The Closed Harbour Read online

  THE CLOSED HARBOUR

  James Hanley

  Published by Chatto & Windus Ltd

  London

  ISBN 0 7011 1655 2

  First published in 1952 This edition first published in 1971

  © James Hanley 1952

  Table Of Contents

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  I

  CERTAINLY HE was noticeable on the avenue, people stared at him as he passed by. The hard light of the sun was upon him, boring at his blackness, for he was black from head to foot, from his reefer jacket with its Captain's insignia to his shiny peaked cap pulled sharply down on the forehead. A stranger perhaps, but how oddly dressed, and on such a day. The avenue was long, the pavement seemed moving under the heat's pressure. It was half past four in the afternoon. He walked on, oblivious of those who passed by. He was unduly tall, very thin, he was certainly lost within the folds of his reefer, a threat to winter.

  But making his way up, Marius saw nothing save the decrepit-looking building behind the Rue Lens. It was his vision up the desert, past the shops with their brightly coloured awnings, past the people in whom he was not interested, whom he scarcely saw as he moved forward, with a hesitant, wide-rolling gait. He never removed his hands from the depths of his pockets, and he stared defiantly at what his vision defined as the horizon line of the Avenue Croille. It was the ritual of determination, of defiance, of a certain hope in gullibility and forgetfulness, it was the day's stirring of the bones, setting in motion for the thousandth time the machinery of misery, the endless day. Reaching the end of the avenue, he paused, glanced about him, then moved swiftly between the dividing line of two shops, the bright jeweller's and the cheap toy shop, down a cool narrow alley, and so into the light again. And there he saw the building.

  He stopped dead in his tracks, like a clockwork engine suddenly run down. The Company Heros and M. Philippe. Even the red bricks knew Marius, the windows stared at him like eyes, the stone steps, the brazen door that shut so often on the misery, the hugged misery inside the reefer, burdensome as his own flesh. The toot of a horn made him jump. He moved towards the Company Heros, Philippe bound. He mounted the steps, eased open the door with his body. He was in semi-darkness. Almost at once his nostrils were full of the strong smells, pitch, resin, manilla rope, oil. But the hall itself was cool. There were the stairs to climb. They knew Marius, too. The office of the Marine Superintendent. Forward.

  He was there at last, and there was Monsieur Philippe, just as he was yesterday, very much himself, indifferent to visitors, always watching a clock, dreaming of home, his slippers, the roses in his garden. M. Philippe heard a movement, seemed to realise who it was. He glanced up at the clock, and so knew, and was linked with this, and the roses in his garden, his slippers, his favourite chair, the pleasure of his own person. Marius spoke.

  Philippe barely noticed and he did not move. After all it was only yesterday's echo and the day before. Philippe had a coloured chart on the desk before him, and he continued to study it. He heard a match struck, and later drew in the aroma of Marius's cigarette. And he went on poring over the outspread chart, a hairy finger moving searchingly across it. It stopped, it had pin-pointed Oran. He had completely forgotten his visitor.

  Marius for his part leaned heavily towards the desk, his body gave the impression that at any moment it might topple over M. Philippe and his attentive hairy finger. His elbows were pressed hard upon the glistening mahogany, through the surface of which he seemed to see a reflection that might be his own face. He was aware of the studied indifference of Monsieur Philippe, and the deep silence of the office, broken only by the fast tick of a clock that had the high prattling sound of a child. It seemed to accentuate the presence of the two men, the sheer physical weight of their bodies.

  Again Marius spoke. The finger on the chart suddenly departed from Oran.

  What did Marius want?

  To see Monsieur Follet.

  That would be quite impossible.

  Marius stiffened. One day Monsieur Philippe would get a great surprise, a terrible shock; he would open his mouth to speak and only sawdust would fall out. Why, it was not yet five o'clock and the offices never closed till the moment of five, after all the Heros people were far too miserable ever to think of closing it a moment before.

