The Closed Harbour

by James Hanley

  Marius hardly heard. He was standing staring at the girl. The moment she noticed him she lowered her eyes. The tiny coffin went down. The undertaker offered Marius the plate, he took some, soil from it and flung it down.

  The bearers had gone, but in the background stood the one whom nobody could fail to recognise, the digger.

  Marius suddenly saw the priest shake hands with her and walk away. She turned round and faced the bearded man who had been standing mute behind her. Marius watched her take out a worn purse, extract from it what looked like a single franc note, saw her hand it to the gravedigger.

  "Be kind to him," the girl said, and turned and moved away, came over to Marius.

  "Thank you, Monsieur."

  Marius was unable to speak. The undertaker had touched his arm.

  "I can take Monsieur to his destination?"

  Marius shook his head. "No no, thank you, no no."

  His hand had caught that of the girl, he had gripped it, looked at her. Neither spoke.

  He stood watching her go, remained standing long after the sound of the wheels had died away, and he found he was still staring at the grave.

  "It's like a dream," thought Marius, "the whole thing, its like a dream."

  He gave one last glance at the still silent, still motionless gravedigger and walked out of the cemetery.

  He was in the middle of the sea again and a storm had begun. Buildings everywhere were disgorging people, the pavements became more crowded, the cars roared louder, the bicycles whizzed past him, shop doors were banged and locked, he heard rattlings of chains, ringing of bells, wild toots of horns, and over it all the air, smell laden, burdensome, the grind and sweat and energy of the day had borne upwards as a cloud bears upwards, to hang like a pall over the sun drenched roads.

  Marius seemed to grind his way through the throngs, slowly, ruthlessly, and twice he had endeavoured to cross to the other side, but half way over had taken sudden fright and hurried back again. The city frightened him, he longed for the descent to be over, to apprehend the smells, the feel, the very rhythm, and sight of the toiling Vieux Port. Never had he longed so much for the sight of a ship. It was as though he had crossed an endless and arid desert, been lost in a strange and un-navigable country, gripped in the centre of thousands of people whom he had never seen before, would never see again, who had no meaning for him.

  "One is safe in the muck heap."

  "I'll never venture down there again, God, the whole thing scared me," remembering the waiter at Ferroni's, the cancer face of the apple seller, the shy, beautiful, yet terrified features of the girl who was burying her child, the Americans who took him for a bagman, the woman's hand that gripped like iron and flung him down those steps, the child with the broken wheel, the walrus-like teeth of the tram conductress, they were passing to and fro across Marius's vision as he walked quickly, and yet more quickly down the long, relentless hill.

  At the first Bistro he almost burst through the door.

  "Black coffee," he called.

  He sat stirring it for nearly five minutes before deciding to drink it.

  "What a fool I was to think that that shrimp of a man could ever be Brunet. God I I'd give my eyes to be upright again, walking up a gangplank, full of authority, taking her out past the Chateau d'If."

  There was a grinding of brakes outside, sudden shouts, then a party of six people, all young men swept in and past Marius like a wave. Shouting and laughing and gesticulating they went far up the room. After much creaking of chairs there was silence.

  "Another coffee," Marius said.

  "To-morrow morning promptly, at nine o'clock I'll go down to the Clarté, I'll go aboard her, I'll beard Manos in his cabin, I'll sink my bloody pride."

  He stirred and stirred the coffee but never drank it.

  "I'll find Follet's private address, why the hell didn't I think of it, of course, I'll go to his house to-morrow evening—"

  "Lucy said she'd take me to a man named Jacquette, what a name, sounds like a girl-man to me, hangs out at THE TOMB, there's a waiter there named Varinet, knows everybody, she told me—yes, I'll do that—even a Greek cockleshell is better than nothing after all."

  All the time the spoon was moving round and round and round in his cup, but he had quite forgotten it, he was uplifted by a wave of resolutions, but these reached momentum and fell heavily, vanished like trickles of water in the desert.

  He got up and left the un-drunk coffee and went out.

