As the daylight vanishes, little by little, I allow myself to slip into a daydream once again. I can feel the heat of the sun against my neck, on my shoulders. I can also feel the gentle evening wind that is swifter than our vessel. Everyone has fallen silent. Every evening it’s like a mysterious ritual that we all observe. No one speaks. We listen to the sound of the waves breaking against the stem, the dull vibration of the sails and rigging. Like every evening the Comorian sailors kneel down on the deck in the front of the ship to say their prayer facing north. Their voices drift over to me in a muffled murmur, mingled with the wind and the sea. Never more than tonight have I so keenly felt – in the quick gliding and the slow rocking of the hull upon this limpid sea so like the sky – the beauty of that prayer, sent out to no particular place, lost in this immensity. I think how much I would like you to be here, Laure, at my side – you, who so love the muezzin’s call to prayer that echoes in the hills of Forest Side – and for you to hear this prayer here, this susurration, while the vessel is swaying to and fro like a great seabird with dazzling wings. I would have liked to bring you with me like the fisherman of Saint Brandon, I too could have said you were my ‘little brother’!
I know Laure would have felt the same way I do listening to the Comorian sailors’ prayer in the sunset. We wouldn’t have needed to talk about it. But just as I’m thinking of her, just as I feel that ache in my heart, I realize that no – on the contrary, I’m actually drawing nearer to her now. Laure is in Boucan, back in the large garden thick with vines and flowers near the house, or else she’s walking along the narrow path in the cane field. She never left the place she loved. At the end of my journey the sea is rolling into the black beach of Tamarin, into the backwaters at the mouth of the two rivers. I went away to be able to get back there. But I’ll have changed when I return. I’ll go back as a stranger and this old trunk containing the papers my father left behind will be filled with the Corsair’s gold and jewels, the treasure of Golconda or Aurangzeb’s ransom. I’ll go back redolent with the odour of the sea, browned with the sun, strong and hardened like a soldier, to win back our lost property. That’s what I’m dreaming about in the still twilight.
One after the other the sailors go down below to sleep in the heat radiating from the hull that has been baking in the sun all day long. I go down with them, stretch out on the planks, head resting on my trunk. I listen to the sounds of the interminable game of dice that has been taken back up where the break of day had interrupted it.
Sunday
We’ve reached Agalega after a five-day journey.
The shoreline of the twin islands must have been visible very early this morning, at daybreak. I was sleeping heavily, down in the hold alone, my head rolling on the floor, oblivious to the agitation up on deck. I was awakened by the calm waters of the harbour, for I have grown so accustomed to the incessant rocking of the ship that the stillness disturbed me.
I go straight up on deck, barefoot, without going to the trouble of putting on my shirt. Before us the thin, grey-green strip, fringed with the foam of the reefs, is growing longer. To us, who for days have seen nothing but the vast blue expanse of the sea joining the blue immensity of the sky, that land, even so seemingly flat and desolate, is a source of wonderment. All the crew members are leaning over the rail up at the bow and watching the two islands avidly.
Captain Bradmer has given the order to douse and the ship remains adrift not far from the coast. When I ask the helmsman why, he simply answers, ‘We have to wait for the right time.’ Captain Bradmer, standing next to his armchair, explains: we must wait for the ebb tide in order to avoid being pushed up against the coral reefs by the currents. When we get close enough to the pass, we’ll be able to drop anchor and lower the pirogue and make our way to shore. The tide won’t begin till late this afternoon when the sun is going down. In the meantime we’ll have to be patient and content ourselves with looking at the coast that is so near yet so very difficult to reach.
The sailors’ enthusiasm has died down. Now they’re sitting on the deck, smoking and playing dice in the shade of the sail that is stirring gently in the wind. Though the coast is quite near, the water is a dark-blue colour. Leaning over the rail at the prow, I watch the green shadows of large sharks passing.
