Forgetfulness (25 page)

Thomas was drowsy in the heat of the room. It seemed to him that he had talked for hours, though in fact it had been little more than thirty minutes. The time was just about up, though he assumed Antoine would not be exact about the time. Thomas believed he had made no particular impression on the Moroccan, who had remained expressionless as he scrutinized the portrait of Florette. Thomas had heard somewhere that Moroccans were an especially handsome people, tall and fine-boned, lithe in their movements, often with vivid blue eyes. They were said to have a subtle sense of humor. Of course that was according to Western norms, Nordic in origin. Yussef was not handsome, not even very interesting; there was something ponderous about him. Thomas wondered if his people were from the city or the desert, if somewhere in his ancestry there
were renowned hunters with falcons on their forearms, austere men at home in the sand. Thomas had no idea how he would go about making Yussef's portrait if called upon to do so. But that was a commission he would refuse in any case. Then he was back in the billiards room with St. John Granger, the old man laughing in his dusty way at some gossip he had learned from Ghislaine, mischief in the village. He missed Granger. Granger was, in his problematic way, an anchor to windward, a ghostly anchor to be sure, but one that held.

Thomas wondered if it was wise for him to remain in St. Michel. His wife was gone, his closest friend was gone, and if he remained the face before his eyes would be the Moroccan's. Dead or alive, he would be unforgettable. He decided then to finish the portrait of old Bardèche and after Bardèche there would be other villagers to paint and before long he would have canvases enough for a show. Arthur Malan had been pestering him for a year. Make yourself visible, Thomas. Get out and about. Collectors must be reminded that you are still alive and at work. Thomas lit a Gitane and thought about working again, not in St. Michel but somewhere unknown to him, another country altogether, perhaps someplace near the sea. He could take up fishing. One thing was certain. He wanted no more to do with Le Havre, the loft room, the two-way mirror, or the man seated across the table.

Yussef made a guttural sound as he tested the strength of the shackles,
click-click
as he forced his wrists apart just so far and no farther. His forearm muscles stiffened with the effort. He held the pose a moment, then brought his wrists together and let them fall to the table.

The Moroccan said, My name is not Yussef. I don't know where they got that name. It is a pretend-name. They found it in a telephone book.

As to why I am here, you must ask your friends on the other side of the looking glass.

And my work is my own affair.

I am here against my will.

The voice was soft, the French grammatically correct but badly
spoken with a coarse accent. Thomas did not look at him. He gave no sign he had even heard him. This was not an act performed for the Moroccan's benefit. Thomas was beyond artifice. He was listening but he was indifferent to what he heard because the truth was not present, not the exact truth of Florette's last hours. The loft room had its own special aura and truth was not part of it. A useless exercise, he thought. Better he should have remained in St. Michel du Valcabrère. Nothing he could hear would ease his heart. Lies wouldn't and the truth wouldn't.

You're afraid, I can see, the Moroccan went on after a moment. Yes, it's evident. Are you certain you want to hear what I have to tell you? It is not pleasant. You will not like to hear it. Give some sign so that I will know what to do.

The Moroccan had a slight lisp, more pronounced in the echo of the loft than it had been in the few words he had spoken hours before. Thomas remembered Florette telling him her father had a lisp, and so in her last hours she would have been reminded of him. Thomas shook his head, thinking of this. There was no end to it.

I did not kill your wife, the Moroccan said. She was a foolish woman who stumbled and broke her ankle. She was careless. She was not dressed properly. I had nothing to do with her ankle. Her ankle did not interest me. We carried her some distance on a litter. I do not know how far. She was heavy and complaining every minute and the load was difficult. The trail was steep. Surely you know it well, the turns and switchbacks, the steep dips and rises. A pig of a trail. The task was not simple. The boy tires easily and the others were unhappy at the delay and our compromised position. So when we found a clearing among the trees we set her down and considered what to do next. We needed a solution. We had business of our own. She interfered with our business. We were on a timetable. Then the snow began and it became impossible for us to go on with her. She was unconscious.

We did not ask for her to be there.

