And then suddenly it all happened. A door of their room must have opened, for all at once all the heads in the room were turned in one direction and a moment later something in white trotted like a dog across the room.
But it was no dog. It was vertical as it ran. I thought at first that it was a mechanical doll, so close was it to the floor. I could not observe its face, but I was amazed to see the long train of satin that was being dragged along the carpet behind it.
It stopped when it reached the flower-laden table, and there was a good deal of smiling and bowing, and then the man with the longest neck in the world placed a high stool in front of the table and, with the help of the young man with the goat foot, lifted the white thing so that it stood upon the high stool. The long satin dress was carefully draped over the stool so that it reached the floor on every side. It seemed as though a tall, dignified woman was standing at the civic altar.
And still I had not seen its face, though I knew what it would be like. A sense of nausea overwhelmed me and I sank back on the seat, hiding my face in my hands.
I cannot remember when the bus began to move. I know that I went on and on and on and that finally I was told that I had reached the terminus. There was nothing for it but to board another bus of the same number and make the return journey. A strange sense of relief had by now begun to blunt the edge of my disappointment. That this bus would take me to the door of the house where I was born gave me a twinge of homesick pleasure. But stronger was my sense of fear. I prayed that there would be no reason for the bus to be held up again in Cambridge Circus.
I had taken one of the downstairs seats, for I had no wish to be on an eye level with someone I had deserted. I had no sense of having wronged her, but she had been deserted nevertheless.
When at last the bus approached the Circus I peered into the half darkness. A street-lamp stood immediately below the registry office. I saw at once that there was no light in the office, and as the bus moved past I turned my eyes to a group beneath the street-lamp. My heart went cold in my breast.
Standing there, ossified as it were into a malignant mass – standing there as though they never intended to move until justice was done – were the five. It was only for a second that I saw them, but every lamplit head is forever with me – the long-necked man with his bird skull head, his eyes glinting like chips of glass; to his right the small bald man, his tattooed scalp thrust forward, the lamplight glinting on the blue markings. To the left of the long-necked man stood the youth, his elegant body relaxed but a snarl on his face that I still sweat to remember. His hands were in his pockets, but I could see the shape of the hoof through the cloth. A little ahead of these three stood the bearded lady, a bulk of evil – and in the shadow that she cast before her I saw in that last fraction of a second, as the bus rolled me past, a big whitish head, very close to the ground.
In the dusk it appeared to be suspended above the kerb like a pale balloon with a red mouth painted upon it – a mouth that, taking a single diabolical curve, was more like the mouth of a wild beast than of a woman.
Long after I had left the group behind me – set, as it were, forever under the lamp, like something made of wax, like something monstrous, long after I had left it I yet saw it all. It filled the bus. They filled my brain. They fill it still.
When at last I arrived home I fell weeping upon my bed. My father and mother had no idea what it was all about, but they did not ask me. They never asked me.
That evening, after supper, I sat there, I remember, six years ago in my own chair on the chocolate-coloured carpet. I remember how I stared with love at the ash on my father’s waistcoat, at his stained moustache, at my mother’s worn-away shoe heels. I stared at it all and I loved it all. I needed it all.
Since then I have never left the house. I know what is best for me.
The Other Side of the Mountain
Michel Bernanos
Translated into English by Gio Clairval
Michel Bernanos (1924–1964) was a French writer, the son of well-known writer Georges Bernanos and the only one of six children to follow in his father’s footsteps. However, he refused to use his father’s name, publishing thrillers under the pen names ‘Michel Talbert’ and ‘Michel Drowin’. ‘The Other Side of the Mountain’, first published in 1967, three years after the writer’s suicide in the forest of Fontainebleau, is considered a surreal masterpiece; it is also the only story to be published under his real name. Gio Clairval’s fine new translation should be considered definitive, and for the first time conveys the stark and beautiful essence of the writer’s vision.
Part One
I had just turned eighteen when, after a night of drinking, the hand of a friend guided mine into signing myself onboard a galleon for one year.
The beginning of this dreadful adventure remains a vague memory – or, should I say, a faint trace. In truth, not until the following morning did I face the reality of my situation. To my vast surprise, I found myself stretched out on hard, bare boards, greeted by the depths of a bright blue sky. Then I noticed sails filled by a gentle breeze, and the rolling sea speckled with white caught in a single wavelet and multiplied toward the horizon.
Astonished, I glanced around, taking in the hawsers coiled in every corner. Cords of rope similar to those I’d spotted on moored boats. The ship reeked of tar.
At the noise of heavy footfalls, I clenched my eyes shut and pretended to be asleep. A kick rewarded my cunning while a voice barked, ‘Off with you, ship’s boy! Got to scrub the quarterdeck. Move it, or I’ll hang you from the boom.’
The man kicked my side once more. I scrambled to my feet, wobbling on the moving deck. ‘Quicker, I tells you,’ the barking continued. ‘Go see the cook. He needs help with the grub.’
