The Lost Sailors by Jean-Claude Izzo, Howard Curtis Page A

made his way to it and sat down. He started a conversation in the simplest way possible, the way anyone would anywhere in the world: he asked them to pass the salt and pepper. They questioned him about his accent. He couldn’t remember now what he’d said. He did recall that when Amina’s friends stood up to leave she’d said to them, “I’m coming” and ordered another coffee.
    They had found themselves alone together. They couldn’t think of anything else to say. They had stayed there, looking at each other. Then Amina had stood up and said, “Shall we meet here at seven-thirty?”
    â€œSeven-thirty,” he had replied.
    When she had returned, she had found him sitting at the same table, as if he hadn’t moved.
    â€œHaven’t you moved?”
    He laughed. “Yes. I went to the movie theater.”
    â€œOh? What did you see?”
    â€œAn old Italian movie called
Stromboli.
”
    He had told her all about Rossellini’s movie. The finest movie ever made about cynicism.
    â€œCynicism is what threatens all of us,” he had said, a little pompously.
    Amina had smiled. “Shall we go somewhere else?” she had asked.
    After that, they met every evening. For the past six months, Amina had been working as a sales assistant at a big store on Rue Saint-Ferréol called Dames de France. She had left home, because she couldn’t live at home anymore, she had told him that first night. That was all she’d said. And Diamantis hadn’t insisted. The job brought in enough to live on and pay the rent, and she didn’t have to owe anything to anyone. She had dreamed of something better, but she couldn’t complain. She had her whole future in front of her.
    At night, they would go from one bar to another, alone or with Amina’s friends, and then he would see her home. She lived on Rue Barbaroux, at the top of the Canebière. Their lips barely touched when they parted. Their desire for each other was so great, it scared them. They would smile, gaze longingly at each other, touch just a little.
    â€œI’m leaving tomorrow night,” he told her.
    He’d been in Marseilles for six days. The
Stainless Glory
was setting off again.
    He felt a shudder go through her.
    â€œAnd . . . are you planning to come back?”
    â€œIn two weeks,” he replied, cheerfully.
    She stared at him in such a strange, intense way, he didn’t know what to say.
    â€œWhat?” he stammered.
    â€œDo you want to come up?” she said, and took his hand. “Come.”
    Diamantis couldn’t remember that night. But he remembered the morning. The sunlight streaming into the room. The way Amina’s brown skin glowed. She was as beautiful as an ocean wave. He had watched her sleeping, and had told himself he would never forget her naked body lying next to him. He’d felt curiously lonely. He couldn’t bear the thought that they’d soon be separated. Then she had said good morning, and they had made love again. The love they had discovered during the night. Just for themselves.
    â€œHow do you say ‘my love’ in Greek?”
    â€œ
Agapi mou
.”
    â€œ
Agapi mou
,” she had repeated, slowly, as if savoring the words. “
Agapi mou
.”
    Amina.
    Happiness.
    Â 
    It was the heat that forced Diamantis to move. The sweat was pouring down his neck. His shirt was sticking to him. The light struck him as harsh.
    He lit a cigarette and walked down Rue d’Endoume, toward the sea. Resolute, but walking hesitantly. He felt disoriented.
    He entered the first bistro he found on the street, and asked for a
pastis
. He hadn’t thought that things would happen like this. He didn’t know how they should have happened. But not like this. He had imagined Amina as a happily married woman, maybe a mother. He had no intention of disrupting her life. All he wanted was for her to forgive him for the way he’d