The Closed Harbour (14 page)

Passing a huge hotel his eye caught sight for a moment of two huge brass bowls, one on either side of the entrance, filled with roses, and as he hurried past them he thought only of bunched fists.

The immaculate doorkeeper in one swift, disdainful glance took in the cheap check cap, the coat a little too short, especially the sleeves, the stiff trousers.

Marius slackened his pace, then fell into that wide, rolling gait, from sheer habit, and sometimes he was hard up against a shop window, and the next moment moving on the pavement edge. At street corners he stopped to look round, always careful of the traffic, standing there tense, nervous, waiting his opportunity to cross the road. Once he narrowly missed the wheels of a car and received the wrong kind of compliments from its driver. Against his own will he was falling into the pattern of this storming and thrusting life, he felt like a worn out cog, he fitted nowhere into the machine.

The Avenue was like a swiftly rushing river, he was being drawn into it, and as he crossed the road for the fifth time he thought, "I'll float anyhow."

He would sometimes fix his eye on some object ahead then move briskly towards it, only to falter at the last moment and ask himself, "what the hell am I doing amongst all this?"

A bus approaching its Stop would make him increase his pace, as though he had decided to catch it, and the conductor seeing him would wait, and when Marius reached it he stopped dead and let it go on.

Once he turned back, went down the avenue for two blocks then returned by the way he had come.

"It hardly matters which way one goes," he thought.

A clock struck noon. The sun had climbed high, he began to sweat, and he could not get the hot, penetrating stench of petrol out of his nostrils, the smell seemed to lie congealed in the air itself. He felt sweat under his collar, between his thighs, he dashed a hand to his temples and wiped drops from it.

"I'm crazy, I'm walking too fast," he said to himself and averted the glance of a passing man who stared at him with some interest, and then passed into a café.

"I'm a fool. Rushing about in this heat, no wonder people stare at me," and before he realized it he had come to a queue of people outside the booking office of a theatre.

Marius paused. People were studying photographs of the company, and he joined them. He looked at the pictures of the actors, the actresses, he listened to the comments of others, and then he saw himself in the long mirror by the doors.

"I say, d'you mind carrying these bags down to the Rotunde, over the way there?"

Marius swung round to face a tall, over-dressed, florid gentleman and an equally over-dressed and florid lady.

"What's that?"

The man was offering him the bags.

"Yanks. Christ! They take me for a porter," he thought and hurried away from the theatre.

He turned into the first side street.

"Ah!" he exclaimed at the first Bistro, and turned in.

The bar was empty. Marius went to a table in the corner and sat down. The waiter bore down upon him.

"Good day, sir."

"A cognac, please," Marius said, then bawled after the departing waiter, "I don't care whether you bring it or not."

The waiter stopped dead in his tracks, swung round.

"The gentleman asked for a cognac, d'you want a cognac?"

Marius sprawled, he felt tired, as though he had just completed a full day's hard toil. He eased himself up, one long leg was thrown up on a form, the other had vanished under the table.

"Well, damn you, can't you bring me the drink then?" he shouted.

"What the hell am I doing down here?" he was asking himself when the waiter returned with the drink.

"Your cognac, sir."

"All right. Leave it there," Marius said.

"There is the question of payment," the waiter said.

His nostrils quivered, as though this bird were high.

"Thank you, sir," he said, even before Marius showed signs of putting his hand to his pocket.

He stood quietly, hands clasped gently in front of him, waiting, and then he saw the man's hand go to the inside pocket of his jacket.

Marius put some notes on the table.

"Thank you," said the waiter, carefully extracted what was due, pushed back the remaining notes.

"Have it," said Marius.

The waiter's head lifted a little, "it is hardly necessary, sir, thank you," and he walked off down the long narrow room and left Marius fingering his cognac. But from the top of the counter he stood and watched him.

One got all sorts of people in this end of the city, all sorts of people in Ferroni's, but rarely a peasant.

"Smells a little," thought the waiter. "He'll probably end up by cadging a drink and then asking me to meet his wife."

