“Why?”
“He knows the names of the trees.”
“And how do you know that, Elisewin?”
“I DON’T LIKE this business of the seventh room one little bit.”
“What’s it to you?”
“A man who will not show himself, it scares me.”
“Father Pluche says that he’s the one who is afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“EVERY SO OFTEN I wonder what on earth we are waiting for.”
Silence.
“For it to be too late, Madame.”
THEY COULD HAVE gone on like that forever.
BOOK II
The Womb of the Sea
FOURTEEN DAYS AFTER setting sail from Rochefort, owing to the captain’s incapacity and inaccurate charts, the French naval frigate Alliance ran aground on a sandbar, off the coast of Senegal. All attempts to free the hull were vain. There was nothing else to do but abandon ship. Since the longboats available were insufficient to accommodate the entire complement, a raft measuring about forty feet in length and half that in width was constructed and lowered onto the water. Onto it went 147 men: soldiers, sailors, a few passengers, four officers, a doctor, and an engineer cartographer. The evacuation plan called for the four longboats to tow the raft to the shore. Shortly after abandoning the wreck of the Alliance, however, panic and confusion gripped the convoy that was slowly trying to reach the coast. Out of baseness or ineptitude—no one ever managed to establish the truth—the longboats lost contact with the raft. The towing hawser snapped. Or someone cut it. The longboats continued toward land and the raft was abandoned to fend for itself. Not even half an hour later, dragged along by the current, it had already disappeared over the horizon.
FIRST is my name, Savigny.
First is my name, second is the gaze of those who abandoned us—their eyes, in that moment—fixed on the raft, they were unable to look elsewhere, but there was nothing behind that gaze, absolutely nothing, neither hate nor pity, remorse, fear, nothing. Their eyes.
First is my name, second those eyes, third a thought: I am going to die, I shall not die. I am going to die I shall not die I am going to die I shall not die I am—the water is up to our knees, the raft slips under the surface of the sea, weighed down by the burden of too many men—going to die I shall not die I am going to die I shall not die—the smell, the smell of fear, of sea and bodies, the wood creaking underfoot, the voices, the ropes to hang on to, my clothes, my weapons, the face of the man who—I am going to die I shall not die I am going to die I shall not die I am going to die—the waves all around, don’t think, where is the land? who is taking us there, who is in command? the wind, the current, the prayers like groans, the prayers of rage, the howling of the sea, the fear that
First is my name, second those eyes, third a thought and fourth the night to come, clouds against the light of the moon, horrendous dark, only sounds: shouts and groans and prayers and curses, and the sea that is getting up and beginning to sweep that tangle of bodies from every angle—there’s nothing for it but to hang on to what you can, a rope, the beams, someone’s arm, all night long, in the water, under the water, if only there were a light, any kind of light, this darkness is eternal and the wailing that accompanies every instant is intolerable—but one moment I remember, under the slap of an unexpected wave, a wall of water, I remember, suddenly, the silence, a blood-chilling silence, an instant, and my screaming, my screaming, my screaming,
First is my name, second those eyes, third a thought, fourth the night to come, fifth the mangled bodies, trapped between the boards of the raft, a man like a rag, hanging from a post that had staved in his chest to pin him there, swaying to the dance of the sea, in the light of day that reveals those slain by the sea in the darkness, they take them down one by one from their gallows and return them to the sea, which has taken them, sea on all sides, there is no land, there is no ship on the horizon, nothing—and it is against that landscape of corpses and nothingness that a man makes a way for himself among the others and without a word lets himself slip into the water and begins to swim, he simply goes away, and others see him and follow, and in truth some do not even swim, they just let themselves drop into the sea, without moving, they vanish—it is even sweet to see them—they embrace before giving themselves to the sea—tears on the faces of men unlooked for—then they let themselves drop into the sea and draw the salt water deep into their lungs so as to sear everything, everything—no one stops them, no one
