Malicroix

by Henri Bosco

  • • •

  At La Regrègue, where I returned before noon, I saw Balandran during the meal. He brought me news of the flock.

  “Tomorrow you’ll see the Sacristan, Mr. Martial.”

  “Still strong?”

  “Still strong.”

  Balandran disappeared after the last dish. Too quickly. But I had wanted that. He was obeying.

  I found an ax and took it with me.

  It was very hot out. The meal, light as it was, had made me heavy. I lay down and slept for a long time. When I awoke, the sun was low. Through a chink in the half-closed shutters, a long ray of light was entering. All golden. It rested on the wall, at the foot of the alcove. Outside, a huge plane tree spread its scent of dry leaves. It was seven o’clock. I washed my face and hands and opened the window. It looked out over the roof. I could see the waving fleece of the great forest that surrounds La Regrègue. This forest hides the river, although its presence can be sensed through the mist. I recognized the island’s poplars above the trees on the shoreline, but the island itself remained invisible. Only the peaks of its tall foliage announced it. Not a single animal could be heard. The evening was beautiful, the air wonderfully calm. A little before nightfall I left La Regrègue. I made note of two landmarks: the first for the path I had found in the morning, the path to the ferry; the second going down from the house to the river. Certain I would not get lost, I took the second. Soon enough, it brought me to shore. A wooded spit of land jutted out above the water. I settled behind a bush. From there I could clearly see the tip of the island, a little downstream. That was where the Ranc surfaced.

  •

  I set my ax beside me, and, stretched out on the silt, I began to study the river. As some daylight still remained, I could make out the elusive shores. The river seemed huge. From one bank to the other, nearly half a mile wide, trailing its depths, it was descending. A swift, lithe, glaucous stream, already enveloped in shadows pierced by long gleams of light carried by the current . . .

  I looked at my watch. Eight o’clock. Four hours of waiting. Already night was flooding the deserted stretch of land, and nothing could be seen save the sheet of flowing waters; yet it too was darkening. The air was not stirring; the heat remained heavy. A slowly emerging constellation was rising, star by star, in the East, but the heat attenuated the distant light. The earth’s brown shoulder was sinking into nothingness.

  From the wasteland—where the marshes beyond the river were drying—came a frog’s croaking and the dry call of a bustard reassured by night. In the undergrowth of La Regrègue arose, at intervals, the heart-wrenching cry of a curlew in pain. The island was still silent, but, little by little, the dull murmur of the vast waters entered my spirit. I felt the strength of the void, forgetfulness of self, sleep. I dozed off. The strange torpor that had possessed me since morning fostered my stupor. The wait seemed long, and I like sleep. I entered it, but barely, through a slipping of body rather than soul. The body itself perceived something like a faint outline of the sounds, scents, and objects that surrounded my resting place. In a half dream, I drifted between sleeping and waking, confusing the two worlds. One offered fleeting images, the other a nighttime peace where those images dissolved.

  •

  When I emerged from this slumber, the night had traveled far. It was late. A tawny owl was lamenting through the island’s trees. Its melancholy cry disturbed me. But the animal grew silent. I shook my aching body. The air was thick. It was hard to see the river; but the island’s shape was outlined in front of me, not far from shore. The high peaks of its trees stood out against three faint chains of stars. Their fire barely pierced the celestial fog, but Altair, burning more brightly, was recognizable. By the position of these stars, I guessed that midnight was no longer far off. I looked upstream. Nothing disturbed the night there. The descending river remained invisible. The ingathering of darkness created what seemed like an impenetrable wall of shadow.

  Still, that was where the signal I was awaiting must arise. Even though the night there seemed blanker than elsewhere, my eyes carefully studied the stillness. I was calm. Only the sudden leap of a carp recalled the river’s presence.

  Finally, a light appeared in the North, a light unconnected to anything, that seemed suspended in the shadow’s vast void. Then another, next to it, and behind that, a third, pale, born far away in this void where the other two were already growing larger, although they seemed not to move. Now a reflection, doubling them, revealed the water’s presence, along with the full thrust of the river, slowly emerging from its sheath of darkness. The banks were invisible, but the river itself loomed. It was emerging from the bosom of night. Shoreless, it was descending like a great earthly being toward other nighttime expanses, bringing those three trembling boats, whose furtive light bared the grandeur of the waters all the way to the horizon.

  I was transfixed.