  "I'm scared, that's what I am. Scared. If they hadn't followed me here. They know, of course they know, they only followed to drag it out of me."

  "Can't you mind where you're walking?"

  "In the end I'll tell her, I'll tell her to-morrow—be done with it."

  "Look out man."

  Marius, unheeding pushed on. He was glad to see a sight of the fountain, he felt safe now, and moved in under the trees. The whole of humanity seemed gathered here and at last he felt he was alone. He sat on the corner of a bench on which two old men were chatting.

  "I'm a little drunk," he thought.

  He huddled up, never looked in the old men's direction, stared down at the ground.

  "I could climb up Accoules this moment, disappear into the warrens and never come out again. Christ, what's the good of that. I must find my clothes. Yes, I must find my clothes. I don't believe she burnt them at all, hidden them, wanted to humiliate me. And she calls herself a Christian—" he felt in his pockets, turned quickly.

  "Have you a match?"

  A beardless face, hammered by age, turned towards him. Marius could not see the eyes, which were almost lost beneath the bushy brows. He leaned towards the old man. The eyes seemed colourless, lay far back in the head, half buried by years.

  "Have you a smoke?"

  Marius felt furiously in all pockets.

  He shook his head, he was sorry, he hadn't a cigarette either. He took some loose coins from his pocket, handed them to the old man, got up and walked away.

  "The people I'm meeting to-day."

  A church clock was striking the half hour. He went on, he was making for the Quai de Belge.

  "It may be that Follet doesn't even know I've called, asked for him, day after day, that swine Philippe, he's got under my skin, blast him and his correctness, his colossal opinion of himself, happy in his little cage, thinks of nobody but himself, hasn't even good manners, I might have been a pig."

  The moment he heard the rattle of the winches his spirit lightened, already he could feel a light breeze, the petrol stink seemed far away now, and there were no mad, thrusting crowds. There was the Bergerac, still there, would she ever sail, her decks deserted, her derricks neatly laid home, a quietness settled over her as though she had resolved never again to turn her head seawards.

  "A lovely thing," thought Marius, "now if I could take her out—"

  The great quay had about it the calmness of a lake, only a single winch went on rattling, and as he walked slowly on, he watched the day's debris blow about his feet, old newspapers, cigarette packets, ends, bits of string, yarn, a matted bundle of old lading bills. Ahead were some timbers.

  Marius sat down. He did not look at the sea, but watched attentively at the bits and ends of litter as it went by. A half sheet of old newspaper came his way, anchored at his heels and he bent down and picked it up, began to read. All the ships of the world, all the ports and docks and quays seemed centred on this soiled sheet as he slowly read. Names of ships and their movements. He cried in his mind the names of Hercules, Avenger, Orleans, Triumph.

  "If" said Marius, "if", but there were so many of them, and he dropped the paper and watched it slowly blow away. He felt that if a gust of wind strong enough had come along, he would have been blown after it.

  "What's the use."

  An exhaustion was pressing upon him, his head began to nod, his body sagged, fell heavily back upon the timbers.

  "I feel filthy," he said.

  The heat of the long day, th
e grind, the traffic roars, the voices, the smells in the air, all seemed harboured in his person. He heard the winch stop suddenly, raised himself and looked towards the Bergerac. Beyond it he saw a single man move away down the for'ard deck. She was a small ship and her bow was facing him, but he could not make out her name. "If somebody came along this moment and said 'are you ready' I'd get up at once and I'd say, 'I'm always ready' and I'd go off with him, I'd ascend that gangway and the moment I touched her deck I'd grow, I'd rise up, I'd climb out of all this," and his hands moved slowly down the length of his body.

  "Pull yourself together," he said.

  "Go home."

  But he did not stir.

  He fell asleep.

  VIII

  "DAYS CRAWL over me like bugs."

