The Mahé Circle Read Online Free Page B

a
very stout man; ninety kilos. They had brought up another, narrower bed, as well as the two cots for the children, and all these beds were lined up in the sun-striped room like dominoes.
    â€˜You were talking in your sleep.’
    His pillow was soaking wet and smelled of sweat. He had the heavy head of a man who had drunk too much the night before. He closed his eyes, but now he could still see the rays of light, even through his eyelids. From the harbour came the
irritating sputtering of two-stroke engines being started.
    It was the fishermen, the real ones, the men who sold their catch at Hyères, setting out to pull in their lines on the far side of the island. The doctor had been to watch them the day before, in his slippers, with his nightshirt tucked into his
trousers. The air, at that time in the morning, had a curious smell. The sea too. Particularly the sea. And the world was an extraordinary colour: clear, pale in a way, but a luminous kind of pale. Pale blue. Pale green. Even the brightly painted boats had an amazing lightness. Everything
was covered with a film of dew.
    He had felt something like vertigo at the sight. Was it all too much for him? He didn’t like to think so. He watched the boats leaving, one after another, all heading in the same direction, leaving behind them the same silvery wake, and in
the boats the men busy mending nets, except for the
helmsman, who was standing, the rudder wedged between his knees, as motionless as a statue, like Gène.
    Why on earth had Gardanne sent them on holiday to Porquerolles? They weren’t comfortable here, neither his wife nor himself. His wife’s digestion was already upset from the southern food. And Jeanne had complained of stomach ache from
the first day, so he had had to ask for her to be served rice.
    His own sunburn was painful, and making him feel unwell. Even here, in bed, with the cool of the morning creeping in through the slats of the shutters, he felt as if he were sickening for flu.
    The day before, no, it must have been two days ago, his wife hadn’t wanted to go out straight after lunch, because she was afraid of the intense heat for the children. He wasn’t used to taking a siesta. He had walked across the
square, which was deserted, with blinds drawn down in every house.
    He had just had one drink on the terrace of the Arche de Noé, because it was cool there. Inside, Polyte, stretched out full length on a banquette, was sleeping with his mouth open, his seaman’s cap down over his eyes. From an invisible
kitchen came the sound of someone washing dishes.
    He had dragged himself as far as the harbour. The sailing boats were asleep as well. At the far end of the jetty, he had seen a little old man with a white beard, as thin as a boy, in clothes that seemed too big for him, rather like a cartoon
character, now leaning over the edge dipping a bamboo stick into the water of the harbour.
    â€˜I’ll get him, I will!’ the old man had cackled.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜The conger eel, of course! Best conger I’ve seen in my life. He’s down there … Oh, he knows all right I’m going to catch him in the end.’
    He pulled the bamboo stick, the length of a fishing-rod, out of the water. On the end was a piece of wire about ten centimetres long, and on the wire a hook with a huge piece of something white.
    â€˜What’s that?’
    â€˜Octopus. Piece of octopus cooked over a fire of mastic twigs. I’ll get him with this, see if I don’t.’
    Why, as he spoke to the doctor, did he have that roguish grin? Was he joking? As he gesticulated, holding his fishing line, was he putting on some kind of act?
    â€˜Wait … Look down there … Here … You’ll see his nasty old head. He’s there … Look quickly.’
    The doctor could see only the bamboo rod, its reflection cut in half by the water, and the green seaweed clinging to the