The shipping company now gave me two months’ home leave each year so I could make the most of my family before returning to the tempestuous ocean. Each summer, we vacationed in Brittany with our families. I was enchanted with the idea of Jeanne discovering the place in which her mother and I had grown up. She spent many happy days on the beaches of our childhood, laughing as she gathered shells covered in silt, stopping to stare, astonished, at a crab scuttling over the pebbles. Sometimes, hiding behind a tree in the garden of the Vertune farmhouse, I watched my daughter marveling at the simple pleasures of life. She would pick up a fallen apple, bring it close to her eyes, and attempt to pierce the mystery of this fruit, using her little girl’s pure imagination. And thus I too became a child again behind my apple tree, moved when I saw in her certain characteristics of my own personality.
Fatherhood offers a chance to rediscover one’s past, to ward off an unhappy childhood or prolong the pleasure of a golden one. It is not something you pick up in a drugstore to dress your wounds. On the contrary, it gives you the opportunity to rejuvenate, as long as you don’t overdo it. I leapt at the opportunity to become a child once more, playing with Jeanne for hours, imitating wild animals. Jeanne giggled wildly when I played a gorilla thumping his chest, a seal flopping about on the icy floor of its blue islet, or a rhinoceros charging between the apple trees. Finally, tired of playing in the sun, we lay on the grass, her little body snuggled up to mine.
“Why is the sky blue, Papa?” she asked, curious like her father.
“Because it wanted to be friends with the sea,” I spontaneously replied.
“Why did it want to be friends with the sea?”
“Because the sea is kind.”
“Is the sea kind to you, Papa?”
“Yes, except when there’s a gale.”
“What’s a gale?”
“Wind, Jeanne, lots of wind.”
When she was satisfied with my answers, she began to daydream, sometimes falling asleep in the shadow of the trees. I would gather her in my arms and carry her to bed, where she’d continue her siesta.
We visited my brothers, who were also married to local girls, as tradition required. Pierre and Guy lived not far from the Vertune farm, still helping my eldest brother in the wheat fields. Technical progress and the appearance of combine harvesters had made the work and their lives much easier. Ever true to themselves, they spoke little and acquiesced without argument, fleeing conflict like the plague. Jacques, as unrelenting as ever in his work, had softened with age, however. He was father to an adorable little boy on whom he doted, attentive to his slightest wish, talking and listening to him in a way we had never known as children. Our relationship improved over time, even if it never reached my hoped-for heights, that brotherly solidarity we had briefly known in the back of the Germans’ truck the day I first saw Mathilde.
When I was a child, brotherly relations had seemed like sanctuaries from which each of us drew strength, like a well from which one carefully collects water, making sure never to let it run dry. Any argument or conflict between brothers was simply unthinkable. I thought that my brothers would always be at my side, that they would stand by me through life’s ups and downs, heartaches, betrayals. But, idealistic as I was, I quickly lost those illusions as I noticed how my brothers became more withdrawn in front of my father, contrasting with our carefree behavior as we scampered about the woods and trails. I grew disheartened the more abuse I received, prompting my departure from the family cocoon to make my own way. Even if they were all proud of having a sailor brother, nothing would ever be like before. Still, we happily passed the time digging for clams, picnicking on the beach, and teaching the kids to skim stones across the water.
Mathilde’s father was around too. He watched his daughter and his granddaughter with loving eyes. What wouldn’t he have given to still have his wife by his side?
Finally, in late August, this pleasant parenthesis would always come to an end, as the three of us packed up and returned to Bordeaux. Jeanne shyly waved goodbye to her grandparents through the train window. Mama shed a few tears as we pulled out of the station, bereft of a child she’d have preferred to keep close.
“Granny gone!” said Jeanne, still too young to understand what was happening.
“Yes, gone!” I repeated to my daughter. “We’ll see her next year, OK?”
“Granny always gone. Like you, Papa!”