  In the hot, sweltering night he lay naked on his back, the iron bed drawn up beneath the high, narrow window. For half an hour he had been looking out, and through it had come the dull, monotonous roar of distant breakers, it made him think of some kind of animal prowling upon night and air. The darkened room was slowly unburdening itself, the piled up heat of the day rising from corners, out of the cupboard, from underneath the bedclothes, falling away from his own flesh, rising and vanishing through the window. He imagined that if he put out his hand he would be able to feel the darkness itself, like a skin, and to Marius, even this seemed to sweat. But always, over the dull roar, clamant and as remindful as struck blows, the steady tick of the watch by his pillow.

  "That Lustigne woman's right. The moment we're out we're watched, somebody following you all the time, one's only safe here."

  He turned over in the heat-clinging bed, then he jumped out, crossed the room and turned the key in the lock. He returned to the bed and stretched out again.

  "I'll plan. I'll get out of this dump, into the Black Sea, anywhere there, if I could get to Greece, the Islands—Italy perhaps, Leghorn, Genoa—

  "Ah! If I could have seen that Follet now. Just the once. There's a man of understanding, I could tell him everything, everything. I'd sink all pride, forget my merits. Merits. Jesus! Look at them? Rusting away, falling to pieces. I only want the broad deck of a ship to walk on, no more than that, God, its not much to want, feel it moving under me, to be away, away. Ah, Follet, trying to see you is like trying to see a bloody Emperor. So precious is intelligence, so rare the understanding, you battle to reach it. Through what? These bloody men, damn them, say I'm a Jonah, spread rumours about me, won't sail with me. It's those bastards who draw up the gangways, block the doors, glare at me through the windows, turn up their noses. They pick and choose their Captains like they choose their tarts—"

  "If by some effort of the will—"

  He was staring up at the window. There was something not quite right about it.

  "It's those damn flies, they've gone," he thought, he wondered where.

  "Been to five offices to-day, boarded three ships, sat in half a dozen Bistro. That waiter Varinet. Lucy said that Jacquette man frequented the place, never turned up, hoped like hell he would. Can't count the number of walls I leaned against, and that man Labiche, following me, saw him three times to-day, what the hell does he want anyhow? He scares me, he really scares me. I've been to a funeral, too. Took coffee in a café, stuck twenty minutes outside Renart's, couldn't move, stiff as a ramrod. Couldn't budge. All those people rushing in and out, the mad Sales were on, it's unreal, can't believe I was there. Can't believe all those rushing, shouting, laughing people were happy, pushing past you as though you weren't there. That girl, alone, sitting in the park. And now I'm here. Another day."

  He sat up with a sudden jerk, put his head in his hands.

  "It's this place, too. This bloody house."

  He sat motionless, as though listening. The dead silence of it screeched at him, an intense, persistent spirit was about, Marius could plainly hear it in his ear, "not satisfied, not satisfied."

  "That Philippe. The swine. I could kill him. So smug, so correct, so good, a wink from him, a finger held up, just saying yes, change everything, get me out of here to-morrow..." and a ship was blowing, a tug hooting, cranes roaring, winches rattling, men hailing and hurrying, the ship's engines' first heavy sounds, and then the steady rhythm of them, everything moving, and it made Marius move, he was on his feet again, pacing the floor.

  "Knew my father in the old days, if I could see him, if... by God, I'll visit him at his home, why the hell didn't I think about that, why didn't I? It's in the Directory, of course, easy ... fool—you're a fool .. but that Philippe, day after day after day, his very goodness makes it hurt, see him smiling now, covers you with slime, see him talking to Follet, hear him, 'that Nantes bum was in again to-day'. One is deaf after that, I never hear what Follet answers."

  He stopped dead in the middle of the room.

  "Who's there?"

  He waited, but there was no sound, and then he was off again, up and down, up and down, round and round.

  "How happy Lucy is, I can hear her laughing," and he gave an odd little chuckle himself, he could hear her talking, her warmth all round him.

  "Be really sick, Captain, it'll do you good, she was in ballast for Algiers, what's ballast?"

  He was back on the bed again, he was listening to the sound of his own voice.

  "Lucy's got ballast, there's iron in poor Lucy."

  "I should never have arrived, that's the trouble."

