The Prospector

by J. M. G. Le Clézio

  I’m the only one who’s worrying about our itinerary. The crewmen just go on with their lives and play dice as if nothing mattered. Is it because of their taste for adventure? No, that’s not it. They don’t belong to anyone, they don’t come from anywhere, that’s all. Their world is the deck of the Zeta, the airless hold where they sleep at night. I look at those dark faces, burnished by the sun and the wind, like shingles polished by the sea. Just as I had on the night we cast off, I begin to feel that vague, irrational anxiety again. These men belong to another way of life, another time. Even Captain Bradmer, even the helmsman, are with them, are on their side. They too are indifferent to places, to longings, to everything that’s important to me. Their faces are as smooth as water, their eyes reflect the metallic glint of the sea.

  The wind is whisking us north now, in full sail, with the stem slicing through the dark sea. We clip along, hour after hour, day after day. I have to get used to this, accept the rule of the elements. Every day when the sun is at its peak the helmsman goes down into the hold to rest without closing his eyes and I take the wheel.

  Maybe this way I’ll learn to stop asking questions. Can you question the sea? Ask the horizon for explanations? The only real things are the wind driving us forward, the rolling of the waves and, at nightfall, the still stars that guide us.

  Yet today the captain talks to me. He tells me he hopes to sell his cargo of oil in the Seychelles, where he knows Mr Maury very well. Mr Maury is the one who will take care of having it loaded on cargo ships bound for England. Captain Bradmer talks to me about this with an air of indifference, smoking his green tobacco cigarette, sitting in his armchair screwed down to the deck. Then, when I’m not expecting it, he speaks of my father again. He’d heard of his experiments and his projects for bringing electricity to the island. He’s also familiar with the disputes that had set him against his brother and caused his ruin. He talks to me about all of that calmly and without making any commentary. About Uncle Ludovic, he simply says, ‘A tough man.’ That’s all. Out here, on such a blue sea, related in the captain’s monotone voice, those events seem far away, almost foreign. And that is exactly why I’m on board the Zeta, as if suspended between the sea and the sky. Not in order to forget – can one forget? But rather to render the memory vain, inoffensive, so that it will slip along and pass away like a reflection.

  After those spare words about my father and Boucan, the captain remains silent. Arms crossed, eyes closed as he smokes and I almost believe he’s half-asleep. But he turns suddenly towards me and says, in his muffled voice that barely rises over the sound of the sea, ‘Are you an only child?’

  ‘Sir?’

  He repeats his question without raising his voice, ‘I’m asking you if you’re an only child. Don’t you have any siblings?’

  ‘I have one sister, sir.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Laure.’

  He seems to think that over, then, ‘Is she pretty?’

  He doesn’t wait for my response, goes on for himself, ‘She must be like your mother, pretty and, better yet, brave. And intelligent.’

  It all sort of makes a vortex within me as I stand here on the deck of this ship, so far away from Port Louis and the high society in Curepipe, so far away! For such a long time I had thought that Laure and I lived in another world, unknown to the wealthy people of Rue Royale and Champ de Mars, as if – in the decrepit house in Forest Side, as in the wild valley of Boucan – we’d remained invisible. Suddenly it makes my heart start beating faster, from anger or shame, and I can feel my face growing red.

  But where am I, after all? On the deck of the Zeta, an old schooner loaded with barrels of oil, full of rats and vermin, lost at sea between Agalega and Mahé. Who cares about me or my blushing? Who can see my clothing, stained with grease from the hold, my sunburned face, my hair tangled with salt, who can see I’ve been barefoot for days? I look at Captain Bradmer, that old sea dog, his wine-coloured cheeks, his beady eyes closed against the smoke of his stinky cigarette, and the black helmsman standing in front of him, and even the forms of the Indian and Comorian sailors, some of whom are squatting on the deck smoking their ganja, while others are playing dice or daydreaming, and I don’t feel ashamed any more.

  The captain has already forgotten all about it. He says, ‘Would you like to travel with me, sir? I’m getting old and I need a first mate.’

  Surprised, I look at him. ‘You’ve got your helmsman?’