Children may only be children, but they are clever nonetheless. And Jeanne was tremendously clever. She was beginning to understand that her father deserted her, that he was obliged to leave on his ship “for work.” But what does the word work mean to kids? Not much, I thought. I was reaching the limits of my childhood dream. As much as I loved my job, I felt guiltier every passing day at not being around more for my daughter. The captain of my first ship, recently retired, had warned me: “A sailor’s life is a tough one, you don’t get to watch your children grow up.” The old sea dog was right. I could already anticipate my daughter’s reproaches about my cyclical absences. I had suffered my father’s lack of communication; now my daughter was suffering my abandonment, which imperiled our future relationship. But I didn’t want to have to make a choice. Selfishly, I wanted to prolong my freedom for as long as possible.
I embarked again each September, not to return until January. Now that I was working the intercontinental shipping routes, I came into contact with all kinds of people and cultures. It seemed to me that, physical appearance aside, humanity was a single, indivisible whole. Only the languages changed. I saw the same smiles in West Africa, Asia, and Oceania. The warm welcome extended us by native populations warmed our hearts after long months spent at sea. On our few days of shore leave, Martín and I would head off into the hinterlands to meet the locals and discover their customs and habits. I felt as if I were in some way perfecting my education in the field by combining theory and practice. Monsieur Duquerre, my old schoolmaster, would have been proud.
I received news from María on several occasions. Every year she sent me a postcard on which she scribbled a few sentences in Spanish, which Martín helped me understand. She also slipped a picture of her son into the envelope, so I saw him grow up as the years passed. She never mentioned the picture of Catherine Schäfer. But after ten years or so, she stopped writing. What I initially thought was an oversight ended up worrying me. I decided to write to her to make sure that everything was fine. The envelope was returned a few weeks later marked Addressee Unknown. I re-sent the letter several times, thinking the postal service had messed up. Mistakes happen, after all. But each time, the envelope was returned in the same manner. Martín called the Málaga town hall, but they were unable to help us. The secretary on the other end of the line assured us she would make further inquiries, but we heard nothing more from her. María had disappeared without a trace. Worried at her sudden disappearance, I called her local police station several times. We even got hold of a neighbor’s telephone number, but it was always the same: nobody knew where María was.
What lay behind this mysterious disappearance? I was frustrated at not being able to investigate properly, since I spent most of my home leave making up for lost time with Jeanne. Mathilde sensed my growing concern and tried to reassure me, but her efforts were in vain. In spite of my religious skepticism, I secretly prayed that nothing had happened to María. For a long time, whenever the doorbell rang, I would walk down the corridor hoping I’d open the door to find María there with her son, Manuel. I would take a deep breath before turning the doorknob, but each time brought the same disappointment. The years passed and I came to terms with it. One soon learns to forget. Besides, María owed me nothing. I had helped her out of the goodness of my heart, out of human kindness, not for her to spend her whole life thanking me in return. I was nobody’s hero. I was just a man. Why try to change the world when you are incapable of changing yourself?
With María’s disappearance went many of my illusions. We all grow up one day or anoth
er. At our own pace. Thanks to her, I grew up too, the day I understood that the world wasn’t made in my image, but rather that it was up to me to adapt myself to the world.
25
July 17, 1965. A series of letters and numbers. An unexceptional date, devoid of significance, at least to most of humanity. Our days pass like shooting stars in the sky. We pause to watch them for a moment, fascinated by the strangeness of their origins. When they start to fade, when the show is no longer entertaining enough, we return to our everyday business, already bored with their enchanting trails. But July 17, 1965, is of indelible importance to me.
Three weeks before, we had rounded the Cape of Good Hope. A thick fog masked the South African coast beneath its white veil. I imagined I could make out gates to the Indian Ocean standing majestically in the ship’s path, their hinges invisible to the naked eye. As we drew near, these imaginary gates opened with an ear-piercing creak, like chalk screeching across a blackboard. The gates bore a coat of arms depicting Poseidon with his thick, wild beard (similar to those of my schoolmaster and my first captain) brandishing his trident aloft to prove his supremacy. He smiled a mischievous smile through the drifting fog, as if wishing us good fortune, or perhaps warning us of impending danger. Once we had passed, the gates closed with the same din and were soon shrouded from view.