  Through shut eyes he saw himself carried high by a single wave, right across a sea, the sound of which was now roaring in his ears, and there he was, landed, in the murdering town, fighting his way through the jibbering, incoherent groups, Royat back somewhere, away back somewhere, lost. There was the station.

  "All lighted up. Mad."

  Sometimes it was difficult to remember. Flinging himself into the train, rain hammering on the windows, the darkness outside, and there on the opposite seat the old man, silent, frozen with horror.

  "Are you flying, too?"

  The stupid face of the old man, hugging and hugged by his terror, bewildered.

  "Everybody's flying, don't worry."

  "I wonder where he is now," thought Marius, "that poor old man," then he shouted, "Ah, France, you took some mighty kicks in the arse," and the sounds seemed to split into fragments and scatter everywhere, the quiet house was deluged by them.

  "The things I've seen."

  "Who's there?" he shouted.

  He was at the door again, rattling frantically at the knob.

  "Who's there?"

  There was no answer.

  "I thought I heard somebody. I must be going crazy."

  He got out of bed and drew the curtain across the window. The darkness was final. And somewhere within it were the soft, continuing padding sounds as of a moving animal, and this was Marius, on his feet again, naked, the closed window forgotten, the heat of the long day always rising. Sometimes he stopped and listened, glancing towards the locked door, and heard only his own breathing and the tick of the watch. It was at this moment that he heard the voice calling and following in its direction walked quietly into the sea.

  Ships moved in utter darkness, the sea was full of ships, slinking through the night, like petty thieves, like murderers, fugitive ships, determined ships, ships already lost before they had veered away from the quays, and he was there in the middle of them. He was on the bridge and Berriat was there, and Jean, too, both there, and silent.

  "At ten Gasse'll come up. He won't say good evening and I don't want it, we know where we are. He'll watch me all the time, I will be the fool, I will make the mistake. My orders are explicit, final. A reduction of speed at twenty three hours, not an inch more, we're moving towards a minefield. Madeau isn't here, I'll wait."

  There it was. Five bells, loud and clear.

  He watched the reliefs come up, Gasse, his nephew. He waited a little longer. Then he crossed the deck, stood watching him there.

  "You all right, Jean?"

  "Yes uncle."

  Ho
w clear the youthful voice in the night air, strong, beautiful.

  "Sure? You know what you're about?"

  "Yes."

  "Not unhappy, not afraid ... no?"

  "No. I'm not."

  "Good! Steer well."

  He could feel and smell and touch this moment.

  "Should never have gone, never, I went below, yet I knew, felt I shouldn't, my feet held so hard, forced myself to it, how tired I was, nervy. I was in the cabin, fell asleep—Christ, I fell asleep...

  "I woke, by God how sudden I woke, perhaps I wasn't asleep after all, dozing ... and then I saw that watching eye, that Gasse. And I sat on my bunk and I looked at my watch. How we hated each other. His eye. Never see an eye like it again, never. I had slept too long, it was done, too late, knew it, knew it running, falling over in the darkness, how she heaved..."

  Marius stood still in the middle of the room, clenched his hands. He felt the sweat drip from his forehead, and was so still he heard, their minute drops. And risen high above him on the darkened sea, as clear as day, the ploughing ship. He felt again the odd shiver of her timbers, as though this living ship realized she had been caught in the trap.

  The steady pulse of the engines rose from the depths, sounded as thuds. And beyond, in the darkness, others, blind, groping ...

  "Gone! They'd gone. I swear to Christ we were alone, that hammering, what the hell was that, like great fists beating at her hull ...

  "There's something wrong."

  "There's nothing wrong," the man at the wheel said.

  "Blast you for a fool, what course is this?"

  "The course as ordered," the helmsman said.

  "Swing her back at least three degrees."

  He saw Gasse, tall, sphinx-like.

  "D'you wish to sink us? I'll put you in irons..."

  Gasse did not stir, not a muscle of his face moved. Marius stared, felt weakened, was helpless before those eyes.

  "It's you, you're wrong," Madeau said, "Monsieur Gasse is correct, uncle..."