Salt Water
Page 18
“Even so, the sea, the sea was like a drug…That’s obvious from the book…”
“I’m not sure…Perhaps it was less of a drug for him. I understand he was interested in only one thing in life: women. He looked for women everywhere, even when he was sailing, alone with his mariner, on his small yacht. His libido controlled him. I’m interested in the sea for itself. I’m not a novelist and I don’t think novels exist in real life; there is only a flow of unconnected, random, fortuitous events that develop, pass and vaporize. Novelists have to believe that memory is man’s strongest faculty, otherwise they’d have no room to play; in truth, man’s strongest faculty is his forgetfulness. Personally, I reckon the sea represents the essence of life, because I’m unable to see any meaning at all in its eternal movement. That’s no doubt why the sea makes me a contemplative soul. We spectators of life construct novels and dramas when we discuss the things happening before our own eyes, when we apply a dialectic to them, when we strike a stance. What stance do you want to strike before the sea? You must gaze at it or let it be. There’s no other option. For me the sea is a path that leads to disinterest, to an indifference toward things, whether real or fictitious…”
“I’m really not sure…”
“But of course! The moment you embark, you have that pleasant feeling of seeing things from a different perspective. While you are at sea, things on land seem small and insignificant. Mountains still command a degree of respect. Plains become a more or less light or heavy brushstroke of haze, grayer, then brighter. Towns look surprisingly insignificant the second you’re half a mile away. Houses assume derisory shapes and sizes. Roofs and walls immediately meld into the earth. The smaller things on land are, the more absurd they seem seen from the sea – the more poisonous they become, the more stupidity, lunacy and monstrousness they contain. In this sense, sea voyages are most useful, because they help put things in perspective. All kinds of nonsense and idiocy lurk under those trifling roofs – including one’s own. If the roofs are so insignificant, imagine how insignificant the things beneath the roofs are! Just test it out. After you’ve been in a seaside town, try gazing at it from three or four miles away. Forget the narrow streets and the arcades in the square. From out at sea you’ll see the huge quantities of foolishness and madness that contribute to making our lives unpleasant. You’ll be shocked by the pettiness of all that your eyes take in. It will make your life freer and less constrained…And if one day you climb a mountain, try to catch a glimpse of the village spire from the nearest peak. You’ll see it looking so small, like a postcard village. It all helps sweep the shadows away from life.”
“Which is to say that the sea cleanses, which seems obvious enough.”
“Yes, things seen from out at sea are put in their rightful place, and that’s really valuable. But then comes a second stage when you immerse yourself in the sea’s variety. The Mediterranean, I mean! The other seas are pure geography to me. And personally I’m happy to be limited in this way. I can never understand words like ‘eternity,’ ‘unity,’ ‘universe,’ ‘infinite’…If the ancients were distinguished by boundaries, I believe I’d have been a decent ancient. And after all, everything in the Mediterranean is local: the weather, cuisine, dialects and people. Everything here is constantly changing. A few miles to the south or to the north and everything varies: the direction of winds, the taste of fish, the amount of garlic in a stew, accents, tastes and feelings. These shades can be astonishing. At the same time of day, the southwesterly can be blowing in Cape Creus, the north wind in Cape Leucate and an easterly in the Tinyaus in the Camargue. Do you remember that day we met a northeasterly in Sa Dragonera and a southwesterly in Andratx? That was the day when Martinet said a northeasterly makes for a white sea and a southwesterly a blue…There’s no doubt that the constancy of these contrasts reinforces a permanent nitpicking of dogma. These differences mean that a voyage across this sea is ever intriguing, if you have an open mind. Everything is changing and transient, which implies a degree of discomfort that finally transforms into mere vagabond caprice: the clouds, the sea, the wind and the color of the sky. The lightness surrounding us is so striking you yourself end up transmuting into a light, levitating being. You let yourself go in the same way you secure the sheet when it’s too windy. Any other attitude would make little sense. What else could you do, if not that? Object? Argue?”
