‘Sri! Come here!’ I’ve shouted, even though I know he can’t hear me. But he continues to make his way to the back of the valley. So I follow on the path without trying to catch up to him. Sri bounds lightly over the black rocks and I see his lithe shape, which seems to be dancing out in front of me, then he disappears in the underbrush. I believe I’ve lost him, but there he is standing in the shade of a tree or in the hollow of a rock. I only just catch sight of him when he starts walking again.
For hours I follow Sri through the mountains. We are high up, above the hills, on the bare flank of the mountain. Below me I see the rocky slopes, the dark patches of the screw pines and bramble bushes. Up here everything is barren, mineral. The sky is magnificently blue, the clouds coming from the east are skittering across the sea, passing over the valley, casting swift shadows. We continue climbing. At times I can’t even see my guide any more and when I do catch sight of him, far out ahead, dancing along swift and light, I’m not sure I haven’t seen a goat, a wild dog.
At one point I stop to look out at the sea, far in the distance, as I’ve never seen it before: immense, sparkling and hard in the sunlight, traversed by the long silent hem of breakers.
The wind is blowing in cold bursts that bring tears to my eyes. I sit down on a rock to catch my breath. When I start walking again, I fear I’ve lost Sri. Squinting, I search up around the top of the mountain, on the dark slopes of the valleys. Just as I’m about to give up trying to find him, I see him surrounded by other children with a herd of goats on the other side of the mountain. I call to him, but the echo of my voice makes the children flee and they disappear with their goats among the brush and the stones.
I can see traces of human beings up here: some sort of circular, drystone walls, much like those I found when I first arrived in English Bay. I also notice barely visible footpaths through the mountains, but I can make them out because the life out in the wild I’ve been living for the past four years in English Bay has taught me to spot signs of human presence. As I’m preparing to go down to the other side of the mountain to look for the children, I suddenly see Ouma. She walks up to me and, without saying a word, takes me by the hand and leads me over to the cliff top, to a place where the land makes a sloping overhang. On the other side of the shallow valley, on the arid mountainside, along a dried-up stream, I can see huts made of stone and branches, a few tiny fields, protected from the wind by low walls. Dogs have picked up our scent and are barking. It’s the Manaf village.
‘You shouldn’t go any farther,’ says Ouma. ‘If a stranger came, the Manafs would have to move farther out into the mountains.’
We walk along the cliff top all the way to the northern slope of the mountain. We’re facing the wind. Down below, the sea is infinite, dark, spotted with white horses. Over in the east is the turquoise-coloured mirror of the lagoon.
‘At night you can see the lights of the city,’ says Ouma. She points to the sea. ‘And over in that direction you can see boats coming in.’
‘It’s beautiful!’ I say that almost in a whisper. Ouma has squatted down on her heels, as she does, wrapping her arms about her knees. Her dark face is turned towards the sea, the wind is tousling her hair. She turns westward, in the direction of the hills.
‘You should go back down, night will be falling soon.’
But we just sit there very still in the whipping wind, unable to tear ourselves away from the sea, like birds gliding very high up in the sky. Ouma doesn’t talk to me, but I have the feeling I can sense everything within her, her longing, her despair. She never puts it into words, but that’s why she so loves to go down to the shore, dive into the sea, swim out to the breakers armed with her long harpoon and, hiding behind the rocks, observe the people from the coast.
‘Do you want to go away with me?’
The sound of my voice or else my question makes her start. She looks at me angrily, her eyes blazing.
‘Go away? Where? Who would have me?’
I try to find words to appease her, but she says vehemently, ‘My grandfather was a maroon, along with all the black maroons from Le Morne. He died when they crushed his legs in the cane mill because he’d joined Sacalavou’s people in the forest. Then my father came to live here, on Rodrigues, and he became a sailor so he could travel. My mother was born in Bengal, and her mother was a musician, she sang for Govinda. Where would I be able to go? To a convent in France? Or to Port Louis to wait on the people who killed my grandfather, the people who bought and sold us like slaves?’
Her hand is ice-cold, as if she has a fever. All of a sudden, Ouma stands up, walks over to the slope in the west, over to the place where the paths separate, the place where she was waiting for me a little while ago. Her face is calm again now, but her eyes still glare with anger.
‘You have to go now. You can’t stay here.’
