The Flood

by J. M. G. Le Clézio

  Besson took a sheet of paper and began to write. Slowly and hesitantly at first he traced each letter, one after the other, watching his pothooks marching forward all by themselves (well, almost by themselves) across the paper, navy blue on white. He took great care over capitals; he dotted every i and crossed every t. After a moment or so he began to go faster. He forgot the jerky motions of his hurrying hand, he no longer noticed each loop and flourish in the words he set down. He plunged into the act of writing like a landscape, without any conscious goal, never slackening speed. He saw whole phrases pour out of his pen, filing swiftly to the right like tiny animals. He heard the soft abrasive squeak of the hurrying nib, and the regular rub of his hand against the paper, What a strange phenomenon it was, this meticulous scribbling which—little by little, line by line—filled the entire sheet, besmirching it with a whole private system of strokes and and loops, this strange object marching on of its own volition, how, no one could tell, forward, always forward, describing, erasing, pointing the flow of time. There was something alarming about it, it was quite capable of pulling a fast one on you, saying things off its own bat, things you had no idea of. It was language in isolation, a kind of Braille alphabet in which each sign or group of points had stolen something from the substance of life and was preserving it in minuscule form. Like an obscene wall-inscription, a thumbing of the nose against the ineffable weight of eternity. Or perhaps more like some magical formula, some highly complex and specific spell which, if pronounced correctly, can bring about ignoble metamorphoses, trigger off strange chemical reactions, turn children into toads, moonbeams into emeralds, sunlight into rubies.

  On the sheet of paper Besson wrote:

  ‘Cavalcade.

  Venenom.

  Leaf

  Selor—Bergue—Wiggins Teape Papers.

  I am writing. I am writing that I am writing. I am writing that I am writing that I am writing. I am writing that I am writing that I am writing that I am writing.

  I am looking at my watch. I am very fond of my watch. I would not like to lose it. I would not like anyone to steal it. I have already damaged it once: I forgot to take it off in the bath. I had to take it round to the watch-mender for cleaning and oiling. It has a beautiful white metal dial, with tiny strokes instead of figures. Right at the top, where the hands indicate noon or midnight, there are two strokes instead of one. Near the centre of the dial is written, in English: JUNGHANS. Shockproof. Anti-magnetic. Waterproof. Made in Germany. There are two hands, the shorter one pointing towards the stroke which represents 4, the larger one vertically aligned downwards, covering the stroke at 6. So this is the time my watch tells me it is: half past four. Oh, and there’s another indicator, a very long fine needle, which sweeps round the dial with a vibrating motion. It’s really a very fine watch. I would hate to break it. I am glad it belongs to me. It has a nice pigskin strap, and a bright metal buckle. The glass has been a bit scratched on the outside, ever since I banged my wrist against the school wall. It was a present from my mother, two years ago. For my birthday. When I put it close to my ear I can hear its tiny heart beating away, tick-tick-tick, never stopping. It’s nice to have a watch of your own. Wherever I go people can ask me the time, and I can look at my watch and say “A quarter to two”, or “Half past seven”, or “Three minutes to twelve”, or whatever it may happen to be.’

  A little lower Besson wrote: ‘This ball-point dribbles.’ Then he pushed the sheet of paper aside, and taking up the ball-point again began to scribble words wherever he could, feverishly covering scraps of paper and cardboard, the bottoms of paper cups, match-boxes, all picked up at random, with such words as ‘Messenger’, ‘Vander Beke’, ‘Cruelty’, ‘Lang’, ‘Urhell’, ‘Matton’, ‘Zailer’, ‘Physics’, ‘Dallas’, ‘Nail’, ‘Jerrycan’. Finally pressing, as hard as he could, he inscribed a very long word on the wooden surface of the table: ‘Angersonysbonagugehlbouduyrouehavleffavyi’.

  After this he ceased all practical activity. There were several photographs lying on the table, and he picked them up. The glossy, grey-tinted slips of pasteboard showed various carefully posed girls, and some dull, depressing landscape shots. One or two were of Besson himself, wearing dark glasses in summer, or posed against a wintry snowbound garden.