“And then contemplation begins…”
“Indeed. Even though I’ve sadly concluded that the most sublime contemplation doesn’t provide a living and that to live this life comfortably, you need a steady income. Once you have that, you can enjoy the life of an impenitent idler. You’ll become a spectator spending a couple of hours watching how the clouds are made and unmade, how the blue of the sky turns pink, then mauve, then crimson, how the waves and their burden of sun pass monotonously by. All this becomes the most natural thing in the world. In this state it is unthinkable that you might decide to write a letter, that you might want to meditate for a moment. Everything slips over your senses and leaves no trace. It’s as if your thoughts liquefy and the most solid thing they contain is light, color, air and wind. Sailing is never relaxing, but nothing could be lighter and more weightless for your thoughts. Nothing could be more mentally pleasing than a suggestion of sirens, colorful sirens, surrounded by air but, fortunately, bereft of anything carnal and firm, or persistently present.”
Mascarell signaled his disagreement. I understood he had a more tangible conception of sirens.
“In any case, to sail at the mercy of winds and the intrinsic frivolity of our own nature is indeed something subtle, because it leads you – or at least leads me – into states of contemplation with little in the way of obligation. This is feasible on days and nights when the weather is good and the sky clear. Obligations set in when the sea unleashes and smashes a parcel of water into your face, salty and hard as stone. That is most disagreeable. Then the sea becomes a tangible, direct challenge. Everything begins to swirl devilishly and you’re persuaded, once more, of the smallness of humans. When you’re on board a small craft, a strong northerly is blowing, and you’re trying to fry a couple of eggs, and you see the absurd way the eggs dance in the pan and you realize you can’t in fact fry them – that is when you get a clear sense of what exactly you represent.”
* * *
—
Martinet put the stew on the table. We lunched with the usual appetite one has between the sky and the sea. Then coffee was served. A lot of table talk ensued. Mascarell spotted the last bottle of Courvoisier and we paid our respects copiously.
The look of the day hadn’t changed at all: rather, every feature had been reinforced. The ceiling of pale-gray clouds seemed to lower as the afternoon set in. The sea, amazingly still, was blue-black. Horizons appeared to shrink. As day began to fade, the light tended toward a ghostly hue. There was the slightest breath of wind. Now we sailed in a more relaxed style. Joanot hoisted the sails before lunch. Mindful of the weather, I glanced at Martinet now and then; he was probably thinking along similar lines as he stared at me, but we said nothing. A good day at sea – whether you want to make your escape or tackle the day head on – is one that frankly asserts itself, that has a palpable, visible shape. This was an imprecise day, in a state of suspension, an embryonic moment. The strangeness of the weather was clearly affecting us: the silence on board deepened, nobody felt like talking. We looked…but what were we looking at? What could we have looked at, if there was nothing to see? Only water surrounded by low, thick mist. The engine was making a tremendous racket, but apart from bothering us on board, I don’t think it annoyed anyone else. It was a noise that didn’t carry three hundred yards, that vanished into the immense void.
“What’s the barometer saying, Martinet?” I asked, lighting a cigarette. “Is it going up or down?”
“Neither!” answered Mascarell, laughing. “We’re sailing without a barometer. It was an oversight – we
forgot it. When I get back to the office, I’ll find one inside an elegantly wrapped parcel with the other things we omitted on this trip. However, if we don’t have a barometer, we do have Panxito on board, and he might give us a hint as to what weather to expect.”
“A cat doesn’t have much meteorological sense. Or if it does, it modestly hides it. Panxito won’t help us. That’s a pity! Just look how he’s dozed off next to the stove once he ate his fill. His digestive juices must have brought on cold shivers, and now he’s warming back up. Cats are like prudent folk: they don’t need advice, and they do whatever the hell they want to.”