I’d like to ask her to show me her house, but she’s already walking away without looking back, she’s going down into the dark, shallow dip in the land where the Manafs’ huts stand. I can hear the voices of children, the barking of dogs. The darkness settles in rapidly.
I climb down the slopes, run through the thorn bushes and the screw pines. I can no longer see the sea or the horizon, only the shadow of the mountains growing larger in the sky. When I reach the valley of English Bay it is dark and a fine rain is falling gently. Under my tree, in the shelter of my tent, I curl up and lie still, feeling the cold, the loneliness. Then I think about the sound of destruction that is growing louder every day, that is rolling around like a rumbling thunderstorm, the sound that is now hanging over the entire world and that no one can forget. That night I decide to go off to war.
They are all standing together this morning at the entrance to the ravine: there are Adrien Mercure, a tall black man with herculean strength, who was once a foreman in the copra plantations on Juan Nova, Ernest Raboud, Celestin Prosper and young Fritz Castel. When they learned I’d found the cache they dropped everything and came immediately, each with a shovel and a piece of rope. Anyone seeing us walking across English Bay like that, them with their shovels, wearing their large vacoa hats, and me leading with my long beard and hair and my torn clothing, my head still bandaged with a handkerchief, might have thought it was a parody of the Corsair’s men coming back to retrieve their treasure!
We’re encouraged by the cool morning air and begin digging around the blocks of basalt at the bottom of the ravine. The earth, crumbly on the surface, becomes as hard as rock as we dig deeper. Taking turns, we heave at it with our picks, while the others busy themselves clearing the rubble over to the wider part of the ravine. That is when the idea dawns upon me that the boulders and earth piled up at the entrance to the ravine that I had taken for a natural obstruction caused by water runoff in the old torrent bed, are in reality the material that the Corsair’s men cleared away after having excavated the caches in the bottom of the ravine. Once again I have the strange impression that the entire ravine is of human creation. Starting with a simple crevice in the basaltic cliff, those men dug, excavated, until they attained the appearance of this gorge which the rainwater has remodelled for almost two hundred years. It’s a strange feeling, almost awesome, like the one explorers must experience when they uncover the ancient tombs of Egypt in the silence and the ruthless light of the desert.
Around noon the base of the largest basalt block has been sapped to such an extent that a simple nudge ought to be enough to send it tumbling into the bottom of the ravine. Together we all push on the same side of the rock, which rolls a few metres, causing an avalanche of dust and small stones. Before us, exactly in the place indicated by the groove engraved on the boulder at the top of the cliff, is a gaping hole still hidden by the dust floating in the air. Without waiting another minute I lie flat on my belly and drag myself through the opening, it takes several seconds for my eyes to adjust to the darkness: ‘What’s in there? What’s in there?’ I hear the voices of the impatient black men behind m
e. After a very long time I back up, pull my head out of the hole. I feel sort of giddy, my blood is beating in my temples, in my jugular veins. This second cache is clearly empty as well.
Using my pick, I enlarge the opening. Little by little we uncover a sort of well that reaches all the way down to the base of the cliff that dead-ends the ravine. The bottom of the well is of the same rust-coloured rock that alternates with the outcrops of basalt on the bottom of the ravine. Young Fritz goes down into the well, where he disappears entirely, then comes back up.
He shakes his head. ‘There’s nothing down there.’
Mercure shrugs his shoulders derisively.
‘It’s the goat fountain.’
Is it really one of those old troughs for the herds? Then why would anyone have gone to so much trouble, since Roseaux River is so near? The men saunter away with their shovels and ropes. I hear their laughter fading out as they pass through the entrance to the ravine. Only young Fritz Castel has remained at my side, standing before the gaping cache, as if waiting for my instructions. He’s ready to go back to work, plant new markers, dig new probe holes. Perhaps he’s been infected with the same fever as I have, the one that makes you forget everything, the world and human beings, in quest of a mirage, a gleam of light.
‘There’s nothing more to be done here.’ I speak to him in a hushed voice, as if talking to myself. He looks at me with his shiny eyes, not understanding.
‘All the caches are empty.’