We were now sailing toward beautiful Saigon, our final destination. The weather seemed relatively clement, despite the incessant rain. The sailors slipped about on the wet deck, cursing fiercely and clutching their bruised limbs.
Entering the Indian Ocean was serious business, subject to a slew of safety measures and procedures to adopt in the event of an emergency. At this point of latitude—the Roaring Forties—ships run the gauntlet of the most powerful winds on earth and the most destructive waves, where even large vessels may be broken into matchwood by the force of the swell. A moment’s inattention in these waters can come at a heavy price. All the sailors knew the risks. No place for lack of discipline, or for anything less than precision. Maritime regulations were respected to the letter and excessively checked and rechecked by the captain. The whole crew worked together as one, making sure the cargo was properly lashed down, the engines running smoothly, and the pumps prepped.
As the African coast receded, I sensed a growing, palpable tension in each of us, like that felt by parents removing the training wheels from their child’s bike. The company’s executives, ensconced in their plush leather armchairs on the other side of the globe, maintained a constant pressure on the captain over the radio, interrogating him about the state of the cargo and urging him to reach port as fast as he could. Amid this flow of instructions, there was no concern at all for the welfare of the crew. That the ship was keeping to schedule mattered far more to them than the human beings responsible for ensuring delivery of the cargo. We were mere cogs in their profit-generating apparatus. But despite the risks, I loved the ocean all the same, that blue expanse full of mystery and danger, which forced individuals to stick together, demonstrating a solidarity they would never have shown in other circumstances.
We had been moving through the rough waters of the Indian Ocean for three weeks and couldn’t wait to sight land again. Some sailors, frustrated by the long crossing and the absence of women, spoke openly of visiting prostitutes once we reached Saigon. There was a kind of vanity in their words, as if those poor women were hunting trophies to be hung on the wall. I was stirred from my reveries by the sound of the ship’s siren summoning us all on deck. Martín, with whom I’d been sharing a cabin for a decade now, put down the book he’d had his nose stuck in and peeked at the sea through the porthole.
“Looks calm,” he said vacantly.
“And the clouds?” I asked with the expert interest of a young sea dog.
“There aren’t any. It’s nearly dusk.”
“Everything’s fine, then. It’s just a drill.”
“I’m not so sure,” replied Martín skeptically.
“How’s that?”
“I’ve got a bad feeling.”
“Are you psychic now?” I joked.
“I sense that something’s going to happen. Get your gear on and let’s head up top.”
I didn’t reply. Martín had spoken with none of his usual verve, he who usually accompanied every phrase with much gesticulation. He stood by the porthole, looking serious. He seemed preoccupied. I didn’t want to press him further. We pulled on our gear and made our way through the maze of passages.
Chaos reigned. People were running in all directions. The access stairways to the upper decks were congested. I asked a few random sailors what was going on, but none were any the wiser. Strange, I thought. We climbed one set of stairs after another, finally emerging onto the open deck. It was like stepping into an oven, the air unbearably thick and heavy. Martín still seemed just as preoccupied. What could be on his mind? Suddenly we heard cries from the other side of the ship. Moving as one, we rushed aft, then crossed the rear deck. There, on the starboard deck, stood a group of sailors pointing at the horizon in awe and wonder. I followed their gaze and what I saw remains forever etched in my memory.
In the dying light, I witnessed a spectacle of breathtaking, uninhibited nature. A pale quarter moon shone high in the sky, its bluish-white light reflected on the water, decorating the sea with thousands of shimmering creases. Grandiose, I tell you. But all attention was focused not on the moon but on the horizon, where vast clouds amassed toward the stars. They seemed almost to be draining the ocean of its energy and force. What I found most strange was the surprising demarcation between darkness and light, just above the horizon, as if nature were imposing upon us a frontier we little beings shouldn’t breach, no matter how used we were to flouting nature’s laws. The warning seemed clear: cross this border and we would be at the mercy of this chaos, of the elements unchained, in peril of our lives.
