The Closed Harbour (19 page)

Secretly, Philippe was happy. Indeed he hoped that Manos and his ship would get bogged down somewhere in the Black Sea and remain there for a long time. He had never liked Manos, he could manage the other Captains, but Manos, no. There was something about Manos—that terrible
maleness
, that fierce independent spirit, that courage, that indifference to the conventions. Philippe always saw Manos moving about the world like a shout.

"Perhaps," he once reflected, "I'm jealous of a person like that."

Sometimes he wished he could be like Manos, but that meant breaking out. Manos in port meant chaos at the Heros, in little ways, since Philippe's mind could only harbour the minor matters. Manos meant banging doors, doors left wide open, mud on the carpets, cigar smoke everywhere, torn papers, cigar butts and match sticks all over the offices through which he had to pass, and it also meant a short, stocky little man striding past the reedy man named Philippe as though he weren't there, as though he did not exist. Only once had Manos ever addressed M. Philippe, whom he knew as Follet's right hand man.

"Ah! You stink of flowers," Manos cried, and that was the end of that.

The building had settled down to dead rhythm, doors would not burst open, footsteps thunder in and out of rooms. It was nice to be quiet this morning, you could even hear the Heros clock ticking, and once or twice Philippe had taken out his little gold watch, just to see if Heros time was correct. He loved watching for slips, he loved to adjust. Casualness in a person, was an affront to Philippe.

It was natural that he should have a secret warm corner for the dwarf-man who sat so diligently at his desk, and whom he could now see through the window, from the sheer comfort of his own seat. He liked watching Labiche bent over his desk, adding and subtracting, collating, going forward and doubling back, checking, bent forward again and again, the whole of Labiche absorbed in his task, so close to his time sheets, so that the minute and the sou should not by accident roll off one of the precious pages.

Liking diligence, punctuality, faithfulness, scrupulous attention, all the conventional virtues, Philippe found room in his odd-shaped heart for Aristide Labiche.

Seated at his desk, elbows anchored and chin cradled in long, bony fingers, Philippe told himself that, Follet not coming in until after lunch, the usual Monday procedure, he might tap on Labiche's window, and ask him to come along and have a coffee with him at Grandmother Dernier's place.

He could see the whole thing at once, the scene lighted up immediately, as for a theatrical producer. They would sit down to wait for their coffee and for the first few minutes conversation would be quite formal, discussion about the weather, Follet's week-end on the farm with his grinding old father, Manos's departure and the excitement and relief of it, that absolutely merciless Toulon man who wanted the earth in return for a small service, the state of shipping, the Governmental position, the possibility of another German kick from the rear.

Eventually, the atmosphere becoming more friendly, and less business-like, Philippe would gaily introduce the news of a new grafting in his flower garden, and Labiche would discuss souls, flowers and souls being the magnet, the fulcrum, the two circles around which the lives of Labiche and Philippe centred.

Yes, it was quite on the map that Labiche was in the act of saving somebody, and quite on the map that he, Philippe would not be greatly interested.

"To shock Labiche," reflected Philippe, "you've only to tell him how bloody absurd life is."

He got up and walked slowly across the room, and stared through the window. He wondered how long Labiche would remain so bent, so absorbed. Surely he would notice. But he did not, and Philippe tapped gently on the window, and at once the large, mis-shaped head rose and the brown eyes were looking across at Philippe, and the expression upon the face said, "yes, Monsieur Philippe, what may I do for you?"

Philippe shouted through to him, "let's have a coffee, the old boy's never in until after two," then he turned his back on the other and went across and took his hat from its hook, and his stick, for always Philippe was accompanied by a stick and never seemed quite complete and set up without one.

He stood watching the little man put some papers away in his desk, dutifully lock it, and pick up his own hat.

He met him at the top of the iron stairway, amongst the smells, by the be-mapped wall that so much needed a new coat of paint. And that little coil of manilla, was nobody ever going to remove it.

"Good," he said as they met. "Let's go."

