The Boy Who Belonged to the Sea Read online

  Between two kisses, Hugues explained he had just flown in from Africa. He had gone straight to our house in Villeneuve and when he found it deserted, he’d inquired at a neighbour’s and was told both my parents were dead. After making a horrified dash for Ferland, he was infinitely relieved to discover that Mama, at least, was alive and well. We gave him an account of everything that had happened. This plunged us into deep sadness, especially Mama, who dissolved in his arms. Hugues choked back his own sobs and did his best to console her. Anxious to rekindle her smile and, for a start, dispel the stifling despondency that clung to her, he suddenly decided to take her dancing. Mama wasn’t too sure, but Hugues didn’t give her a chance to refuse: he simply stated that she needed to go out, take her mind off things, that Villeneuve’s discos were waiting for them, and then told her to go and make herself beautiful.

  While Mama was getting ready, Hugues answered our questions about Liberia, Sierra Leone, and Angola, three marvellous countries, then he appeared keen to make Luc’s acquaintance. I noticed that my friend was intimidated by that thundering giant, so I butted in to explain that he was now part of the family. Hugues didn’t show any surprise whatsoever; he shook hands with Luc and welcomed him as if he were the one who had just arrived. Mama came down and took our breath away, because she looked ten years younger all of a sudden. She had done her hair, put on makeup, and changed into her loveliest summer dress. I hadn’t seen her as radiant as this for a long time. My uncle whisked her out of the house without wasting a moment, helped her into the gleaming convertible he’d rented at the airport, and they tore off into the night while blowing us a flurry of kisses.

  It’s late. They aren’t back yet but I’m not the least bit worried. I really should go to sleep but I can’t. Too excited about my uncle showing up. Because Hugues is the kind of guy to whom problems are like water off a puffin’s back. With him around, you can be sure there will never be a boring moment. Eyes wide open as I lie here, my spine tingling when I think of the fun that’s about to begin, I can hardly wait!

  24

  Hugues stirs things up and leads us on a giddy round of activities — a joyful hustle and bustle Luc is a part of, because my uncle has taken a shine to my nutty brother. He thinks he’s a scream and insists on dragging him along everywhere we go. We’re caught up in a frenzy of movie-going and restaurant visits, in a blitz of shopping trips to replenish Mama’s wardrobe so it will be worthy of her, in a frantic whirl of drives, swims, and bare-chested baseball games and Frisbee contests. Today, we flew over the taiga and the northern lakes in a rented Beaver. It was thrilling to gaze down on that shield of old rock crisscrossed by rivers and flecked with innumerable lakes. We landed on the water at the Williams Club, outfitters who cater to salmon-fishing enthusiasts. The manager is a friend of Hugues’s. We had lunch at his place. Then we flew south again and finally spotted the Atlantic’s jagged coastline. Luc hasn’t got over his plane ride yet. In body, he is lying on the bed next to mine, but in his head he is still soaring. Quite a change for him from swimming, which is what he usually does in there.

  * * *

  That mouth organ Hugues plays like a grizzled old black man from the bayou is caterwauling away in the living-room, and at night by the fire my uncle steals the show from Grandfather with true stories about guerrilla warfare and crawling through swamps infested with crocodiles and giant leeches. The old man’s nonsense pales in comparison, and the competition doesn’t sit well with him. He cannot forgive that loutish son of his for daring to rival him in his own house and accuses him of cramming our brains with violent balderdash. I’ve never really asked myself what sort of work Hugues actually does. I know he is a soldier of fortune, a profession my grandfolks consider dishonourable, but I have always naïvely pictured him as a gallant warrior. A kind of knight-errant. A cartoon-film hero. Could it be, though, that the truth is less dazzling? That my uncle is mixed up in shady business? Sometimes I feel like quizzing him, but deep down I’m not sure I want to know. I only hope he’s fighting on the side of a just cause.

