Inconsolable.
Inconsolable.
There is a great silence aboard the raft. Every so often Savigny opens his eyes and looks at me. We are so close to death, we are so deep in the womb of the sea, that not even faces manage to lie anymore. His was so true. Fear, fatigue, and disgust. Who knows what he reads on mine? He is so close, now, that sometimes I can smell him. Now I shall drag myself over there, and with my knife I shall split his heart. What a strange duel. For days, on a raft at the mercy of the sea, among all possible forms of death, we have continued to seek each other out and to strike at each other. Weaker and weaker, slower and slower. And now, this last stab seems eternal. But it will not be. I swear it. May no fate harbor any illusions: omnipotent though it may be, it will not arrive in time to stop this duel. He will not die before he is killed. And before I die, I shall kill him. It is all I have left: Thérèse’s light weight, printed like an indelible wave in my arms, and the need, the lust, for any kind of justice. Let this sea know that I shall have it. Let any sea know that I will get there before it. And it will not be among its waves that Savigny shall pay, but at my hands.
There is a great silence aboard the raft. Only the sound of the sea can be heard. Very loud.
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.
The last is a sail.
White. On the horizon.
BOOK III
The Songs of the Return
CHAPTER 1
Elisewin
PERCHED ON THE EDGE of the land, a stone’s throw from the stormy sea, the Almayer Inn lay motionless, immersed in the dark of the night like a portrait, a love token, in the darkness of a drawer.
Although dinner had been over for some time, everyone, inexplicably, was lingering in the large room with the fireplace. The sea’s fury, outside, troubled the spirit and set ideas in disarray.
“It’s not for me to say, but perhaps we ought to . . .”
“Have no fear, Bartleboom. In general, inns do not get shipwrecked.”
“In general? What do you mean, in general?”
But strangest of all were the children. They were all there, with their noses pressed up against the windows, oddly silent, watching the darkness outside: Dood, who lived on Bartleboom’s windowsill, and Ditz, who granted Father Pluche his dreams, and Dol, who saw the ships for Plasson. And Dira. There was even the beautiful little girl who slept in Ann Deverià’s bed and who no one had ever seen walking around the inn. All there, hypnotized by who knows what, silent and restless.
“They are like little animals, believe me. They sense the danger. It’s instinct.”
“Plasson, why don’t you do something to calm your friend?”
“I say, that little girl is splendid . . .”
“You try, Madame.”
“There is absolutely no need for anyone to take trouble to calm me, since I am perfectly calm.”
“Calm?”
“Perfectly.”
“Elisewin . . . isn’t she beautiful? She seems . . .”
“Father Pluche, you must stop looking at women all the time.”
“She is not a woman . . .”
“Oh yes, she is.”
“A small one, though . . .”
“Let’s say that the dictates of common sense warrant due prudence in considering . . .”
“That’s not common sense. That’s plain fear.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“It certainly is.”
“It certainly isn’t.”
“Oh, enough. You two are capable of going on for hours. I shall retire.”
“Good night, Madame,” said everybody.
“Good night,” replied Ann Deverià, a trifle absently. But she did not get out of her armchair. She did not even change position. She stayed there, motionless. As if nothing had happened. Really, it was a strange night, that one.
Perhaps, in the end, they would all have surrendered to the normality of a night like any other; one by one, they would have gone up to their rooms, they would even have fallen asleep, despite that tireless roaring of the stormy sea, each one wrapped up in his dreams, or hidden in a wordless sleep. Perhaps, in the end, it could have even become a night like any other. But it didn’t.
The first to take her eyes off the windows, to turn suddenly and to run out of the room, was Dira. The other children followed her, without a word. Speechless, Plasson looked at Bartleboom, who, speechless, looked at Father Pluche, who, speechless, looked at Elisewin, who, speechless, looked at Ann Deverià, who carried on looking straight ahead. But with an imperceptible surprise. When the children reentered the room they were carrying lanterns in their hands. Dira set to lighting them, one by one, in a strange frenzy.
“Has something happened?” asked Bartleboom politely.
“Hold this,” replied Dood, proffering him a lighted lantern. “And you, Plasson, hold this, quick.”
No one knew what was going on anymore. Everyone found himself holding a lighted lantern. No one explained anything; the children were running here and there as if devoured by an incomprehensible anxiety. Father Pluche was staring at the little flame of his lantern as if hypnotized. Bartleboom was mumbling vague phonemes of protest. Ann Deverià got out of her armchair. Elisewin realized she was trembling. It was in that moment that the big glass door that gave onto the beach was thrown wide open. As if catapulted into the room, a raging wind began running around everything and everybody. The children’s faces lit up. And Dira said, “Quick . . . this way!”
