The Prospector (15 page)

I like to hear him talk about Saint Brandon, because he speaks of it as if it were paradise. It is his favourite place, the one he always returns to in his thoughts, in his dreams. He's known a lot of islands, a lot of ports, but that is the place the sea routes always bring him back to. ‘One day, I'll go there to die. Over there the water is as blue and clear as the purest of springs. In the lagoon it's transparent, so transparent that you slip over it in your pirogue, without seeing it, as if you were flying over the seabed. Around the lagoon there are quite a few islands, ten, I think, but I don't know their names. When I went to Saint Brandon I was seventeen years old, I was still a child, I'd just run away from the seminary. Back then I thought I'd reached paradise and now I still believe that is where earthly paradise once was, when mankind knew no sin. I named the islands as I fancied: there was Horseshoe Island and another the Claw, another the King, I don't know why. I'd come on a fishing boat from Moroni. The men had gone there to kill, to fish, like predatory animals. In the lagoon there were all the fish in creation, they swam slowly, fearlessly around our pirogue. And sea turtles that came up to see us as if there were no death on Earth. Seabirds flew about us by the thousands… They alighted on the deck of the boat, on the yards, to look at us, because I don't think they'd ever seen humans before… Then we began killing them.' The helmsman is talking, his green eyes are filled with light, his face is straining towards the sea as if he could still see it all. I can't keep from following his eyes, out beyond the horizon, all the way to the atoll where everything is as new as it was in the very first days of the world. Captain Bradmer puffs on his cigarette, says ‘ahem-hem', like someone who won't be easily taken in. Behind us two black sailors, one of whom is from Rodrigues, are listening without really understanding. The helmsman speaks of the lagoon that he will never see again, except on the day of his death. He speaks of the islands where the fishermen build huts of coral, long enough to stock up on tortoises and fish. He speaks of the storm that comes every summer, so furious that the sea covers the islands, sweeps away all traces of life on land. Each time the sea erases everything and that is why the islands are always new. But the water in the lagoon remains lovely, clear, in that place where the most beautiful fish in the world and the community of tortoises live.

The voice of the helmsman is gentle when he speaks of Saint Brandon. I feel as if I am on this ship sailing along in the middle of the sea just to be listening to him.

The sea has prepared this secret for me, this treasure. I take in this sparkling light, I hunger for the colour of the depths, for this sky, this boundless horizon, these endless days and nights. I must learn more, take in more. The helmsman is speaking again, about Table Bay off Cape Town, Antonia Bay, the Arab feluccas that prowl along the African coast, the pirates from Socotra or Aden. What I love is the sound of his melodious voice, his black face in which his eyes shine, his tall figure standing at the wheel as he steers our ship out towards the unknown, and it all melts in with the sound of the wind in the sails, with the sea spray where a rainbow shimmers every time the stem breaks through a wave. Every afternoon when the light begins to wane, I'm at the stern of the ship, watching the sparkling wake. It's the time of day I prefer, when everything is peaceful and the deck is deserted, except for the helmsman and a sailor keeping an eye on the sea. Then I think of land, of Mam and Laure so far away in their solitude in Forest Side. I can see Laure's dark look when I spoke to her of the treasure, of jewels and precious stones hidden by the Mysterious Corsair. Was she really listening to me? Her face was smooth and closed, and deep in her eyes shone a strange flame I didn't understand. That flame is what I want to see now in the infinite gaze of the sea. I need Laure, I want to think of her every day, because I know that without her I'll never be able to find what I'm looking for. She didn't say anything when we parted, she seemed neither sad nor happy. But when she looked at me on the platform of the train station in Curepipe I saw that flame in her eyes again. Then she turned around, she left before the train began to move away, I saw her walking through the crowd, down the road to Forest Side, where Mam – who knew nothing about it yet – was waiting for her.

That's why I want to remember every minute of my life, for Laure. I'm on this boat, making its way farther and farther out to sea for her. I have to defeat the destiny that drove us from our home, that destroyed us all, that made my father die. I feel as if something snapped when I left on the
Zeta
, as if I broke a circle. So when I go back everything will be changed, new.

