The Rebellious Tide

by Eddy Boudel Tan

  “Run!” he screamed, his voice ringing through the air like a ship’s whistle. “Run!”

  Sebastien eyed his father crouched in the corner of his cell and imagined how he would have looked as a young man. Like Ruby said the night she died, she had been young once, and so had the man in front of him. This story was no longer mythology. It was now part of Sebastien’s history.

  His father’s manner had changed as he recounted what happened thirty years earlier. Every shred of pride he’d accumulated over the years withered away before Sebastien’s eyes. What was left was the poor boy of an unwed mother who people called Gélio.

  “Milos brought me back on board,” he continued. “I thought my punishment would be death. I was prepared to die. Instead, they said they would take my ear.”

  He turned his head to the side. The scar Sebastien had often wondered about remained a jagged seam of hardened skin.

  “They showed me mercy,” he said, dropping his chin in shame. “Or at least that’s what they called it. I knew then there would be no escape. They owned me.”

  “I have no sympathy for you,” Sebastien said. The words were loaded yet quiet as a whisper. “You let one woman free because you weren’t yet corrupted. But what about all the others since?”

  “There was nothing I could do,” Kostas said. His voice pleaded for his son to absolve him of his sins. “I never hurt them. I never once caused them any pain. My job was just to transport them. I don’t even know what happens to them once they leave the ship.”

  Sebastien sneered at him. “They’re stripped of their freedom the minute they step foot on board. They become slaves. You know that much.”

  “I just did what I was told. I was—”

  “Thirty years!” The accusation filled the cell so wholly that Kostas shrunk in his corner. “Thirty years of doing what you were told. Thirty years of excuses.”

  “I didn’t have a choice,” Kostas said, his voice resolute. It sounded like he believed himself, but his eyes betrayed his guilt.

  “You always have a choice. We all do. Everything we do, and don’t do, is a choice.” Calm passed over Sebastien’s face. Logic gained control over emotion. “You could have chosen to accept the consequences of saying no that day in Québec. Now you’ll have to face the consequences of choosing to say nothing.”

  Kostas inhaled deeply as though savouring the air, then accepted the verdict with a decisive nod. He stretched his legs on the carpeted floor and reclined against the padded wall. “I was sad to learn about your mother’s passing,” he said. It was clear he was telling the truth.

  “Me, too,” Sebastien said softly.

  “I’m glad she had you in her life. I wish I could have been a part of it.”

  A contemptuous burst of air escaped Sebastien’s lips. “Just stop,” he said.

  “I would have given anything for the three of us to be a family.”

  “Then why didn’t you?” His voice was gentle as he stared between the bars at his father in the corner.

  “I was weak,” Kostas said. “I was weak, and I was scared. I can see that now, but everything was foggier back then. Young men want nothing more than to give their older selves something to regret.”

  Sebastien had nothing left to say. He leaned his head against the metal bars and let himself feel nothing. He passed no judgment and reached no conclusion. Analysis could wait. For now, all he wanted was to be in the same place at the same time as his father. No hatred. No blame. Just being.

  Kostas looked at his son with a sad smile. “I told you once that you remind me of myself as a young man. I meant it.”

  “I’m not like you,” Sebastien said, shaking his head. “I’m far from perfect, it’s true. But I’m going to do whatever it takes to be a better man.” He gave his father a sympathetic look, and it was the only kindness he could offer. “You had your chance. Now, it’s too late. That’s a mistake I will never make.”

  Nikos looked up like a wounded animal when Sebastien stepped into cabin A66. The deputy security commander’s wrists were cuffed behind his back, and his ankles were bound in pink twine. He was propped in the corner of the room with his knees against his chest. His dark hair, normally styled meticulously, was matted with sweat.

  He didn’t say a word as Sebastien took a seat on the floor beside him. They leaned against the wall and stared at the carpeted floor at their feet.

  “Do you blame me?” Sebastien broke the silence, turning his head to the side.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said.

  “Why did you do it, Nikos?”

  “I didn’t do anything.” The response was limp. He couldn’t even believe it himself.

  “You gave them Athena. She was your friend.”

  Nikos sat upright and looked into Sebastien’s eyes. “I was trying to help her,” he said, something broken in his voice. “She needed money, and I knew where she could get it. I had no way of knowing she wouldn’t be able to pay them back.”

  “But you knew what was going to happen once they brought her on board.”

  Nikos opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He exhaled quietly and swallowed the words.

  “You could have helped her,” Sebastien went on, “but you didn’t. In fact, you stood in our way when we tried.”

  His lips quivered. “I did that for us. I couldn’t bear you knowing I was involved.”

  “So her freedom was the sacrifice you were willing to make?”

  “Her freedom was already lost!” The tremble of his lips spread throughout the rest of his body. “I did what I did to protect you. These are bad people we’re dealing with. You could have been in serious trouble. You could be, still.”

  “What do you know about them?”

  “Not much, but I know they’re not amateurs. They operate all throughout Europe, Africa, the Middle East … You might have saved one woman, but it’s nothing in the bigger picture. The Glacier is just one insignificant spoke in the wheel. This little victory won’t make a difference.”