  Please, Marius said. He had come so many many times. There was a ship lying in the harbour, the Clarté, he had seen her, he knew Manos personally, she was loading for Salonika and other Greek ports, and then on through the Black Sea. Would not Monsieur Follet see him? He was a patient man, he would wait, he had been here yesterday and the day before and the day before that, and last week and last month. Didn't he, Philippe realise what this meant, the endeavour, the hope, this land was only hell. He, Philippe had only to lift a finger, wink an eye, press a button, and Follet would see him, the magic door would open.

  Monsieur Philippe stirred slightly.

  Nevertheless the office was closed.

  Marius drew himself up to full height, he dominated Philippe by nearly six inches. He willed the other to move, to look at him, and suddenly he moved, he looked up at Marius.

  He first saw the shiny peaked cap, a three day growth of beard on the long sallow face, the bloodshot eyes. He noticed some wisps of straw adhering to the magnificent jacket. Its buttons were tarnished. He noticed the long thin hands, the powerful wrists protruding from the sleeves like pistons. Monsieur Marius must lengthen those sleeves. He met his eye. Marius met his. But think, for one moment, Marius seemed to say.

  He, Monsieur Philippe, was a powerful man, and he, Marius, admitted it, cringed before him. A move could be a miracle, a lift of the finger all the difference between being upright and horribly stooping, turning a wonderful key. Why, if only Monsieur Philippe out of the goodness of his heart, turned this key, he, Marius, would hear it inside his brain like some great golden bell, he Marius, would be resurrected. He was drowned and his ship was drowned, they were like Lazarus, trying to rise, their eyes were clogged with death. Perhaps Monsieur Philippe would realise. The walk on this hot day had been a mile, going back it would be a desert-ridden thousand.

  Nevertheless, M. Philippe said, the office was closed and Monsieur Follet was not available. He presumed Captain Marius—he paused to allow the mockery to sink in—he presumed he was of a certain intelligence. No doubt he had known, in the early days that M. Follet, too, was of a certain intelligence. But also there was moral integrity. Did he suppose Follet would forget himself? Did he not think it unwise to keep calling, pestering? The fact was there were no berths and that was the answer. There was nothing doing. Who knew better than he, Philippe? In life there was always a certain point to be reached, for good or bad, and he Marius had reached it. Did he not appreciate the position. He had no ticket, he had lost his ticket. Dethroned captains did not rise again. It was a law of the sea that they should not, there was also a point where trust stopped.

  He leaned away from the desk, his eyes moved towards the door.

  "Captain Marius, I believe that the sea would refuse to drown you."

  "And he will not see me?"

  "He will not see you."

  "Then I must go?"

  "If you must" Philippe said, and he looked away, and downwards, and the finger was active again, and he had Oran, the red dot and the blue circle round it.

  "Then Heros can congratulate itself" Marius said.

  He stood there, glaring at the man behind the counter, and he watched the finger and he watched the dot. There
was a moment when the dot could shine as fierce as flame. Looking at the chart, Marius, for a fleeting moment saw the sea and the ship live, and breathe and draw him to her. His being longed, as suddenly froze.

  "Am I to thank you?"

  "It is customary, but not necessary" Monsieur Philippe said.

  "Damn you."

  Marius turned and went out, the swing door shut swiftly, smooth as a knife. Marius was in the dark again, lost again. He thought of the Clarté loading at the quay, he hoped it would sink from a mighty wave, burn, smash upon rocks. Damn him. Damn them.

  The world was no longer wide. The sea was rolling up, the great expanse of it, the miles of it, narrowing, shutting out, they had turned the key again, those God-forsaken agents of the sea. Damn and blast them.

  "I would have cringed, kissed his rotten feet."

  He went slowly down, dropped from stair to stair, heavily, aimlessly, there were no precise directions. And at the outer door he paused, looked through the glass. There they were, still at it, these people hurrying and scurrying, and that tram rocking as in a frenzy, the hard white light still there, and the walk home. The long walk home.

