The Lost Sailors (16 page)

“Who's Amina?” she'd asked.

They often talked about it. Sometimes, it led to a quarrel. Because he didn't want to give up his memories of Amina. Melina would say that as long as he didn't give up those memories, he'd remain obsessed by the fear he had felt, which was worse than the humiliation.

Gradually, Melina had made him forget the fear and taught him to love again. She was a strong, earthy, realistic, headstrong woman. And she was a wonderful lover, too. She loved him. You could really love only one person in your life, she would say, the rest was just anecdotes. And Diamantis was the man she loved. And he would be the only one. Whatever happened.

But something else had happened to the two of them. To their life together. Melina hadn't reckoned with the sea. No, she hadn't been able to do anything against the sea. She realized that when he wrote to her, imitating his father,
We passed through the Pillars of Hercules, the headland where Antaeus died . . .
Beyond was the ocean.

Diamantis had had enough of plying the Mediterranean. The day he'd felt that he was an adult at last, he had set out on the ocean. He never forgot, in all the years that followed, that he owed what he was to Melina. He also owed her the most beautiful thing in the world. Mikis. Their son. Like a bridge between the seas, uniting them forever.

 

Diamantis was walking fast. After leaving Le Mas, he had stopped at the Samaritaine, in a corner of the Vieux-Port, for a last drink before getting back to the
Aldebaran
.

He had turned onto Rue de la République. At the end of it, on Place de la Joliette, there was a taxi stand. From there, it cost about fifty francs to get to Gate 3A. It all depended. Sometimes, a driver just finishing his shift would take him for free. All the regulars knew about the
Aldebaran
.

His head was buzzing. He wondered if the guy who had beaten him up twenty years ago was the same one Giovanni had gone to talk to. Just out of curiosity. He'd long gotten over the fear and humiliation, and didn't have any desire for revenge. That was another life. He was another man. And that was why he'd started thinking about Amina. He could now see her face clearly, her smile, her body. Just a memory, without desire. A beautiful memory, that was all.

Finishing his beer at the bar of the Samaritaine, he had decided not to go to Mariette's. Something was stopping him. Maybe he wasn't ready yet to sleep with a real woman. A woman who expected something from a man, from him. Something other than a quick fuck. Mariette was bursting with love. He couldn't take without giving something in return. That was what love was. An exchange between two people.

He had no idea yet what he could offer her. Her or anyone else. All he had was wounds, memories, his loneliness, and the sea that had his undivided attention. Mariette deserved a lot better than him. A lot more. She would find it.

He stopped at the intersection of Boulevard des Dames, to let a metallic blue Safrane pass. It didn't strike him that this car had already passed him once at the corner of the previous street. The Safrane turned onto Rue de la République, as if heading for Place de la Joliette. It stopped a few yards farther on, with the hazard-warning lights on.

As Diamantis came level with it, two men got out and walked up to him. Diamantis realized too late. But when he received the first blow, from a club, he realized it was starting over again. Just like twenty years ago. Because of Amina, he was sure.

The first blow to his temple knocked him to the ground. He immediately rolled himself into a ball, to protect his head and stomach. They hit him hard, seemingly at random, on his arms, his back, his legs. He was breathing as slowly as he could, in order to control his nerves, in order not to panic. “If they wanted to kill you,” he thought in a sudden flash, “they'd already have done it. Hold out.”

He held out until the kick in the face. The pain made him let go. Another kick hit him in the mouth. He barely had time to taste the blood on his lips before he was kicked in the stomach, twice. “Breathe,” he told himself. “Breathe.” The blows continued raining down on his body. He took a deep breath and rolled onto his side and again curled himself into a ball.

The blows stopped. He didn't move. He waited.

“That's just a warning, Diamantis. Stop looking for Amina. O.K.? Just drop it.”

He relaxed, it was over.

“Come on, let's get out of here!” one of the men said.

Yes, it was over.

Except that somehow one of the men's heels ended up on his nose. The blood started gushing. Broken, he thought. But still he didn't move.