The door swung to behind them. Philippe paused for a moment to look up at the sky, this morning the very heavens seemed ablaze.

"What an ordination the sun really is," he exclaimed, "sometimes I find myself wishing that the Heros headquarters had transferred themselves to one of the Polar regions."

Labiche offered his companion a wide, toothy smile, and then the tall and short of it set off for what Philippe termed "the hole in the alley."

Sparing with his confidences, aware of his superiority at the Heros, Philippe yet found himself so relieved after this latest visitation from Manos, that it was impossible for him to keep his satisfaction to himself.

"I always feel more like myself the moment that Manos is away from the quay. How'd you get on with him—Spaniards are difficult, and how they talk their heads off
...
but of course, how stupid of me, you have no dealings with our doughtiest Captain."

"He has spoken to me on occasion, sir," replied Labiche, and Philippe stared as though this were some kind of warning.

"What d'you think of him? Reminds me of a playful elephant—"

"I found him a tolerable man," said Labiche.

He part walked, part trotted, it was difficult to keep up with Philippe's long legs.

"Here we are."

And there they were, seated opposite each other in a shady corner.

"This morning," began Philippe, "something seemed not quite right to me, and for a while I couldn't make out what it was. Then I found myself instinctively looking at my watch and discovered that the Heros clock was nearly ten minutes slow. That cleaner is not doing his job thoroughly."

"Imagine that," said Labiche.

"Another thing I noticed was that that bum never showed up last Friday
...
"

"Nor Saturday," added Labiche.

"Of course. You see him like I do, but you are tucked away and are only an observer. I have to face these bums, and what a lot of them there are. Extraordinary tribe, sailors. But this fellow, he'd the stubbornness of a mule, I hope he doesn't come again, began to get on my nerves. Sometimes he'd walk in and just stare and say nothing—"

"I noticed that, poor man, I felt sorry for him. And I did not think him such a common person. A little distinguished if I may say so."

"It sounds like an echo of your patron Saint," said Philippe, and he laughed. "Personally I like to see a man washed and clean shaved, and with some presence. This chap often looked as if he'd been out on the tiles with the cats—the scruffier they are the more you like them, Labiche. No offence of course. It's a fact, isn't it?"

Labiche sipped at his coffee and said nothing.

"You won't see him again," he said, he did not look up, but remained staring at the table.

"That's splendid. I expect he'll land on his feet some time or other, poor swine. But what could I have done? What could anybody have done? Sailors, ten for a franc, that's how it is, and then look at the riff-raff here that call themselves sailors."

"He may not have liked you," ventured Labiche, his finger making circles round the cup rim.

"That's frank enough anyhow," replied Philippe. "You'd be sorry for him at once, I know you, Labiche, and I admire you, but being sorry
...
is that helpful, the poor bastard wants a ship, we'd no berths, they're very few to-day, the war's shot holes in everything, no sense of security any longer—besides look at his record?"

"Have you seen it, sir?"

"Hadn't got one to show. We had a line on him, those Bilter people, too, and they weren't the only ones—sailors talked, too, sticky past they say
...
however fair's fair. If we'd had a berth and he'd a decent record, Monsieur Follet would have considered him for a job."

"You won't see him again," said Labiche.

"Good. You've told me that already," replied Philippe.

He had finished his coffee and pushed away the cup, his watch was out, he checked up with the Dernier monstrosity which had the tick of ship's engines, he would be back in his office in three minutes.

"Finish your coffee," he said.

Labiche put down his cup and stood up. From his great height Philippe looked down at him. If Labiche hadn't been in one of those St. Vincent de Paul moods, he supposed he would have laughed at the sight of him, stood there by the table, looking right up at him, there were comical sides to Labiche, one could not always ignore them.

"The last thing I want is a moral sermon from him," he reflected, yet could not avoid remarking "how you do
love
lame dogs, Labiche, they magnetize you. Quite extraordinary. And so many of them, even good people must pick and choose. Only the other morning Monsieur Follet said to me, 'Labiche is sharpening his claws
...
'"

"He said that?"