  True, there were others, and he had tried others. If he could get out of here, out of this infernal port, he would never return, never, and he swore as he pushed again at the outer swing doors.

  "I am as low as low—and it is not hard for them. They have their knives into me."

  He stood there, hesitant, watching, and he hated it. They were all a part of it, these indifferent people, what the hell did Philippe care anyhow? How he loathed the place, if only he could get away.

  "As what? Nothing."

  He moved back into the avenue.

  "Instead, I must walk back again, I must think again," and it was no longer simple.

  "Everything is simple until you are alone," Marius exclaimed, as though he were addressing the red bricks that sheltered the hides of Philippe and Follet.

  "Damn them," he cried.

  "She will be sitting there when I get back, they both will, like stones. They know things before I know them. They will draw me tomorrow's map, describe my day by a look."

  "Where the hell are you going to?"

  "What was that?" asked Marius, but the man had gone on, cursing him.

  "If there were a road, a direction, a course set, I could drive myself to it, by my own will, and by the horror of this place. I'd give my heart to get out of it."

  He hardly realised he was in the Bistro until he was up against the counter, feeling the cold wet brass of counter top under his hot hands.

  "Cognac." And louder, more demanding, "coffee."

  Where had that thing come from on such a fine afternoon as this? And the barman raised his eyebrows.

  At a table in the corner Marius talked to himself. He had talked to himself for a long time now, and, after all, it was better than no company. He could hear the heavy breathing of the occupant of a nearby table. He was a fat man, and Marius's endless sotto-voce upset his nerves. He banged down his glass and went out.

  "The Heros—I spit at it. Closed," he said. Yet it was not yet five o'clock. Perhaps it is a dream after all. Yet they have seventeen ships and they are manned, and they have seventeen captains and they are as proud as peacocks. But I will find a ship, there is a certain place, if I can get to it—if— I'm not a bird and cannot fly, and unlike the Saviour I can't walk it. But somehow I can see that ship, I can smell it, wondrous, aching as I ache, to be out of it, out of it."

  It was not far now. Already he could hear through the open window the loud rattle of winches. It made him think of Manos.

  "Manos is old, very old, he might drop dead. Follet might send for me. I will then say, 'go to hell'."

  "Cognac," he shouted, and when it was brought, "more coffee."

  "There they go, I can hear them pounding away, she's her head to the sea," and again he thought of Manos, and the Clarté and the sea beyond.

  When cognac and coffee came, he drank both quickly, got up and went out.

  He leaned against the wall, his captain's cap askew on his well shaped head, covered with thick bluish-black hair. His hands disappeared again into the reefer pockets, the street seemed swarming with people, he watched Marseilles go by.

  "I have been at many places, let me see—there was—ah, but it is always the same. There are many captains, France is full of Captains, the world stinks with them. But there is yet me," he thought.

  You saw it in the office boy's smile, the closing doors, you heard a ship blowing in your brain.

  He drew the collar of the jacket higher about his neck, the lower part of his face was almost invisible.

  "Blast them."

  The hovering policeman watched, and then came up.

  "You are not ill?"

  "I am not ill" brusquely.

  "And you are not civil either."

  "Shall I go?"

  "Go."

  "I will remain." Marius tried to laugh.

  "You will get along," the policeman said, pushing him.

  Marius, not resisting, went staggering forward.

  "And you need a wash perhaps," the policeman called after him.

  "Of course," thought Marius, "I might have shaved, perhaps I forgot. No matter, I must get away, I will perhaps draw a crowd."

  He dragged himself off, turned a street corner sharply, this road was not so crowded, and the noise of winches came louder to his ears. Somewhere there was an end, somewhere there must be a stop.

  "They will be sitting there like stones," he thought as he moved on.

  He saw before him the forests of masts, the funnels, the cranes, and the winches were roaring, eating up cargo like lions. He saw all this and it was his country, the edge of the sea.

