The Lost Sailors (30 page)

 

A taxi took Cephea directly to the offices of the Port Authority. The driver took the coast road. As they drove along the viaduct that ran parallel to the harbor, she searched for a ship that looked like the
Aldebaran
, but didn't see any. She watched as the city advanced toward her. She was dazzled. Why had she never come here before? And why just now? She started to feel she was going to enjoy her stay in Marseilles. Abdul, who was so good at telling stories, would show her around. Make her love the city, maybe. If he hadn't suffered too much by not being at sea.

At the Port Authority, she asked where the
Aldebaran
was berthed. They sent her from one office to another. Then a young official introduced himself to her, led her to a small reception room, made her sit down, offered her a cup of coffee—which she refused—then informed her of what had happened the previous night. Captain Abdul Aziz, he told her, had been arrested for the murder of his radio operator, a young Turk whose name he had forgotten, following a fight.

“I'm truly sorry,” he said, and advised her to go to the police.

At the police station, she was told that her husband had been transferred to Les Baumettes prison early that morning, and that there was no chance she could talk to him today. Abdul had admitted the facts. She was given the name, address, and phone number of the lawyer who had been appointed to represent her husband, although of course, they told her, she could choose another lawyer if she wanted to. A list was available at the office of the Bar Association, in the Palace of Justice.

Cephea asked the policeman if Diamantis, the first mate of the ship, was still in Marseilles. Yes, he was still here. He hadn't yet been given permission to leave the city. The cop gave her the address that Diamantis had left with them.

She left the building. Her head felt empty. She stood there for a time, in the sun, not knowing what to do. She lit a cigarette and walked a few yards, lost in thought, along Rue de l'Evêché. The whole thing seemed unreal. It was a nightmare, and she'd soon wake up from it. Then her cigarette burned her fingers, and she realized she wasn't asleep. Abdul really had killed a man, he was in prison, and she was alone here, in Marseilles.

She found herself on a noisy thoroughfare, Boulevard des Dames. She was hot and thirsty, but didn't dare go into a bar, or even sit on a terrace. She had the feeling everyone was looking at her. Especially men, very insistently. She was starting to feel numb with fatigue. There was nothing else to think about or discuss. Life had decided for them. Abdul had left on his longest journey. Without asking her opinion, without even warning her in advance.

The time would seem long without him. She didn't know what she would do with the days, the months, the years to come. She didn't know what she would do with her body, which was desperate for him. She was all at sea, unsure of the future.

 

Cephea hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take her to Place des Moulins. The man grumbled because it was such a short distance. She could easily walk it. She apologized, said she didn't know Marseilles, she'd only just arrived.

The driver took her all the same. But he set off in the opposite direction, and took her all around the old quarter. A grand tour. Via Place Lenche, Rue Caisserie, Rue Méry, Rue de la République, and Rue François Moisson. And back almost to the spot where he had started from fifteen minutes earlier. She was sure she'd gone around in a circle, but didn't say anything.

She just hoped that Diamantis would be there. She needed to talk to someone who would listen to her, who'd be gentle and friendly. She needed someone to hug her. Her heart was swelling, and was about to explode. From what Abdul had told her in his letters, Diamantis was his friend. He trusted him for his reticence and his discretion.

A friend. She had a really urgent need for a friend to tell her troubles to.

The ride cost her seventy francs. Cephea paid without comment, didn't leave a tip, and slammed the door as she got out.

“Go back where you came from, half-breed!” the driver cried.

She didn't hear him.

She rang the doorbell.

 

Mariette's kitchen was fragrant with the smell of basil. The shutters were drawn against the blazing noonday sun, and the light in the room was diffuse. There was a sense of well-being that seemed as if it would never end. Life went on.

Diamantis, Lalla, and Mariette were drinking their umpteenth coffee and chain-smoking. None of them had had a good night's sleep. Diamantis had just told them the whole story. He hadn't left out the slightest detail. He felt lighter at last. He was waiting for their reaction, but they didn't have any.

Lalla let her head drop onto Diamantis's shoulder, and closed her eyes. He hugged her to him. Mariette ruffled Diamantis's hair tenderly, then went off to her bedroom to find more cigarettes. Diamantis watched her as she walked out. He hadn't looked for Mariette. It was she who had come to him, like a ship meeting a lost sailor. He really wanted to set sail with her, to make that voyage.

The doorbell rang.

“I'll go,” Diamantis said.

He planted a kiss on Lalla's forehead and went to the door.

He recognized Cephea immediately. She was just the way Abdul had described her. Apart from the tears. Two big tears running down her cheeks.

“I'm Diamantis,” he said. “Come in. We've just made coffee.”

He took her by the shoulders, with the respect and tenderness owed to women who've been hurt.

It is normal to say that a novel is a work of fiction. The story you have just read is no exception. It was entirely invented by the author, and the characters are also purely imaginary. But the reality exists. The reality of what is happening more and more frequently to sailors in various ports in France. From Marseilles to Rouen, many freighters are trapped in port, even now. The crews, often foreigners, live on board in very difficult conditions, in spite of the unfailing support shown them. My concern in this book has been to salute their courage and their patience.

As for Marseilles, my city, I wanted to portray it, once again, in such a way as to throw light on the questions currently being asked about the future of the Mediterranean. The views I have expressed have been greatly influenced by the writings of Fernand Braudel in
La Méditerranée
(Flammarion) and above all the remarkable book by Pedrag Matvejevich,
Bréviaire méditerranéen
(Fayard): two works that should also, I think, influence those responsible for the future of this region of the world.

Jean-Claude Izzo,

February 20, 1997

 

Jean-Claude Izzo was born in Marseilles, France, in 1945. He achieved astounding success with his Marseilles Trilogy (
Total Chaos
,
Chourmo
,
Solea
). In addition to the books in this trilogy, his two novels
The Lost Sailors
and
A Sun for the Dying
and one collection of short stories, have also enjoyed great success with both critics and the public. Izzo died in 2000 at the age of fifty-five.