  ‘Him? He’s old too. Every time I put into port I wonder whether he’ll come back.’

  Captain Bradmer’s offer echoes through my mind for a moment. I imagine what my life would be like on the deck of the Zeta next to Bradmer’s armchair. Agalega, Seychelles Amirantes or Rodrigues, Diego Garcia, Peros Banhos. Sometimes out as far as Farquhar or the Comoros, perhaps southwards down to Tromelin. The never-ending sea, longer than the road to travel down, longer than life. Is that what I left Laure for, what I broke my last tie to Boucan for? Then Bradmer’s proposal sounds derisory to me, ridiculous. To avoid hurting his feelings, I say, ‘I can’t, sir. I must go to Rodrigues.’

  He opens his eyes, ‘I know, I’ve heard about that pipedream as well.’

  ‘What pipedream, sir?’

  ‘Well, the pipedream. The treasure. They say your father worked very hard on it.’

  Does he say ‘worked’ ironically or is it just that I’m getting irritated?

  ‘Who says that?’

  ‘Everything comes out eventually, sir. But let’s say no more about it, it’s not worth it.’

  ‘Do you mean to say that you don’t believe the treasure exists?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I don’t believe that in this part of the world,’ he designates the horizon with a wide sweep of his arm, ‘there has been any other treasure but that which man has torn from the land and the sea at the cost of the lives of his fellow human beings.’

  For a moment, I want to talk to him about the Corsair’s maps, the papers my father had compiled and that I’d copied and brought along with me in my trunk, everything that had helped and consoled me in the misfortune and loneliness of Forest Side. But to what avail? He wouldn’t understand. He’s already forgotten what he said to me and is letting himself be rocked by the swaying of the ship, eyes closed.

  I too gaze out on the sparkling sea, to stop thinking about it all. I can feel the slow movement of the boat as it crests the waves like a horse leaping over an obstacle.

  I add, ‘Thank you for your offer, sir. I’ll think it over.’

  He cracks open his eyes. Maybe he doesn’t know what I’m talking about any more. He growls, ‘Ahem, yes, of course… Naturally.’

  That’s the end of it. We’ll never mention it again.

  The following days Captain Bradmer seems to have changed his attitude towards me. When the black helmsman goes down into the hold the captain doesn’t ask me to take the wheel any more. He slips in front of the wheel himself, standing in front of his armchair that looks odd, abandoned in that way by its legitimate occupant. When he tires of steering, he calls one of the sailors randomly and surrenders the job to them.

  I don’t care. Here the sea is so lovely that no one can think of others for long. Maybe we become like the water and the sky, smooth, free of thought. Maybe we become free of reasoning, of time, of place. Each day resembles every other one, each night begins over again. Up in the blank sky, the burning sun, the still patterns of the constellations. The wind doesn’t change: it is blowing northwards, driving the vessel onward.

  Friendships crop up between the men, come undone. No one needs anyone. I met a Rodriguan sailor on the deck – for, ever since the barrels of oil were loaded, I can’t bear to be closed up down below any more – he’s an athletic and childish black man named Casimir. He speaks only Creole and Pidgin English that he learned in Malaysia. Using these two languages he informs me that he has sailed to Europe several times and has been to France and England. But he doesn’t boast about it. I
question him about Rodrigues, the names of the passes, the surrounding islands, the bays. Does he know of a mountain named the Commander? He recites the names of the main mountains: Patate, Limon, Quatre Vents, Piton. He doesn’t speak of the ‘Manafs’, black people who live in the mountains, wild people who never go down to the coast.

  Because of the heat the other sailors have settled in for the night on the deck, despite the captain’s order against it. They aren’t sleeping. They’re stretched out with their eyes open, talking in low voices. They’re smoking, playing dice.

  One evening, just before we reach Mahé, an argument breaks out. An Indian, glassy-eyed with ganja, lays into a Muslim Comorian for some incomprehensible reason. They grab at each other’s clothing, roll around on the deck. The others stand aside, make a circle, as if for a cock fight. The Comorian is small and thin, he’s soon the underdog, but the Indian is so dopey he rolls over beside him and is unable to get back on his feet. The men watch the fight without saying anything. I can hear the hoarse panting of the combatants, the thud of clumsy blows, their groans. Then the captain comes up from the hold, watches the fight for a while and gives an order. Casimir, the gentle giant, separates them. He takes them both by the belt and lifts them up at the same time, as if they were merely bundles of laundry, and sets them each down at opposite ends of the deck. That way the matter is settled.