  For a long time, the lights remained distant; then suddenly they grew larger and, having converged near the ferry, they moved forward swiftly in one line. Soon I saw them clearly. There were three boats. In each prow was a beacon; in the stern, on long wooden candlesticks, enormous candles. The boats were black. The middle one, the heaviest, handled by four men—who could be seen straining at their oars—slowly moved to within sight of the island, then steered toward the Ranc. Fifty yards away, four grappling hooks immobilized it all at once. The two other boats, lighter, moored a little below, but still upstream from the island. One of them, on the other side of the Ranc, carried three men, most likely the Rambards. The other moored between the reef and the spot where I was hiding. On this branch, the banks come closer. I recognized Dromiols and Rat. In front, Dromiols, his legs spread, his head bare; behind him, Rat, hunched over. He was leaning on the rudder. Propelled by the force of the water, the three boats pulled on their chains as the current made them slowly come and go. They traced a shifting semicircle of light around the invisible reef. Forty candles burned silently. They burned well. Their tall yellow flames lit up the flat surface of the waters that were arriving swiftly, flowing through the brightness, then disappearing into shadow. On the central boat, low and wide, an altar draped in black. On the altar, a cross. The gold of a ciborium shone between two resin torches with swirling red flames. A massive ciborium—a sort of enormous chalice—from which the movement of the flames drew flashes of light. Alone, kneeling at the foot of the altar, wearing a silver chasuble, a stocky priest. He was already praying. The air was so calm I could distinctly hear the words of the prayer: Ne reminiscaris, Domine, delicta nostra. He had a quavering but loud voice. It carried far, penetrating, rending the soul.

  I was overcome. Suddenly I saw, I understood—what I was seeing was real. I was imagining nothing—I was seeing. I could have touched, grasped. I was hearing a voice; I could understand words. The air blazed, the water flowed—stealthy, black, oozing. The back-and-forth of the iron chains that held the boats brought this strange scene to life, for the links were clanging. What would I do? I took my ax. I took it truly. I took it, I held it. It was heavy, I gripped it. I told myself: “It must be the iron that weighs so much.” I lifted the handle—it was the iron . . .

  And so, turning my back to the river, I left through the brush, toward the ferry.

  •

  It was very dark. Despite the darkness, I quickly found my landmarks and the path. I reached the ferry.

  The ferry was still resting in the reeds. The ferryman’s cabin was shut, but a light could be seen behind the sacking. Beside it a shadow, a man’s, easily recognizable. A stationary shadow, waiting perhaps.

  I slipped through the reeds and straddled the boat’s handrail.

  The old man moved. He had heard me. He said, “Ah! You’re here at last! What time is it? I thought you had a heavier step.”

  He approached the sacking and lifted it up. “Is it really you then?” he asked.

  I said, “Yes, it’s me. We must weigh anchor. Where is it?”

  “I w
ill untie it. Let me. Take the oar.”

  He handed it to me. It was huge.

  He untied the anchor. “Push gently,” he told me.

  I leaned on the oar. The boat ruffled the reeds and slowly came out of the mire. The water lapped against the planks.

  “Keep pushing.”

  I pushed harder. The boat groaned.

  “I’m coming,” the old man said. “Where are you?”

  He touched my arm. I heard a sigh. He grasped the oar, pushed again. The water took us. I felt it through a lightening of the boat’s bottom. We were floating. It was hard to see.

  The old man said to me, “We will be there for the Elevation.”

  He leaned into the oar. The prow caught the current, hesitated, then turned slowly in the darkness. The steel wire rang over my head; a creaking made the planking quiver; the pulley squeaked; and, trembling, the boat entered the river’s current. Freed from the reeds, it painstakingly moved forward through the heavy, dark water. Downstream, I could see the fires burning on the boats. I calculated—I would need to break the planking a third of the way across the river. I had my ax between my feet, my hand on the cable. The old man said nothing, did not move. At the zenith shone a trailing, distant nebula. I gazed at it for a moment, then I bent down and touched the ax blade. It was rough, cold. I grasped the handle firmly and told myself, “Watch for the nails.” Then I struck. To the right, one blow; to the left, two. The wood made an explosive sound, but did not break. I struck again. It split. The whipping cable tore through the black water; the boat lurched from one side to the other, then swerved. With three steps, I was in the stern.

  “Is it done?” the old man asked me.

  I said nothing; I took the oar. It was vibrating. We were descending; the water was going fast, faster than the boat. It was streaming down the side, in huge billows that passed us.

  Before us, the flames were growing larger. Beneath their blaze, the island’s trees sprang from shadow. The water gleamed at their feet. To the right, I could see Dromiols’s boat, and, directly in front of me, the one that carried the altar, the crucifix, the priest. The priest was standing at the altar. He had his back turned, and he was holding the chalice.