She was not our responsibility.

She was on her own. She was dying.

And I saw to her. We continued on our way.

You killed her, Thomas said.

An act of mercy. When I drew the knife, she was already dead.

Thomas looked into the eyes of the Moroccan. He believed he was listening to a rhapsody, a kind of romance, Scheherezade's thousand and one nights of epic verses and in every one a kernel of truth. Find it if you dare.

The responsibility is yours. Why would you allow your only wife to put herself in such danger? You are a restless people, you Americans. You expect others to clean up for you. We did what we could and then we went away and the result is that I am here where I do not belong—

Florette was French, Thomas said.

American or French, it makes no difference.

Why did you think she was American?

She spoke English.

Florette spoke English?

Yes, the Moroccan said with a smile. Once she said "Please."

She said "Please." And so you left her to die.

We had business. And what of our situation now? We are insulted. We are shackled. We are beaten.

And Florette is dead, Thomas said.

You must hope that God has welcomed her. The Moroccan paused a long moment, looking at his hands. He said softly, Inshallah.

As he listened to Yussef, Thomas felt dissociated, as if he were in a dream state, some place from which it would be difficult to return. He watched the clock on the wall. At the moment the prisoner began to speak of the difficulty of the trail, the hands began to move counterclockwise, and when they stopped the time was two. The hands moved in spasms, indicating that they were being turned manually. Thomas wondered why Antoine chose two. Why not twelve or ten? But Antoine had his own way of going about things, his protocol, so probably there was a logic to it. You could always find a logic to things if you searched intelligently and looked for patterns, connections of things one to another. You could explain the
way of the world by cause and effect or blind luck or misadventure or a random god in the universe; but explanation did not always lead to comprehension, a ready grasp of the matter. Frequently it didn't. Thomas waited to see if the Moroccan had anything he wanted to add, some fresh detail of how they did their duty and the part played by the foolish, careless American woman. He had spoken only a few sentences. But evidently there was nothing more because he remained silent. Thomas considered moving close to him, whispering something dramatic in his ear: You will rot in hell. But perhaps he wouldn't rot in hell. God might welcome a Moroccan. Who knew what God intended? God-in-all-his-mysterious-ways, God whose shadow never diminishes, the Moroccan an inscrutable instrument of God's will. Probably the prisoner would be amused to hear his words, the infidel American rattled at last. The solution was to kill him or leave him alone. There was nothing in between.

Thomas stood and stretched, lightheaded from sitting for so long. And then he remembered the wine and the calvados he had drunk at lunch; that would account for the drowsiness. It would not entirely account for the bad taste in his mouth, nor the knot in the pit of his stomach. Nothing more to hear, he thought. This is the end of it. Thomas stepped to the easel and dismantled it. He rolled up the Canson paper, wrapped it in glassine, and inserted it in the tube. He collected his Conté crayons and returned them to their box. From habit, he spilled a little turpentine on his hands and patted them dry with his handkerchief. The smell of turpentine had always been a mnemonic for him, vivid recollections of portraits made and anticipation of those to come. But it did nothing for him now. He intended to leave everything at the safe house—no telling when they might need artists supplies. The portrait he would burn when he returned to St. Michel du Valcabrère. Thomas looked around to see if he had forgotten anything and noticed the pack of Gitanes and the lighter on the table and put them in his coat pocket, and when he did, his hand brushed the hard leather of the bastinado. Antoine had insisted he take it, in case the Moroccan got ugly. Thomas picked it up, weighed it in his hand, and looked in the mirror at
Yussef seated at the long table, his eyes cast down. Thomas thought about using it, a smart slap across the eyes. Easy to break his jaw, dislodging teeth in the process. Such a blow would be extremely painful, pain that would be hard to forget. With a broken face and ruined eyes, the Moroccan would never look the same. And at the same time he would be recognizable wherever he went, an object lesson. Look! That was what the American did because his wife died, an eye for an eye—except his wife lost more than an eye. But the American was satisfied, even though the scales were not in balance. The American would remember the blow forever; he would hear the bones crack, hear the Moroccan's scream. He could carry that memory for the rest of his life, perhaps recall it on his deathbed, when it would bring a smile to his face. Perhaps the blow was hard enough to kill him, score evened. And that memory would be more satisfying still. It would never be forgotten. His memory of Florette and the Moroccan would coexist, in perfect balance. It would be with him every time he painted a portrait; the sound of leather against bone, bones breaking, broken skin slick with blood, the scream as the Moroccan fell and lay still, slowly dying. That would take awhile. Thomas turned away. He turned with a heavy heart, bile in his mouth. He weighed the bastinado in his hand, then slipped it into the tube that held Florette's portrait. He looked around one last time. That seemed to be everything.