  The next evening we are in sight of the islands. The sailors let out sharp cries when they glimpse the land, a barely visible line, like a dark cloud under the sky. A little later the tall mountains appear. ‘It’s Mahé,’ says Casimir. He laughs with pleasure. ‘Over there, Platte Island, and there, Frégate.’ As the vessel approaches, other islands appear, sometimes so distant that a passing wave hides them from sight. The main island grows larger before us. Soon the first seagulls arrive and circle overhead, yapping. There are frigates too, the most beautiful birds I’ve ever seen, shiny black, spreading their immense wings, with their long, forked tails floating behind. They slip along on the wind above us, quick as shadows, clacking the red bags under their beaks.

  It’s the same every time we near new land. The birds come to get a closer look at these strangers. What are these men bringing? What kind of death threat? Or maybe food, fish, squid or even some cetacean lashed to the side of the ship?

  The island of Mahé is in sight, a bare two miles from us. In the sultry dusk light I can make out the white rocks of the coast, the coves, the sandy beaches, the trees. We’re sailing up the eastern coast to keep to the wind until we reach the northernmost point, passing near two small islands whose names Casimir tells me: Conception, Theresa, and he laughs because they’re women’s names. The two mornes are just ahead with their peaks still in the sunlight.

  After the small islands the wind weakens, becomes a light breeze, the sea is emerald-coloured. We are very near the coral reef, hemmed with foam. The village huts appear, like toys, amid the coconut trees. Casimir enumerates the villages for me: Bel Ombre, Beau Vallon, Glacis. Night falls and the heat is oppressive after so much wind. When we arrive in front of the pass on the other side of the island the lights of Port Victoria are already shining. In the harbour, sheltered by the islands, Captain Bradmer gives the order to douse the sails and drop anchor. The crewmen are already preparing to lower the pirogue into the sea. They’re in a hurry to get ashore. I decide to sleep on deck, rolled up in my old blanket, in the spot I love, where I can see the stars in the sky.

  The black helmsman and I, along with a silent Comorian, are the only ones on board. I love this solitude, this calm. The night is still, deep, land is near and invisible, it steals in like a cloud, like a dream would. I listen to the waves lapping against the hull and the rhythmic creaking of the anchor chain around which the vessel drifts first in one direction, then in the other.

  I think of Laure, of Mam, so far away now across the sea. Is the same night blanketing them, the same silent night? I go down below to try to write a letter that I’ll be able to send tomorrow from Port Victoria. By the dim glow of a night light I try to write. But the heat is stifling, there’s the smell of the oil, the whirr of insects. My body, my face are streaming with sweat. The words won’t come. What can I say? Laure warned me when I left, don’t write unless it’s to say: I’m coming back. If not there’s no point in it. That’s just like her: all or nothing. For fear of not having it all, she chose nothing, it’s her pride.

  Since I can’t write to her to explain from a distance how beautiful everything is here, under the night sky, adrift on the smooth water of the harbour in this abandoned ship, what use is it to write? I put the paper and the writing case back into the trunk, which I lock, and go up on deck again to breathe. The black helmsman and the Comorian are sitting near the hatch, smoking and talking softly. Later the helmsman will stretch out on the deck, wrapped in a sheet that looks like a shroud, eyes wide. How many years has it been since he’s slept?

  Port Victoria

  I’m looking for a boat to take me to Frégate Island. It’s more out of curiosity than genuine interest that I’m prompted to visit the island my father once believed he recognized as the one depicted on the hand-drawn map he kept among the papers dealing with the Corsair’s treasure. In fact it was the map of Frégate that made it possible for him to understand that the Corsair’s map was erroneously oriented east-west and had to be tilted 45° to attain its true orientation.