The seabirds come out along with the tide. Small and large gulls, petrels that circle above and deafen us with their cries. They are famished and, mistaking us for one of the fishing boats from the islands, demand their share with shrill cries. When they realize their error, the birds fly off and return to the shelter of the coral reef. Only two or three large gulls continue tracing large circles above us, then dive towards the sea and fly skimming along over the waves. After all of these days spent scrutinizing the barren sea, I’m delighted at the sight of the gulls in flight.
Towards the end of the afternoon Captain Bradmer rises from his armchair, gives orders to the helmsman, who repeats them, and the crew hoist the large sails. The helmsman is standing at the wheel on his tiptoes in order to see better. We’re going to go through the pass. Slowly, pushed along on the lazy wind of the rising tide, the Zeta nears the reef. Now we can clearly see the long waves crashing against the coral reefs, there is a constant roar in our ears.
When the ship is only a few fathoms from the reefs, the prow pointed straight for the pass, the captain gives the order to drop anchor. The main anchor along with its heavy chain falls into the water first. Then the crew drop three smaller frigate anchors: portside, starboard and at the bow. When I ask him why so many precautions, the captain tells me in a few words about the shipwreck of a one-hundred-and-fifty-ton, three-masted schooner, the Kalinda, in 1901: it had dropped anchor in this same spot, facing the pass. Then everyone had gone ashore, even the captain, leaving two green Tamil cabin boys on board. A few hours later the tide had risen, but was unusually strong on that particular day and the current that rushed into the unique pass was so powerful that the anchor chain broke. People on the shore had seen the ship drawing closer, high over the coral reef, where the rollers were breaking, as if it were going to take flight. Then it had suddenly plunged down on to the reefs and a receding wave engulfed it, pulling it down to the bottom of the sea. The next morning pieces of masts, bits of plank and a few bales of the cargo were found, but the two Tamil cabin boys never were.
Thereupon the captain gives the order to douse all sails and lower the pirogue. I gaze at the dark water – it’s over ten fathoms deep – and I shudder, thinking of the green shadows of sharks slipping around, waiting perhaps for another shipwreck.
On the deck of the Zeta we’re growing impatient. The sun is low when the pirogue returns, greeted by the joyous cries of the sailors. This time it’s my turn. I follow the helmsman and slide down the cable to the pirogue, four other crew members also board. We are rowing, unable to see the pass. The helmsman is at the tiller, standing in order to steer better. The roar of the waves warns us that the reef is near. Indeed, I suddenly feel our skiff being lifted up by a swift wave and we make it through the narrow channel between the reefs riding high on its crest. Now we are already on the other side, in the lagoon, barely a few yards from the long coral barrier. The helmsman brings us to shore in the place where the waves come washing up to die, very near the sandy beach, and moors the pirogue. The sailors jump out on to the embankment, whooping, then disappear amid the crowd of inhabitants.
I disembark in turn. On the shore there are a good many women, children, black fishermen and Indians too. They all look at me curiously. With the exception of Captain Bradmer, who comes when he has a shipment of merchandise, these people must not see white people often. And what with my long hair and beard, my suntanned face and arms, my dirty clothes and bare feet, I must be quite a strange white man! It’s mostly the children who examine me, laughing openly. On the beach there are dogs, a few scrawny black pigs, some young goats trotting around looking for salt.
The sun will soon be setting. The sky is a bright yellow above the c
oconut trees, behind the islands. Where am I going to sleep? I start to look for a spot somewhere on the beach between the pirogues when Captain Bradmer asks me to accompany him to the hotel. My astonishment at the word ‘hotel’ makes him laugh. In the guise of a hotel there’s an old wooden house whose proprietress, an energetic woman – a mix of black and Indian – rents rooms to the rare travellers who venture out to Agalega. They say she even housed the chief justice of Mauritius during his sole visit in 1901 or 1902! For dinner the woman serves us a crab curry that is absolutely excellent, especially compared with the everyday fare of the Chinaman on the Zeta. Captain Bradmer is in top form, he questions our hostess about the inhabitants of the island and tells me about Juan de Nova, the first explorer to discover Agalega, and about a French colonizer by the name of Auguste Leduc, who organized the production of copra that was once the sole resource of the islands. Today the sister islands also produce rare wood, mahogany, sandalwood, ebony. He speaks of Guguel, the colonial administrator who founded the hospital and built up the island’s economy in the beginning of this century. I promise myself to take advantage of the time we are in port – Bradmer has just informed me that he needs to load a hundred or so barrels of copra – to visit the forests which are, from what I’ve heard, the loveliest in the Indian Ocean.
