must be a feeling akin to happiness, don’t you think?”
“For some.”
“If I could turn back, then I would choose this: to live
in front of
the sea.”
Silence.
“In front of it.”
Silence.
“Adams . . .”
Silence.
“Stop waiting. It’s not so difficult to kill someone.”
“B UT ACCORDING TO YOU , shall I die, down there?”
“In Daschenbach?”
“When they put me in the sea.”
“Come on . . .”
“You come on, tell me the truth, Father Pluche, don’t joke.”
“You will not die, I swear it to you, you will not die.”
“And how do you know?”
“I know.”
“Oof.”
“I dreamed it.”
“Dreamed it . . .”
“Listen to me, then. One evening I go off to sleep, I slip into bed, and when I am about to switch off the light, I see the door open and a little boy comes in. I thought he was a porter,
something like that. And instead he comes up to me and says, ‘Is there anything you want to dream of tonight, Father Pluche?’ Just like that. And I say, ‘The countess Varmeer
having a bath.’ ”
“Father Pluche . . .”
“It was a joke, wasn’t it? Well, he says nothing, smiles a bit, and off he goes. I fall asleep and what do I dream of?”
“The countess Varmeer having a bath.”
“That’s it.”
“And how was she?”
“Oh, nothing, a disappointment . . .”
“Ugly?”
“She only
looks
slim, a disappointment . . . However . . . He returns every evening, that little boy. His name is Ditz. And each time he asks me if I want to dream of something.
And so the day before yesterday I said to him, ‘I want to dream of Elisewin. I want to dream of her as a grownup.’ I fell asleep, and I dreamed of you.”
“And how was I?”
“
Alive.
”
“Alive? And then what?”
“Alive. Don’t ask me anything else. You were alive.”
“Alive . . . me?”
A NN D EVERIÀ AND B ARTLEBOOM , seated beside each other, in a beached boat.
“And what answer did you give him?” asked Bartleboom.
“I gave him no answer.”
“No?”
“No.”
“And what will happen now?”
“I don’t know. I think he will come.”
“Are you happy about that?”
“I want him. But I don’t know.”
“Perhaps he will come here and take you away, forever.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Bartleboom.”
“And why not? He loves you, you said so yourself, you are all he has in life . . .”
Ann Deverià’s lover has finally discovered where her husband has confined her. He has written to her. In this moment he is perhaps already on his way toward that sea and that
beach.
“I would come here and I would take you away, forever.”
Ann Deverià smiles.
“Tell me again, Bartleboom. With exactly that tone of voice, I pray you. Tell me again.”
“D OWN THERE . . . there it is, down there!”
“Down there, where?”
“There . . . no, farther to the right, that’s it, there . . .”
“I see it! I see it, by God.”
“Three masts!”
“Three masts?”
“It’s a three-master, can’t you see?”
“Three?”
“P LASSON , how long have we all been here?”
“Since time immemorial, Madame.”
“No. Really.”
“Since time immemorial, Madame. Really.”
“A CCORDING TO ME , he’s a gardener.”
“Why?”
“He knows the names of the trees.”
“And how do you know that, Elisewin?”
“I DON ’ T LIKE this business of the seventh room one little bit.”
“What’s it to you?”
“A man who will not show himself, it scares me.”
“Father Pluche says that he’s the one who is afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“E VERY SO OFTEN I wonder what on earth we are waiting for.”
Silence.
“For it to be too late, Madame.”
T HEY COULD HAVE gone on like that forever.
BOOK II
The Womb of the Sea
F OURTEEN DAYS AFTER setting sail from Rochefort, owing to the captain’s incapacity and inaccurate charts, the French
naval frigate
Alliance
ran aground on a sandbar, off the coast of Senegal. All attempts to free the hull were vain. There was
“For some.”
“If I could turn back, then I would choose this: to live
in front of
the sea.”
Silence.
“In front of it.”
Silence.
“Adams . . .”
Silence.
“Stop waiting. It’s not so difficult to kill someone.”
“B UT ACCORDING TO YOU , shall I die, down there?”
“In Daschenbach?”
“When they put me in the sea.”
“Come on . . .”
“You come on, tell me the truth, Father Pluche, don’t joke.”
“You will not die, I swear it to you, you will not die.”
“And how do you know?”
“I know.”
“Oof.”
“I dreamed it.”
“Dreamed it . . .”
“Listen to me, then. One evening I go off to sleep, I slip into bed, and when I am about to switch off the light, I see the door open and a little boy comes in. I thought he was a porter,
something like that. And instead he comes up to me and says, ‘Is there anything you want to dream of tonight, Father Pluche?’ Just like that. And I say, ‘The countess Varmeer
having a bath.’ ”
“Father Pluche . . .”
“It was a joke, wasn’t it? Well, he says nothing, smiles a bit, and off he goes. I fall asleep and what do I dream of?”
“The countess Varmeer having a bath.”
“That’s it.”
“And how was she?”
“Oh, nothing, a disappointment . . .”
“Ugly?”
“She only
looks
slim, a disappointment . . . However . . . He returns every evening, that little boy. His name is Ditz. And each time he asks me if I want to dream of something.
And so the day before yesterday I said to him, ‘I want to dream of Elisewin. I want to dream of her as a grownup.’ I fell asleep, and I dreamed of you.”
“And how was I?”
“
Alive.
”
“Alive? And then what?”
“Alive. Don’t ask me anything else. You were alive.”
“Alive . . . me?”
A NN D EVERIÀ AND B ARTLEBOOM , seated beside each other, in a beached boat.
“And what answer did you give him?” asked Bartleboom.
“I gave him no answer.”
“No?”
“No.”
“And what will happen now?”
“I don’t know. I think he will come.”
“Are you happy about that?”
“I want him. But I don’t know.”
“Perhaps he will come here and take you away, forever.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Bartleboom.”
“And why not? He loves you, you said so yourself, you are all he has in life . . .”
Ann Deverià’s lover has finally discovered where her husband has confined her. He has written to her. In this moment he is perhaps already on his way toward that sea and that
beach.
“I would come here and I would take you away, forever.”
Ann Deverià smiles.
“Tell me again, Bartleboom. With exactly that tone of voice, I pray you. Tell me again.”
“D OWN THERE . . . there it is, down there!”
“Down there, where?”
“There . . . no, farther to the right, that’s it, there . . .”
“I see it! I see it, by God.”
“Three masts!”
“Three masts?”
“It’s a three-master, can’t you see?”
“Three?”
“P LASSON , how long have we all been here?”
“Since time immemorial, Madame.”
“No. Really.”
“Since time immemorial, Madame. Really.”
“A CCORDING TO ME , he’s a gardener.”
“Why?”
“He knows the names of the trees.”
“And how do you know that, Elisewin?”
“I DON ’ T LIKE this business of the seventh room one little bit.”
“What’s it to you?”
“A man who will not show himself, it scares me.”
“Father Pluche says that he’s the one who is afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“E VERY SO OFTEN I wonder what on earth we are waiting for.”
Silence.
“For it to be too late, Madame.”
T HEY COULD HAVE gone on like that forever.
BOOK II
The Womb of the Sea
F OURTEEN DAYS AFTER setting sail from Rochefort, owing to the captain’s incapacity and inaccurate charts, the French
naval frigate
Alliance
ran aground on a sandbar, off the coast of Senegal. All attempts to free the hull were vain. There was
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