That's what I'm thinking about and the dizzying light is filling me. The sun is almost touching the horizon, but at sea the night doesn't give rise to anxiety. On the contrary, there is a gentleness that settles over this land in which we are the only living creatures on the face of the water. The sky turns golden and is tinted with crimson. The sea, which is so dark under the zenith sun, is now smooth and light like a purple mist mingling with the clouds on the horizon and veiling the sun.

I listen to the helmsman's lilting voice, talking perhaps to himself, standing in front of the wheel. At his side, Captain Bradmer's armchair is empty, because this is the time he retires to his alcove to sleep or write. In the horizontal light of the setting sun the tall form of the helmsman stands out against the bright sails, seeming unreal, as does the singing sound of his words filling my ears but which I don't understand. Night is falling and I think of the silhouette of Palinurus as Aeneas must have seen it, or even that of Typhus on the
Argo
, when he seeks to reassure his fellow travellers at nightfall. I still recall his words: ‘
Titan sank into the waters without a trace, confirming a good omen. Thus in the night the wind presses yet stronger upon the sails and sea: during those silent hours the vessel flies swifter. My eyes no longer follow the course of the stars leaving the sky and plunging into the sea, such as Orion that is now sinking or Perseus that is throwing the angry waves into uproar. My guide is the serpent enlacing seven stars in its coils that always hovers and never hides.
' I recite out loud the verses of Valerius Flaccus that I used to read in my father's library and for just a moment longer I can still believe I'm aboard the
Argo
.

Later, in the hush of twilight, the crew come up on deck. They are bare-chested in the warm breeze, they're smoking, talking or gazing out to sea, as I am.

Since the very first day I've been impatient to reach Rodrigues, where my journey will come to an end, and yet now I want this moment to go on for ever, for the vessel
Zeta
, like the
Argo
, to continue slipping endlessly over the buoyant sea, so close to the sky, its sail incandescent with sun like a flame against the already dark horizon.

Having gone to sleep in my place in the hold, against my trunk, I'm awakened by the oppressive heat and the frantic activity of the cockroaches and rats. The roaches are whirring about in the thick air of the hold and the darkness makes their flight even more unsettling. You have to sleep with a handkerchief or a flap of shirt over your face if you don't want to have one of those monsters fall on your face. The rats are more circumspect, but more dangerous. The other evening a man was bitten on the hand by one of the rodents he'd disturbed while it was searching for food. The wound became infected in spite of the rags soaked in arak that Captain Bradmer used to clean it and I can now hear the man lying on his mattress, delirious with fever. The fleas and lice don't leave you any respite either. Every morning we scratch at the innumerable bites received during the night. The first night I spent in the hold I also underwent the assaults of battalions of bedbugs and that's why I declined the mattress reserved for me. I pushed it into the back of the hold and I sleep on the bare floor, rolled up in an old horse blanket, which has the advantage of allowing me to suffer less from the heat and sparing me the smell of sweat and brine that is ingrained in the bedding.

I'm not the only one who suffers from the all-pervasive heat in the hold. The men wake up one after the other, talk to one another, pick up their interminable game of dice where they had left off. What could they be playing for? Captain Bradmer, to whom I put the question, shrugged his shoulders and simply answered, ‘Their wives.' Despite the captain's orders, the sailors have lit a small oil lamp up in the front of the hold, a Clarke night light. The orange flame flickering with the rocking of the ship lights up fantastically the black faces shiny with sweat. From a distance I can see the whites of their eyes shining, their sparkling teeth. What are they doing sitting around that lamp? They aren't playing dice, they aren't singing. They're talking, one after the other in whispers, a long conversation punctuated with laughter. Once again fear of a conspiracy, a mutiny, begins to creep over me. And what if they really did decide to take over the
Zeta
, what if they threw Bradmer, the helmsman and me overboard? Who would ever know? Who would go after them in the remote islands, in the Mozambique canal or on the coasts of Eritrea? I lie very still, waiting with my head turned towards them, watching the trembling flame to which careless red cockroaches and mosquitoes fly too close and get singed.

So then, just as I did the other night, without a sound, I climb up the ladder to the hatch where the sea breeze is blowing. Wrapped in my blanket I walk barefoot over the deck, delighted to be out in the night feeling the cool sea spray.