We come out of the burning trench of the ravine in turn. At the top of the slope I contemplate the vast valley, the dark-green tufts of the tamarind trees and the screw pines, the fantastic forms of the basaltic rock and especially the thin stream of sky-blue water that snakes towards the swamp and the dunes. The latanias and coconut trees form a moving screen in front of the sea and when the wind blows I can hear the sound of the breakers, a sluggish respiration.
Where to search now? Down there by the dunes in the marshlands where the sea once raged? In the caves on the other bank at the foot of the ruined tower of the Commander’s Garret? Or else high up, deep in the wild mountains of the Manafs, at the source of the Roseaux River where the herds of goats live in cracks hidden by thorn bushes? Now I feel as if all the lines on my maps are fading away, as if the signs inscribed on the rocks are merely the traces of storms, the bite of lightning bolts, the abrasion of the wind. A sense of despair is creeping over me and draining my strength.
I feel like saying to Fritz, ‘It’s all over, there’s nothing more to find here, let’s go.’
The young man is looking so insistently at me, his eyes shining so brightly, that I can’t bring myself to reveal my despair to him. As firmly as I can, I stride across the floor of the valley to my camp under the tamarind tree.
‘We’re going to explore the area over there to the west. We’ll need to probe, plant new markers. You’ll see, we’ll find it in the end. We’ll search everywhere on the other side and then high up in the valley too. We won’t leave an inch of terrain unturned. We’ll find it!’
Does he believe what I’m saying? My words seem to have put his mind at ease.
‘Yes, sir, we’ll find it, if the Manafs haven’t found it before us!’ he says.
The idea of the Corsair’s treasure being in the hands of the Manafs makes him laugh. But growing suddenly serious, he adds, ‘If the Manafs found the gold, they’d throw it into the sea!’
And what if that were true?
That feeling of anxiety I’ve been having for weeks now, the sound that is rumbling out beyond the seas like thunder and which I cannot forget, either by day or by night, today suddenly – the full measure of its violence has dawned upon me.
Having left for Port Mathurin early this morning in the hopes of getting a new letter from Laure, I come up through the underbrush and the screw pines in front of the buildings of the Cable & Wireless at Venus Point and I see the gathering of men in front of the telegraph house. The Rodriguans are waiting at the foot of the veranda, some are standing up, conversing, others are sitting in the shade, on the steps, with blank looks on their faces, smoking cigarettes.
In these past few days of madness in the bottom of the ravine, trying to find the Corsair’s second cache, I hadn’t really thought of the gravity of the situation in Europe. And yet the other day, when passing in front of the Mallac & Co. building, I read, along with the crowd, the communiqué tacked up by the door that had arrived from Port Louis on the postal ship. It spoke of a general mobilization for the war that had begun over there in Europe. Britain and France have allied and declared war on Germany. Lord Kitchener is calling upon all volunteers, in the colonies and the dominions, in Canada, in Australia, and also in Asia, the Indies, Africa. I read the public notice, then I went back to English Bay, maybe in the hope of finding Ouma, of talking to her about it. But she didn’t come and later the noise of the work at the bottom of the ravine must have frightened her off.
As I walk up to the telegraph building, no one pays any attention to me, despite my torn clothing and my overly long hair. I recognize Mercure, Raboud and, a little off to one side, the giant Casimir, the sailor on the Zeta. He recognizes me as well and his face lights up. Eyes bright with pleasure, he explains to me that they’re waiting here for instructions on how to enlist. That’s why there are only men here! Women are repelled by war.
Casimir talks to me about the army, warships that he hopes will take him on, poor gentle giant! He’s already talking about the battles he will wage in countries he’s never seen against an unknown enemy. Then a man, an Indian telegraph employee, appears on the veranda. He begins reading a list of names, the ones that will be communicated to the recruitment bureau in Port Louis. With his ringing, nasal voice and his English accent which deforms the syllables, he reads out the names very slowly in the silence that now lies heavily over the men.
‘Hermitte, Corentin, Latour, Lamy, Raffaut…’
He reads those names, and the wafting wind sweeps them away and strews them over the hills amid the blades of screw pines and the black rocks, those names that already have a strange ring to them, like the names of dead men, and suddenly I want to flee, go back to my valley, to the place where no one can find me, disappear into Ouma’s world among the reeds and the dunes without leaving a trace. The slow voice enumerates the names and I shudder. Never have I felt this before, as if the voice would pronounce my name among those names, as if the voice had to say my name among those of the men who are going to leave their world to fight against our enemies.