  "Tonight I will go to Madame Lustigne's and I will forget myself. And then I will go home and the house will be silent, as graves are, and they sleeping or waiting or watching, the latter most likely, they are always watching me."

  Suddenly he stopped dead, staring round. Then he crossed the road, sat down, his back against the wall of an old shed, shaded from the sun, he watched the Clarté load.

  "Lucky Manos," he said, "lucky man."

  The Clarté clouded over, the winches stopped, there was dead silence, he could see nothing but a high building, a towering wall. He was at Nantes. He was mounting stairs, he was at the desk.

  "My name is Marius. Captain Eugene Marius..."

  And the man said, "you're not the only one who knows that," and laughed, and Marius went out, and the laughter followed him down the stairs, he could feel it driving into his back like knives.

  He was in Bordeaux, the Rue du Soleil, no eye could escape the brass model of the ship, high and shining in the summer sun. The Bilter Line.

  "My name is Marius, Captain Eugene Marius..."

  "Sorry—"

  "And here I am" he thought, stiffening where he sat.

  A ship's siren had blown, it struck him like a cry, he sat up sharply, a boat was coming in, he could see her, the sun streaming her decks, the smoke triumphant from her funnel, a voyage ended, she was coming home.

  Marius got up and walked nearer to the quay. Already he could see the short stocky figure leaning against her poop rail, and knew it was lucky Manos.

  "Never lost a ship, never lost anything in his life, not even a button off his coat, the lucky swine." He cried within himself, "you self-pitying bastard."

  Twenty yards from where the Clarté lay he stopped, sat down on a bollard.

  "If I could sail in her, as I was, as I used to be, at my full height, if they were not silent, all the days silent, if it had never happened."

  He could see the cargo pouring down into her after hold, saw the others battened down and secure, she would soon be gone.

  "In the end I will swim out of it."

  He fell asleep. Later he woke, a hand on his arm, he felt chill, the sun was going, a voice said, "you ought to get home," and he got up and he went away, never on
ce looked back, and the policeman following with his eye thought, "this place is full of bums," and watched the tall thin figure vanish round the corner.

  Marius took the back streets, and here, unlike the avenue, people were not so important, the tempo was different, the very climate breathed an air of acceptance, of resignation. People passed him by and hardly gave him a glance. There was a moment in the long day when Marius's spirit lightened, he thought of his room, the climb upstairs, past the silent women, the door closing, the door locked behind him. Alone. Everything in it had become intensely personal to him. He saw everything clearly. The black bed in the corner, the plain scrubbed wooden chair alongside, some flowers in a vase, always fresh, he could never understand who put them there, but he was touched by this. The bundle of charts lying on the mantelpiece, wrapped like mysteries in their brown paper, the sextant on the table under the window, the telescope, a collection of brass buttons, a pipe, a hard plug of tobacco. Always he would look at the picture of the Mercury, his first ship, the proud moment. The picture of his father, resplendent in uniform, his boyhood hero. He had loved his father.

  He stopped by a bistro, he searched in his pocket, counted two hundred francs, he went inside, but was out again in two minutes, his throat fiery from the brandy.

  "Tomorrow will be tomorrow" he thought, "and they will still be there", thinking of them, his mother, his sister, sitting so silently in the window, looking out, always looking out, at what, the sea? At everything, and perhaps nothing.

  "If I could get away. And the sooner the better. That Philippe, blast him, he could have given me a berth on the Clarté as easy as winking, but no, he is so bloody upright and moral and horribly good, and Follet's no better. When you are down you are down, and there's the end of it."

  He removed his cap which he crushed into his pocket, he ruffled his hair, wiped his forehead, suddenly dived into an alley. Cooler here, but the smells rose as high as heaven. He was not far from home.

  "They hate it, and yet she will follow me, as though I had not anchors enough around my neck. I'll stow away. Now if I could get to Greece. Ah, that's the place. Ships there are owned by the devil, and he mans them too. Well..."