The night is so lovely out on the sea, with the vessel gliding almost noiselessly over the backs of the waves as if it were at the very centre of the world. It makes you feel as if you are flying rather than sailing, as if the firm wind pressing against the sails has changed the vessel into an immense bird with outstretched wings.

Tonight, once again, I lie down on the deck all the way up at the bow of the ship, against the closed hatch, sheltered by the rail. I can hear the lines of the jibs humming near my head and the steady whoosh of the sea opening out. Laure would love this sea music, the mixture of the high-pitched sound and the waves echoing deeply against the bow.

I'm listening to it for her, so I might send it back to her, all the way back to that dark house in Forest Side where I know that she too is lying awake.

I think again of the look in her eyes, before she turned away and strode off towards the road that runs along the railway tracks. I can't forget the flame that blazed in her eyes just as we parted, that tempestuous and angry flame. At the time I was so surprised I didn't know what to do, then – without thinking – I got on the coach. Now, on the deck of the
Zeta
, heading for an untold fate, I recall that look and feel the wrench of that parting.

Yet I had to go, it was the only hope. I think of Boucan again, of everything that might be able to be saved, the house with the sky-coloured roof, the trees, the ravine and the sea breeze that disturbed the night, awakening the moaning of the maroon slaves in the shadows of Mananava, and the flight of the tropicbirds before dawn. I don't want to stop seeing all of that, even far across the seas, when the hiding places of the Corsair have unveiled their treasures to me.

The vessel slips over the waves, ethereal, airy, in the starlight. Where is the serpent with seven lights that Typhus mentioned to the crew of the Argo? Is that Eridanus rising in the east, facing the sun Sirius, or is it Draco stretching northwards, bearing on its brow the gem Etamin? No, suddenly I can see it clearly under the Pole Star, it's the side of the Chariot, slender and precise, floating eternally in its place.

We too are following its sign, lost amid the whorling stars. The sky is traversed with that infinite wind that is filling our sails.

Now I understand where I'm going, and it so stirs me that I have to sit up to calm my racing heart. I'm heading out into space, into the unknown, I'm gliding through the middle of the sky towards an unknown end.

I think again of the two tropicbirds that circled, making their rattling sound over the dark valley as they fled the storm. When I close my eyes I can see them as if they were just above the masts.

A little before sunrise I fall asleep, while the
Zeta
endlessly wends her way towards Agalega. Now all the men are asleep. The black helmsman alone is keeping watch, his unblinking eyes fixed straight ahead in the night. He never sleeps. Sometimes, in the early afternoon, when the sun is beating down on the deck, he goes into the hold to lie down and smoke without saying anything, eyes open in the half-light, staring at the blackened planks overhead.

How long have we been travelling? While I'm sorting through the contents of my trunk in the stifling duskiness of the hold, that question is wracking my mind with disquieting insistence. What difference does it make? Why should I want to know? But I make a great effort to remember the date of my departure, to try to calculate the number of days at sea. It's a very long time, innumerable days, and yet it also seems quite fleeting. It's but one interminable day that I began when I boarded the
Zeta
, a day that is like the sea, in which the sky changes at times, turns cloudy and grows dark, in which starlight replaces sunlight, but the wind never stops blowing or the waves rolling onwards or the horizon encircling the ship.

As the journey draws on Captain Bradmer is growing friendlier with me. This morning he taught me to plot our position with the sextant and the method for determining the longitude and latitude. Today we're located at 12°38 S and 54°30 E, and calculating our position provides me with the answer to my question concerning the time, since it means we're two days navigating time from the island, just a few minutes too far east due to the trade winds that threw us off course during the night. When he finishes taking the bearing, Captain Bradmer carefully puts away the sextant in his alcove. I show him my theodolite and he looks at it, intrigued. I think he even says, ‘What in the devil will you use that for?' I answer elusively. I can't tell him my father brought it back when he was preparing to lay claim to the Mysterious Corsair's treasures! Coming back up on deck again, the captain returns to sit in his armchair behind the helmsman. Since I'm standing beside him, he offers me – for the second time – one of those horrid cigarettes that I don't dare refuse and that I allow to go out on its own in the wind.