The ship was now pitching and rolling much more violently. Concerned about my missing friend, I went back down the passageways to our cabin to check if Martín was there. Progress was slow as I staggered to keep my balance. Finally I reached the cabin. Martín was sitting on his bed, eyes fixed on the floor, lost in his thoughts. He seemed frozen in this position and didn’t look up when I entered. I sat down beside my best friend.
“Everything all right, man?” I asked.
“I’m going to die, Paul,” he calmly replied.
“Cut the bullshit, it’s just a storm, nothing more.”
“No. You don’t understand. It’s Judgment Day.”
“Judgment Day?” I was both intrigued by his mysticism and scared by the confidence in his tone.
“Yes.”
“What the hell do you mean? What’s going on?”
“This ship reeks of death, Paul,” he replied with an equanimity that made my blood run cold. “The same death I saw in my father’s eyes when he crumpled before me, his chest riddled with bullets. I can smell it. It’s here all around us, lying in wait.”
My heart skipped a beat. A paralyzing fear seized my limbs. I was incapable of responding, of asking him where he got such a gruesome idea.
“You know, Paul,” he continued in the same even tone, “you are my best friend. The day I met you I immediately knew you were different from the rest. It’s what drew me to you. And then there was María. You saved her.”
“We saved her.”
“No. I didn’t agree to, at first. If it wasn’t for you, she’d still be walking the streets in Las Palmas.”
“It was you who urged me to continue the search for news of Catherine,” I replied. “Without you, I would have left empty-handed. Life is about teamwork, Martín.”
“Perhaps.” He shot me a smile. “Either way, she’s free now.”
“What are you getting at?”
Lightning flashed through the porthole, flooding the cabin with ephemeral clarity, immediately followed by the deafening crash of thunder. Chaos reigned outside.
“Nothing,” replied Martín a little louder. “This is where it all ends, my friend.”
“But how can you be so sure of that?”
“Carmen told me.”
“Who’s Carmen?”
“A girl I met many years ago.”
“Where?”
“In Spain.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Martín. You’re scaring me! Come up to the second deck! Right now!”
“After my father died,” he continued, heedless, “my life was in chaos. I drank, went out all the time, slept with random girls. I was a mess. Nothing made sense anymore. Alcohol was my sole distraction, my sole pleasure. I forgot about everything else. And then I walked into a bar one day and I met Carmen.”
Something softened in his face as he pronounced her name, and gradually my friend’s personality returned, excited by the memory of this woman.
“I can still smell her jasmine perfume,” he continued, sniffing the air. “We slept together for months. I frittered away all my savings just to be with her, spending hours on end in bed, our bodies intertwined. Her presence brought back my smile, my hope. She was so beautiful, my Carmen. I kept asking her to marry me. She told me she belonged to another. She never wanted to tell me who.”
“I don’t get it, Martín.”
His smile vanished abruptly, his gaze darkened.
“I rented us a hotel room that night. We made love several times. Then she drifted off to sleep. In the half-light I softly stroked her skin, still faintly scented with jasmine. I would have given everything for her to become my wife. Suddenly, her body stiffened, like a rigid piece of wood. Her eyes rolled back in their sockets and her hands seized my throat with incredible force. In a very deep, masculine voice she yelled, over and over: ‘Your soul will burn in the chaos of the ocean.’ It was no longer Carmen speaking, Paul, but the devil. I managed to pull myself free and took to my heels, trembling with fear.”
I was dumbstruck by his tale. I thought about trying to persuade him that it was just a dream, that demonic possession isn’t real, that there was surely a rational explanation, but I thought better of it. Who was I, after all, to doubt his words and challenge his assertions? Martín was a sensitive soul who had suffered much in life.
“A few days later, I returned to the bar she frequented and asked to see her. They told me they knew of no such person . . .”
“Get a hold of yourself, Martín, I beg you, and come with me!”
“I never understood the meaning of her words. That’s why I went to sea, to understand. Now here I am.”
“Where?”
“Life is but an illusion,” he said sadly. “An illusion where love withers and childhood dreams fade. Men are cruel, Paul, so very cruel. Only women are capable of reversing our death spiral, our inner turmoil. Carmen meant everything to me. I miss her. She alone could—”
A violent jolt interrupted him and knocked us to the floor. The ship groaned as it twisted beneath the force of the waves. Then came the warning siren. Then a crash of thunder, followed by intense flashes of lightning that seared our eyes. Another awful jolt. The ship seemed to plunge into an abyss at breakneck speed before pitching up an infinite slope, then rolling from one side to the other. We were thrown about the cabin, smashing into the beds and lockers.
“It’s Judgment Day, Paul!” yelled Martín as if in a trance. “Feel his strength, his power, his . . .”
A fresh jolt, even more violent. The ship seemed to hang in the air, and I felt like we were sliding backward. We just had time to grab onto the handles of the lockers when another impact shook the steel structure. More creaking and groaning. Surely the apocalypse was nigh and shipwreck imminent? We heard cries of terror from the passageway, howls of supplication for this nightmare to end. I had an image of Mama praying in her little village church. I sat beside her and prayed in silence too, sheltered from the fury outside, asking for life to grant me another few years so I could hug and kiss my daughter and my wife, and stretch out in the shade of the orchard of my childhood one last time.