‘Portalis, Haouet, Céline, Bégué, Hitchen, Castor, Pichette, Simon…’
I can still leave, I think about the ravine, about the lines that intersect on the valley bottom and make the landmarks shine out like beacons, I think about everything I’ve experienced in all of these months, all of these years, that light-filled beauty, the sound of the sea, the fancy-free birds. I think of Ouma, of her skin, her smooth hands, her body of black metal slipping under the water of the lagoon. I can go away, there’s still time, far from this insanity, where the men laugh and rejoice when the Indian pronounces their name. I can leave, find a place where I could forget all of this, where I wouldn’t hear the sound of the war in the sound of the sea and the wind any more. But the sing-songy voice continues to pronounce the names, those names that are already unreal, the names of men from here who will die over there, for a world they know nothing about.
‘Ferney, Labutte, Jeremiah, Rosine, Medicis, Jolicoeur, Victorine, Imboulla, Ramilla, Illke, Ardor, Grangourt, Salomon, Ravine, Roussety, Perrine, Perrine the younger, Azie, Cendrillon, Casimir…’
When the Indian pronounces his name, the giant stands up and jumps up and down, shouting. There is an expression of such naive contentment on his face one might think he’d just won a bet or that he’d learned some good news. And yet it’s the name of his death that he’s just heard. Maybe that’s why I didn’t flee to English Bay, didn’t try to find a place where I’d be able to forget the war. I th
ink it’s because of him, because of his joy at hearing his name called.
When the Indian has finished reading the names on his list, he stands still for a moment with the paper fluttering in the wind and asks in English, ‘Are there any other volunteers?’
And almost in spite of myself I climb up the cast-iron stairs to the veranda and give him my name to add to the list. A little while ago Casimir set the tone for a celebration and now most of the Rodriguans are dancing and singing right on the spot. When I go down the stairway, some of them circle around me and grasp my hands. The jubilation draws out all along the road that follows the coast to Port Mathurin, and we go through the streets of the town in a boisterous crowd, to reach the hospital where the medical examination is to be carried out. The examination is simply a formality that only lasts a minute or two. Each in turn – bare-chested – we enter the torrid office where Camal Boudou, flanked by two nurses, examines the volunteers and hands them a stamped travel authorization. I’m expecting him to ask me some questions, but he just checks my eyes and teeth. He hands me the paper and, as I’m going out, he merely says in that deep and gentle voice of his, his Indian face remaining expressionless, ‘You are going out to the Front too?’ Then he calls in the next person without waiting for an answer. On the paper I read my departure date: 10 December 1914. The name of the ship is left blank, but the destination of the journey is filled in: Portsmouth. There you have it, I’m enlisted. I won’t even see Laure and Mam before leaving for Europe, since we’ll be departing from somewhere around the Seychelles.
Yet I go back to the ravine every day, as if I would at last be able to find what I’m searching for. I can’t tear myself away from that crack in the side of the valley, with not a blade of grass, not a tree, nothing that moves or is alive, with only the light reverberating on the rusty slopes of the mountain and the basalt rocks. In the morning, before the sun gets too hot, and in the evening twilight, I walk down to the bottom of the dead-end ravine and look at the holes I discovered at the foot of the cliff. I stretch out on the ground, run my fingers over the mouth of the well, over the wall worn smooth by the waters of another era, and dream. All around on the bottom of the ravine there are furious pick marks and the earth is full of craters that are already beginning to fill with dust. When the wind pushes its way into the ravine, wailing, blustering violently up at the top of the cliff, little avalanches of black dirt run into those holes, echo on the stones at the bottom of the caches. How long will it take for nature to close up the Corsair’s well which I’ve laid bare in this way? I think of those who will come after me, in ten years, perhaps, in a hundred years, and it’s for them that I decide to seal up the caches again. Down in the valley I find large, flat stones that I carry with great difficulty to the mouths of the wells, I use other smaller rocks gathered right in the ravine to fill up the cracks and with my shovel I throw red earth on top that I tamp down by pounding it with the shovel. Without understanding, young Fritz Castel helps me with this work. But he never asks any questions. For him, from the very beginning this whole thing will have been nothing but a series of incomprehensible and somewhat frightening rituals.
The Prospector Page 22
