, who wouldn’t hesitate to read it. He suddenly regretted writing the words To beg forgiveness. But it was too late now. It might also be too late to ask for Amina’s forgiveness, of course. Never mind, he still wanted to find her. He would try anything. He had to explain.
Explain what? He had gone over the scene so many times. Hundreds of times, thousands even, over the years. He had written, then phoned from Barcelona, to tell her what day the Stainless Glory would be in Marseilles. Contrary to what he had thought, they would be putting in for only one night before the freighter left again for Genoa, empty. Every hour counted. She didn’t want to waste a single one, she had said.
She had said she would come to the harbor, but he preferred to meet her at the Bar du Cap, on Quai de la Joliette. Between eight and nine. Because he still wasn’t sure when exactly he’d be free. He’d gotten a ride to Pier 53, then he went the rest of the way on foot, within the dimly lit harbor. It was ten after eight, and he was the happiest man in the world.
Three men were waiting for him on a corner. Three big, strong-looking men. Two of them grabbed him by the arms and pulled him into a warehouse. Once inside, the third man hit him. Twice, in the stomach. He doubled up with the pain. Then a left-hander to the head, followed by another one. And two more blows in the stomach. He was gasping for breath. Fear loosened his bladder. He felt the hot piss wet his briefs and the material of his pants, then trickle all the way down his legs. He started crying. Tears of fear and anger. Humiliation.
The guy stopped punching and laughed. “The little asshole’s pissing himself.”
He put a gun under Diamantis’s nose. A big black revolver.
“You see this, loser? You see?” He grabbed Diamantis’s hair in his left hand and pulled his head up. “If you even think of going anywhere near Amina again, I’ll blow your fucking head off.”
He tugged on his hair, forcing him to lift his head even more.
“She and I are what you’d call engaged. You got that, asshole?”
On the phone, she’d said, “I love you.” And then, “I miss you.” And then, “I can’t wait.” She’d said these last words in a breathy, almost husky voice, as warm and soft as her hands, her lips. By the time he put the phone down he had a hard-on. “I love you. I love you. I love you . . .” That was all he could hear in
his head.
“Have you got that? You’re not part of my plans.”
Amina. Who were these men? Who was this guy? Was she at the Bar du Cap, waiting for him? Had this guy hit her too? As soon as they let him go, he’d run to the bar. That was what he told himself, in spite of the overwhelming pain.
The guy cocked the gun and stuck the barrel in his mouth. The steel was cold. He shivered. He told himself he was going to shit himself now. He could feel his stomach churning. He mustn’t. But he couldn’t help himself. His ass filled with liquid shit.
“Suck on this,” the guy said. “Suck hard. That’s death. Can you feel it? Remember that before you do anything. We knew where to find you, asshole. We’ll know next time, too.”
He took out the gun and put the safety back on. The other men let go of Diamantis’s arms. He found himself lying on the ground, full of shit.
“I think he’s shit himself,” one of the men said to the guy with the gun.
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” he replied. “Smells worse than a toilet here.”
“You can tell her,” he heard one of them say as they were walking away.
They laughed. Diamantis heard a car engine start up. He didn’t move. He stayed there part of the night. His ass in shit, bathing in his own piss. Sobbing.
Yes, he’d have to explain it all to her. That fear of dying. In spite of love. His love for her. When you’re twenty, love isn’t stronger than death. The urge to live is a selfish one. Life itself was all you had in life. And the world was vast, and there were many pleasures in it. How many times in your life could you really fall in love? How many women were there on earth who looked like Amina? Who were just as beautiful?
He ought to tell her, too, that he had never doubted her. He’d been worried, of course, worried for her. Even afterwards, when the Stainless Glory had put to sea. The other sailors, who were all older than him, had made fun of him. Not because of what had happened to him, he hadn’t told anybody about that. But because he’d stopped driving them crazy with his endless “Amina this, Amina that,” the way he’d done before, when they left Marseilles the first time.
He’d only been away two weeks, and already the girl had cheated on him. That was what they said among themselves. They laughed about that. Not at him, at her. They told stories about the sluts you met in every port. But at the same time they were worried about their own wives. After all, when you were at sea, you couldn’t be sure about anything.
At first, Diamantis argued, protested, defended Amina, made up all kinds of stories, but they kept teasing. In the end, he dropped the subject, and seemed to come around to their way of thinking. Life on board went back to normal. He threw himself into it, but never stopped thinking about Amina. Day and night. While trying not to conjure up images of the beating he’d received, which tended increasingly to blot out the image of Amina’s face. One night, he realized that thinking about her didn’t give him a hard-on anymore. All that was left inside him was the humiliation. The piss and the shit.
Twelve days later, when the Stainless Glory returned to Marseilles, he ventured as far as Amina’s building. In broad daylight. Although not very confidently. Her name had gone from the front door. He didn’t try to ask after her. He hung around a few places. The bar where they’d met. The clubs where they’d gone together. But never alone. Always with one or two of his friends from the crew. He never saw her again.
Then his father had died. And the thing with Melina had happened. Melina’s love. The dream of living in Agios Nikolaos. Melina helped him to forget. To forget Amina, to forget the humiliation. He had told her the whole story one night after she had woken him from a nightmare, alarmed by his screams.
“Who’s Amina?” she’d asked.
