The Voyeur (25 page)

The moment he opens it to step into the hallway and cross the house—since the main entrance is on the other side—he decides that his landlady, if he should meet her, will doubtless want to talk to him. He leaves the door of his room ajar, making no noise. Some indistinct words reach him, probably from the kitchen at the other end of the hallway. Among several voices he recognizes his landlady's. Two men—at least—are talking with her. It sounds as if they were trying not to raise their voices—as if they were even whispering from time to time.

Mathias closes the door carefully and turns back to the window. It is very easy to get out that way. Having hoisted himself up on the heavy little table, kneeling in order not to scratch the waxed wood, he straddles the sill, crouches on the outer stone ledge, and jumps down into the low grass of the moor. If the two men want to talk to him, they can just as well do it later on.

Mathias walks straight ahead; the moist air refreshes his forehead and his eyes. The carpetlike vegetation along this part of the coast is so full of water that the soles of his shoes sound like sponges being squeezed. Walking on this elastic, half-liquid soil is easy and spontaneous—whereas last night his feet were constantly bumping into invisible stones along the way. This morning, all the salesman's fatigue has vanished.

He reaches the edge of the cliff almost immediately; it is quite low in this area. The tide is still ebbing. The sea is perfectly calm. The regular hiss of the waves is scarcely louder than the sound of his shoes in the grass, but slower. To the left can be seen the long, rectilinear pier sticking out at an angle toward the open sea, and at its tip the beacon-light turret indicating the entrance to the harbor.

Continuing in this direction, sometimes on the moor, sometimes on the rocks themselves, Mathias' progress is hindered by a long crevice running perpendicular to the shoreline. It is no more than a yard wide at the top, narrowing below until it is too restricted for anything larger than the body of a child to slip through. But the crevice must penetrate much deeper into the rock; the various outcroppings along the sides make it impossible to see to the bottom. Instead of widening as it approaches the sea, the crevice narrows still more—at least on the surface—and offers, along the cliffside, no practicable opening in the chaos of granite blocks extending as far as the beach. It is therefore impossible to slip into it at any point.

Mathias takes the bag of gumdrops out of his pocket, opens it, inserts a pebble for ballast, twists the cellophane neck several times, and drops it where the crevice seems least choked. The object bumps against the stone sides once, then again, but without being damaged or obstructed in its fall. Then it disappears from sight, swallowed by distance and darkness.

Leaning over the crevice, his ears straining, Mathias hears it ricochet a third time against something hard. A characteristic noise, immediately afterward, indicates that the body has ended its course in a hole full of water. The latter doubtless communicates with the open sea at high tide, but by channels too narrow and complicated for the undertow ever to bring the little bag to light. Mathias straightens up, makes a detour in order to bypass the crevice, and continues his interrupted walk. He wonders if crabs like gumdrops.

Soon the flat rocks on which the beginning of the big pier is constructed are at his feet—sloping reaches of gray stone that extend to the water without the least bit of beach, even at low tide. Here the customs path joins a more important road to the interior, turning away from the shore at an old, half-razed wall, apparently the remains of the ancient royal city.

Mathias climbs down the rocks without difficulty, owing to their convenient arrangement. In front of him rises the outer wall of the pier, extending vertically and rectilinearly toward the beacon light.

He climbs down the last slope, then up the few steps leading to the quay by the opening cut into the massive parapet. He finds himself once again on the rough pavement, new-washed by the morning's rain. The harbor is as smooth as a frozen pond: not the slightest undulation, not the slightest ripple at the edge, not the slightest tremor on the surface. At the end of the pier, moored against the landing slip, a small trawler is loading crates. Three men—two on the pier, one on the deck—laboriously pass them from hand to hand.