“In that case,” said Mascarell, “we are a ship abandoned by the hand of God. I mean to say, we’re at the mercy of nature’s dark forces…”
“That’s not quite right. We can rely on Martinet, who really knows what’s what. Over the last few years he’s expanded his own seafaring nous with that of his patron, which is vast. He’s been sailing for four or five years without his vessel budging an inch, as if he were on board a transatlantic liner, painting and polishing brass. You really must agree, Martinet; yours is an ideal life for a sailor…”
“You can joke as much as you like,” retorted Martinet, pouring a shot of cognac into his coffee and granting his vowels all the grace of the Majorcan lilt, “but you have hit one nail on the head. I haven’t met a single sailor who liked the sea. The sea is just another way to earn a living, a fairly unpleasant way at that. What sailors and mariners like most about the sea are its ports, and of the things in ports or thereabouts they most enjoy the cafés. There’s nothing prettier than the sea seen through a café window, especially when the weather’s poor and the coffee is warm and delicious…”
“I’m sure your patron shares your view…!” said Mascarell, slapping Martinet on the back.
“Senyor Mascarell,” said the sailor, “that’s a view shared by many amateurs. I’ve learned that in the years I’ve worked at the club. If you’ll allow me, I’d like to tell you something…”
“Go ahead, Martinet…We’re all equal here.”
“Oh, please don’t say that…! We’re not all equal here. You, senyor, are the master and give the orders. I’m the sailor on board. I meant something else. In Barcelona I’ve observed that people’s affection for the sea can be quite intense…but I can tell you, here and now, that affection can disappear in a flash. The sea brings lots of headaches and peculiar ideas. It can seem lovely in your head but not so lovely in reality. Sometimes it can be mean and nasty. If you want to keep your love of the sea, it’s best you don’t catch it when it’s unleashed and raging. I’ve often seen how the most unthinking, boisterous lovers of the sea are the first to tire of it. If they catch it on an off day, are for a second scared, upset or alarmed, their fine words dive underwater. And the oddest thing is that all their fancy notions disappear totally, without a trace. There’s no chance they’ll ever come back. Ever…”
“That’s very well said, Martinet…What I’d like to know is why are there such sudden changes. Is it discomfort? Is it the sense of unease the sea often triggers? I don’t mean the people who suffer from seasickness, which explains why millions of human beings are horrified by the sea. We’ll leave them out of it. Let’s speak of the others. In this regard, I think it’s vanity that leads the rest to wrong conclusions. When people experience the least bit of unpleasantness at sea, they think they look foolish. It’s ridiculous, but that’s how it is. For people living in this country, things are all the more hateful in proportion to how foolish they think they’ve been made to look.”
“I probably wouldn’t go that far,” Martinet replied, rolling himself a cigarette. “What I will say is that if you want to keep your love of the sea, you should try to avoid experiencing it at its worst. It’s lethal if you happen to be out there when it’s scary. You must take every step not to let that happen, and if you do get caught and trapped, you must bear up, and bear up like the bravest.”
“Martinet, what do you mean by ‘bear up like the bravest’?” asked Mascarell solemnly.
“I mean, on this craft, as on any ship, keep quiet…You can’t play games with the sea. The first thing you need to handle these small craft is basic cunning. If, despite all your efforts, you’re caught out, you must put on a brave face. When you go to a dance, you must dance. Today, for example, I…”
“Out with it, Martinet, out with it…”
“It’s something silly. I just wanted to say that when we left Port de Sóller this morning, when it started to get overcast, I’d have bet five hundred pessetes it would all end in mist and a southwesterly, which would have been the best for our voyage. And look what’s happened: it’s gotten more and more overcast and becalmed. The wind hasn’t rippled the sea for a second.”
“And what do you deduce from all that?” asked Mascarell.
“Very little, nothing much at all. All I can say is that I understand nothing. And as doctors like to say: time will tell. The day will play out as it pleases…”
Joanot had his hand on the helm. Martinet took over and told him to go and wash up. Mascarell handed Joanot a cigar, which he lit with evident delight. He started to smoke…
* * *
—
Before lunch I’d found a translation of Goethe’s Italian Journey under a cushion in the cockpit. There were several Italian books in Rufí’s small library – Mascarell knew Italy and liked to read in Italian – as well as a number of sailing charts from the Italian Cartographic Service. In 1786, the date of Goethe’s first trip to Italy, he had never seen the sea. I tried to find out what that first contact had led his brilliant pen to write. I jotted down some quick notes.
