The Mahé Circle Read Online Free Page A

important? It was stupid to have forgotten it. And now Gène had turned the boat again. That too was a trick. To unsettle the doctor, since the other man knew he wasn’t used to the sea. The doctor looked up, and right enough,
there was that grey rock in front of him, with the mass of viscous water rising and falling. He looked down into the depths to see if he could recognize a
péquois
among all the fish swimming there. He looked up again: now there was no rock, but a beach with tiny people: his wife,
Mariette and the children reduced to the size of insects. He pulled up his line. He thought there was nothing on
it. But no, there was a
diable
. He throttled it before throwing it back in the sea, so that he wouldn’t catch it again. He
looked up; this time there was no rock, no beach, not even the island, just water as far as the eye could see, and so dazzling that he had to shut his eyes.
    And meanwhile, Gène wasn’t moving. He was as motionless as a Buddha, as usual; and had the same beatifically ferocious smile. What was to say he wasn’t being paid to see that the doctor didn’t catch any
péquois
? A lean
man with fine tanned skin. Every time
he
pulled in his line, there was a fish on it and the most extraordinary thing was that the
piade
was still intact. He hadn’t needed to break open another hard shell with a hammer to extract another hermit crab.
    Could it be that he was turning the boat just when he saw that the doctor was at last about to catch his
péquois
? It was easy to distinguish, even from a
sar
, a seabream. It was almost as flat, but not quite, and not quite as
round either, because a
sar
was almost moon-shaped. And it had just one black spot, near the head. As for how good it was to eat … why should it taste better than any other fish? But that was what they’d have him think.
    He felt hot. He felt sick. Noises seemed to be pursuing him, to distract him from his fishing. First the sound of footsteps, a procession of footsteps on soft ground. It was the same every night. People stayed on the terrace of the Arche de Noé,
in their shirtsleeves, drinking and listening to the jukebox. Then they went off in groups. Some of them kept walking up and down the jetty, and invariably, they would start singing. You could hear them
from a long way off. They would come nearer, then
move further away, but always with the same sentimental songs. Some of them went off down the Langoustier road, and at times the song would be interrupted by women’s laughter.
    Hardly had these sounds faded away before it was the turn of the cicadas, and when there were no cicadas, it was the frogs – they’d explained to him that there were frogs in the big reservoir which provided the island’s drinking water
supply.
    Why did they think he would never catch a
péquois
? Even the mayor in his blue overall hadn’t believed in him, he could sense it. All of them, when they talked to him, had the same ironic look in their eyes.
    What
was
the reason …?
    He scratched himself. That was another thing they’d made him believe: that he’d be covered with vermin. Well, he wouldn’t believe them, he’d stop scratching. He was thirsty. The bottle of lukewarm wine was out of his
reach. If he took the time to drink, he might miss his
péquois
.
    â€˜François!’
    How could his wife be calling him from Notre-Dame Beach?
    â€˜François!’
    She was shaking him by the shoulder. He opened his eyes. Sunlight was flooding in through the shutters, and the bedroom was dazzling white from floor to ceiling, except for the iron bedsteads. The window was open. Birds could be heard chirping in
the trees.
    â€˜Turn over, François …’
    He knew why. When he slept on his left side, he sometimes snored, or breathed noisily. They were not sharing a bed. The double bed in their room wasn’t wide enough for both of them. The doctor was