  * * *

  Behind the shed, Hugues gives us jiu-jitsu lessons and lets us benefit from his experience with weapons used in hand-to-hand fighting. He’s a real pro with blades. He expertly handles all kinds of pointed instruments and, several times in a row, with screwdrivers of various sizes, he’s able to hit Canuel bang in the middle of the heart. Grandfather doesn’t much care for these martial-arts sessions. He watches us at it with a sullen look on his face and I can tell he is fuming. He predicts all this fooling around with knives will land us in the hospital, but Hugues merely shrugs, and Mama rallies to his defence when the exchange grows heated. Grandfather always backs off in the end — confronted with the alliance between those two, what else can he do but grumble? Luc totally shares my view: he thinks Hugues is a fantastic guy. He’ll tag along when he goes jogging and volunteers when it’s time to wrestle in the dust. Luc is captivated by Hugues’s paternal aura. He even gets jealous if I slip affectionately under my uncle’s muscular arm. Luc’s nose is out of joint then, and it takes a lot of tickling to get him to brighten up.

  * * *

  Hugues’s vacation is already coming to an end. He says he has mysterious commitments to honour in the Middle East. He’ll be leaving in a few days, and we all feel sad at the thought of this except Grandfather, for the two of them have started squabbling. That’s another reason why Hugues thinks it better to leave. To end his stay with a flourish, he has rented a sailboat we’ll be boarding tomorrow, with Mama, to go on a mini-cruise in the Gulf. I’ll take advantage of it to get to know the basics of sailing.

  25

  We stepped aboard under a cloudy sky and made for the harbour’s exit, but hadn’t sailed beyond the islands yet when the wind died away. We had to leave the Bay of Villeneuve powered by the auxiliary engine, without a scrap of glory. Later, it rained. Then, around noon, it got foggy. Bewildered, we dropped anchor off Gallix and ate a tourtière Grandmother had made for us. But the wind rose at dusk and the swells are now a metre high. She’s pitching like mad. We’re all sick as dogs. There’s no way we’ll be able to sleep. Thank goodness Luc predicts a smooth sea for tomorrow.

  * * *

  I’ve learned to steer, hugging the wind, with the spinnaker full to bursting, and we’re cutting through the waves like a butter knife. We made it to Cap-aux-Loutres and back in two days. The water rippled over the hull; even the whales couldn’t keep up with us. Half-naked, drenched in sunlight, we pretended we were pirates pursuing imaginary galleons. We even moored at the Caouis to bury our treasure, a big pile of African coins Hugues sealed up in a cigar box. This evening, the last night of Hugues’s vacation, we’ll berth at Île aux Basques, just off Villeneuve’s shoreline. That’s where we’ll put up our tents.

  * * *

  Île aux Basques, in the bay, is only one nautical mile from Villeneuve. From our bivouac you could see the houses across the water, and after dark it became like a long string of light. We were morose because my uncle was leaving. The grown-ups discussed the future, and Hugues handed Mama a fat cheque as his brotherly contribution to our imminent settling back in town. Luc panicked, but Mama replied she wasn’t ready to move yet. She suggested to Hugues that he retire instead, so he could come and live with us in Ferland, and this is when I had my brainstorm: I proposed we buy a house in the village, not too far from my grandfolks’ place, where the four of us would go and live together. My idea was well received by one and all since there was something in it for everyone, and Hugues admitted the prospect was tempting. He promised to think about it.

  We felt more cheerful now. Considering the right moment had come, Luc presented Hugues with a parting gift, an amulet made from magic vole bones that was supposed to protect him from the dangers awaiting him. Hugues accepted gratefully and asked if he might also keep as a memento one of the portraits Luc drew of my mother and me while we were anchored off Pentecôte during our odyssey. Luc opened his sketchbook to let him
choose. As he turned over those pages filled with our faces as well as fish and seascapes, Hugues paused at a recent sketch of Chantal, which he studied with interest, remarking that the likeness was striking.

  When he saw he had both a captive and inquisitive audience in Luc, Hugues admitted that, yes, he’d known his mother. Luc wasn’t about to let such an opportunity slip by; now that he’d finally found a direct witness to his prehistory, he urged him to talk. My uncle explained it was really Bezeau he’d been acquainted with — a drinking buddy from the rowdy days when they belonged to the gang of young hellraisers who hung out at the Horoscope Bar — but that he’d had a chance to speak to Chantal whenever he dropped by to pick up her husband. Gentle, shy Chantal. And so young. Couldn’t have been any older than eighteen. She certainly deserved a better man than that big layabout of a husband of hers, for, with all due respect, Bezeau was hopelessly lazy, and she often had to go fishing in his place. Anyway, the job of cleaning the catch would always fall to her. To say nothing of her housekeeping duties in Villeneuve at the Seamen’s Centre. A hard-working little woman. Too nice perhaps, too submissive…

  Luc wasn’t going to let my uncle off the hook quite so easily. He begged him to tell him more about his mother and the circumstances of her disappearance. But Hugues insisted he really knew very little, that he had only ever exchanged small talk with her — the way people do when they meet briefly at the door — for Bezeau was a jealous man, while she was extremely discreet in any case. As for her death, he didn’t have any details. All he ever found out was what people told him when he got back from Chiapas two years later — that sad story of her drowning.