She ran out of the open door, with her lantern in hand.
“Let’s go . . . out, out of here!”
The children were shouting. But not with fear. They were shouting to be heard above the roaring of sea and wind. But it was a kind of joy—an inexplicable joy—that rang out in their voices.
Bartleboom remained standing, rigid, in the middle of the room, completely disoriented. Father Pluche turned toward Elisewin: he saw that her face was alarmingly pale. Madame Deverià did not say a word, but took her lantern and followed Dira. Plasson ran after her.
“Elisewin, it would be better if you stayed here . . .”
“No.”
“Elisewin, now listen to me . . .”
Mechanically, Bartleboom took his cloak and ran out mumbling to himself.
“Elisewin . . .”
“Let’s go.”
“No, listen to me . . . I am not at all sure that you . . .”
The little girl—the very beautiful one—came back and, without saying a word, took Elisewin by the hand, smiling at her.
“But I am sure, Father Pluche.”
Her voice was trembling. But it was trembling with strength and will. Not with fear.
The Almayer Inn stayed behind, with its door banging in the wind, and its lights dwindling in the dark. Like sparks shooting out of a brazier, ten little lanterns went running along the beach, drawing witty and secret hieroglyphics in the night. The sea, invisible, was churning out an unbelievable din. The wind was blowing, throwing worlds, faces, and thoughts into disorder. Marvelous wind. And ocean sea.
“I demand to know where the devil we are going!”
“Eh?”
“WHERE THE DEVIL ARE WE GOING?”
“Keep that lantern up, Bartleboom!”
“The lantern!”
“Hey, do we really have to run like this?”
“I haven’t run for years . . .”
“Years what?”
“Good heavens, Dood, might one know . . .”
“HAVEN’T RUN FOR YEARS.”
“Everything all right, Bartleboom?”
“Dood, good heavens . . .”
“Elisewin!”
“I’m here, I’m here.”
“Let’s
stay close, Elisewin.”
“I’m here.”
Marvelous wind. Ocean sea.
“Do you know what I think?”
“What?”
“According to me, it’s for the ships. THE SHIPS.”
“The ships?”
“That’s what you do when there is a storm . . . You light fires along the coast for the ships . . . so that they don’t end up on the coast . . .”
“Bartleboom, did you hear?”
“Eh?”
“You are about to become a hero, Bartleboom!”
“What the devil is Plasson saying?”
“That you are about to become a hero!”
“Me?”
“MISS DIRA!”
“Where’s he off to?”
“Couldn’t we stop for a bit?”
“Do you know what the inhabitants of the island do, when there is a storm?”
“No, Madame.”
“They run like mad up and down the island with lanterns held above their heads . . . and so the ships . . . and so the ships don’t know what’s going on and they wind up on the rocks.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not joking in the slightest . . . There are whole islands that live off what they find in the wrecks.”
“You don’t mean to say that . . .”
“Hold the lantern for me, please.”
“Will you stop a minute, good Lord!”
“Madame . . . your cloak!”
“Leave it there.”
“But . . .”
“Leave it there, for heaven’s sake!”
Marvelous wind. Ocean sea.
“But what are they doing?”
“Miss Dira!”
“Where the devil are they going?”
“For goodness’ sake . . .”
“DOOD!”
“Run, Bartleboom.”
“Yes, but which way?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, have these children lost their tongues?”
“Look there.”
“It’s Dira.”
“She’s going up the hill.”
“I’m going that way.”
“Dood! Dood! We ought to go toward the hill!”
“Where’s he going?”
“Christ, does anybody know what’s going on around here?”
“Keep that lantern up and run, Father Pluche.”
“I shall not take one more step until . . .”
“But why won’t they speak?”
“I don’t like that look of theirs one little bit.”
“What don’t you like?”
“The eyes. THE EYES!”
“Plasson, where has Plasson got to?”
“I’m going with Dol.”
“But . . .”
“MY LANTERN, MY LANTERN HAS GONE OUT!”
“Madame Deverià, where are you going?”
“At least tell me if I’m about to save a ship or wreck one!”
“ELISEWIN! My lantern! It’s gone out!”
“Plasson, what did Dira say?”
“That way, that way . . .”
“My lantern . . .”
“MADAME!”
“She cannot hear you anymore, Bartleboom.”
“But it’s not possible . . .”
“ELISEWIN! Where has Elisewin got to? My lantern . . .”
“Father Pluche, come away from there.”
“My lantern has gone out.”
“To blazes with it, I’m going that way.”
“Come, I’ll light it for you.”