  A black fisherman agrees to take me out there – some three or four hours sailing time, depending on the wind speed. We set sail immediately after I buy a packet of biscuits and some coconuts to ward off thirst at a Chinese store. The fisherman doesn’t ask any questions. For provisions he brings only an old bottle of water. He hoists the lateen sail on the yard and fastens it to the long tiller, as Indian fishermen do.

  As soon as we’re through the pass we’re out in the wind again and the pirogue moves along swiftly, listing over the dark sea. We’ll reach Frégate in three hours. The sun is high in the sky, marking midday. Sitting on a stool up in the front of the pirogue, I watch the sea and the dark mass of the mornes growing distant.

  We’re heading east. On the horizon, drawn taut as a wire, I can see the other islands, the blue, ethereal mountains. Not a single bird is accompanying us. The fisherman is standing in the back, leaning on the long tiller.

  As expected, we reach the coral reef of Frégate at approximately three o’clock. It’s a small, flat island, surrounded by a band of sand where coconut trees and a few fishermen’s huts stand. We go through the pass and touch land on a coral embankment, where three or four fishermen are seated. Children are swimming, running naked on the beach. Set a bit farther back, hidden in the vegetation, is a rundown wooden house with a veranda and some vanilla plants. The fisherman tells me it’s Mr Savy’s house. Indeed, that is the name of the family that is in possession of certain maps that my father copied and the island belongs to them. But they live on Mahé.

  Walking across the beach I’m surrounded by black children laughing, calling to me, surprised to see a stranger. I take the path that borders Savy’s compound and make my way across the whole width of the island. On the other side there is no beach or anywhere to land. Only rocky inlets. The island is so narrow that on stormy days the sea spray must blow right across it.

  When I return to the embankment hardly an hour has gone by. There is no place to sleep here and I’m not keen to stay any longer. When the fisherman sees me come back, he unties the line and raises the angled yard up the mast. The pirogue glides out to sea. The waves of high tide are covering the embankment, flowing between the legs of the shouting children. They’re waving their arms about, diving into the transparent water.

  In his notes my father says that he ruled out the possibility that the Corsair’s treasure was on Frégate, because of the small size of the island, the lack of water, of wood, of resources. From what I was able to see, he was right. There are no lasting landmarks here, nothing that can be used for plotting a map. The pirates that ro
amed the Indian Ocean in 1730 wouldn’t have come here. They wouldn’t have found what they wanted, the sort of natural mystery that would fit in with their scheme, that would defy time.

  And yet, as the pirogue sails away from Frégate, skimming along westward, leaning over in the wind, I feel a little wistful. The clear water of the lagoon, the naked children running on the beach and that old abandoned wooden house among the vanilla plants all remind me of the days in Boucan. It’s a world devoid of mystery and that’s why I feel this longing.

  What will I find in Rodrigues? And what if it’s like this, what if there’s nothing over there either, nothing but sand and trees? Now the sea is sparkling in the slanting rays of the setting sun. At the stern the fisherman is still standing up, leaning on the tiller. His dark face expresses nothing, neither impatience nor disinterest. He’s simply watching the shapes of the two mornes – guardians of Port of Victoria – growing larger, already engulfed in darkness.

  Port Victoria once again. From the deck of the Zeta I’m watching the comings and goings of the pirogues unloading the oil. The air is hot and languid, not a breath of wind. The light reverberating off the glassy sea fascinates me, plunges me into a dream state. I listen to the distant sounds of the port. At times a bird flies through the sky and its call makes me start. I’ve begun writing a letter to Laure, but will I ever send it? I’d rather she came, right now, to read it over my shoulder. Sitting cross-legged on the deck, shirt open, hair tousled, beard long and whitened with salt like an outlaw: that’s what I’m writing to her now. I’m also telling her about Bradmer, about the helmsman who never sleeps, about Casimir.

  The hours slip by without leaving a trace. I’ve stretched out on the deck in the shade of the mizzen mast. I put away the writing case and the piece of paper upon which I was able to write only a few lines. Later the heat of the sun on my eyelids awakens me. The sky is still just as blue and there is the same bird squawking as it circles. I take out the piece of paper and automatically write down the lines that came to mind while I was sleeping: