Authors: Alessandro Baricco
Ocean Sea (17 page)
“Perhaps . . . that is, certainly, now that I come to think of it, certainly, it’s in that suitcase, you understand that I absolutely cannot leave it there . . . not that
they’re so wonderful, those prayers, for goodness’ sake, but, you know, to lose them like that . . . and considering that it’s a matter of a little trip of no more than twenty
days or so, it’s not that far away, it’s only a question of . . .”
“Father Pluche . . .”
“. . . it’s understood that I would come back in any case . . . I’m just going to collect the suitcase, maybe I’ll stop to rest for a few days and then . . .”
“Father Pluche . . .”
“. . . it’s a question of a couple of months at most, perhaps I might pop in on your father, that is, I mean,
ad absurdum,
it would be even better if I . . .”
“Father Pluche . . . God, how I’ll miss you.”
He left the next day. He was already aboard the carriage when he got out again and, going up to Langlais, said to him, “Do you know something? I would have thought that admirals stayed at
sea . . .”
“I would have thought that priests stayed in church.”
“Oh well, you know, God is everywhere . . .”
“So is the sea, Father, so is the sea.”
He left. And he didn’t leave a suitcase behind, this time.
E
LISEWIN STAYED IN
Langlais’s palace for five years. The meticulous order of those rooms and the silence of that life reminded her of the white
carpets of Carewall, and the circular avenues, and the flowerless life that her father, one day, had prepared for her. But what had been medicine and cure down there, here was a clear certainty and
a joyful recovery. What she had known as the womb of a weakness, here she was rediscovering as the form of a crystalline strength. From Langlais she learned that, among all possible lives, you have
to anchor yourself to one to be able to contemplate all the others with serenity. One by one, she gave Langlais the thousand stories that one man and one night had sown in her, God knows how, but
in an indelible and definitive way. He would listen to her, in silence. She would narrate. Velvet.
They never talked of Adams. Only once did Langlais, suddenly looking up from his books, say slowly, “I
loved
that man, if you can understand what that means, I
loved
him.”
Langlais died one summer morning, devoured by abominable pain and accompanied by a voice—velvet—that was telling him of the scents of a garden, the smallest and most beautiful in
Timbuktu.
Elisewin left the next day. She wanted to go back to Carewall. It would take her a month, or a lifetime, but there she would return. Of what awaited her there, she could imagine but little. She
only knew that she would keep all those stories within her for herself and forever. She knew that in any man she might come to love, she would seek the flavor of Thomas. And she knew that no land
could obscure, in her, the
mark
of the sea.
All the rest was still nothing.
To invent it
—that would have been marvelous.
CHAPTER 2
Father Pluche
A Prayer for One Who Is Lost, and Therefore, to Tell the Truth, a Prayer for Me.
Have patience, do
O Lord Most High
For once again it is I.
So, things are
going pretty well here,
the fact is that
folk get by,
some better than others,
but one always finds a way
a way to manage,
you understand me,
but this isn’t the problem.
The problem is quite different,
if you have the patience to listen
to listen to me,
to.
The problem is this road
this fine road
this road that rolls
and unrolls
and upholds
but does not roll straight
as it could
and not even crooked
as it might
no.
Curiously,
it is falling apart
Believe me
(just for once you believe in me)
it is falling apart.
To sum up then
if sum up I must
there is
a bit here
a bit there,
a bit everywhere
taken
all unaware,
I surmise,
by an urge
to improvise.
Maybe.
Now, not that I want to play things down, but I ought to explain this business to you, which is man’s work and not God’s, when the road ahead of one falls to pieces, crumbles, loses
its way, vanishes, I don’t know if you are aware of this, but it’s quite possible that you are not aware of this, it’s man’s business, in general, losing the way. Not
God’s. You must have patience and let me explain. It will not take a moment. First of all you must not allow yourself to be misled by the fact that, technically speaking, it cannot be denied,
this road that rolls, unrolls, and upholds, under the wheels of this carriage, effectively speaking, if we want to stick to the facts, is not falling to pieces at all.
Technically
speaking. It runs straight ahead, without hesitation, not even a bashful junction, nothing. Straight as a die. I can see that myself. But the problem, let me tell you, lies elsewhere. It is not
this road, made of earth and dust and stones, that we are talking of. The road in question is another . . . And it doesn’t run
outside
but
inside.
Here inside. I don’t
know if you recall:
my
road. Everybody has one, you know this yourself, you, besides, who are not exactly extraneous to the design of this machine that we are, all of us, each in his own
way. Everybody has a road inside, a thing that simplifies, moreover, the task of this journey of ours, and only rarely complicates it. Now is one of those moments that complicate it. To sum up,
then, if sum up we will, it’s
that
road, the one inside, that is falling to pieces, has fallen to pieces, bless it, it can’t resist anymore. It happens. Believe me. And it is
not a pleasant thing.
No.
I believe
it was
O Lord Most High,
it was
I believe
the sea.
The sea
confuses the waves
the thoughts
the sailing ships
the reason suddenly commits treason
and the roads
that were there yesterday
today mean nothing
So much so that I believe
I believe
that that idea of yours
of the Deluge
was
in fact
A brilliant idea
because
if you want
to find
a punishment
I wonder
if you could find
anything better
than leaving a poor devil
alone
in the middle of that sea
Not even a beach.