  Then, at the very bottom of an open drawer, beside a tattered pornographic magazine, Besson came upon a little exercise book, its pages yellowed with age and covered with childish handwriting. On the cover there was a pencil drawing of an engine with five funnels being driven by a man wearing a tarboosh. Above this picture, in capital letters, was the legend: BLACK ORADI.

  Besson opened the notebook and began to read. It was not an easy business, since the words had been written in pencil, and after twenty years were badly blurred. The speillng, too, left much to be desired, and many of the sentences needed to be read two or three times before their meaning became clear. But it was an interesting task, and Besson, poring over the faded manuscript, set about it with unhurried deliberation.

  Chapter One.

  Black Oradi lef the monf 1940 the day of his birfday. He wated seven days, the bote was called the Condé. He stade at sea 31 days then he saw he had gon too far on the sea. He told the captin he wanted to go back but he woudnt, finaly he arived in America. The captin thort he was in Africa or azia 1947. He spent three days in azia, the next day he lef for Corsica, the captin still thort he was in Africa, but Oradi said it wasn’t true, first because in Africa there were black peple like him and also because there was the Bush which went on and on for ever. Then the captin began to stamer when he tarked, he said er ah um, Oradi said you shood tark mor clearly or else wate and think what to say before you say it and not swollo yore words. So just you stop it mister captin, and stop splutering like that.—How dare you tark to me like that when Im the captin.—You just had to say what you wanted to say, without that I cant understand anything—Pooey on you said the captin be off with you to yore cabin if youve got one.—But look I know joly well this is Corsica.—You dont know anything, youll never be realy brany.—What do you mean Im a police officer myself.—Ah well policemen arnt brany.

  Chapter Two The Sinking

  Three days later Oradi was on the hi seas. For four days he saw an enormus moving mass. He didnt know what it was, he never said anything to anyone because he was afraid they woud be cross with him. But all the same he was dying to tark about it. One day he said he had seen an enormus moving mass. I believe it is a wale sir. But plese dont tell anyone or theyll kill it. Sudenly the enormus mass hurld itself at the ship. The ship put on full speed. But the wale gave the ship a big wack with its tale at the stern. The ship began to dance about up front then it went down at thr stern and all the water came in. The captin and Oradi were furius. They got out the harpoon. But as the harpoon was heavy it almost got dragd away, luckily the captin manneged to hold onto it otherwise he would have been pulld down in the sea and eten by the wale. The wale thort it was a fly or a bird, it thrashd the water with its tale and upset the bote altogether. Then the captain became quite mad with rage, since the bote was loded with stores and catl, and the casks were bobing about all over the sea. Each animal climed on a cask (a barrel for putting oil in) and made a little jump and got rite inside the barel. As for the captin, the captin had got into the enormus barel usd to fil the others. But no mater the mane thing was that it was emty with nothing inside, and Oradi swam holding on to the captin’s barel from behind. The captin kept shouting in a stern (curt) voise Come on now find somthing hollo to get in.

  Chapter Three The Swop

  They arrivd the monf July 1947. They stade at sea six days then they took another bote a saling bote this time. The bote could not put out it was bloing grate guns and they coud not leve harbor. There was in the crew (1) the first mate Jean Bestieau age 45 (2) the new hand Yves Randort age 37 (3) the captin Jean Brideau age 83 (4) the wet cooper Bastien-Grade age 94 (5) the cook Jean luc Troncor age 39 (6) the doctor François Cablot age 33. You are
too old mister Grade you will have to retire! I am going to give you this little note this will show you you are retiring.—Oh thank you very much mister Brideau!—Just a minit mister, ah the way these drores stick, got it now, heres a safty pin, kindly do it up for me will you.—How can I, this safty pin of yors is very hard.—If you like I will try to find another, but Im not shore if I have one.—No please dont do that.—There we are its in now.—Thank you!—Hey cabin boy dont go down in the hold thats where the cooper is. No hes not hes here you can see him. Dont ask him anything hes retird. Go and find a replasement. The cabin-boy took the lader and let it down on the key and he saw two men saying to each other We’ll get a job as cooper on a bote Ill go and catch them said the cabin-boy. Dont just tark and get nowhere he told them come on folio me up the lader, come and see the captin. The captin said I cant do with two of you, one will have to be cooper and the other do watch duty. No! they said Yes! he said No! they said. Come on you, he said, youll be cooper. What about me then! You’ll do watch duty! Why said the man but mister Brideau went off without saying anything.