They often talked about it. Sometimes, it led to a quarrel. Because he didn’t want to give up his memories of Amina. Melina would say that as long as he didn’t give up those memories, he’d remain obsessed by the fear he had felt, which was worse than the humiliation.
Gradually, Melina had made him forget the fear and taught him to love again. She was a strong, earthy, realistic, headstrong woman. And she was a wonderful lover, too. She loved him. You could really love only one person in your life, she would say, the rest was just anecdotes. And Diamantis was the man she loved. And he would be the only one. Whatever happened.
But something else had happened to the two of them. To their life together. Melina hadn’t reckoned with the sea. No, she hadn’t been able to do anything against the sea. She realized that when he wrote to her, imitating his father, We passed through the Pillars of Hercules, the headland where Antaeus died . . . Beyond was the ocean.
Diamantis had had enough of plying the Mediterranean. The day he’d felt that he was an adult at last, he had set out on the ocean. He never forgot, in all the years that followed, that he owed what he was to Melina. He also owed her the most beautiful thing in the world. Mikis. Their son. Like a bridge between the seas, uniting them forever.
Diamantis was walking fast. After leaving Le Mas, he had stopped at the Samaritaine, in a corner of the Vieux-Port, for a last drink before getting back to the Aldebaran.
He had turned onto Rue de la République. At the end of it, on Place de la Joliette, there was a taxi stand. From there, it cost about fifty francs to get to Gate 3A. It all depended. Sometimes, a driver just finishing his shift would take him for free. All the regulars knew about the Aldebaran.
His head was buzzing. He wondered if the guy who had beaten him up twenty years ago was the same one Giovanni had gone to talk to. Just out of curiosity. He’d long gotten over the fear and humiliation, and didn’t have any desire for revenge. That was another life. He was another man. And that was why he’d started thinking about Amina. He could now see her face clearly, her smile, her body. Just a memory, without desire. A beautiful memory, that was all.
Finishing his beer at the bar of the Samaritaine, he had decided not to go to Mariette’s. Something was stopping him. Maybe he wasn’t ready yet to sleep with a real woman. A woman who expected something from a man, from him. Something other than a quick fuck. Mariette was bursting with love. He couldn’t take without giving something in return. That was what love was. An exchange between two people.
He had no idea yet what he could offer her. Her or anyone else. All he had was wounds, memories, his loneliness, and the sea that had his undivided attention. Mariette deserved a lot better than him. A lot more. She would find it.
He stopped at the intersection of Boulevard des Dames, to let a metallic blue Safrane pass. It didn’t strike him that this car had already passed him once at the corner of the previous street. The Safrane turned onto Rue de la République, as if heading for Place de la Joliette. It stopped a few yards farther on, with the hazard-warning lights on.
As Diamantis came level with it, two men got out and walked up to him. Diamantis realized too late. But when he received the first blow, from a club, he realized it was starting over again. Just like twenty years ago. Because of Amina, he was sure.
The first blow to his temple knocked him to the ground. He immediately rolled himself into a ball, to protect his head and stomach. They hit him hard, seemingly at random, on his arms, his back, his legs. He was breathing as slowly as he could, in order to control his nerves, in order not to panic. “If they wanted to kill you,” he thought in a sudden flash, “they’d already have done it. Hold out.”
He held out until the kick in the face. The pain made him let go. Another kick hit him in the mouth. He barely had time to taste the blood on his lips before he was kicked in the stomach, twice. “Breathe,” he told himself. “Breathe.” The blows continued raining down on his body. He took a deep breath and rolled onto his side and again curled himself into a ball.
The blows stopped. He didn’t move. He waited.
“That’s just a warning, Diamantis. Stop looking for Amina. O.K.? Just drop
it.”
He relaxed, it was over.
“Come on, let’s get out of here!” one of the men said.
Yes, it was over.
Except that somehow one of the men’s heels ended up on his nose. The blood started gushing. Broken, he thought. But still he didn’t move.
15.
ON THE ALDEBARAN,
THEY ALSO PLAY DOMINOES
Mariette’s smile vanished when she saw Diamantis’s face. He didn’t quite look like Quasimodo, but almost. His upper lip was split and swollen. His left eye was half closed, and below it his cheek was turning blue. Coagulated blood hung from his nose. His shirt was also covered in blood.
“Oh, my God!”
He smiled. At least, he thought he smiled. “I hope it’s not midnight.”
She didn’t laugh. “What happened to you?”
“I’ll tell you . . . later . . . Now . . . I need a drink . . .”
He collapsed into a rattan armchair. He was feeling dizzy.
“Whisky?”
He nodded.
Diamantis had recovered his strength and had gotten up immediately after the Safrane had left. Mariette lived in the old quarter. On Place des Moulins, at the top of the hill. He dragged himself through the narrow, deserted alleys. Hot air filled his lungs. He stopped several times, leaning on the corner of a wall to recover his strength. When he got to Rue Vieille-Tour, he turned left. By the time he reached Place Lorette, he was lost. Supporting himself against a bench, he caught his breath. There was an acrid smell in the air. He saw a cat run along the sidewalk. He was shaking.
A moped came shooting down from the top of the street. It braked when it came level with him. Diamantis turned his head. The rider was a young black guy. A Rasta from head to foot.
“Hey, you O.K., man?”
He got off the moped and walked up to Diamantis.
“Shit, man, they really worked you over. Where you going?”
The Lost Sailors Page 12