Not knowing where the galley was, I wandered from the quarterdeck to the forecastle. The wind had risen and the sails puffed out their big white bellies, fat with the new breeze. The galleon – I hadn’t learned her name yet – listed, gliding on the water like a caress on smooth skin. The masts moaned as they resisted the wind. I met several crewmembers. Their faces held no encouragement but I felt reassured by their lack of interest in me. I changed my mind as soon as I bumped into the man who had scolded me. His brown, almost black face contorted horribly as he glowered at me. ‘Ah! You refuse to obey, then? Well, we’ll teach you to be a sailor. Here, mates,’ he addressed two sailors. ‘Fetch two mooring lines. Let’s have some fun.’
As if in a nightmare, the crew encircled me. Seeing silent laughter on those hard faces, I lost all hope. They would show me no pity.
‘Well, seaman?’ cried my torturer, who was the bosun, I guessed. ‘Are those lines coming?’
‘Here we are,’ answered a voice.
A young sailor stepped up to us, holding a line hung with a weight on one end.
‘Go ahead. Tie him up,’ the bosun ordered, nodding in my direction.
The sailor glanced at me and tried to object. ‘He’s just a kid. D’you think he can take it?’
‘Do what you’re told and shut your hole.’
‘All right, all right,’ said the lad. ‘Just saying.’
And without further hesitation, he began to put a rope around my waist. Another sailor approached with a second mooring line. The bosun beckoned the two sailors to the aft.
I watched them with a sinking feeling as one of them stood at starboard, the other portside, and they passed the rope over the prow, and then let it slip under the hull. Now they were coming back for me. They tied the other end to the rope already around my waist, and I was caught in the middle of the two mooring lines. Crazed with panic, I could only glance around me, seeking mercy. Although I noticed pity on a few faces, most bore expressions of sadistic expectation.
Indifferent to these manoeuvres, the fleecy blue sea blossomed with white foam like lace crowning the billows, while the topmast, all sails out, stroked the variegated sky.
‘Throw him over,’ bellowed my persecutor.
> Several grips seized me. Coarse laughter burst from all around as I was tossed over the side. Scared to death, I shut my eyes and stiffened, waiting for the shock of ice-cold water. But I had not reckoned with my tormentors’ refined cruelty. They lowered me with maddening slowness toward the watery abyss. I tried to hold on to the sea-worn hull but only succeeded in excoriating my hands. Peals of laughter mingled with the sound of the restless sea. Finally, my feet touched the water. A strange calm filled my heart. I knew I should avoid breathing once submerged. Therefore, I waited to the very last, when the water reached my chin, to take in as much air as possible and hold my breath. Despite this precaution, my chest soon contracted in the most atrocious way. I was now being dragged to the other side, as slowly as I had been lowered into the sea. I could no longer endure it. I needed some air. I opened my eyes in the hope of seeing the brightness of daylight right above me, but I only glimpsed a terrible vision that obliterated the burning bite of the salt. I balanced under the hull. The boat, in the ghastly green glow of the underwater world, loomed over me like an immense dark monster.
I must have lost consciousness right then because I have no recollection of what happened next. Afterward I learnt that the captain, called to the deck by the commotion, gave the order to haul me up. Without his intervention, I would have died.
…I was stretched out on a hammock that swung with the rolling of the sea. The horizon became visible through the porthole. With each movement of the galleon, the line would sink and resurface, sink and resurface. This sight reminded me of my awful ordeal, and either fear or exhaustion robbed me of my senses again.
…Harsh sounds reached me. I opened my eyes. Night had fallen. A storm lamp moved back and forth. The wrinkled face bending over me made me think of the apples Mother used to place on the kitchen hearth to dry out. The man stared at me with beady eyes devoid of kindness but also free from any animosity. He was chewing a quid of tobacco that made his breath stink.
‘You’re waking up at last, ship’s boy. Get up. Need to fill up your belly.’
‘How long have I been sleeping, sir?’ I asked him.
‘Three days, son. And there’s no “sir” ’round here. I’m old Toine, the cook. And I need a helper. If you’re all right with it, I’ll take you on. I’ve got neither a good nor bad heart. But if you work for me, you’ll always get enough food. Eating’s the most important thing, son.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘How come you don’t know? Didn’t you sign up for it?’ Shaking his head, he went on. ‘We’re going to Peru to find gold for the Spaniards, if the English and the Dutch don’t sink us first.’
‘So we’re like what, pirates?’
‘No, no, we’re just freighters.’ He shrugged.
Seeing by my puzzled look that I didn’t understand, he spat out a long spurt of brownish saliva and, after shifting his tobacco quid from one cheek to the other, he said in gruff tones, ‘Come on and eat. You look half dead.’
I scrambled to my feet. The cabin spun around me but I followed my new boss to the galley.
The place was filthy. Cockroaches three times bigger than those I’d seen before scuttled among sacks of flour and sugar. Old Toine served me a vegetable soup that tasted delicious from the first spoonful. He watched me eat with a satisfied look on his wrinkled face. Like an artist who loves his painting, he loved his cooking and liked seeing others enjoy it.
When I emptied my bowl, he said, ‘Go get your hammock. You’re going to sleep with me in the galley. You’ll be better off here than with those pigs.’