"He did indeed. You were asking him questions about this Marius. He told me. You were no doubt interested in him. He looked so sad, so lost, so miserable."

He put his hand on Labiche's shoulder, there was something almost fatherly in this gesture, and he smiled down and said, "Labiche, I admire you—how I'm repeating myself this morning, but the world contains a vast sea of misery, there it is, looking at you, and my God, if you're going to have any sense of proportion at all, then I say all one can afford is a hard squint, and I mean just that."

Labiche remained silent. He did not once look at his companion. He could hear him calling out the time of day to passing friends, people from neighbouring offices, and with such a light-hearted spirit that Labiche realized at once that Philippe had already swum right through this sea of misery and come out safely on the other side.

"Monsieur Philippe," he said.

"You were saying
...
"

Labiche caught Philippe's coat sleeve, "speaking as man to man, Monsieur Philippe," he began
...

"
Man
to man," thought Philippe, he could hardly conceal a smile, "I just love that—"

"Yes, Labiche?"

"Captain Marius is a sick man, and I could help him
...
"

"Then do, good lord, what are you waiting for, Labiche, by all means—poor swine, how'd you know, been following him I suppose
...
"

"He is at the end of his tether…"

"So many are, Labiche
...
oh, these headlong hearts—these headlong hearts, and what's especially attractive about Marius that you wish to save him, it's his soul, isn't it, for by some miracle or other he's saving his own skin—"

"He believes he's a Captain still—"

"He drinks too much, to say nothing of whoring, sailors will always be sailors. We must get back," said Philippe, "just look at the time."

"It was nice of him to ask me to have a coffee," thought Labiche, "the second time in ten years."

He heard Philippe say good-morning to somebody, then the door shut, and when he glanced up Philippe was in rapid conversation with this gentleman, and like Philippe, he was tall and lean. Labiche stood quietly by the table, he wondered if he should go, if he should sit down and wait. How tall these men were, they existed on another level of air, and suddenly Labiche's mind travelled back over twenty years. He was a boy, he was in the hideous little house behind the Quai de Belge, he was nine or was it ten years old, but a year hardly mattered. There he was, standing in the kitchen, looking at his mother. She was seated on a stool near the hearth, she was feeding his youngest sister. He remembered how calm and peaceful his mother looked as she held the child, as he remembered the big breast that jutted out from his mother's blouse, he had stared at it wonderingly.

"What are you staring at, Ariste?"

"Nothing, mother, nothing."

"Then stare at something for a change," she said, but he could not take his eyes from her.

"Poor Ariste," she said, "you'll never be anything but half a man."

The scene came back to him clearly now, as he stood rudely diminished by the two tall men, he could hear his mother's voice, "you'll never be anything but half a man," and it had the solid weight of a fist in it. He had never forgotten it, this first painful morning of his childhood, and now he felt its echo.

He could see himself hurrying upstairs to his box-like bedroom, bursting into tears as he flung himself on the bed, how miserable and lonely he had felt. He remembered being roused by the sound of his father's heavy, clopping footsteps on the stairs, how he had sat up quickly when the door opened, a little puzzled and frightened and ashamed, and the man straight back from the fishing had stamped into his room to exclaim:

"Ariste! What the hell are you doing here, get down to your supper at once."

He had gone to his father and thrown his arms round one knee, clutching his trousers, looked up at him, and into his nostrils had come the dense fish smell.

"Father?"

"Well! What now?"

"Is it true that when I'm grown up I'll only be half a man?"

"You'll be half a man all right, son, but you won't grow up. How can you? Comes to the same thing. You're half a man
now
and you'll remain so till your dying day."

He could heard his father's loud, coarse laugh.

"Probably put a bit of fat on, they all do."

"Come along, Labiche," Philippe said, and he was standing there waiting, the other gentleman was already enjoying his coffee, his head buried in the morning paper.

"Come along now, I only gave myself ten minutes," said Philippe.