The juddering and the crashes of thunder brought back memories of the bombing raids when I was a boy. How much longer could we stand this? An hour? A day? A week? Any notion of time ceases when existence itself falters. Only the present moment counts, that moment we all usually flee, preferring to wallow in the sweet nostalgia of the past or the stimulating dread of the future. Let me see my daughter again, I beg you.
More groaning from the tortured metal. What was happening?
Dear God, we’ve never spoken much, but I swear I’ll be there for my family from now on. I’ve learned my lesson.
A thin stream of water flowed under the cabin door. Martín, lying on the floor, didn’t react. He seemed lifeless, absent. I thought about the Titanic, that huge ocean liner swallowed by the sea, all those people thrown into the freezing waters of the North Atlantic. At least we have the good fortune to be sailing warmer waters, I said to myself, by way of consolation. Soon the water was up to our knees. Its temperature was not unpleasant.
Another huge jolt. The warning siren suddenly stopped. What use was it anyway when we were all headed for certain watery death? No point fighting the apocalypse.
Lightning. Thunder. Rain. Wind. Waves. It was all a blur. It seemed as if the porthole was submerged, that the ship was diving to the deep. My God, it’s all over. We have to get out of here at all costs, right now. I grabbed Martín and slapped him full in the face. He suddenly came to his senses and smiled.
“We can’t do anything, Paul. The devil told me so.”
I shook him as hard as I could.
“Shut up, Martín, for God’s sake!”
Using all my strength, I dragged him out of the cabin. Water sloshed around us. A few yards along the passageway, two bodies were floating. We stepped over them in horror. The water around them was red from the blood seeping from thei
r head wounds.
“This way!” came a voice from the end of the passageway.
I made out a muscular figure.
“Help us!” I shouted.
The man disappeared. Everyone was trying to save their own skin as best they could. We made our way to the end of the passageway and hauled ourselves up the wet steps. Martín slipped and I caught him.
Another jolt. I imagined Mathilde reading the newspaper to Madame de Saint-Maixent, Jeanne heading off to school, Mama scrubbing clothes in her washhouse. Could they have imagined for a single moment the situation their man was currently in?
We continued our progress with difficulty, battling the shaking and the water that seemed to be seeping in everywhere.
“Help!” I yelled without much conviction.
The passageways were empty, apart from the floating bodies of unfortunate souls who must have hit a bulkhead too hard. Where was everyone?
Nature granted us a few moments of respite from the juddering and jolting, time standing still for what seemed like hours, allowing us to make it up another stairway and onto the second deck. I recognized the muscular figure of the man in front of us.
“Help!” I yelled again in the direction of the retreating figure.
“This way,” he cried, turning around. “Follow me!”
“Where are you going?”
“I . . . I . . . don’t know.” My question seemed to disturb him.
Another jolt. The ship rolled violently to one side. Martín lost his grip and slid to the end of the passageway while I grabbed hold of a door that opened under the pressure of my body, sending me half-sprawling into a cabin. Lightning flashed through the porthole—this part of the ship was above water—illuminating a man curled up into a ball on his bunk. He was surprised to see me.
“Get up,” I shouted, “we have to get out of here!”
He looked at me questioningly.
“And go where?”
I didn’t know how to answer. I hauled myself back into the passageway, leaving the man alone in his little cabin. There was no sign of the muscular guy from before. Martín too had disappeared. The bulb above me flickered. The ship’s fuses held out for a few more seconds, before a final flickering, then darkness. The ship pitched violently again.
I thought for a moment. There was just one more stairway to climb, then another passageway. I knew the ship like the back of my hand. But where was Martín? I screamed his name repeatedly. The only reply was the creaking of the hull. Find Martín or escape? I chose my friend, without a shadow of hesitation. I retraced my steps, groping my way along the passageway, grabbing hold of doorknobs either to aid my climb or slow my descent. Water sloshed up and down, soaking me through. I screamed his name again. Still no answer. I persisted, waving my hands in front of me like a blind man without a cane. I finally reached the stairway and shouted: “Martín!”
Silence.
As I was about to descend the stairway, the mother of all jolts threw me against the bulkhead, drawing blood from my temple. I was stunned by the violence of the impact, yet remained standing. Again I shouted into the darkness: “Martín! Martín! Martín!” No answer. Jeanne. Mathilde. Help me, my loves, I beseech you.
“Answer me, Martín, please, answer me!” I yelled, terrified. “Answer me, damn you!”
My heart was beating fast, overcome with emotion. The tears on my face soon mixed with the ocean water. The deck below was now dangerously flooded. Any attempt at descending further was out of the question. I could do no more for my friend. The water was lapping at the top of the stairway. We were going to sink. The hull couldn’t withstand the beating we had taken. I would never see Mathilde and Jeanne again, nor Mama, my friends, and family.
The ship settled level for a moment, and I took advantage of that to make my way back along the passageway as quickly as I could. Another jolt, less violent this time. I grasped the handrail and swiftly pulled myself up the stairway. Now I only had to make it to the end of the passageway. I could feel the wind whistling in my ears. In the distance I heard a door slam. A bit of light was filtering in from somewhere. I could make out shapes and shadows.