M
ariette's smile vanished when she saw Diamantis's face. He didn't quite look like Quasimodo, but almost. His upper lip was split and swollen. His left eye was half closed, and below it his cheek was turning blue. Coagulated blood hung from his nose. His shirt was also covered in blood.

“Oh, my God!”

He smiled. At least, he thought he smiled. “I hope it's not midnight.”

She didn't laugh. “What happened to you?”

“I'll tell you . . . later . . . Now . . . I need a drink . . .”

He collapsed into a rattan armchair. He was feeling dizzy.

“Whisky?”

He nodded.

Diamantis had recovered his strength and had gotten up immediately after the Safrane had left. Mariette lived in the old quarter. On Place des Moulins, at the top of the hill. He dragged himself through the narrow, deserted alleys. Hot air filled his lungs. He stopped several times, leaning on the corner of a wall to recover his strength. When he got to Rue Vieille-Tour, he turned left. By the time he reached Place Lorette, he was lost. Supporting himself against a bench, he caught his breath. There was an acrid smell in the air. He saw a cat run along the sidewalk. He was shaking.

A moped came shooting down from the top of the street. It braked when it came level with him. Diamantis turned his head. The rider was a young black guy. A Rasta from head to foot.

“Hey, you O.K., man?”

He got off the moped and walked up to Diamantis.

“Shit, man, they really worked you over. Where you going?”

“Place des Moulins.”

“It's just over there,” he said, pointing to a street on his left. “I'll help you.”

“Thanks.”

He put two chains on his moped, one on the front wheel, one on the rear wheel, and padlocked both of them. “Don't wanna get it stolen.”

He put Diamantis's arm around his shoulder.

“That's it, lean on me. It's only fifty yards, man. Nearly there.”

Diamantis wasn't so much walking as dragging his feet.

“What number?”

They just had to climb some steps, and there was the square, with its magnificent plane trees.

“Number four.”

They were up against the handrail. Diamantis grabbed it for support. He couldn't feel his body anymore. All he could feel was the pain.

“Do you live here?”

“A friend of mine. She lives here.”

“You're gonna get lucky tonight. You'll see.”

It was a small three-storey building. Mariette lived on the third floor.

“Here,” she said, holding out the glass.

He took a big swig of whisky, then another. He started sweating. Mariette handed him a glass of water and two Dolipran.

“Drink this.”

The water was cold.

“More,” he said.

“Whisky?”

“Water.”

She poured him some more.

Then she helped him to stand and led him to the bedroom. It was bathed in a soft blue light. She laid him on the bed.

“I'm sorry,” he stammered, weakly.

His eyes closed.

“Shhh,” she whispered in his ear.

She undressed him tenderly, trying to move him as little as possible, then came back with a bowl and a wash cloth, and wiped the blood away from under his nose and around his lips. He let himself slide in between the sheets. They felt cool, which did him a world of good.

“Mariette . . .”

She kissed him on the forehead.

Everything went black.

 

Abdul Aziz and Nedim were sitting opposite each other, eating in silence. More rice and mackerel, washed down with the same cheap wine. But Nedim made no comment. Abdul Aziz was looking glum, because Diamantis hadn't returned, but that was no reason to take it out on him.

All the same, he couldn't stop himself talking. He really couldn't stand mackerel.

“He's found himself a woman, that's for sure. Did you see how he was all dressed up this morning? You did, didn't you? Fuck, he was dressed to kill!”

Abdul looked daggers at him. “So what?”

“So he won't come back, that's what. Wherever he's stuck his nose, I bet it doesn't smell of mackerel!”

“He always tells me in advance. I'm the captain, and . . . it's the regulations.”

“You're the captain, O.K. Nobody's disputing that. But don't get all worked up about it. What does it matter if there are two of us or three of us here, huh? The
Aldebaran
isn't going without him. Am I right?”

Nedim stood up, and cleared his plate, his glass, and his flatware. He whistled as he washed them, pleased with himself. He turned to Abdul. “How about a game of dominoes?”

“You're crap at dominoes.”

“Crap? That's what you think.”

“O.K.,” Abdul said.

Nedim was right. There was no point in getting worked up about it. He didn't give a fuck about Diamantis's love life. He was complaining on principle. Principles were all he had left now.