  “It makes a difference to Athena.” Sebastien looked around the bare cabin, imagining the fear she must have felt while trapped within its walls. He pictured her watching the waves roll outside, wondering what awaited her on the shore. Did she reach a point when she abandoned hope?

  “Kostas was the one in charge,” Nikos said, his voice steadier. “I only picked up bits and pieces, but I was never part of the operation. I had no idea what they’d do with her when I put them in touch. I swear, Sebastien. You have to believe me.”

  “That’s for the authorities to decide, not me.”

  Nikos let out a frustrated snort. He lay his head against the wall and stared up at the featureless ceiling.

  “You used me,” Nikos said, quietly stating a fact.

  “No more than you used me. We both saw what we wanted to see. We invented roles for each other, then we played them. That’s all.”

  Nikos turned to him, a soft smile appearing in the corners of his lips. “This isn’t how our story is supposed to end, Patroclus. How did everything go so wrong?”

  “My dear Achilles. You were mistaken this entire time. I was never your Patroclus.” Sebastien leaned closer, and the smile faded as he whispered the words into Nikos’s ear. “I was the arrow.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Young Once

  The croissant was an immaculate horn of pastry, leaving buttery crumbs on Sophie’s fingertips. She chased it down with a sip of café au lait from a paper takeaway cup. It wasn’t very French to order coffee to go rather than savouring it on the patio, but she wanted something to warm her hands.

  The sun was just beginning its ascent over the leafy hills and ochre rooftops of the Côte d’Azur. The waves were languid as they kissed the narrow pier.

  “There it is,” Sophie said to no one in particular. They followed her pointed finger and saw the distant ship where the sea met the sky. She imagined Sebastien standing at the edge of the railing on Sunset Deck, breathing in the salty air
as they approached land. Soon the voyage would be over, but he would relish every last second.

  The French authorities were dressed in identical black uniforms with peaked caps and fitted jackets, though two of them wore traditional suits. They had crumbs on their hands from the box of pastries Sophie had passed around.

  The Glacier loomed over the port as it docked alongside the pier, casting an ominous shadow over the pristine yachts in the marina. The ship was larger than most buildings in Cannes.

  As the guests disembarked from a raised platform that connected to Adriatic Deck five levels above, a separate gangplank was lowered from the staff quarters. Two white-suited officers with matching beards emerged from the belly of the ship. They conferred with the French police before leading them up the gangplank in a monochromatic line.

  “You did well,” said the neatly dressed man beside Sophie. “It couldn’t have been easy assembling the French.” Jérôme St-Germain hadn’t yet recovered from the jetlag — his eyes were pink-hued and dry behind his glasses — but his nerves were electric in anticipation of this reunion.

  “I don’t need your validation,” Sophie said, and Jérôme winced. She revelled in his discomfort before slapping him on the shoulder with a giggle. “You’ll get used to my cruel humour.”

  He smiled, relieved. “How did Sebastien look when you saw him?”

  She gazed at the resting ship and pondered the question. “On edge, even more so than usual, but he’ll be fine. I think he found what he came for.”

  Jérôme nodded as he fidgeted with the cuffs of his seersucker shirt. “Do you think he’ll come home now?” he asked, instantly regretting it. He knew Sophie would read what was behind the question.

  She crossed her arms and turned to face him, noticing for the first time how the colour of his eyes looked like rainwater.

  “He loves you, Jérôme.” The admission surprised them both. “Maybe you could give him a reason to come home.”

  The crowd of journalists nearby began to stir as figures appeared at the top of the gangplank. Kostas was the first to be led out, both hands cuffed behind his back. It was clear he hadn’t slept. There were webs of red in his eyes. The skin on his face sagged, and his hair was slick with grease. He looked like an aging movie star without the team of makeup artists and flattering lighting.

  The journalists thrust foam-covered microphones at him as they shouted questions and snapped photographs. He couldn’t cover his face without the help of his hands. He had nowhere to hide.

  Deck commander Giorgos followed. The broken man could barely walk straight as the police officer guided him toward the dock. His mouth appeared permanently closed, lips pressed so tightly together they barely existed. He hadn’t put up a fight the previous night in the Odeon. He admitted to everything.

  Giorgos had no reaction to the mob of reporters, but his eyes widened partway down the pier as though he’d just woken up. Standing there was Contessa Bloor, a vision of Riviera beauty in pale yellow pants and a white silk blouse. She hid behind sunglasses, but Giorgos knew the look in her eyes would be one of contempt, not sympathy. She watched him cower in front of her as he was dragged away, her face empty of emotion.

  Nikos struggled the most. The once-proud officer refused to leave the ship when he saw the crowd of people on the dock waiting for him to appear. It took two men in black uniforms to escort him down the gangplank, one in front and one behind. Halfway down, he tripped and fell to his knees. His escorts hooked their hands under his arms to haul him back up to his feet.

  There was no trace of the calm, cool facade he used to project. Standing beneath the glare of the sun in nothing but a sweat-stained undershirt and wrinkled pants, his fingers curled like talons on hands secured behind his back, Nikos was exposed. He had no uniform to hide behind, no secret room or locked door.