“Help!” I yelled.
“Is someone there?” came a barely audible voice from the darkness.
“Yes! I’m here! Where are you?”
A flash of lightning briefly lit up the whole passageway, and I saw a man sitting on the floor, a few yards from me.
“I’m here,” he cried. “Help me, I’m hurt.”
I crawled toward him, the rise of the ship slowing my progress. I felt his legs in the half-light and managed to open a door to our right, hoping for refuge.
“This way,” I yelled, half dragging the man inside.
“Thanks!” he said as he sat down.
“What happened to the rest of the crew?” I asked.
“I don’t know! When the bridge gave way and the water started coming in, they all rushed for the lifeboats. They must be dead by now!”
“And the captain?”
“No idea . . .”
“What shall we do?”
“Nothing. What do you want to do?”
“Get out of here!” I replied. “The ship’s going to sink!”
He didn’t say anything. Thunder growled in the distance. There was a bang as the door to the main deck opened then slammed shut in the wind. I thought hard for a few seconds. The man looked up at me, scanning my face as if trying to read my mind.
“Stay here,” I said, “I’ll be back soon.” I dashed out into the passageway.
“Where are you going? Don’t leave me here alone!” he implored like an abandoned child.
Ahead of me, the heavy door was still clanging in the wind. I approached it slowly, fearful of whatever horrors awaited me outside. Pushing it open, I surveyed the scene. An expanse of raging foam-capped waves stretched as far as I could see. The air was thick with a salty spray that stung my cheeks. Lightning zigzagged across the sky. The waves seemed unreal, exuberant, as if nature were determined to show us everything it was capable of. The ship’s engines were inaudible above the crashing waves and howling wind. Indeed, I wondered if they were still working. There was nowhere to go. Even if I managed to get clear of the ship, I would surely drown. We were trapped. The sky was thick with clouds that shuttered out the moonlight. My moon had abandoned me. The crest of a wave broke over the top of the guardrail and struck me full on, nearly knocking me over. I managed to close the door tightly and slid down to the floor, where I leaned against the cold metal, feeling the vibrations as the elements battered the other side of it. We could only place our trust in the ship’s solidity. If we sank, there would be no survivors. I returned to the cabin, where the injured man looked up at me expectantly.
“There’s nothing to be done,” I said sadly. “It’s impossible to leave the ship without drowning.”
This didn’t seem like news to him. It was precisely because he had come to that same conclusion that he was still alive. I lay down on a damp bunk and closed my eyes, attempting to find refuge in a corner of my mind, sheltered by the apple trees of my childhood, close to Mathilde and Jeanne.
27
We were tossed about by the waves for several days and nights. How long exactly, I couldn’t say. Time ceased to exist. I forced my eyes closed, trying not to dwell on it, while the other man puked his guts out, the foul odor filling the cabin. His incessant screaming interspersed with tears made me realize our species’ inadequacy in the face of death. But his presence reassured me. Whenever he became really crazy, I hugged him so he’d quiet down—his anguished screams were making me nearly lose my mind too. Then he would curl up in a ball and sob quietly to himself until the madness seized him again.
During the day, I watched the ocean battlefield that extended into the distance, a mass of undulating foam and spray. The sky was nothing but a heavy curtain of gray mist. The sun had disappeared. Inside the ship, water was everywhere, running down walls and lamp housings. Its level rose
a little each day, flooding the passageways, slowly smothering the metal beast, which was fighting a fierce rearguard action. Every time night cast its pitch-black cloak over us, I hoped I’d still be alive in the morning.
We stayed awake most of the time, night and day, and the lack of sleep made my head spin. Having nothing to eat and little to drink didn’t help.
After a few days, it seemed like the ocean was calming down. The swell softened, the wind gradually eased. The other man had every appearance of a corpse in a coffin—white as a shroud, wide eyes staring at the ceiling. He hadn’t screamed for a few hours. It was hot in the cabin, and the tropical humidity soothed my skin. I slipped into a deep sleep peppered with strange nightmares. A giant fish stood on deck, aiming a rifle at the crew and insulting the sailors in German. Hiding behind the bridge, I watched the scene, petrified. The fish ordered a man to come forward, in Spanish this time. Martín stepped out.
“Where is he?” yelled the scaly giant.
“He abandoned me in the passageway. He abandoned all of us: me, his father, his mother, his wife, his daughter, María, Catherine. He’s a coward!” replied Martín, pointing a finger in my direction.
The whole crew turned to face me, smiling. My family and my friends. The fish glided toward me, his rifle aimed at my chest.
“Find the little German girl!”
Then he pulled the trigger.
I woke with a start and pawed at my chest, gasping for breath, my heart pounding. I looked around. The cabin was empty. A ray of sunlight shone through the porthole, softly caressing my face. I opened the round window and filled my lungs with fresh air. The sea was mirror smooth, reflecting a thousand points of sunlight and making me squint. The cyclone had passed. I was alive.
Seasons of the Moon Page 15