  Hugues was anxious to change the subject but Luc pressed him to continue, to tell him how his parents got along together. My uncle grew hesitant. This soldier who, I was sure, could confront an enemy tank without batting an eyelid, suddenly dragged his feet. As carefully as if he were picking his way through a minefield, he mentioned that a noticeable change had come over Bezeau during the weeks following Luc’s birth. The fisherman had become belligerent, aggressive, and begun hitting the bottle in earnest. A depression of some sort. Did he ever talk about his wife? Hugues admitted he did, that he’d utter incoherent remarks, mostly into his drink. Harsh words, disjointed drunken ramblings Hugues refused to repeat. And since my uncle preferred to keep silent, Luc filled in the blanks, repeating words he’d heard too many times: slut, whore, bastard… We felt terribly sorry for Luc, but he affected a shrewd iguana smile. He walked away and started to pace up and down the shore. Mama joined him, wrapping her arm consolingly around his shoulders.

  Hugues had a long face. He probably blamed himself for having talked too much. And when I told him that Luc thought his mother was still alive, he looked worried. He mumbled something about muck that would have been better left undisturbed, then made me promise to take good care of my friend. Following which, he slipped into his tent.

  Once Mama had gone to bed as well, I went to find Luc at the water’s edge. He was catapulting pebbles towards the lights of the city, and I began tossing them too, just to see who could throw the furthest. Luc wasn’t exactly chatty, but I knew what he was thinking about: the possibility that the Pig might not be his real father. Another man in his mother’s life? Other genes than the Pig’s abhorrent ones? Another father — some stranger? With whom Chantal had gone to live perhaps?

  His gaze was riveted on Villeneuve’s horizontal sweep of stars. He threw a stone in the direction of the lit-up structures of the port, and I knew his hidden target was that Seamen’s Centre Hugues had mentioned.

  * * *

  Nothing could have diverted Luc from the burning trail that had just been cut through the jungle of his past. This morning, after Hugues left, we took the bus to Villeneuve and got off beside the big tent on the Vieux Quai, by the bay.

  The Seamen’s Centre is a white building near the offices of the Port Authority. It’s a drop-in centre with a pastoral orientation. On the door, a sign welcomes you in six languages and lists the times of the religious services. Pushing it open, we stepped into a room furnished with old armchairs, vending machines, and a TV where an American quiz show quietly flickered away. The place was deserted. At the far end loomed an altar made of varnished wood, used for mass no doubt, and a corridor, which we entered, that led to three doors. The first one opened into a large space containing two billiard tables and a dartboard, the second into an unoccupied office. From the third one came a clatter of dishes. We stepped into the doorway. It was a kitchen. Bent over a sudsy sink, with her back to us, stood a woman. Luc gave a start. He was white as a sheet and, for one brief moment, I, too, thought it was her… That she’d remained hidden here all those years, chained to her sink, condemned because of some long-ago transgressions to scour dirty plates for ever and ever. Then the woman turned around and the illusion melted away, for she was at least fifty years old and didn’t bear the slightest resemblance to Chantal’s portrait. She asked us what we were doing there. I explained we were looking for a Chantal Bouchard who’d worked here eleven years ago. But the name didn’t ring a bell with that lady; she had only been employed by the Centre for the past six years. She suggested we come back in the late afternoon so we could ask Father Miron, who was in charge. I dragged Luc outside. A big gulp of sea air put him back on track. We decided to wait for Father Miron and, to make the hours zip by a little faster, we went for a stroll along the quays.