Nothing.
A cliff
An abandoned wreck
Not even that.
Not a sign
to understand
which way
to go
to go to die.
So you see,
O Lord Most High,
the sea
is a kind
of small
Deluge.
Family size.
You are there,
you walk
you look
you breathe
you converse
you observe it,
from the shore, I mean,
and that one
in the meantime
takes your thoughts
of stone
that were
road
certainty
destiny
and
in exchange
offers
sails
that sway in your head
like the dance
of a woman
who will drive you
mad.
Pardon the metaphor.
But it’s not easy to explain
how it is that you have no more answers
by dint of looking at the sea.
So now, to sum up, if sum up we will, the problem is this, that I have many roads around me and none inside, on the contrary, to be precise, none inside and four outside. Four. First: I go back
to Elisewin and stay there with her, which was also the principal reason, if you will, for this journeying of mine. Second: I carry on this way and go to the Almayer Inn, which is not an entirely
salubrious place, given its dangerous proximity to the sea, but which is also an unbelievable place, such is its beauty, and its tranquillity, and its airiness, and its anguish, and its finality.
Third: I go straight on, I do not turn off toward the inn, and I go back to the Baron, in Carewall, who is waiting for me, and all things considered my home is there and there is my place. It was,
at any rate. Fourth: I drop everything, take off this sad black cassock, I choose any other road, learn a trade, marry a witty woman who is not too beautiful, have a few children, grow old and
finally die, with your pardon, serene and tired, like any other Christian. As you see it’s not that I don’t know my own mind, I know it very well but only up to a certain point in the
matter. I know perfectly well what the question is. It’s the answer I want.
This carriage races on, and I don’t know where. I think about the answer and in my mind darkness falls
So
this darkness
I take
and I put it
in your
hands.
And I ask you
O Lord Most High
To keep it with you
For one hour only
hold it in your hand
just as long as is needed
to wash away its blackness
to wash away the ache
it gives both head,
that darkness,
and heart,
that blackness,
would you?
You could
simply
stoop
look at it
smile at it
open it
steal a light from it
and let it fall,
in any case
I’ll look
to see where
it is and
find it.
A mere trifle
for you,
such a big thing
for me.
Are you listening to me
O Lord Most High?
It’s not asking too much
of you
to ask if.
It’s not insulting
to hope that you.
It’s not foolish
to fancy that.
And then again it’s only a prayer,
which is a way of writing down
the scent of an awaiting.
Write
where you will,
the way
I have lost.
A sign will do,
something,
a slight
scratch
on the glass
of these eyes
that look
without seeing,
I shall see it.
Write
on the world
just one word
written for me
I
will read it.
Lightly brush
an instant
of this silence,
I will hear it.
Do not be afraid,
I am not.
And may this prayer
slip away
with the strength of words
beyond the world’s prison
to who knows where.
Amen.
A Prayer For One Who Has Once Again Found His Way, And Therefore, to Tell the Truth, a Prayer for Me.
Have patience, do
O Lord Most High
for once again it is I
He is dying slowly,
this man
is dying slowly
as if he wished
to enjoy,
to destroy
the last life
he has.
Barons die
as do men
beyond our ken
no more.
I am here
and it’s clear
that my place
was to stand here.
The dying Baron
wants news
of his daughter
no longer here
who knows where
she is
he wants to hear
she’s alive
where she is
she didn’t die in the sea
in the sea
she was cured.
I tell him this
and he dies
but to die this way
is a lesser death.
I talk to him
up close
and a bit slowly
and it’s clear
that my place
was
here.
You took me from
a road like any other
and patiently
you brought me
to this hour
when he needed me.
And I
who was lost
in this hour
have found
myself.
It’s amazing to think
you were listening
that day
really
listening
to me.
You pray
so as not to remain alone
to while away the time
you’d never dream that
God . . .
that God
likes to listen
to you.
Isn’t that amazing?
You heard me
You saved me.
Of course, if I may be permitted, in all humility, I don’t believe that there was really any need to cause a landslide on the Quartel road, something that was, apart from any other
consideration, fairly irritating for the local folk, something milder would have been enough, probably, a more discreet sign, you know, something more intimate, between us two. The same holds true,
if I may make a small objection, for the scene where the horses stopped dead—and there was absolutely no way of persuading them to continue—on the road that was taking me back to
Elisewin. It was technically very well done but perhaps far too spectacular, don’t you think? I would have understood even with much less, do you occasionally tend to overdo things, or am I
wrong? But, be that as it may, the folk down that way are still talking about it, you don’t forget a scene like that so easily. All things considered, I think that that dream of the Baron
would have been enough. The one where he got up from his bed and shouted, “Father Pluche! Father Pluche!” It was a thing well done, in its way, left no room for doubt, and indeed the
next morning I was already on my way to Carewall, you see it doesn’t take much, at the end of the day. No, I’m telling you this, because if it should happen again, you’ll know how
to go about things. Dreams are the kind of stuff that works. If you want my advice, that’s the best way. To save someone, if need be. A dream.