The strip of mud exposed below the quay n0 longer looks the same as 0n the preceding days. Mathias nevertheless has to think several seconds before he realizes the nature of the change, for nothing strikes the eye as extraordinary in this grayish-black expanse: it is merely "clean"—all the debris which previously covered it has been removed at one stroke. Mathias actually recalls having noticed, the day before, a group of men raking here at low tide. The proprietor had remarked that certain habits of cleanliness had been maintained on the island ever since the naval occupation. The salesman had pretended, of course, to remember something of the kind from his earliest childhood; but in reality he had completely forgotten this detail, along with all the rest, and such images awakened no response.

Remains of shellfish, pieces of iron or crockery, half-rotten seaweed—everything has disappeared. The sea has smoothed out the layer of mud, and as it retreats, leaves behind a shining, immaculate beach from which emerge here and there only a few solitary rounded stones.

As soon as he enters the café, the proprietor calls out to Mathias; there is a chance for him to return to the city without waiting for the boat tomorrow night. A trawler—the one at the landing slip—will be leaving in a little while for the mainland; in spite of the strict regulations, the captain has agreed to take him as a passenger. Mathias looks through the glass door at the little blue boat still being loaded in the same laborious fashion.

"The captain is a friend of mine," the proprietor says. "He'll do it for you as a favor."

"Thank you very much. But I have my return ticket. It's still good—I don't want to waste it."

"They won't ask much, don't worry about that. Maybe the steamship line will refund your money anyway." Mathias shrugs his shoulders. His eyes are following the silhouette of a man walking down the pier, coming from the landing slip.

"I don't think so," he says. "And I'd have to get on board right away, probably, wouldn't I?"

"You've still got a good quarter of an hour: plenty of time to get your things together."

"But not time to have lunch too."

"I can give you a quick cup of coffee."

The proprietor bends over the open cupboard to take out a cup, but Mathias stops him with a gesture of his hand and makes a face: "If I can't take my time over a good cup of
café au lait
with two or three rolls and butter, I'm not good for anything."

The proprietor lifts his arms and smiles, a sign that in that case he can do nothing more. Mathias turns his head toward the glass door. The fisherman in red clothes walking along the pier seems to have stayed in the same place while he was not looking; yet his regular pace must have brought him noticeably closer during these last remarks. It is easy to check his progress by means of the baskets and fishing tackle along the route. As Mathias watches him, the man quickly leaves these reference points behind, one after the other.

Mathias smiles back at the proprietor and adds: "Besides, I have to go and pay for my room. My landlady probably won't be home now."

A glance through the glass door affords him the same surprise: the fisherman is at exactly the same place he appeared to occupy a moment before, when Mathias' eyes had left him, still walking with the same even, rapid pace between the nets and traps. As soon as the observer stops watching him he stands still, continuing his movement at the very moment Mathias' eyes return to him—as if no interruption had occurred, for it is impossible to see him either start or stop.

"It's your business," the proprietor says. "If you want to stay with us so badly. . . . I'll bring you something right away."

"Thank you. I'm hungry this morning."

"I'm not surprised! You didn't eat anything last night."

"I'm usually hungry in the morning."

"In any case, nobody can say you don't like the country around here! You'd think you were afraid of missing a day of it."

"Oh, I know the country quite well—I've known it for a long time. Didn't I tell you I was born here?"

"You had plenty of time to drink a cup of coffee and get your things. As for the money, you'll spend more staying here."

"Well, that's too bad. I don't like making decisions at the last minute."

"It's your business. I'll bring you something right away. . . . Hey! Here's little Louis now."

The door opens to admit a sailor in a faded red uniform— the one who was walking on the pier just now. Besides, his face was not unfamiliar to Mathias.

"Don't bother," the proprietor says to him. "He doesn't want anything to do with your old tub."

The salesman smiles amiably at the young man: "I'm not in such a hurry as all that, you know," he says.

"I thought you wanted to leave the island right away," the proprietor says.

Mathias glances at him stealthily. The man seems to have meant nothing in particular by his remark. The young sailor, his hand still on the doorknob, looks at each of them in turn. His face is thin and severe. His eyes seem to see nothing.

"No," Mathias repeats, "I'm not in such a hurry."