Long streaks of lightning ripped through the sky, licking at the sea. The rumbling thunder reached us a few seconds later, like the beating of a tautly stretched drum announcing an imminent execution. What extravagance, I told myself, what beauty amid chaos, what surreal decor. This was why I had become a sailor, to escape humdrum everyday life and experience such moments of intense excitement. It was too late to turn and run. The storm was simply too near, and closing fast. Our ship was on an inescapable course to either catastrophe or glory. I shuddered.
“We’re going to die!” exclaimed a young sailor.
“No, we’re not, it’s just a storm,” declared another.
“May God have pity on us.”
“Stop your blabbing, you bunch of milksops!”
The captain shoved his way through the gathered sailors, castigating his men left and right. When he reached the guardrail and got a clear view, he paused, momentarily dumbfounded.
“That’s a cyclone,” he stated calmly, though he was clearly also terrified.
“A cyclone, Captain?”
“Yes. They announced one far from here on the radio a few days ago. They got it wrong. Those morons at the company. I hate them.”
“What do we do, Captain?” I asked.
“We pray.”
Then he turned to the amassed sailors contemplating the horizon.
“Gentlemen, this is the moment you’ve been waiting for, ever since you became sailors,” he yelled, finger pointing at the sky. “May I present a cyclone. It is rare to meet one at sea, for usually we are warned of this kind of thing over the radio, but since our company is staffed by assholes, we shall have to ride it out! Gentlemen, know that this is an honor bestowed on us by nature, so let us ensure we are worthy of it!”
A few shouts of joy were soon drowned out by the crew’s skeptical mumblings.
“Action stations!” screamed the captain. “I want every man at his post, but no one on deck at any point! In a few hours it’ll be a war zone up here. Lock every door and access hatch. Don’t even think of eating, it’ll be wasted when you puke your guts out! Don’t sle
ep, you couldn’t if you tried! Don’t bother taking a piss, you’ll be wetting yourselves soon enough! Don’t think about anything but reaching Saigon. The company will pick up the entire crew’s tab at the whorehouse! And one more thing: it has been an honor to sail with you, my dear shipmates.”
The captain’s words didn’t bode well at all. The rumble of the approaching storm grew louder, and the crew redoubled their efforts to get everything shipshape. My sweet moon still smiled in the sky, and I winked at it before disappearing into what might become my tomb, praying we’d be spared. I thought of Jeanne, the little girl I had been neglecting since she was born; Mathilde, the wife abandoned for my childhood dream; María, from whom I’d had no more news; Catherine Schäfer, now a grown woman; Jean, who was pursuing a fine career in Paris as an actor; Mama; and my brothers. I hoped with all my heart that I’d see them again.
26
The natural elements are capricious, murderous, and thoroughly unscrupulous. Sometimes, when their accumulated resentment of us humans reaches a tipping point, they band together to let us know we are merely tenants, passing through. They alone are the true landlords. That night, we on the ship paid the arrears on humanity’s rent.
We felt the first effects of the rough swell against the ship’s hull a few minutes after heading below deck. The rain began to fall—softly at first, then ever more violently as the minutes passed. The wind began to whistle through door cracks and porthole gaps as the booming thunder grew inexorably closer. Some sailors howled with joy at the idea of braving the cyclone. Others, scared and worried, said nothing.
The swell became more extreme. The wind shrieked through the ship. We went down into the hold to make sure the cargo wasn’t being shaken about by the rough swell. It all seemed in order. We clambered back up through the passageways, grabbing hold of door handles and bulkheads to pull ourselves forward. Where was Martín? I hadn’t seen him for the past few hours, which worried me. What could be bothering him? After all, it was only a storm—a bad one, for sure, but just a storm nonetheless.
Seasons of the Moon Page 14