The Lost Sailors by Jean-Claude Izzo, Howard Curtis Page B
Authors: Jean-Claude Izzo, Howard Curtis
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abandoned her, the hurt heâd caused her. Now, everything was different. He absolutely had to make amends for the harm he had done her.
10.
THE SIMPLE HAPPINESS THAT DESCENDS FROM THE SKY TO THE SEA
T he light was crushing the city. A harsh, almost cruel light. It drove people back toward the darker, cooler streets, the avenues, the shaded squares, and the café terraces. It was the hour when people drew the blinds to keep some of the coolness in. Abdul was walking.
He had been walking for hours. As if walking aimlessly could help clear his head of all the confused, contradictory thoughts inside it. Walking did him a lot of good. But it had been far too long since heâd last done it, and there were stabbing pains in his calves, in his stomach, too, and his shoulders. He could have been happy, like anyone roaming the streets of Marseilles, if there hadnât been so much sadness, resentment, anxiety, anger in him. He found himself in front of the entrance to the Pharo gardens. He smiled. You could walk all over this city, and never get lost.
He climbed one of the alleys. At the top of the hill, he walked around to the other side of the Empress Josephineâs former palace. He had no idea what the building was used for nowadays. Not that he really gave a shit. He had come here for the view over the harbor and the city. It was sublime.
He walked back down a few yards, sat down on the grass, in the shade of a clump of bay trees, and let the hot, fragrant air waft over him.
Straight ahead, he could see the Fort Saint-Jean, once the residence of the commander of the Knights Hospitallers of Jerusalem. The light seemed to be savouring its pink stone, licking its sharp edges with as much passion and pleasure as if it were a raspberry ice.
Down below, the once strategic narrows, through which you reached the Vieux-Port. Once through them, boats sailed on toward the harbor. He watched a shuttle returning, empty, from the islands of the Frioul and the Château dâIf. It would moor at the quay, facing the Canebière, which was barely visible from here.
His gaze shifted slightly to the left of the Fort Saint-Jean, as far as the pompous gray fake-Byzantine Cathedral of La Major, surrounded by main roads as improbable as they were ugly. Behind it, the harbor of La Joliette stretched as far as LâEstaque. Its cranes and gantries seemed to clutch the sky. Not much was moving. It was as if the heat had banished all motion. The open sea had the color and stillness of the Sahara. Any dreams of faraway places stagnated like the air, and vanished beneath the sands.
In the distance, somewhere at the far end of the waterfront, the
Aldebaran
, which he couldnât see, was subject to the same stillness. But that didnât matter. From here everything suddenly seemed futile. He thought this, but in a lazy way, without even making the effort to formulate it in his mind.
He took out a tomato, tuna, and olive sandwich from a bag and started eating it, taking care the oil didnât drip over his fingers. As he ate, he let happiness steal over him, simple, incomprehensible happiness that descends from the sky to the sea. Cephea gives him her hand. They have just married. They are walking in silence through the ruins of Byblos.
âIf I have a history, this is where it starts. In these ruins. When Byblos becomes Jbeil again.â
He tells her about Jbeil. The little Mediterranean port founded by the Phoenicians. One of the most ancient cities in the world.
âAccording to an old legend, Adonis died in the arms of Astarte, at the source of the river Nar Ibrahim. His blood made the anemones grow and turned the river red. Astarteâs tears brought Adonis back to life, and irrigated and fertilized the earth . . . My earth.â
Cephea has huddled close to him. She looks up at him, smiles, and kisses him on the cheek.
âYour country is beautiful.â
The same happiness had flowed down from the sky to
10.
THE SIMPLE HAPPINESS THAT DESCENDS FROM THE SKY TO THE SEA
T he light was crushing the city. A harsh, almost cruel light. It drove people back toward the darker, cooler streets, the avenues, the shaded squares, and the café terraces. It was the hour when people drew the blinds to keep some of the coolness in. Abdul was walking.
He had been walking for hours. As if walking aimlessly could help clear his head of all the confused, contradictory thoughts inside it. Walking did him a lot of good. But it had been far too long since heâd last done it, and there were stabbing pains in his calves, in his stomach, too, and his shoulders. He could have been happy, like anyone roaming the streets of Marseilles, if there hadnât been so much sadness, resentment, anxiety, anger in him. He found himself in front of the entrance to the Pharo gardens. He smiled. You could walk all over this city, and never get lost.
He climbed one of the alleys. At the top of the hill, he walked around to the other side of the Empress Josephineâs former palace. He had no idea what the building was used for nowadays. Not that he really gave a shit. He had come here for the view over the harbor and the city. It was sublime.
He walked back down a few yards, sat down on the grass, in the shade of a clump of bay trees, and let the hot, fragrant air waft over him.
Straight ahead, he could see the Fort Saint-Jean, once the residence of the commander of the Knights Hospitallers of Jerusalem. The light seemed to be savouring its pink stone, licking its sharp edges with as much passion and pleasure as if it were a raspberry ice.
Down below, the once strategic narrows, through which you reached the Vieux-Port. Once through them, boats sailed on toward the harbor. He watched a shuttle returning, empty, from the islands of the Frioul and the Château dâIf. It would moor at the quay, facing the Canebière, which was barely visible from here.
His gaze shifted slightly to the left of the Fort Saint-Jean, as far as the pompous gray fake-Byzantine Cathedral of La Major, surrounded by main roads as improbable as they were ugly. Behind it, the harbor of La Joliette stretched as far as LâEstaque. Its cranes and gantries seemed to clutch the sky. Not much was moving. It was as if the heat had banished all motion. The open sea had the color and stillness of the Sahara. Any dreams of faraway places stagnated like the air, and vanished beneath the sands.
In the distance, somewhere at the far end of the waterfront, the
Aldebaran
, which he couldnât see, was subject to the same stillness. But that didnât matter. From here everything suddenly seemed futile. He thought this, but in a lazy way, without even making the effort to formulate it in his mind.
He took out a tomato, tuna, and olive sandwich from a bag and started eating it, taking care the oil didnât drip over his fingers. As he ate, he let happiness steal over him, simple, incomprehensible happiness that descends from the sky to the sea. Cephea gives him her hand. They have just married. They are walking in silence through the ruins of Byblos.
âIf I have a history, this is where it starts. In these ruins. When Byblos becomes Jbeil again.â
He tells her about Jbeil. The little Mediterranean port founded by the Phoenicians. One of the most ancient cities in the world.
âAccording to an old legend, Adonis died in the arms of Astarte, at the source of the river Nar Ibrahim. His blood made the anemones grow and turned the river red. Astarteâs tears brought Adonis back to life, and irrigated and fertilized the earth . . . My earth.â
Cephea has huddled close to him. She looks up at him, smiles, and kisses him on the cheek.
âYour country is beautiful.â
The same happiness had flowed down from the sky to
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