  When we returned to the Centre three hours later, an Italian crew had descended upon it. The place was full of guys in pea jackets, calling out to one other and playing billiards while waiting to go into town. We cooled our heels for a while outside the office of Father Miron, since he was busy hearing the confession of a sailor. Then, after that fresh cargo of sins had been unloaded, the priest called us in. A kindly man, though visibly overworked. He listened to Luc revealing the reason for our visit, then explained he had only been in charge of the Centre for the last eight years and had never heard of either Chantal Bouchard or Bezeau. Noticing Luc’s dejected look, he wanted to know why he was trying to trace this woman. When he found out she was his mother, he volunteered to get in touch with his predecessor who would probably be able to help us. His name was Father Loiselle. Yes indeed, from the parish of Ferland. Miron wanted to phone him right away, but Luc turned down the offer.

  Two real zombies on the bus ride home. Father Loiselle, that life-long ally, that loyal man, that supposed friend of Luc’s… Why had he never mentioned the Seamen’s Centre? That ambiguous attitude he’d always had towards Luc, at once friendly and uneasy, those small thoughtful gestures, the interest he showed in Luc’s health, his well-being… And that fierce hatred the Pig bore him…

  The muck Hugues had talked about. A swamp giving off noxious miasmas. The distinct image of a slimy, unhealthy bubble rising to the surface, ready to burst.

  26

  Decompression accidents can have various characteristics. When nitrogen bubbles lodge in the tissues and joints, cutaneous manifestations may occur (itchiness, rashes, swelling), as well as crippling joint pains, called ‘bends,’ which appear after the return ascent and diminish twenty-four to forty-eight hours later.

  Luc’s finger shook when, at twilight, he rang at the presbytery’s door. The fat traitor opened up. One look at our funereal faces was enough to make him realize we hadn’t come to stuff ourselves, so he led us right into his living-room, a drab parlour saturated with mystical scents, made even gloomier by a large crucifix and the heads of an assortment of popes. We lowered our backsides onto an old velvet sofa. Settling his own bulk comfortably into a matching armchair, the priest inquired after the purpose of our visit. Luc was in no mood for polite chitchat and, coming straight to the point, demanded to be told where his mother was. Loiselle pretended he didn’t understand, but Luc fired his first torpedo. He accused him of having lied to him from the very beginning and declared that he now knew the truth — he knew that the priest was his real father. The portly
man turned scarlet. He retorted with a loud ‘Oh come now! Of course not!’ and similar indignant utterings. The priest sounded genuine and wanted to know where Luc had got such an idea.

  ‘At the Seamen’s Centre,’ my friend replied, and this time Loiselle really listed to starboard.

  It’s not easy for a confessor to find himself suddenly on the other side of the sifter of sins. A much less snug position to be in, isn’t it? What was he going to do: act stupid, or insult us by denying the accusation once again?

  We had carefully worked out a strategy to loosen his tongue and were waiting for a chance to catch the big lump out in a lie, but he chose to make a confession or, rather, offer his apologies. Repentant, contrite, he admitted he had concealed the truth but asked Luc to please believe he had done so for his own good, so as not to disturb his peace of mind, fully intending to reveal everything at a later date, when he’d be old enough. And he went on to expound on the moral obligation to hide occasionally certain truths that are too harrowing. He gradually became his old confident self again and the whole thing turned into a sermon. He trotted out his Sunday voice — his calming, convincing voice — but Luc brought this fine speech to an abrupt conclusion: if Loiselle wasn’t his real father, then who was? The priest pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his temples, gazing up at the ceiling as if to call for help from above. Having recovered his serenity to some degree, he held forth at great length about responsibility, duty, and other nonsense suited to the occasion. He was trying to get Luc to believe that it was preferable not to know, wiser to wait until he was more mature, better able to understand. Obviously, he was the one who had a problem getting things through his thick skull. Did he still think he could get rid of us by spouting a few hollow phrases? It was time to increase the pressure. We had a tactical confab, using teeth-clicking code, and decided to implement Applying-the-Screws Plan Number One, which consisted in threatening to spread highly unpleasant rumours of pedophilia about him. But we didn’t have to resort to such a course of action: alarmed at our cannibalesque jaw games, Loiselle broke down. He cast one final glance upwards in search of the angelic cavalry that failed to materialize, then, realizing we weren’t going to give up, he opened his trap to launch into a story that dated back thirteen years.