  I was heading directly toward the cross; but just then I pushed with the oar. The boat veered, and I deliberately pointed it at Dromiols. At that moment, we were entering the candles’ light. Dromiols turned his head. He saw us. We were bearing down on him, prow high, at full speed. I said to Le Grelu: “It is here.”

  He came beside me and calmly said, “Amen.”

  When he saw us, Dromiols raised his arm and gave an order. Rat let out a cry. He bent and cut his boat’s mooring. The boat drifted. Now we were bearing down on the Ranc . . . “At twenty yards, one long stroke, the whole oar, with both arms. . ." I used both arms; I hung on. The oar bucked against my clenched hands, twisted my wrists, tore my muscles, threw me back. Then I leaned in with my shoulder, and, with one thrust of my whole body, I braced myself. I was arcing. My loins buckled; my knees, my thighs. Only my feet were holding firm. I regained strength; I lowered my head, a head of stone, without thought, my whole being centered on the great oar. It yielded. It yielded little, but it yielded. The boat took soul, became alive, veered slowly, razed the reef, righted itself. We were hanging on; I sank my will into her; undulating, she lifted her prow against the river. The Ranc moved away toward the stern, passed it, was no more than a fringe of spray. To my left, the altar blazed on the water. It slipped by. I had time to see the priest. Unmoving, his arms toward heaven, he was elevating the large chalice. The priest was moving away as well. The current was pushing us toward the other shore. Already you could sense the high woods of the calvary. The blazing altar was sinking into darkness, and I was still clinging to the oar. The shore was coming toward us on a slant. I was going in at an angle. Fast. Too fast for my taste. Suddenly the reeds ruffled. The calvary raised up its cross and black cabin. I was thinking about the muck. Where to land? A long whistle pierced the air. On the bank I saw a shadow running. Someone called. A rope fell onto the prow—I took it; I tied it. I was already being towed in. The crushed reeds were rustling all around the hull. I dug the whole oar into the mud. Then the boat scraped the bottom and stopped. I called, “Mathias!”

  The old man was stretched out under the bench. He was no longer stirring.

  I looked at the river. Only one fire still burned there.

  I leapt ashore. I took a few steps in the darkness, toward the calvary. The night was so black I tripped over a stump.

  I called, “Anne-Madeleine!”

  Someone came and took my arm.

  And so I began to tremble. She hugged me fiercely to her.

  Balandran approached the bank. His boat broke through the reeds.

  The Octave of Easter, 1947

  TRANSLATOR’S ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  OVER FORTY years ago, Gregory Kolovakos was the first to believe in this project and in me as a translator. More recently, Alyson Waters —who served as my ALTA Emerging Translator Mentor and then became a dear friend—helped me to believe in myself. A winter residency at the MacDowell Colony provided the ideal environment for thoughtful revision, and the New York Public Library’s Shoichi Noma Reading Room served as a fruitful haven. Two PSC-CUNY Grants funded travel to the Camargue, where Brigitte Curdel initiated me into the haunting landscape that is the novel’s setting; and to Nice, where Catherine Hadjopoulou and Angela Maffré at the Fonds de Documentation Henri Bosco granted me unfettered access to the author’s manuscripts and notes. In Lourmarin and Nice, members of L’Amitié Henri Bosco inspired me with their passion for Bosco and cheered me with their generous friendship; I am especially grateful to Christian Morzewski, Monique Barrea, Sandra Beckett, Marie-Pierre Bouligaud, Roland Denis, and Francoise-Jean Vallis. Also from afar, the British visual artist Tracey Holland wrote to me because she hoped to read Malicroix in English; she became the one for whom I worked.

  All along, Michele F. Levy and Jimmy Griffin carefully read and commented on multiple drafts, as did Elio Zarmati and Laura J. Rose. Ammiel Alcalay welcomed me to his translation seminar at Queens College; Suzanne Jill Levine was my brilliant workshop leader at the Bread Loaf School Translators’ Conference; Paul Eprile modeled what a translator can do. Page Dougherty Delano was an ever-faithful comrade. Barbara Black Koltuv got it. Victor F. Zonana and Colette and Suzanne Michaan offered their support. Michael J. Piecuch gave me home.

  Edwin Frank answered my query letter with a “yes,” and Sara Kramer skillfully shepherded this book into its final form.

  Thanks to all these and more—and especially to Gaston Bachelard, whose evocative writings on reverie led me to Malicroix.

  —J. Z.