“My God, Elisewin, have you seen her?”
“She must have gone with Madame Deverià.”
“But she was here, she was here . . .”
“Hold that lantern upright.”
“Elisewin . . .”
“Ditz, have you seen Elisewin?”
“DITZ! DITZ! What the devil has got into these children?”
“Here . . . your lantern . . .”
“I don’t understand what’s going on.”
“Come on, let’s go.”
“I must find Elisewin . . .”
“Let’s go, Father Pluche, everyone else is already ahead.”
“Elisewin . . . ELISEWIN! Good God, where have you got to? . . . ELISEWIN!”
“Enough, Father Pluche, we’ll find her . . .”
“ELISEWIN! ELISEWIN! Elisewin, I beg you . . .”
Motionless, holding her spent lantern, Elisewin heard her name come from afar, commingled with the wind and the roar of the sea. In the darkness, ahead of her, she could see the tiny lights of many lanterns as they met, each one lost in its own journey around the edge of the storm. In her mind there was neither anxiety nor fear. A placid lake had suddenly exploded in her soul. It had the same sound of a voice she recognized.
She turned and slowly retraced her steps. The wind was no more, the night was no more, the sea was no more, for her. She was going, and she knew where. That was all. A marvelous feeling. As when destiny finally shows its hand, and becomes a clear path, and an unequivocal trail, and a certain direction. The interminable moment of drawing near. That coming close. One would like it never to stop. The gesture of giving oneself over to destiny. Now that is an emotion. With no more dilemmas, no more untruths. Knowing where it lies. And attaining it. Whatever it may be, destiny.
She was walking—and it was the most beautiful thing she had ever done.
She saw the Almayer Inn drawing nearer. Its lights. She left the beach, crossed the threshold, entered and closed the door behind her, that same door from which she had rushed out together with the others, who knows how long before, still all unknowing.
Silence.
On the wooden floor, one step after another. Grains of sand crunching underfoot. On the floor, in a corner, Plasson’s cloak, which he had dropped in his haste to run off. On the cushions of the armchair, the impression of Madame Deverià’s body, as if she had just got up. And in the center of the room, motionless, Adams. Who was looking at her.
One step after another, until she was close to him. And said to him, “You won’t hurt me, will you?”
You won’t hurt her, will you?
“No.”
No.
Then
Elisewin
took
that man’s face
between her hands
and
she kissed it.
In Carewall, they would never stop telling this story. If only they knew it. They would never stop. Each in his own way, but they would all carry on telling the tale of those two and a whole night spent restoring life to each other, with lips and with hands, a young girl who has seen nothing and a man who has seen too much, one inside the other—every inch of skin a journey, of discovery, of homecoming—in Adams’s mouth to savor the taste of the world, on Elisewin’s breast to forget it—in the womb of that deeply troubled night, black storm, flashes of spume in the darkness, waves like collapsing woodpiles, noise, resounding blasts, raging with sound and speed, hurled onto the veined surface of the sea, the sinews of the world, ocean sea, a drenched colossus, writhing—sighs, sighs in Elisewin’s throat—soaring velvet—sighs at each new step in that world that crosses mountains never seen and lakes with forms unimaginable—on Adams’s belly the white weight of that young girl swaying to a soundless music—whoever would have said that by kissing the eyes of a man you could see so far away—by caressing the legs of a young girl you could run so fast and escape—escape from everything—to see so far away—they came from the two farthest extremities of life, this is the amazing thing, one would have thought they would never have met, if not by crossing the universe from one end to the other, and instead they did not even have to look for each other, this is the incredible thing, and the only hard thing was recognizing each other, recognizing each other, the work of a moment, at the first glance they already knew, this is the marvelous thing—this is the tale they would continue to tell, forever, in Carewall, so that no one
might forget that we are never far enough away to find one another, never—but those two were far enough away—to find each other, far away, farther than any other and now—Elisewin’s voice cried out, because of the torrents of stories that are storming her soul, and Adams weeps, as he feels them slipping away, those stories, finished, finally, finished—perhaps the world is a wound and someone is stitching it up in the fusion of those two bodies—and it is not even love, this is the amazing thing, but it is hands, and skin, lips, astonishment, sex, tastes—sadness, perhaps—even sadness—desire—when they tell the story they will not say the word love—they will say a thousand words, but they will not mention love—all is silent around them, when suddenly Elisewin feels her back breaking and her mind fading into white, she holds that man close inside her, clasps his hands, and thinks: I’ll die. She feels her back breaking and her mind fading into white, she holds that man close inside her, clasps his hand and, you see, she will not die.
Ocean Sea Page 11