After dinner I stretch out on my bed in the little room at one end of the house. Despite my weariness, I have trouble going to sleep. After all those nights in the suffocating hold, the tranquillity of this room unsettles me and I can’t stop feeling the rolling movement of the waves. I open the shutters to breathe in the night air. Outside the smell of land is heavy and the song of toads punctuates the night.
How impatient I am already to get back to the desert of the sea, to the sound of the waves against the stem, the wind vibrating in the sails, to feel the quickness of the air and the saltwater, the power of the void, to hear the music of absence. Sitting on the old rickety chair in front of the open window, I inhale the fragrance of the garden. I can hear Bradmer’s voice, his laughter, the laughter of the landlady. It sounds as if they’re having a good time… Little matter! I think I fall asleep like that, with my forehead resting on the windowsill.
Monday morning
I walk across South Island, where the village is located. Together, the sister islands that make up Agalega are probably no larger than the Black River District. Nevertheless, it seems very large after the days on the Zeta, where the only activity consisted in going from the hold to the deck, from the stem to the stern. I walk across the groves of coconut trees and palmettos standing in straight rows as far as the eye can see. I walk slowly, barefoot in the sandy soil that is sapped with the burrows of land crabs. I’m also disoriented due to the silence. One can’t hear the sound of the sea in these fields. There’s only the murmur of the wind in the palms. Despite the early hour (when I left the hotel everyone was still sleeping) the heat is already oppressive. There is no one on the straight paths and if those ruled lines didn’t signal a human presence I might think I was on a deserted island.
But I’m mistaken in saying there’s no one here. Since I entered the grove I have been followed by anxious eyes. The land crabs are observing me along the path, they rise up at times, waving their threatening claws. At one point a group of them even block my passage and I have to make a long detour. At last I reach the other side of the plantation in the north. I’m separated from the sister island, poorer than this one, by the calm waters of the lagoon. There is a cabin on the shore and an old fisherman repairing his nets near his upturned pirogue. He lifts his head to look at me, then pursues his work. His black skin shines in the sunlight.
I decide to make my way back to the village by walking up the white beach that encircles almost the entire island. I can feel the sea breeze out here, but I no longer have the advantage of the shade of the coconut trees. The sun is so hot that I need to take off my shirt to cover my head and shoulders. When I reach the other end of the island, I can’t wait any longer. I strip off all my clothes and dive into the clear water of the lagoon. I swim delectably towards the coral reefs until I come to the cold layers of water and the roar of the waves is very near. Then I go very slowly back to shore, drifting along, hardly moving. Eyes open under the water, I watch the fish of all different colours fleeing before me, I’m also looking out for the shadows of sharks. I can feel the cold flow of water coming from the pass, sweeping along fish and bits of seaweed.
When I’m on the beach I get dressed without drying off and walk barefoot over the burning sand. Farther along I encounter a group of black children going octopus-fishing. They are the same age as Denis and I were when we used to roam around Black River. They gaze in astonishment at the ‘burzois’ – which is Creole for bourgeois – clothes stained with seawater, hair and beard matted with salt. Maybe they take me for a castaway? When I walk over to them, they flee and hide in the shade of the coconut grove.
Before I enter the village I shake out my clothes and comb my hair, so I won’t make too bad an impression. On the other side of the coral reefs I can see the two masts of Bradmer’s schooner. The barrels of oil are lined up on the long coral embankment, waiting to be taken aboard. The sailors are coming and going with the pirogue. There are still some fifty barrels to be loaded.