  Chapter Fore the Pirat

  The other man said ah I’ve a good idea what about becoming a pirat. Ill kill the steersman and steer the bote onto a reef and make it sink its a new bote. He huried downstares. Then he bort a super sord and sheeld and came up agane, he went over to the steersman and cut of his hed. Oradi was angry. He said Why did you kill that man? Shut up you mad fool because hes a pirat thats why. Oradi saw the bote was beginning to fill with water. Then he ran of. The bandit larfd. Oradi told the captin that water was poring into the bote the captin was astonishd and arsd him why. Sudenly the captin and Oradi were throne against the servants dore the dore burst open and they saw the servant drowning in the water.

  The bote began to sink under the water very sloly.

  Help shouted the captin, rescue, Oradi, my first mate my cook my doctor my cooper, help! The negroes this being south Africa got into there canoes and rescued them. The bandit made for the shore and hid in a hole. The captin got out of his canoe and went to the beach for a swim. He saw the bandit pulling a rock down on top of him so no one shoud see him. The captin lookd at him and left him to get on with it. He took off his clothes and put them down beside him. He had to go a long way to swim because the tide was rite out. While he was gon the bandit took his clothes. He undresd and lef his own clothes ther insted. Then he dresd in those belonging to the captin.

  When the captin came back he coud see neither his clothes nor Oradi. His eyes bugd out of his hed when insted of his own fine clothes he saw a pile of red and green stripd rags, zounds said the captin he has taken my clothes! Luckily he cort site of Oradi holding the bandit and shouting Help Help! Then the captin ran as fast as he coud and cort the pirat and demanded his clothes back, Here they are then the pirat sed.—And what have you don with the steersman?—I kild him.—Your going to com along with me, then.—What for, sed the pirat.—Youll see … He laffed and laffed. He was sure theyd kill him. Im going to put you in prisn! To prisn with the fellow! Keep a tite hold on him Oradi!—But why?—You never ask why. Go on, hold him tite, if you dont hold him hell get away. Im going to tie him up, put your hand there.—Here?—No not there, on the not Im tying, there, now dont move. Oh, youve made me let the not slip loose. Now Im going to get into this handcart with the bandit and youre going to push it.

  Oradi took to his heels because the bandit was running after him. The bandit threw a stone at him wich landed in the mud and stuck ther, he cort his foot on it and stumbeld and overturnd the cart and Oradi straind both his legs. The captin cort the pirat agen, he came back and saw Oradi lying on the ground. He said to the bandit Im going to take you to north Africa and drown you. He tide him up firmly to a tree and went off to find his fore black frends like Oradi. He said to them, cut me some long bamboos and make too holes in them. Then you must thred twisted stror thro the holes so we can put Oradi on it.—B-but, but, said all the negroes at once, straw, straw, thats going to brake!—If you plat it strong it wont. The fore set to work. They took fore nales, stuck them in the bamboo and threded the stror. They put Oradi on it and lifted him up saying oop-ah, oop-ah. They carid him as far as a rest house and here they put him down on a bed made of iron and wood. He had to stay in bed six days.

  Chapter Five Rescue and Sinking

  Three days later they ran into the Clafte which was a bote very like the Gland Duke which was there bote, the too botes met near America, the Clafte rose up and fell back so hevily this time that the wave past over her. But not only had the Gland Duke sunk too and the litle rescue botes were bobing about but the Grelon which was a German submarine was sinking the canoes one by one, there were at least twenty of them. This took place at 150. The submarine missd first time and dived back to the bottom to recharge. Then Oradi grabd his chance and tride to jump into the comander’s bote. He misd his footing and fell in the water, luckily he mannagd to hang on to the side of the canoe. The captin pulld him out and brort him back, he took a nale and hamered it thro too compresd air tanks. The Grelon’s bows came at them. Oradi and the captin rode as hard as they coud. He shouted to the comander ahoy there ahoy were going to be sunk by the Grelot! Quick! He ran out the rope lader and said clime up quick!—Yes but get the lader a bit closer, thats right.—The Grelot’s rite into your canoe!—So what let it sink, Oradi and I are out of it.—But dont you think—Dont we think what?—Well um ah—The hell with you were coming up. The comander went away and let go the windlas.—Come back quick the windlas is running out well be drownd in the bottom of the sea. Before the comander coud get back to the side all the rope lader had run out of the windlas. He called the cabin-boy and lots more of the crew to wind it up again, there were at lest eiteen of them counting the captin but seventeen without him.