  He took short, reluctant steps as they made their way through the horde, flinching at every shouted interrogation and snap of a camera. “I’m innocent!” he screamed at one point, but there was as much guilt on his face as desperation. Sophie and Jérôme stared as he walked by, but he was intent on avoiding eye contact, as though it might turn him to stone.

  Sophie was silent when she placed her hand on Jérôme’s forearm. They shielded their eyes from the sun. The white hull of the ship was blinding.

  Standing at the top of the gangplank, his wild tangle of hair flying in the wind, was Sebastien Goh.

  The mood in the café that night was victorious, which was fitting for a watering hole that predated the French Revolution. Many triumphs had been celebrated and defeats dulled by liquor inside these pastel walls. Tucked inside a winding lane on a crowded hill overlooking the Mediterranean, it hadn’t changed much over the past four hundred years. Some things defied the unstoppable march of time.

  The wooden tables were smooth from years of touch. Every surface was covered in glasses and surrounded by people from faraway places. They huddled together, voices infusing the air with life. The walls absorbed their stories, this night imprinting itself onto the materials of the room.

  This place felt like home to Sebastien.

  Ilya was telling a story, his hands flying around his face for emphasis, as his audience listened intently.

  A bearded Swede named Jonas tried to gain the attention of Diya, but she was more interested in the conversation she was having with Contessa. They spoke feverishly as though they hadn’t seen one another in years.

  Rosa and Imelda were laughing so violently that red wine splashed onto their clothes from the glasses in their hands, which caused them to laugh even more. The effect was infectious, even though nobody around them had heard the original joke.

  Sebastien scanned the room to find Sophie and Jérôme at a corner table surrounded by the Filipino Mafia. They chanted and cheered as the refined Canadian man in glasses downed his beer in one uninterrupted swallow, beating his competitor from across the table. He beamed proudly as he wiped the suds from his soft lips, triumphant.

  Sebastien realized he hadn’t been fair to Petit Géant. It was the setting for much of the pain in his life, but he had projected that pain onto the entire town. Perhaps it never felt like home, but it also wasn’t the hopeless void he once believed it was. He had been so fixated on the bad that he forgot to appreciate the good.

  Jérôme caught his eye. They passed each other an intimate smile from across the room.

  Grabbing his backpack from the floor, he stepped into a narrow hall that led to a hidden terrace in the back. It was quieter here, a welcome respite from the revelry. The long walls on either side were worn from time. The faded paint was chipped away in flakes of rose, revealing flashes of yellow underneath. Little clouds of dust drifted from the ceiling overhead as the rafters creaked.

  What drew him to this hallway in this specific bar hung on the walls. Hundreds of photographs of people from the past stared at him, forming a tunnel of frozen memories. Some of them could have been royalty, others farmers. The faces were joyful, sad, and everything in between. He imagined each of them posed in front of the camera as the shutter closed, capturing that moment in time forever. Now, they lived on long after their faces had withered away.

  Sebastien reached into his backpack. His mother was immortal behind the glass of the frame.

  “You always wanted to see France,” he said, a tear meandering down his cheek. “I wish I had taken you sooner.”

  He found the nail the owner of the bar had kindly dedicated to him. Ruby’s young eyes met his from her spot on the wall, black hair blowing loosely in the wind. Her smile was faint but hopeful. He understood it better now.

  The other room sounded louder than before when he returned, eyes still damp.

  Ilya hooked a muscular arm around his neck. “Our fearless leader re-emerges,” he said, kissing him on the side of the face. “What were you doing back there?”

  Sebastien shrugged. “Just thinking about home.”

  Ilya flashed him a puzzled look. “You are h
ome,” he said before pulling him to a table in the centre of the crowd.

  They clinked their glasses together and relived the past few weeks through their stories, each account coloured a little differently from the next. The room shook with their laughter.

  The smile on Sebastien’s face felt impossibly light. This was how it felt to be surrounded by family. They didn’t share blood. They shared purpose.

  He looked at the faces around the table, and he stored every detail in his memory. He knew that, despite his wishes, the night would come to an end. Time would move on. People would move on.

  But one day, far in the future, when he was old and his reflection unfamiliar, he would lie in his bed and remember this night, and he would think:

  We were young once.

  We made ourselves heard.

  We fought.

  We found each other.

  And the fire would rekindle in his deep green eyes.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This story is special to me. While I waited for months to learn if my first novel, After Elias, would make it to publication, I needed to find a way to channel my anxious energy. I started writing the first chapter, and very soon I was lost in the world of Sebastien as he sailed across the sea aboard the Glacier. I could smell the salt in the air as I poured myself into the pages, bringing me back to younger days when the world seemed impossibly big and filled with promise. Writing this story reminded me that I wish to never stop seeing the world this way.

  I have many people to thank for helping me bring Sebastien to life.

  Jessica Faust, my tenacious champion in an industry that’s often mystifying. I’m proud and grateful to have you by my side.

  Jamie Chapman and Andrea Wesley, two of the only people on the planet I’d entrust with an early draft of a manuscript. Hearing your honest and thoughtful feedback over dinner were highlights of this project.