First is my name, second those eyes, third a thought, fourth the night to come, fifth those mangled bodies, and sixth is hunger—hunger that grows inside and gnaws at the throat and settles upon the eyes, five casks of wine and a single sack of ship’s biscuits, says Corréard, the cartographer: We cannot go on—the men are watching one another, studying one another, it is the moment that will decide how the fight will be, if there is to be a fight, says Lheureux, the first officer: One ration for every man, two glasses of wine and a biscuit—they are watching one another, the men, perhaps it is the light or the sea’s idle swaying, like a truce, or the words that Lheureux is pronouncing, standing on a cask: We shall save ourselves, out of the hatred we bear those who have abandoned us, and we shall return to look them in the eye, and nevermore shall they be able to sleep or live or escape the curse that we shall be for them, us, alive, and them, slain every day, forever, by their guilt—perhaps it is that silent light or the sea’s idle swaying, like a truce, but what happens is that the men fall silent and desperation becomes docility and order and calm—they file by in front of us one by one, their hands, our hands, a ration for one—almost an absurdity, it comes to mind, in the heart of the sea, over a hundred men defeated, lost, defeated, they form an orderly line, a perfect pattern in the directionless chaos of the womb of the sea, to survive, silently, with inhuman patience, and inhuman reason
First is my name, second those eyes, third a thought, fourth the night to come, fifth those mangled bodies, sixth is hunger and seventh is horror, the horror, that breaks out at night—the night again—the horror, the ferocity, the blood, the dying, the hatred, fetid horror. They took possession of a cask, and the wine took possession of them. Under the light of the moon a man is hacking mightily at the lashings of the raft with an ax, an officer tries to stop him, they jump on him and stab him, he turns back toward us, bleeding, we pull out our sabers and muskets, the moonlight disappears behind a cloud, it’s hard to understand, it’s an endless instant, then an invisible wave of bodies and screams and weapons beating down on us, the blind desperation that seeks death, instantly and be done with it, and the hatred that seeks an enemy, instantly, to drag down to hell—and in the light’s coming and going I remember those bodies running onto our sabers and the crackle of musket fire, and the blood spurting from the wounds, and feet slipping on heads crushed between the boards of the raft, and desperate men dragging themselves along on broken legs until they reach one of us and, unarmed by then, sinking their teeth into our legs and hanging on, waiting for the blow and the blade that cleaves them, and in the end—I remember—two of ours dying, literally bitten to death by that inhuman beast come out of the void of the night, and dozens of them dying, lacerated and drowned, dragging themselves around the raft, staring hypnotized at their mutilations, they call on the saints while they plunge their hands into the wounds of our men to rip out their guts—I remember—a man hurling himself on me, squeezing my neck between his hands, and while he is trying to strangle me he never stops whining “mercy, mercy, mercy,” absurd spectacle, my life is beneath his fingers, and his rests on the point of my saber that finally cuts into his side and then his belly and then his throat and then his head that rolls into the water and then into what remains, a bloody mess, crumpled between the boards of the raft, a useless puppet into which I steep my saber once, and twice and three and four and five times
First is my name, second those eyes, third a thought, fourth the night to come, fifth those mangled bodies,
sixth is hunger, seventh horror, and eighth the ghosts of madness, they flower on that species of slaughter, horrid battlefield rinsed by the waves, bodies everywhere, bits of bodies, greenish, yellowish faces, blood clotted on eyes without pupils, open mouths like wounds and wounds like open mouths, like corpses vomited up by the earth, a disjointed earthquake of the dead, the dying, paved with torments trapped in the precarious skeleton of the raft on which the living—the living—prowl, robbing the dead of worthless trifles but above all evaporating into madness one by one, each man in his own way, each with his own phantasms, extorted from the mind by hunger, and by thirst, and by fear, and by desperation. Phantasms. All those who see land—land!