He leaned heavily on the counter, he hummed to himself, a popular song, but never for a moment did his eye leave Marius, and suddenly he was calling again.

"Again."

"Yes sir."

He offered Marius a curious smile but this was not returned.

And when he came back he offered the visitor another smile.

"Have you ever heard of a man called the Sailor's friend?"

"Me? No sir. I'm sorry to say that I have not. Why?"

"I was looking for him, that's all."

"Perhaps the gentleman is joking, nobody of that name ever comes into Ferroni's, besides you're in the wrong place. The sea is at the other end of the city, I believe, I myself have never seen it."

He leaned against the table, and he missed nothing of Marius, his eye drawn first to the powerful hands, the wrists, a small tattoo, the hairs between the fingers, a dead black, the brown skin, the untrimmed finger nails, the dirt. And then slowly up the sleeves of the coat, pausing at the neck, noting a collar almost hidden, a lean, hairy throat, higher to the chin, blue from the razor, and then he was looking over Marius's head. He could see more through the mirror.

"Why don't you draw the curtains," Marius said, "every time I move I see somebody looking at me," and automatically he handed the waiter his empty glass.

The waiter suddenly laughed.

"What the hell are you laughing at, I'll break your neck," and Marius made an effort to rise, but fell back again.

"It's only yourself, sir, you've but to turn round and look."

Marius looked round, saw himself in seven mirrors, himself laughed.

"Only me. Fancy
me
being scared of me," but when he looked up the waiter had already gone for the drink.

An old man came into the room, doddering, he might have been held together by string, and at his heels a stout, middle-aged matron, who kept a tight finger on his coat hem, and she said "steady there" in a low voice.

Marius looked up as the pair went past. "Tart," he thought, glanced at the old man, then again at the woman.

"Where's his leash?" he asked.

The waiter was standing in front of him again. Marius turned and looked after the pair who had reached a top table.

"She's deaf as a post," he thought.

"That won't cost you a sou," the waiter said. "Are you hungry?" He sat down opposite Marius and studied him closely. "I could get you something."

"You'll get me nothing. Here" and he paid for his drink.

"I have some manners left, thanks for the drink, but I can pay, and I'm not hungry. Did you ever hear of this man called the Sailor's Friend?"

The waiter folded his arms, paused a moment, said quietly, "I only wish I had, so that I could tell you, but the fact is we never see sailors, we only see actors and actresses here. You look a bit like an actor yourself, that nose," he said.

"Were you an actor?" asked Marius, and he lifted the cognac to his lips, "were you an actor?"

"Only for three months, and that was too long. I felt like a virgin among them. I was too pure. Excuse me," he said, and dashed off to attend to the two new customers.

"God Almighty he thinks I'm a tramp."

He finished off his drink, called for another. The waiter did not answer him, did not move.

"Waiter."

Marius was ignored.

The two people at the top table paused in their conversation, lowered their glasses, looked at the man sprawled in the corner, smiled into each other's faces, then saw the waiter going down.

"You've had enough here, sir," the waiter said.

He picked up the empty glass.

"Not half enough," Marius said, he was on his feet, glaring at the waiter.

"Not half enough," closing in, his face almost touching that of the waiter, who now drew back a little, suddenly gripped Marius by the wrist, pulled him away from the table.

"I mean," the waiter said, "that you have had enough, and now you can get out of here. Your place is at the other end of the avenue."

With his hand in the middle of Marius's back he pushed, whilst with the other he gripped the man's neck, moving swiftly towards the door.

"Out you get," and Marius went staggering down the steps.

"He's right," he thought, "he's right, I've nothing left, nothing. One time I'd have put a man on his back for that, and now I'm like a dog with its tail between his legs, and I can go into a bistro and I can be insulted by a bloody flunky and accept it, and a kick in the arse into the bargain."

He sat on the bottom step, his hands clasped about his knees.

"The sea is at the other end of the city."

He was hearing the waiter again, looking at his woman's hands pressed flat upon the table, "for myself I've never seen it."