Thomas stood quietly a moment, irresolute, uncertain how to proceed. He sensed the faces at the mirror, Bernhard and Antoine and the investigators. Probably they expected him to do something or make some comment to the prisoner. He had earned the right to do so. But what was there to say? Words seemed to him beside the point, unequal to the burden he carried. With difficulty he gathered up the easel, the tube, and the crayon box and stepped to the stairwell. All this time he had not looked directly at the Moroccan or given any indication of what he thought or what he intended to do with the information he had been given. It was dark at the foot of the stairwell. Thomas paused at the top, then lumbered on down the stairs and deposited the supplies in the hallway. The guard looked at him with a sympathetic expression but did not speak. Thomas slung
his overnight duffel over his shoulder and stepped out the door into the gray dusk of early evening, coal dust in the air, a light snow falling.

Thomas retraced his steps to the port, easily finding Café Marine. The écailler nodded at him and said he had plenty of oysters left. Thomas gave him a thumbs-up and went on through the door. He sat at a table and ordered an espresso and a calvados. The room filled up with seamen, their voices loud and jolly. The
patron
presided with the formality of a bishop, a bishop with fast and competent hands, easily holding three beer glasses in one hand while with the other he pulled the porcelain handle. All the time he was pouring he was conversing, now with one customer, now with another, a man happy at his work. Thomas ordered another espresso and lit a Gitane; the air was heavy with tobacco smoke and beer smell. He drank the espresso but saved the calvados for the third cup. For the first time that day he felt at ease—the first time in months, he amended. Thomas took off his jacket and placed it over the back of his chair and listened to the confused conversation around him. The language was so filled with argot and punctuated with laughter that it was hard for him to parse—mariners talk mostly, ships in the harbor and ships due to arrive, the weather forecast. Mariners paid attention to the weather. Then a shadow fell across the table and a hand rested heavily on his shoulder.

May I join you?

Thomas looked up and indicated the empty chair. Thank you, Antoine said. A waiter appeared at once and he ordered a Dortmunder, the big glass.

I like a glass of beer at the end of the day, Antoine said.

We all need something, Thomas said.

This is a favorite café of mine, Antoine said. The
patron
is an old friend. Surprising the things you hear in a seamen's café in a busy port. But I never come here for business. This is my off-duty place. I come here to relax with friends, have a glass and a plate of something.

How did you know where I was?

In a strange town, people always return to that which is familiar. Unless they are fugitives. And sometimes even fugitives, the ones who are less than clever. Bernhard told me where you had lunch.

And where is he?

Wondering where you are, Antoine said with a smile.

The waiter arrived with Antoine's Dortmunder and a platter of langoustines. The beer looked so appetizing that Thomas ordered a glass. They ate for a while without speaking, Antoine shelling the langoustines with the speed and skill of a surgeon. When they were finished, Antoine signaled for another plate and two more glasses of Dortmunder. He talked about seafood in Le Havre—homard, turbot, coquilles, all superb. The restaurants were not grand but they were not expensive, either. The food was honest and the prices likewise. Unfortunately, he himself was obliged to live in Paris, a filthy place where cheating was an art form. There was no trouble in France that the elimination of Paris could not cure. But alas, all the world loved Paris, so Paris will be with us a while longer. It is said that America would not be America without Paris for Americans to go to. Also Germans, the brutes. But I will tell you this. The Parisians are not comme il faut.