—or ships on the horizon. They yell, and no one listens to them. One is writing a formal letter of protest to the Admiralty to express his indignation and denounce the infamy and officially request . . . Words, prayers, visions, a school of flying fish, a cloud pointing the way to salvation, mothers, brothers, wives appearing to dry the wounds and proffer water and caresses, one is frantically searching for his mirror, his mirror, who has seen his mirror, give me back my mirror, a mirror, my mirror, a man is blessing the dying with curses and groans, and someone is talking to the sea in a low voice, talking to it, seated on the edge of the raft, he is courting it, one would say, and listening to its replies, the sea replying, a dialogue, the last, in the end some give in to its cunning replies and, finally convinced, they let themselves slip into the water to give themselves up to the great friend who devours them and carries them far away—while on the raft, backward and forward, endlessly runs Léon, Léon the little boy, Léon the cabin boy, Léon who is twelve years old, and madness has taken him, terror has stolen him away, and he is running backward and forward from one side of the raft to the other, screaming unceasingly in one long breath mother of mine, mother of mine, mother of mine, mother of mine, Léon of the gentle gaze and the velvety skin, runs like mad, a bird in a cage, until it kills him, his heart, or who knows what, bursts inside, who knows what it was to make him drop like that, suddenly, with his eyes rolling and a convulsion in the chest that shakes him and then hurls him motionless to the ground whence he is picked up by the arms of Gilbert—Gilbert who loved him—that hug him close—Gilbert who loved him and now weeps for him and kisses him, inconsolable, a strange thing to see, there in the middle, in the middle of hell, the face of that old man bent over the lips of that young lad, a strange thing to see those kisses, how can I forget them, I who have seen them, those kisses, I who have no phantasms, I who have death upon me and not even the mercy of some ghost or a sweet madness, I who have ceased counting the days, but know that every night, again, that beast will emerge, it must emerge, the beast of horror, the nightly slaughter, this war we are fighting, this death we are spreading around so as not to die, we who
First is my name, second those eyes, third a thought, fourth the night to come, fifth those mangled bodies, sixth is hunger, seventh is horror, eighth the specters of madness, and ninth is abnormal meat, meat, meat drying on the rigging, meat that bleeds, meat, human meat, in my hands, in my mouth, meat of men that I have seen, men that were, meat of living men now dead, killed, broken, crazed, meat of arms and legs that I have seen fighting, meat stripped from the bone, meat that had a name, and that I now devour maddened with hunger, days spent chewing the leather of our belts and pieces of cloth, on this atrocious raft there is nothing left, nothing, seawater and piss chilled in tin beakers, pieces of tin held under the tongue so as not to go mad with thirst, and shit that you cannot get down, and ropes steeped in blood and salt, the only food that smacks of life, until someone, blinded by hunger, bends over the corpse of a friend and weeping and talking and praying tears the meat from his bones, and like a beast drags it off to a corner and begins to suck it and then bite into it and spew it up and then bite into it again, furiously overcoming the loathing to wrest from death one last shortcut to life, an atrocious road, which however one by one we all take, all of us, equals now inasmuch as we are become beasts and jackals, finally each one silent with his scrap of meat, the bitter taste in the mouth, the hands smeared with blood, in the belly the bite of a blinding pain, the smell of death, the stink, the skin, the meat coming apart, the meat shredding, dripping water and serum, those open bodies, like screams, tables set for the animals we are, the end of everything, horrible surrender, obscene defeat, abominable rout, blasphemous catastrophe, and it is then that I—I—look up—I look up—up—it is then that I look up and I see—I—see it: the sea. For the first time, after days and days, I really see it. And I hear its immense voice and powerful smell and, inside, its unstoppable dance, an infinite wave. Everything disappears and nothing remains but the sea, before me, upon me. A revelation. The pall of anguish and fear that has gripped my soul fades away, the web of infamy, cruelty, and horror that has ravished my eyes falls apart, the shadow of death that has devoured my mind dissolves, and in the sudden light of an unexpected clarity I finally see, and hear, and understand. The sea. It had seemed a spectator, even silent, even an accomplice. It had seemed a frame, a stage set, a backdrop. Now I look at it and I see: the sea was everything. It was everything, right from the first moment. I see it dancing around me, sumptuous in an icy light, a marvelous, infinite world. The sea was in the hands that killed, in the dead who were dying, the sea was in the hunger and thirst, the sea was in the torment, in the baseness and the madness, the sea was the hatred and the desperation, mercy and sacrifice, the