It dragged Marius back to his room again, he was there already, lying on the bed under the window, looking out at that impregnable Chateau d'If, the solid mass of the breakwater, the restless, everlasting waters.

The waiter was right. Who the hell could see the sea from the Place de Lenche, if one believed in the sea one saw it from the top of the ant-hill.

"I'm on its second floor," he thought, "and perhaps I have the clearest, longest view of all."

He looked around as he got to his feet, but nobody was watching him, and nobody cared very much, besides it was far too hot to notice anything except one's own discomfort.

"I could walk right back there. I could even take a cab. I could have what they've laid out, and I could sit and eat it with her watching me."

The very thought made his stomach itch, and coming suddenly on a fruit-seller he bought some apples, and went on, stuffing them in his pocket, and in the first side street took one out of his pocket and ate it. Then he came back to the Place and continued, his pace leisurely, aimless, his mind a chaos, his limbs dragging him relentlessly, in spite of a feeling of weariness and he longed for the night again, and for Lucy. The distraction, the wave that engulfed the hard facts, tore time to shreds. Suddenly he stopped dead in his tracks.

There before him, seated at a table was the living image of Brunet, Brunet of the Transport Oriental, he was sure of it. The small, wiry man in his sober black, his flashing watch chain, was seated at an outside table of Pelleron's. Marius sat down. He did not at once look at the man, who never glanced his way, or interrupted his slow, joyful sipping of the apéritif.

When the waiter came Marius hesitated, he couldn't decide what he wanted, but the waiter was patient, courteous, he was full of suggestions. His face fell when Marius asked for a beer, nevertheless he brought it and Marius paid him, his tip was generous. Marius drank, and at the same time he was carefully studying the other man.

Yes, this was the same man, he was certain of it, same build, same height, even the same dress. It made him think of the last time.

"You're a stubborn creature, you say you are a Captain and I ask for the simple proof of it and you cannot show me. I want your merit, on paper," Brunet said.

"It must be him," thought Marius.

"Excuse me, sir," he said, and the small wiry man turned round.

"Yes?"

"You are Monsieur Brunet?"

"I am not Monsieur Brunet," and he gave the other a withering glance.

"But I've seen you before at Transport Oriental," Marius said.

"I'm afraid you have not, sir," replied the other.

"Pardon, I was certain, sir," said Marius.

"And it is accepted," and the man turned his back on Marius and forgot him.

It came back to Marius like a fast running film. The scene in the office, the man behind the counter and the man in front of it.

"I only require to be taken on on my merits," Marius said.

"There is still the question of the proof of them," Monsieur Brunet said. "I'll be honest," thought Marius and he exclaimed shyly, "Monsieur Brunet will realize certain difficulties. If I say I have no papers, that is to say—"

"You have lost your ticket?"

He had answered by a slow nod of the head, the very shame of it sent a rush of blood to his temples, he had stood there, helpless.

"Other men have lost them, one begins at the bottom again, sometimes it is difficult, sometimes it is not. But in the world of ships one takes no chances, if one does, one's broker may have one run in to the asylum."

"That," thought Marius, "that was the fifteenth time I had called."

He kept staring at the supposed Brunet, a suspicion had formed in his mind that it was
really
Brunet, that Brunet had recognised him, and was now completely ignoring him.

I can't start at the bottom again, I refuse. By God I refuse. Back to the bloody ant heap again, no. I am a Captain of ships or I am nothing, and if I'm stubborn I'm stubborn, and too, I must hold on to some shred of my dignity."

The wiry man had long since gone but Marius had not noticed this.

He was travelling back years, back to the old days, the early climbing, the hard way, the smelly tramps, the Grecian floating grave, the Rumanian dungeon, all of them calling themselves ships. Back to the lodging-houses, the dossing shops. Already he had a whiff of it in his nostrils, he was lying between the dirty blankets again, log-like on the stinking, sweated mattresses.

"Begin again? Never."

The waiter was standing just behind him, flapping his apron. He said casually, "the air is like a tomb to-day—"