 

Nedim wasn't playing well. He found it impossible to concentrate. He was thinking about Diamantis. What a secretive person he was, fuck him! Shit, he could have told him he wasn't coming back tonight. Didn't he trust him or what? Did he think he was too stupid? Yes, that must be it. Diamantis thought he was too stupid. God, the guy had helped him a lot, had been a real pal to him, but as far as trust went, forget it. He didn't see him as part of his life. A pity. Yes, a fucking pity. He respected Diamantis. Diamantis could be a real friend. Even after they got out of here. He smiled.

Abdul Aziz noticed Nedim's little smile. What underhand move was he planning? He had four turns left, and according to his calculations Nedim was almost beaten. He had only one chance left.

“Why are you smiling?”

Forcing Nedim to talk would make him lose his concentration. Abdul didn't contemplate getting beaten by Nedim. It wasn't that he didn't like him, but, all the same, getting beaten by him, at such a simple game, would be pretty unbearable. Especially as he'd almost certainly laugh at him. He'd laugh in his face, worse than an Italian.

“Diamantis,” Nedim said.

“What about Diamantis?”

“Can you imagine their faces at home, if I told them my best friend's a Greek?”

“Is he your best friend?” Abdul asked, with a touch of jealousy.

“No, no . . . Just talking. To us, Greeks are just assholes. Not that I give a shit about that . . . Turks, Greeks. We all eat stuffed vine leaves . . . It's like we all sucked from the same teat. No, the difference is—”

“Look, are you playing?”

Without thinking, Nedim played a three-two. It was Abdul's turn. Abdul put down a double two. Nedim was finally stuck.

“Shit! I pass.”

“You're crap at this game, I told you.”

“Yeah . . . But maybe we should have something to drink. Any idea where he put his bottle?”

“In his cabin, I guess.”

Nedim looked at him. “You're the captain, you could do it, couldn't you? Go in his cabin. You can explain it to him when he gets back.”

Abdul didn't need to be asked twice. He wasn't sleepy, and he could certainly use a drink. Nedim's company was pleasant enough, even though conversations with him were often limited to fairly basic subjects. But this evening, that suited him just fine.

He'd been bored to death all day. He hadn't even managed to read ten pages of the book Walid had given him as a gift.
Lebanon: Aftermath of War
, by a sociologist named Ahmed Beydoun.

What we must ask ourselves is whether we have finally exorcized the demons of ethnic cleansing, and whether there is a real chance of a lasting peace, which in this country is inseparable from harmony and interaction between the communities.

In Abdul's head, everything was jumbled together. Cephea, Lebanon, Constantin Takis, the
Aldebaran
, the women he had loved, the ports he had known, Diamantis, old age, his brother's investment plans, the children who were growing up without him, the money he would need to settle in Lebanon, the ruins of Byblos, Cephea again, Cephea always. He had closed the book. He'd started down a slippery slope.

The truth was, he'd started to think about the future. That was his problem. Cephea had drawn him into that trap. The future. Thinking of the days to come. Giving them a meaning. Organizing them. Cephea had been like a time bomb in his life. She had exploded, and his existence had been blown to smithereens. Now he had to collect the scattered pieces.

That afternoon, on deck, he had realized that the horizon didn't excite him the way it used to. There were no more dreams for him on the other side, no more adventures. You always come back from beyond the horizon. Just as you always come back from your dreams. Thoughts like these shook his morale, but he couldn't stop them. One morning, you woke up to find you'd settled down with your wife and children in a nice little house, with a certain number of habits, repeated gestures, conventional smiles, hasty kisses in the morning, worries about the children, monthly bills to pay . . .

The years accumulated, and that was called life. By forcing him to choose, Cephea had brought him back to that reality. And he had suddenly discovered that he had lost his passion. When he had left for Sydney, the first time, he hadn't asked himself any questions. The future didn't exist. He had no hopes, no expectations. He was free. He was betting his whole life on that journey. He was an adventurer. These days, he was little more than a bureaucrat. The sea was just his bread and butter now. He could just as well be a merchant, like his brother Walid. Or run a hotel, or a restaurant.