Goethe arrived in Venice toward the end of September 1786. On the night of the thirtieth he writes in his diary: “Today I purchased a map of Venice and it’s much bigger than I’d imagined. After studying it for a long while, I went up the campanile of San Marco, which gives one a unique view. It was almost noon, the sky was wonderfully transparent so I could see both far and near without needing an eyeglass. The tide was covering the lagoon and looking toward the Lido, a narrow strip of land that encloses the lagoon, I saw the sea for the first time and some sails in the distance.”
“I saw the sea for the first time…” That’s all he says.
Over the next few days, Goethe wanders around Venice, where, strangely, he doesn’t seem to have a single friend. He behaves like a typical tourist (although that word had yet to be invented) in the city: he goes in and out of churches, he gazes at works of art, he rides in a gondola, at night he goes to the opera – especially opéra bouffe. On 8 October, he writes in his diary: “At first light this morning I went to the Lido, the strip of land that closes off the lagoon and separates it from the sea. After getting off the boat, I walked across the strip of land. I heard a loud noise created by the sea crashing on the beach, and I realized it must be high tide. And so my eyes finally have seen the sea!”
After describing what he did on the Lido (he collects small sea shells and snails), Goethe writes of his visit to the tomb of Smith, the English consul, author of an edition of the works of Palladio, in the Protestant cemetery. Goethe writes: “All in all, the sea is a great spectacle! I will try, as best I can, to sail in a boat, because the gondolas don’t dare venture into the open sea.”
“All in all, the sea is a great spectacle…” This is Goethe’s memorable comment on gazing at the sea for the first time. It’s absolutely a statement of the obvious, a kind of obviousness that this German genius, influenced as he was by Greco-Roman culture, very rarely fell back on. Some people have noted it is quite a commonplace statement. I’m not sure…I think that Goethe rises to the occasion with a reasonable flourish, which is, in any case, typical of Goethe.
I have always found it very difficult to write anything general and overarching about the sea that was worthwhile saying. There are many analytical descriptions
of specific moments of the sea, and some are excellent. English literature about the sea is extensive and, at times, unsurpassed.
Few things exist on the subject of the sea that can rival lines of Byron’s poetry (in rhetorical mode) and pages of Conrad (in realist mode). But overarching judgments about the sea miss the mark.
Mascarell, whom Maupassant seemed momentarily to be sending to sleep, asked me: “What are you doing?”
“Not much. I’m taking some notes on Goethe’s Italian Journey.”
And I read him what I had written. Mascarell opined that Goethe displays the circumspection of a true intellectual.
“He could have launched into a speech in poor taste,” he told me, “but he merely writes a comment that is banal and ordinary. His was a good reaction.”
“I agree with you,” I responded. “Have you ever witnessed reactions from men or women seeing the sea for the first time? It can be highly amusing. There are usually two kinds. Some opt to burble in a grandiloquent, incoherent, exorbitant manner. They lard their perorations with the inevitable words ‘grandiose,’ ‘sublime,’ ‘immense,’ ‘eternal,’ ‘enormous’ and the whole gamut of shock troops of the most facile, predictable adjectives. The same sort of verbiage the starry vaults often produce. If the individual embarking on this sonorous rhapsody has the misfortune to be at all educated, he will add alongside these resonant adjectives the Latin race, the Parthenon, the canon, the classical arch, Pericles, Alcibiades and even, if he’s not careful, Roman law. Generally, however, people seeing the sea for the first time don’t usually say a thing: they are overwhelmed and they stay silent. Not very long ago I engaged in conversation with a farming lady from the Plain of Vic, who was contemplating those briny waves for the first time. She reacted by saying: ‘Perhaps there’s too much water for so little meat…!’ ”