No one answers. The proprietor, leaning in the doorway behind the bar, is facing the sailor wearing the red canvas jumper and trousers. The young man's eyes are turned toward the back wall, to the comer of the room occupied by the pin-ball machine. It looks as if he were waiting for someone.

He finally mutters three or four words—and goes out. The proprietor exits too—by the other door, into the room behind the bar—but returns almost at once. He walks around the bar to the glass door to look outside.

"This drizzle," he says, "will last all day."

He continues his commentary on the weather—the island's climate in general and the meteorological conditions during the last weeks. Although Mathias had feared another discussion of his poor reasons for not leaving, the man, on the contrary, seems to approve heartily of his decision: today is scarcely a good day, actually, to risk going out in a fishing boat. Not that there is much danger of seasickness in a calm like this, but on so modest a trawler there is nowhere to keep out of the spray; the salesman would be soaked to the skin before reaching port.

The proprietor also mentions the filthiness of such boats: no matter how much time is spent washing them down, there is always some fish refuse around, as if it grew there as fast as it could be cleaned away. And it is impossible to touch an inch of rope without covering your hands with grease.

Mathias glances at the man stealthily. Evidently he spoke without any special meaning—with no meaning at all—he was merely talking for the sake of conversation, without attaching the slightest importance to what he was saying, without insistence or conviction; he might just as well be saying nothing.

The young barmaid appears from the room behind the bar, walking with tiny steps and carrying on a tray the silverware for breakfast. She sets it down on Mathias' table. She knows where everything belongs now and no longer makes the errors or the hesitations of the first day. An almost imperceptible deliberation still betrays her attention to her work. When she has finished arranging the silverware, she lifts her large, dark eyes to the traveler's face to see if he is satisfied—but without waiting longer than a second, a flicker of her eyelashes. It seems to him that she has smiled faintly at him this time.

After a final, roundabout inspection of the table service, she stretches out her arm as if to move something—the coffeepot, for instance—but everything is in order. Her hand is small, the wrist almost too delicate. The cord had cut into both wrists, making deep red lines. Yet she was not bound very tightly. The cord must have sunk into the flesh because of her futile efforts to get free. He had been forced to tie her ankles too—not together, which would have been easy—but separately, each one attached to the ground, about a yard apart.

For this purpose, Mathias still had a good piece of string, for it was longer than he had thought at first. In addition he would need two stakes solidly planted in the ground. . . . It was the sheep grazing nearby that furnished the ideal solution to this problem. Why had he not thought of it before? First he ties her feet together, so that she will lie still while he goes to shift the pickets; the sheep haven't time to move before he has swiftly attached them all to a single peg —instead of their original grouping into two pairs and one solitary animal. He thus recovers two of the metal pegs—pointed stakes with a loop at the top.

He had the most difficulty in restoring the sheep to their respective tetherings, for they had taken fright in the meantime. They ran in terrified circles at the ends of the taut cords. . . . She, on the other hand, was lying very still now, her hands hidden under her, behind the small of her back —her legs spread and slightly apart, her mouth swollen by the gag.

Everything becomes even calmer: the chromium-plated bicycle has been left in the hollow of the cliff, lying on the slope, conspicuous against the background of short weeds. Its contours are perfectly clear, with no suspicion of disorder and no blurred areas, despite the complication of its parts. The polished metal does not reflect the sun, doubtless because of the fine layer of dust from the road—almost a vapor —deposited on it. Mathias calmly drinks the rest of the
café
au lait.

The proprietor, who has again taken up his observation post behind the glass door, announces the little trawler's departure. The hull gradually slides away from the oblique stone rim; between can be seen the widening streak of black water.

"You could have been home by four o'clock," the proprietor says without turning around.

"Oh well, no one is expecting me," Mathias answers.

The other man says nothing, still watching the boat maneuvering—it now turns so that it is headed in a line perpendicular to its original direction, the stem facing the entrance to the harbor. In spite of the distance, the letters painted in white on the hull are still legible.