The Lost Sailors by Jean-Claude Izzo, Howard Curtis Page A

heard her moan. Her orgasm was going to be very intense. He came, very quickly, in a few hard thrusts, indifferent to the creaking of the bed, the children asleep in the next room, the darkness shrouding the city, the freighters getting ready to cast off from one port or another, the vastness of the oceans, the loneliness of sailors, the fragility of men under the starry vault of the world.
    Cephea was sobbing.
    â€œCephea . . . What’s the matter?”
    She moved away from him and lay on her back.
    â€œCephea . . . Darling . . .”
    â€œI’ve had enough.”
    â€œEnough of what?”
    Her tears increased. He lit the bedside lamp, and they were bathed in soft ochre light. She pulled the sheet over her and held it tight against her breasts, almost like a child.
    â€œEnough of what, Cephea?” he asked again, worried, an imploring look on his face.
    â€œHaven’t you had enough of the world?”
    The question had taken him by surprise. It was the last thing he might have expected. Departures, ships, the sea, that was his life. Their life. By tacit agreement, since the first night they’d slept together.
    â€œIt’s my life, you know that.”
    â€œAnd where am I in your life?”
    She had sat up. She wasn’t crying anymore, but her eyes were shining with a thousand tears that might still come. He had only seen Cephea cry once before. When he had asked her to be his wife.
    â€œCephea.”
    â€œWhere is your life? In Port Adelaide? Colombo? Antwerp? Valparaiso? Where? And where am I? Abdul, where am I in all that?”
    â€œHere. In our home.”
    â€œHere . . .” His answer seemed to surprise her. “Here,” she said again, to herself. “Yes . . . here.”
    He didn’t know what to say. He had never imagined that Cephea might question their life. For him, everything was simple. He left, and he came back. He left her, and he came back to her. And they loved each other.
    They loved each other, didn’t they? That was the main thing. He wanted to tell her that, but he kept silent. This conversation was meaningless.
    â€œDon’t you have anything to say to me?”
    â€œWhat do you want me to say, Cephea? I don’t understand. What’s gotten into you?”
    â€œI’ll tell you what’s gotten into me. I’m sick and tired of waiting. Waiting for you. The children and I are sick and tired. That’s what’s gotten into me, Abdul.”
    Her voice was low, almost a whisper. There was no anger in it. Only weariness.
    â€œYou’ve never said this before,” he said, gently. “Your letters—”
    â€œLetters, letters . . .” She exploded. “Fuck it, Abdul!”
    Cephea leaped out of bed and strode resolutely across the room. There was a closet in the wall. She opened it. At the bottom were piles of envelopes. Hundreds of envelopes. His letters.
    â€œYou see, I have all your letters here. Year after year. What do you want me to do with them? Have dinner with them? Take them for a walk? Sleep with them? Fuck them? Huh? Tell me.”
    There was a silence.
    â€œIs that what you want my life with you to be?”
    â€œNo,” he murmured.
    He felt lost, helpless. But he still didn’t understand why what had been true before he left for Adelaide wasn’t true anymore now that he was back. He stood up and went to her. He wanted to take her in his arms, comfort her, tell her once again, as he had so often before, how important the sea was to him.
    â€œNo,” he repeated.
    â€œNeither do I, Abdul. Because let me tell you something, if that’s how you see the future, then it’ll be without me. And I’ll wipe my ass with your letters!”
    He slapped her.
    He’d wanted to take her in his arms and instead he slapped her. The earth seemed to give way beneath his feet. He felt unsteady on his feet. He had the impression he was sinking. He had closed his eyes at