Back in the hotel I have breakfast with Captain Bradmer. He’s in a good humour this morning. He informs me that the crew will have finished loading the oil this afternoon and that we’ll be leaving tomorrow at dawn. We’ll sleep on board to avoid having to wait for the tide. Then, to my great astonishment, he speaks to me about my family, about my father, whom he’d known long ago in Port Louis.
‘I learned of the misfortune that befell him, all of his problems, his debts. All of that is quite sad. You were in Black River, isn’t that so?’
‘In Boucan.’
‘Yes, that’s it, behind the Tamarin Estate. I went to your house a very long time ago, long before you were born. It was in the days of your grandfather, it was a lovely white house with a magnificent garden. Your father had recently married, I recall your mother, a very young woman with beautiful auburn hair and pretty eyes. Your father was very taken with her, he had organized a very romantic marriage.’ After a silence, he adds, ‘What a pity that it all ended in that way, happiness doesn’t last.’ He looks over past the other end of the veranda at the little garden where a black pig thrones, surrounded by pecking poultry. ‘Yes, it’s a pity…’
But he says nothing more. As if he regretted having revealed his feelings, the captain stands up, puts on his hat and walks out of the house. I hear him speaking to the landlady outside, then he reappears, ‘This evening, sir, the pirogue will make its last trip at five o’clock, before the tide. Be on the embankment at that time.’ It’s more of an order than a piece of advice.
I am, therefore, standing on the embankment at the said hour, after having spent the day rambling around South Island, from the campsite to the eastern point, from the hospital to the cemetery. I’m impatient to be on board the Zeta again, to sail for Rodrigues.
In the pirogue that is moving away from the island it seems as if all the men are feeling the same thing, that desire for the high seas. This time the captain himself is at the tiller of the pirogue and I’m at the front. I see the barrier approaching, the long rollers crashing down, raising a wall of foam. My heart is racing when the front of the pirogue heaves up against the incoming wave. I’m deafened by the sound of the backwash, by the screeching birds circling overhead. ‘Alley-oop!’ cries the captain when the wave goes out, and along with the thrust of the eight oars the pirogue is precipitated into the narrow pass between the reefs. It leaps over the next wave. Not one drop of water has fallen into the pirogue! Now we are sliding over the deep blue, towards the dark silhouette of the Zeta.
Later, on board the ship, when the men have settled down in the hold to play dice or to sleep, I sit watching the night. Out on the island fires shine, pinpointing the campsite. Then the land fa
des out, disappears. There’s nothing left but the void of night, the sound of the waves on the reefs.
Just like almost every other evening since this journey began, I’m stretched out on the deck of the ship, wrapped in my old horse blanket and looking up at the stars. The sea breeze whistling in the rigging heralds the tide. I can feel the first rollers slipping under the hull, making the frame of the ship crack. The anchor chains are groaning plaintively. Up in the sky the stars are shining in still brightness. I’m watching them attentively, looking for all of them tonight, as if their patterns would reveal the secrets of my fate to me. Scorpius, Orion and the faint shape of the Smaller Chariot. Near the horizon, the Argo with her narrow sail and her long stern, the Smaller Dog, the Unicorn. And tonight, above all, the ones that bring the lovely nights in Boucan to mind, the seven lights of the Pleiades, whose names our father made us learn by heart and that Laure and I used to recite like the words of a magic formula: Alcyone, Electra, Maia, Atlas, Taygeta, Merope… And the last one, that we would name hesitantly, Pleione, so small we weren’t sure we’d really seen it. I still love to say their names today, half-whispering in the lonely night, because it’s as if I knew they were appearing over there, in the sky over Boucan, through a rent in the clouds.
At sea, heading for Mahé
The wind changed during the night. Now it’s blowing northwards again, making any attempt to turn back impossible. The captain decided to run before the wind, rather than resign himself to waiting in Agalega. The helmsman coolly informs me of this. Will we ever go to Rodrigues? That depends on the length of the storm. Thanks to it, we reached Agalega in five days, but now we have to wait for it to allow us to return.
The Prospector Page 13