  The captin and Oradi made noises like glug glug, shouting Hel glug slurp, glelp, glug. You coud here the tackle creking and hel glug helslurp noises. The captin said what a row there making, yes shouted all the others at once. Oradi climed up again, phew he said and took sevral deep breths, in out in out phew. The captin and Oradi went back to the Clafte. Whats this sir havnt I got a cabin?—Im sorry no III give you a tent its all Ive got, all the cabins are full including mine.—What about a table and chares?—Im sory there all taken.—In that case what can we do?—You can sleep on a mat and sit on cushons.—Will they be properly stuffd?—Yes with kapok.—But itll all come out!—Not if there properly sone up.—Come on then get this canvas redy and quick about it.—What for?—You mene you dont know?—No I havnt the fogiest.—To make the tent.—And the cushons.—Wate a moment wile I look for them.—Sir!—Yes what is it?—May I take one of these cushons?—Yes take as many as you like.—Eight then?—More if you want.—What I reckon is Ill take eight for them.—Go on then take them.—Here they are. Now if I look in this corner Ill find some more canvas. Too bad if theres scorpions lerking there. Whats this it feels like an armchare when I tuch it its cold, dont bother looking there it isnt anything interesting. Oh but look here whats this underneath when I lift it up, this wite contrap-shun, lets try a bit futher down, all right, why its a super icebox that shoud fix them. Oops, thats got it clere, keep it rite way up its got some bred and wine and a glas inside it. Bang, thud, now weve got it standing on its legs.—Lets sit down said the captin theres sure to be somthing good inside now Ill open it ooh ah its wine just look at this lovely wine.

  At midday Oradi went to the ships cook and said in Inglish Im hungri.—Eh whats that? The captin hurrid in and said to the cook dont you understand.—No.—Well in that case you cant understand inglish.—No I dont.—He says hes hungri.—All rite said the cook if your hungri Ill give you a cat.—What, to eat?—Eh, no, just to show frendly. Oradi went off furius.

  Saying Goodbye

  Oradi said goodbye to his friends and went abord the Triglant. The siren blew and they left, Oradi lowerd a canoe into the sea with himself in it, he made a runing bowline and tied the canoe to the bote. He stade at sea 29 d
ays. And when he got to north Africa he told them all his advenchers.

  When he had finished reading, Besson dropped the small yellowing exercise-book back on the table, amid a muddle of papers and old pencil-stubs. Then his gaze lost itself in the soft shadows that filled the room, and he began to dream a whole series of minuscule adventures. Without stirring a muscle, in a mood close to tender compassion, he sat and watched every object rise and move in unison, miraculously freed from their ancient lethargy. The furniture acquired the texture of rubber, or marshmallow, and melted slowly across the floor. Grass sprouted, green and fresh, the walls silently contracted, sheets of paper covered themselves with signs and symbols. Fabrics blossomed in a flash with strange incongruous flowers, their tremulous petals spreading across the material like so many blots. An imperceptible breeze passed through the room, blowing the curtains out horizontally. Everything was floating, in suspension. At peace with himself now, all fear gone, having passed far beyond the roads that lead to life or death, François Besson similarly surrendered himself to the wind, let it bear him up and away. He felt the wings of the elements caress and sustain him. The earth in this moment was no longer viscous, no longer needed to engulf beasts and men. Its voracious belly was full to satiety. A few more hours, a few more years perhaps, and it might be possible to break loose from it like this, easily, without effort or suffering, one jump with feet together—So that day, having conquered the force of gravity, Besson spent a long time as he floated in air observing the reddish surface of the floor, seeing it swim up towards him, swollen and angry as an incoming tide.