sea is this blood and this meat, the sea is this horror and this splendor. There is no raft, there are no men, there are no words, feelings, gestures, nothing. There are no guilty and no innocent, condemned and saved. There is only the sea. All things have become the sea. We, the abandoned of the earth, have become the womb of the sea, and the womb of the sea is us, and in us it breathes and lives. I watch it dance in its resplendent mantle for the joy of its own invisible eyes and finally I know that this is the defeat of no man, for it is the triumph of the sea only, all this, and thy glory, and so, so let it be HOSANNA, HOSANNA TO THEE, ocean sea, powerful beyond all powers and marvelous beyond all marvels, HOSANNA AND GLORY TO THEE, master and slave, victim and persecutor, HOSANNA, the earth bows at thy passing and brushes the hem of thy mantle with perfumed lips, HOLY, HOLY, HOLY, womb of every new birth and belly of every death, HOSANNA AND GLORY BE THINE, refuge of all destinies and hearts that breathe, beginning and end, horizon and source, master of nothing, master of all, let it be HOSANNA AND GLORY TO THEE, lord of time and master of the nights, the one and the only, HOSANNA, because thine is the horizon, and dizzyingly deep is thy womb, deep and unfathomable, and GLORY, GLORY, GLORY, to the heavens on high for there is no sky that is not reflected and lost in Thee, nor is there land that may not surrender to Thee, the invincible, the beloved spouse of the moon and kind father of the gentle tides, let all men bow down before Thee and lift up their song of HOSANNA AND GLORY since Thou art within them, and groweth in them, and in Thee they live and die, and for them Thou art the secret and the end and the truth and the judgment and the salvation and the only road for eternity, and thus it is, and thus shall it ever be, until the end of days, which shall be the end of the sea, if the sea shall have an end, Thou, the Holy, the One and Only, Ocean Sea, wherefore let it be HOSANNA AND GLORY until the end of centuries. AMEN.
Amen.
Amen.
Amen.
Amen.
Amen.
Amen.
Amen.
Amen.
Amen.
Amen.
First
first is my name,
first is my name, second those eyes,
first is my name, second those eyes, third a thought, fourth the coming of the night,
first is my name, second those eyes, third a thought, fourth the coming of the night, fifth those mangled bodies, sixth is hunger
first is my name, second those eyes, third a thought, fourth the coming of the night, fifth those mangled bodies, sixth is hunger, seventh is horror,
eighth the specters of madness
first is my name, second those eyes, third a thought, fourth the coming of the night, fifth those mangled bodies, sixth is hunger, seventh is horror, eighth the specters of madness, ninth is meat, and tenth is a man who watches me but does not kill me. He is called Thomas. He was the strongest of all of them. Because he was cunning. We have not succeeded in killing him. Lheureux tried, the first night. Corréard tried. But he has seven lives, that man. Around him they are all dead, his shipmates. On the raft there are fifteen men left. And he is one of them. He stayed for a long time in the corner farthest away from us. Then he began to creep, slowly, and to get closer. Every movement is an impossible effort, and I should know because I have lain here motionless since last night, and here I have decided to die. Every word is an atrocious effort and every movement an impossible labor. But he keeps coming closer. He has a knife in his belt. And it is me he wants. I know it.
Who knows how much time has passed. There is no more day, there is no more night, all is motionless silence. We are a drifting graveyard. I opened my eyes and he was here. I do not know if it was a nightmare or real. Perhaps it is only madness, finally a madness come to take me. But if it is madness, it hurts, and there is nothing sweet about it. I wish he would do something, that man. But he carries on looking at me and that’s all. Just one more step forward and he could be upon me. I have no more weapons. He has a knife . . . I have no more strength, nothing. He has in his eyes the calm and the strength of an animal stalking its prey. It’s incredible how he can still manage to hate, here, in this foul, drifting prison where by now there is only death. It’s incredible how he can manage to remember. If only I could manage to speak, if only there were a little life left in me, I would tell him that I had to do it, that there is no mercy, there is no guilt in this inferno and that neither of us is here, but only the sea, the ocean sea. I would tell him not to look at me anymore, and to kill me. Please. But I cannot manage to speak. He does not move from there, he does not take his eyes off mine. And he does not kill me. Will all this ever finish?
Ocean Sea Page 9
