completely respectable, la-la-la. No, no, not for me.”
“No,” he said, “not for you.”
“It’s better with the war, God forgive me for saying it, live tonight for tomorrow you die, but, even so,
chri,
that moment just now was my first
petit mort
in a long while.” She sighed, and stubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray on the night table.
It was quiet in the room, the wash of the sea on the wall of the Corniche very faint and distant. She lay back on the pillow and raised her heels, inviting him into the parlor. DeHaan slid himself up the bed until he was close to her. From here, a better view, one that proved to be of heightened interest as the seconds ticked by. So, closer still.
“Yassou,”
she said.
What? No matter, he couldn’t answer.
Gently, she wove her fingers into the hair on the back of his head. “Oh my dear”—meant to be insouciant but her breath caught on the word—“there too.”
He stared up at the medallion on the ceiling as she snored beside him, one heavy leg thrown over his.
Nymphs up there, two, three—five!
Should he turn off the lamp? No, darkness woke people up. And he was content to lie still, pleasantly sore, and a little light-headed, as though cured of a malady he didn’t know he’d had.
Petit mort,
she’d said,
the little death,
a polite French euphemism for it. Yes, well. A few days earlier, steaming away from Cap Bon, he’d been close to the
grand mort,
not at all polite.
Headed for the British naval base at Alexandria, over a thousand nautical miles to the east, a four-day voyage, with luck; they would move from the air shadow of the Axis bases to that of the RAF, so the greatest danger lay in the first forty-eight hours. But it was only an hour after daybreak, as he was beginning to think that maybe they’d gotten away with it, that the French showed up. Late, but with panache. A patrol boat, sleek and steely, a handsome bow wave telling the world how fast she was.
A long way from help, they did what they could. The lieutenant had Mr. Ali send a cluster of ciphered numbers, while the commandos, with two Brens and a scoped rifle, waited just below deck. Vain hopes, DeHaan knew, a sea battle didn’t work like that. Amado was readied, sober as could be and scared witless, but the French were in no mood for dithering. Coming up astern of the
Noordendam,
they ran up the signal flag SN —international code for “Stop immediately. Do not scuttle. Do not lower boats. Do not use the wireless. If you disobey I shall open fire on you.”
Well, that was clear. “Ignore them,” he told the lookouts.
The engines stayed on
Full
—
Ahead
while the lookouts swept the forward horizon, but such petulance was not to be taken seriously. There was a snarl from the French loud-hailer, thirty seconds allowed for compliance, then the slow, heavy drumming of a big machine gun and an arc of red tracer that curved gracefully a foot over the bridge.
a va?
“Stop engines.”
The patrol boat, bristling with aerials, carrying a cannon on the foredeck and paired machine guns, moved cautiously to come up beside them. “To port, Cap’n.” The lookout sounded puzzled. “At ten o’clock. Some kind of . . . it’s a seaplane.”
DeHaan used his binoculars. It was big and ungainly in the gray sky, cabin hung below a broad wing with fat pontoons, the whine of its engine rising above the bass rumble of the freighter. Friend or foe? An AB came charging up the ladderway onto the bridge. “The lieutenant wants to start shooting.”
“Tell him ‘not yet.’”
As the AB ran off, the patrol boat accelerated to full power, and DeHaan turned to see it making a wide sweep, heeled over with the speed of its turn and, plainly, running away. From what? Not a French plane, a British Sea Otter, a graceless workhorse but armed with .303 machine guns, and more than a match for the patrol boat, now seen as a white wake in the distance. The Sea Otter did not
“No,” he said, “not for you.”
“It’s better with the war, God forgive me for saying it, live tonight for tomorrow you die, but, even so,
chri,
that moment just now was my first
petit mort
in a long while.” She sighed, and stubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray on the night table.
It was quiet in the room, the wash of the sea on the wall of the Corniche very faint and distant. She lay back on the pillow and raised her heels, inviting him into the parlor. DeHaan slid himself up the bed until he was close to her. From here, a better view, one that proved to be of heightened interest as the seconds ticked by. So, closer still.
“Yassou,”
she said.
What? No matter, he couldn’t answer.
Gently, she wove her fingers into the hair on the back of his head. “Oh my dear”—meant to be insouciant but her breath caught on the word—“there too.”
He stared up at the medallion on the ceiling as she snored beside him, one heavy leg thrown over his.
Nymphs up there, two, three—five!
Should he turn off the lamp? No, darkness woke people up. And he was content to lie still, pleasantly sore, and a little light-headed, as though cured of a malady he didn’t know he’d had.
Petit mort,
she’d said,
the little death,
a polite French euphemism for it. Yes, well. A few days earlier, steaming away from Cap Bon, he’d been close to the
grand mort,
not at all polite.
Headed for the British naval base at Alexandria, over a thousand nautical miles to the east, a four-day voyage, with luck; they would move from the air shadow of the Axis bases to that of the RAF, so the greatest danger lay in the first forty-eight hours. But it was only an hour after daybreak, as he was beginning to think that maybe they’d gotten away with it, that the French showed up. Late, but with panache. A patrol boat, sleek and steely, a handsome bow wave telling the world how fast she was.
A long way from help, they did what they could. The lieutenant had Mr. Ali send a cluster of ciphered numbers, while the commandos, with two Brens and a scoped rifle, waited just below deck. Vain hopes, DeHaan knew, a sea battle didn’t work like that. Amado was readied, sober as could be and scared witless, but the French were in no mood for dithering. Coming up astern of the
Noordendam,
they ran up the signal flag SN —international code for “Stop immediately. Do not scuttle. Do not lower boats. Do not use the wireless. If you disobey I shall open fire on you.”
Well, that was clear. “Ignore them,” he told the lookouts.
The engines stayed on
Full
—
Ahead
while the lookouts swept the forward horizon, but such petulance was not to be taken seriously. There was a snarl from the French loud-hailer, thirty seconds allowed for compliance, then the slow, heavy drumming of a big machine gun and an arc of red tracer that curved gracefully a foot over the bridge.
a va?
“Stop engines.”
The patrol boat, bristling with aerials, carrying a cannon on the foredeck and paired machine guns, moved cautiously to come up beside them. “To port, Cap’n.” The lookout sounded puzzled. “At ten o’clock. Some kind of . . . it’s a seaplane.”
DeHaan used his binoculars. It was big and ungainly in the gray sky, cabin hung below a broad wing with fat pontoons, the whine of its engine rising above the bass rumble of the freighter. Friend or foe? An AB came charging up the ladderway onto the bridge. “The lieutenant wants to start shooting.”
“Tell him ‘not yet.’”
As the AB ran off, the patrol boat accelerated to full power, and DeHaan turned to see it making a wide sweep, heeled over with the speed of its turn and, plainly, running away. From what? Not a French plane, a British Sea Otter, a graceless workhorse but armed with .303 machine guns, and more than a match for the patrol boat, now seen as a white wake in the distance. The Sea Otter did not
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