II
A fortnight had passed since I was forced aboard. The crew had tried to bull rush me on several occasions. But each time, old Toine intervened, pretending he needed me in the galley, even brandishing a large butcher knife under the crewmen’s noses. The men had grown tired of the game.
Early in the morning, I settled down on the deck to peel potatoes. I dreamt often, lost in that blue infinity. Dolphins interrupted my reverie with their playful breaking of the watery surface. They arced gracefully in mid-air, with the elegance of horses jumping over obstacles. The ship herself, sails spread and bowsprit piercing the horizon, was poised to rise and fly. As the day advanced, the king of stars flooded the deck with its golden rays. The gentle breeze filling our sails reminded me of my mother’s caresses when I was a little child. When night fell and my work was done, I came back to the deck. I loved watching the prow cut the phosphorescent waters while sprays captured tiny rainbows. I also loved spying the unknown stars that rose from the horizon to sow the dark vault of the sky under the still watches of the Great Bear.
My regrets and fears had slowly disappeared in the presence of all those wonders. I even surprised myself by holding my own with the crewmen. My journey seemed to continue in a peaceful way. One morning, however, we awoke in the middle of a strange silence. Toine leapt out of his hammock, crying like a madman, ‘It stopped. The bastard stopped!’
Then, spotting my bemused stare, he shouted, ‘Can you hear something? Can you?’
‘No, no,’ I said, bewildered. ‘No, I don’t hear a thing.’
‘That’s our problem, idiot. The wind has stopped. There’s no current here on the Equator. We could be dead in the water for days.’
He stormed out of the galley. I jumped down from the hammock and followed him. Outside, the sails hung limp, offering a scene of desolation. Sunbeams drew reflections in the still water, as smooth as an immense sleeping lake. Already the heat was growing unbearable. The crew went about their chores in unusual silence.
Toine spat over the side. ‘Take a good look, son,’ he said. ‘Even life seems to be hanging in midair. Let’s hope it won’t last.’ He clenched his teeth. ‘Or it’ll be hell.’
‘Pull in the sails, you bunch of rascals!’ the captain yelled, coming down from the bridge.
We waited for the wind to return for eight interminable days. The tension mounted. First water was rationed, then food. But the heat that assailed the ship spoiled the food. We had to throw it all overboard. Scurvy appeared. The men’s lips and gums became black and swelled to double their normal size. To relieve the suffering of these poor souls, the captain gave the order for rum. But the men asked for more, and soon we teetered on the brink of disaster, as our load of rum barrels was to be bartered for gold.
After forty days of forced immobility, the potatoes, the only food left, began to sprout. A foul stench rose from the hold. The horrendous odour convinced the captain to have us throw the precious vegetables overboard as well. This time, he met opposition from some crewmen. Nothing could make the menacing men listen to reason. They declared the rotting food was better than no food at all. Tired of arguing, the captain relinquished the potatoes into his sailors’ hands. The men ate them as they were, without bothering to cook them. A few hours later, the crewmen died under their companions’ horrified gazes. No one uttered a word of protest when the last sack of potatoes passed overboard.
In the meantime, Toine and I fed on the flour the cook had set aside. I was ashamed of our secret but Toine maintained that our entire hoard wouldn’t have sufficed to provide a single meal for all the men.
‘Besides,’ he said, ‘do you think that if any of these rascals had food he would share it? They’d rather watch their best friend die. You forget quickly, son. These same fellows didn’t hesitate to give you a bath that almost killed you.’
This last argument overcame my remorse. It was all I needed, for man is a coward intent on finding an excuse for his cowardice.
We had now been becalmed for fifty-five days. The last three days, we’d had neither water nor food. Tortured by thirst and hunger, the men wandered about the deck, a crazed glow in their eyes. The captain had ordered the boards nailed across the rum hold doubled, to avoid the risk of plundering. But one night we were awakened by a frightful racket. Armed with axes, the men were hacking their way into the rum hold, in spite of the captain’s shouting. And soon, judging by their
joyful yells, we could tell they had succeeded. The captain’s voice had gone silent. He had probably returned to his cabin. After a moment, the men were back on deck. Toine and I spied on them through a porthole. They were in a state of extreme inebriation. Weakened as they were, it had not taken long for them to get drunk. They made such a frightening sight in the light of the storm lamps: faces with eyes so deeply sunken they looked like holes over monstrously swollen mouths. Most of these poor devils had already lost their teeth. They’d become so thin it was a wonder they were even able to put up such a tumult.
They sat around in groups. The bosun was with them, but in what seemed a normal condition.
Toine pointed a finger. ‘Of course that bastard put something aside for himself.’
I couldn’t hold back a smile. Hadn’t the cook done the same?
We returned to our hammocks. In the stifling heat, we couldn’t go back to sleep. Toine had barricaded the door, which made the air inside the galley even more stale.
After a while, I had the feeling something new was happening on the deck. Toine warned me. ‘Stay awake, son. We’re in for some trouble. They’re jawing for now, but they’ll soon be knocking each other around. And that goddamned wind isn’t rising.’
The Weird: A Compendium of Strange and Dark Stories Page 80